'We certainly do!' said William. The sooner we can let him go home, the sooner our Mr Wintler can find another wonderfully humorous vegetable, eh, Mr Wintler? What will it be next time? A bean with ears? A beetroot shaped like a potato? A sprout with an enormous hairy tongue?'
'Right here and now is ven you vant the picture?' said Otto, anxiety hanging off every syllable.
'Right now, yes!'
'As a matter of fact, there is a swede coming along that I've got great hopes of--' Mr Wintler began.
'Oh, veil... if you vill look zis vay, Mr Vintler,' said Otto. He got behind the iconograph and uncovered the lens. William got a glimpse of the imp peering out, brush poised. In his spare hand Otto slowly held up, on a stick, a cage containing a fat and drowsing salamander, finger poised on the trigger that would bring a small hammer down on its head just hard enough to annoy it.
'Be smiling, please!'
'Hold on,' said Sacharissa. 'Should a vampire really--?'
Click.
The salamander flared, etching the room with searing white light and dark shadows.
Otto screamed. He fell to the floor, clutching at his throat. He sprang to his feet, goggle-eyed and gasping, and staggered, knock-kneed and wobbly-legged, the length of the room and back again. He sank down behind a desk, scattering paperwork with a wildly flailing hand.
'Aarghaarghaaargh...'
And then there was a shocked silence.
Otto stood up, adjusted his cravat and dusted himself off. Only then did he look up at the row of shocked faces.
'Veil?' he said sternly. 'Vot are you all looking at? It is just a normal reaction, zat is all. I am vorking on it. Light in all its forms is mine passion. Light is my canvas, shadows are my brush.'
'But strong light hurts you!' said Sacharissa. 'It hurts vampires!'
'Yes. It iss a bit of a bugger, but zere you go.'
'And, er, that happens every time you take a picture, does it?' said William.
'No, sometimes it iss a lot vorse.'
'Worse?'
'I sometimes crumble to dust. But zat vich does not kill us makes us stronk.'
'Stronk?'
'Indeed!'
William caught Sacharissa's gaze. Her look said it all: we've hired him. Have we got the heart to fire him now? And don't make fun of his accent unless your Uberwaldean is really good, okay?
Otto adjusted the iconograph and inserted a fresh sheet.
'And now, shall ve try vun more?' he said brightly. 'And zis time - everybody smile!'
Mail was arriving. William was used to a certain amount, usually from clients of his news letter complaining that he hadn't told them about the double-headed giants, plagues and rains of domestic animals that they had heard had been happening in Ankh-Morpork; his father had been right about one thing, at least, when he'd asserted that lies could run round the world before the truth could get its boots on. And it was amazing how people wanted to believe them.
These were... well, it was as if he'd shaken a tree and all the nuts had fallen out. Several letters were complaining that there had been much colder winters than this, although no two of them could agree when it was. One said vegetables were not as funny as they used to be, especially leeks. Another asked what the Guild of Thieves was doing about unlicensed crime in the city. There was one saying that all these robberies were down to dwarfs who shouldn't be allowed into the city to steal the work out of honest humans' mouths. 'Put a title like "Letters" on the top and put them in,' said William. 'Except the one about the dwarfs. That sounds like Mr Windling. It sounds like my father, too, except that at least he can spell "undesirable" and wouldn't use crayon.'
'Why not that letter?'
'Because it's offensive.'
'Some people think it's true, though,' said Sacharissa. 'There's been a lot of trouble.'