The Truth by Terry Pratchett

but the ticking of the clock. William watched in apprehension as, apparently forgetting his presence, Lord Vetinari read his way through the Times again.
    “What a very…interesting document,” said the Patrician, suddenly laying it aside. “But I’m forced to ask… why? ”
    “It’s just my news sheet,” said William. “But bigger. Er…people like to know things.”
    “Which people?”
    “Well…everyone, really.”
    “Do they? Did they tell you this?”
    William swallowed. “Well…no. But you know I’ve been writing my newsletter for some time now—”
    “For various foreign notables and similar people.” Lord Vetinari nodded. “People who need to know. Knowing things is part of their profession. But you are selling this to anyone in the street, is that correct?”
    “I suppose so, sir.”
    “Interesting. Then you wouldn’t entertain the idea, would you, that a state is, say, rather like one of those old rowing galleys? The ones which had banks of oarsmen down below, and a helmsman and so on above? It is certainly in everyone’s interest that the ship does not founder but, I put it to you, it is perhaps not in the interest of the rowers that they know of every shoal avoided, every collision fended off…it would only serve to worry them and put them off their stroke. What the rowers need to know is how to row, hmm?”
    “And that the helmsman is a good one,” said William. He couldn’t stop the sentence. It said itself. It was out there, hanging in the air.
    Lord Vetinari gave him a stare, then went on for several seconds beyond the necessary time. Then his face instantly broke into a broad smile.
    “To be sure. And so they should, so they should. This is the age of words, after all. Fifty-six hurt in tavern brawl, eh? Astounding. What further news do you have for us, sir?”
    “Well, er…it’s been very cold…”
    “Has it? Has it, indeed? My word!” On his desk, the tiny iceberg bumped against the side of Lord Vetinari’s inkwell.
    “Yes, and there was a bit of a…fracas…at some cookery meeting last night…”
    “A fracas, eh?”
    “Well, probably more of a rumpus, really. * And someone has grown a funny-shaped vegetable.”
    “That’s the stuff. What shape?”
    “A…an amusing shape, sir.”
    “Could I give you a little bit of advice, Mr. de Worde?”
    “Please do, sir.”
    “Be careful. People like to be told what they already know. Remember that. They get uncomfortable when you tell them new things. New things…well, new things aren’t what they expect. They like to know that, say, a dog will bite a man. That is what dogs do. They don’t want to know that a man bites a dog, because the world is not supposed to happen like that. In short, what people think they want is news, but what they really crave is olds . I can see you’ve got the hang of it already.”
    “Yes, sir,” said William, not at all sure he fully understood this, but certain that he didn’t like the bit he did understand.
    “I believe the Guild of Engravers has some things it wishes to discuss with Mr. Goodmountain, William, but I have always thought that we should go forward to the future.”
    “Yes, sir. Quite hard to go any other way.”
    Once again, there was the too-long stare and then the sudden unfreezing of the face.
    “Indeed. Good day, Mr. de Worde. Oh…and do tread carefully. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to become news…would you?”

    William turned over the Patrician’s words as he walked back to Gleam Street, and it is not wise to be thinking too deeply when walking the streets of Ankh-Morpork.
    He walked past Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler with barely a nod, but in any case Mr. Dibbler was otherwise engaged.
    He had two customers. Two at once, unless one was daring another, was a great rarity. But these two were worrying him. They were inspecting the merchandise.
    C.M.O.T. Dibbler sold his buns and pies all around the city, even outside the Assassins’ Guild. He was a good judge