'Oh, I think it's time to embrace the exciting challenges presented to us by the Century of the Fruitbat,' said the Bursar.
'We... That's the one we're just about to leave, sir.'
Then it's high time we embraced them, don't you think?'
'Good point, sir.'
'And now I must fly,' said the Bursar. 'Except that I mustn't.'
Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, poked at the ink in his inkwell. There was ice in it.
'Don't you even have a proper fire?' said Hughnon Ridcully, Chief Priest of Blind lo and unofficial spokesman for the city's religious establishment. I mean, I'm not one for stuffy rooms, but it's freezing in here!'
'Brisk, certainly,' said Lord Vetinari. 'It's odd, but the ice isn't as dark as the rest of the ink. What causes that, do you think?'
'Science, probably,' said Hughnon vaguely. Like his wizardly brother, Archchancellor Mustrum, he didn't like to bother himself with patently silly questions. Both gods and magic required solid, sensible men, and the brothers Ridcully were solid as rocks. And, in some respects, as sensible.
'Ah. Anyway... you were saying?'
'You must put a stop to this, Havelock. You know the... understanding.'
Vetinari seemed engrossed in the ink. 'Must, your reverence?' he said calmly, without looking up.
'You know why we're all against this movable type nonsense!'
'Remind me again... Look, it bobs up and down
Hughnon sighed. 'Words are too important to be left to machinery. We've got nothing against engraving, you know that. We've nothing against words being nailed down properly. But words that can be taken apart and used to make other words... well, that's downright dangerous. And I thought you weren't in favour, either?'
'Broadly, yes,' said the Patrician. 'But many years of ruling this city, your reverence, have taught me that you cannot apply brakes to a volcano. Sometimes it is best to let these things run their course. They generally die down again after a while.'
'You have not always taken such a relaxed approach, Havelock,' said Hughnon.
The Patrician gave him a cool stare that went on for a couple of seconds beyond the comfort barrier.
'Flexibility and understanding have always been my watchwords,' he said.
'My god, have they?'
'Indeed. And what I would like you and your brother to understand now, your reverence, in a flexible way, is that this enterprise is being undertaken by dwarfs. And do you know where the largest dwarf city is, your reverence?'
'What? Oh... let's see... there's that place in--'
'Yes, everyone starts by saying that. But it's Ankh-Morpork, in fact. There are more than fifty thousand dwarfs here now.'
'Surely not?'
'I assure you. We have currently very good relationships with the dwarf communities in Copperhead and Uberwald. In dealings with the dwarfs I have seen to it that the city's hand of friendship is permanently outstretched in a slightly downward direction. And in this current cold snap I am sure we are all very glad that bargeloads of coal and lamp oil are coming down from the dwarf mines every day. Do you catch my meaning?'
Hughnon glanced at the fireplace. Against all probability, one lump of coal was smouldering all by itself.
'And of course,' the Patrician went on, 'it is increasingly hard to ignore this new type, aha, of printing when vast printeries now exist in the Agatean Empire and, as I am sure you are aware, in Omnia. And from Omnia, as you no doubt know, the Omnians export huge amounts of their holy Book of Om and these pamphlets they're so keen on,'
'Evangelical nonsense,' said Hughnon. 'You should have banned them long ago,'
Once again the stare went on a good deal too long.
'Ban a religion, your reverence?'