There was a knock at the door.
'Come in, Gladys,' he said, rummaging in the in-tray again.
The door opened and the worried, pale face of Stanley Howler appeared around it.
'It's me, sir. Stanley, sir,' it said.
'Yes, Stanley?'
'Head of Stamps at the Post Office, sir,' Stanley added, in case pinpoint identification was required.
'Yes, Stanley, I know,' said Moist patiently. 'I see you every day. What is it that you want?'
'Nothing, sir,' said Stanley. There was a pause, and Moist adjusted his mind to the world as seen through the brain of Stanley Howler. Stanley was very… precise, and as patient as the grave.
'What is the reason for you, coming here, to see me, today, Stanley?' Moist tried, enunciating carefully in order to deliver the sentence in bite-sized chunks.
'There is a lawyer downstairs, sir,' Stanley announced.
'But I've only just read the threatening—' Moist began, and then relaxed. 'A lawyer? Did he say why?' he said.
'A matter of great importance, he said. There's two watchmen with him, sir. And a dog.'
'Really?' said Moist calmly. 'Well, you'd better show them up, then.'
He glanced at his watch.
O-kay… Not good.
The Lancre Flyer would be leaving in forty-five seconds. He knew he could be down that damn drainpipe in eleven seconds. Stanley was on his way below to bring them up here, call that thirty seconds, maybe. Get them off the ground floor, that was the thing. Scramble on to the back of the coach, jump off when it slowed down for the Hubwards Gate, pick up the tin chest he'd got stashed in the beams of the old stable in Lobbin Clout, get changed and adjust his face, stroll across the city to have a coffee in that shop near the main Watch House, keep an eye on the clacks traffic for a while, stroll over to Hen and Chickens Court where he had another trunk stored with 'I don't know' Jack, get changed, leave with his little bag and his tweed cap (which he'd change for the old brown bowler in the bag in some alley, just in case Jack had a sudden attack of memory brought on by excessive money), and he'd mosey down to the slaughterhouse district and step into the persona of Jeff the drover and hang out in the huge fetid bar of the Butcher's Eagle, which was where the drovers traditionally damped down the road dust. There was a vampire in the Watch these days and they'd had a werewolf for years, too. Well, let those famously sharp noses snuff up the mixed cocktail stink of manure, fear, sweat, offal and urine and see how they liked it! And that was just in the bar — if anything, it was worse in the slaughterhouses.
Then maybe he'd wait until evening to hitch a lift on the steaming dung carts heading out of the city, along with the other drunk drovers. The gate guards never bothered to check them. On the other hand, if his sixth sense was still squawking, then he'd run the thimble game with some drunk until he'd got enough for a little bottle of perfume and a cheap but decent third-hand suit at some shonky shop and repair to Mrs Eucrasia Arcanum's Lodging House for Respectable Working Men, where with a tip of a hat and some wire-rimmed spectacles he'd be Mr Trespass Hatchcock, a wool salesman, who stayed there every time his business brought him to the city and who always brought her a little gift suitable for a widow of the age she'd like people to think she was. Yes, that'd be a better idea. At Mrs Arcanum's the food was solid and plentiful. The beds were good and you seldom had to share.
Then he could make real plans.
The itinerary of evasion wound across his inner eye at the speed of flight. The outer eye alighted on something less pleasing. There was a copper in the coach yard, chatting to a couple of the drivers. Moist recognized Sergeant Fred Colon, whose chief duty appeared to be ambling around the city chattering to elderly men of the same age and demeanour as himself.
The watchman spotted Moist at the window and gave him a little wave.
No, it was going to get complicated and messy if he ran. He'd have to bluff it out up here. It wasn't as though he'd done anything wrong, technically. The letter had thrown him, that's all it was.
Moist was sitting at his desk looking busy when Stanley came back, ushering in Mr Slant, the city's best-known and, at 351, probably also its oldest lawyer. He was accompanied by Sergeant Angua and Corporal Nobbs, widely rumoured to be the Watch's secret werewolf. Corporal Nobbs was accompanied by a large wicker hamper and Sergeant Angua was holding a squeaky rubber bone, which she occasionally, in an absent-minded way, squeaked. Things were looking up, but strange.
The exchanged pleasantries were not that pleasant, this close to Nobby Nobbs and the lawyer, who smelled of embalming fluid, but when they were over Mr Slant said: 'I believe you visited Mrs Topsy Lavish yesterday, Mr Lipwig.'
'Oh, yes. Er, when she was alive,' said Moist, and cursed himself and the unknown letter writer. He was losing it, he really was.
'This is not a murder investigation, sir,' said the sergeant calmly.
'Are you sure? In the circumstances—'
'We've made it our business to be sure, sir,' said the sergeant, 'in the circumstances!
'Don't think it was the family, then?'
'No, sir. Or you.'
'Me?' Moist was suitably open-mouthed at the suggestion.
'Mrs Lavish was known to be very ill,' said Mr Slant. 'And it seems that she took quite a shine to you, Mr Lipwig. She has left you her little dog, Mr Fusspot.'
'And also a bag of toys, rugs, tartan coats, little bootees, eight collars including one set with diamonds and, oh, a vast amount of other stuff,' said Sergeant Angua. She squeaked the rubber bone again.
Moist's mouth shut. 'The dog,' he said in a hollow voice. 'Just the dog? And the toys?'
'You were expecting something more?' said Angua.
'I wasn't expecting even that!' Moist looked at the hamper. It was suspiciously silent.
'I gave him one of his little blue pills,' said Nobby Nobbs helpfully. 'They knocks him out for a little while. Don't work on people, though. They tastes of aniseed.'
'All this is a bit… odd, isn't it?' said Moist. 'Why's the Watch here? The diamond collar? Anyway, I thought the will wasn't read until after the funeral…'
Mr Slant coughed. A moth flew out of his mouth. 'Yes indeed. But knowing the contents of her will, I thought it prudent to hasten to the Royal Bank and deal with the most…'
There was a very long pause. For a zombie, the whole of life is a pause, but it seemed that he was looking for the right word.
'… problematical bequests immediately,' he finished.
'Yes, well, I suppose the little doggie needs feeding,' said Moist, 'but I wouldn't have thought that—'
'The… problem, if such it be, is in fact his paperwork,' said Mr Slant.
'Wrong pedigree?' said Moist.
'Not his pedigree,' said Mr Slant, opening his briefcase. 'You may be aware that the late Sir Joshua left a one per cent share in the bank to Mr Fusspot?'
A cold, black wind began to blow through Moist's mind.
'Yes,' he said. 'I am.'
'The late Mrs Lavish has left him another fifty per cent. That, by the customs of the bank, means that he is the new chairman, Mr Lipwig. And you own him.'
'Hold on, an animal can't own—'
'Oh, but it can, Mr Lipwig, it can!' said Slant, with lawyerly glee. 'There is a huge body of case law. There was even, once, a donkey who was ordained and a tortoise who was appointed a judge. Obviously the more difficult trades are less well represented. No horse has yet held down a job as a carpenter, for example. But dog as chairman is relatively usual.'
'This makes no sense! She hardly knows me!' And his mind chimed in with: oh yes she does! She had you bang to rights in a blink!
'The will was dictated to me last night, Mr Lipwig, in the presence of two witnesses and Mrs Lavish's physician, who declared her very sound of mind if not of body.' Mr Slant stood up. 'The will, in short, is legal. It does not have to make sense.'
'But how can he, well, chair meetings? All he does with chairs is sniff the legs!'
/> 'I assume he will in fact act as chairman through you,' said the lawyer. There was a squeak from Sergeant Angua.
And what happens if he dies?' said Moist.
Ah, thank you for reminding me,' said Mr Slant, taking a document from the case. 'Yes, it says here: the shares will be distributed among any remaining members of the family.'
'Any remaining members of the family? What, his family? I don't think he's had much of a chance to have one!'
'No, Mr Lipwig,' said Slant, 'the Lavish family.'
Moist felt the winds grow colder. 'How long does a dog live?'
'An ordin'ry dog?' said Nobby Nobbs. 'Or a dog who stands between a bunch of Lavishes and another fortune?'
'Corporal Nobbs, that was a pertinent remark!' snapped Sergeant Angua.
'Sorry, sarge.'
'Ahem.' A cough from Mr Slant liberated another moth. 'Mr Fusspot is used to sleeping in the Manager's Suite at the bank, Mr Lipwig,' he said. 'You will sleep there too. It is a condition of the bequest.'
Moist stood up. 'I don't have to do any of this,' he snapped. 'It's not like I've committed a crime! You can't run people's lives from beyond the grav— well, you can, sir, no problem there, but she can't just—'
A further envelope was produced from the briefcase. Mr Slant was smiling, which is never a good sign.
'Mrs Lavish also wrote this personal heartfelt plea to you,' he said. 'And now, sergeant, I think we should leave Mr Lipwig alone.'
They departed, although after a few seconds Sergeant Angua walked back in and without saying a word or catching his eye walked over to the bag of toys and dropped the squeaky rubber bone.
Moist walked over to the basket and lifted the lid. Mr Fusspot looked up, yawned, and then reared up on his cushion and begged. His tail wagged uncertainly once or twice and his huge eyes filled with hope.
'Don't look at me, kid,' said Moist, and turned his back.
Mrs Lavish's letter was drenched in lavender water, slightly spiced with gin. She wrote in a very neat, old-lady hand:
Dear Mr Lipwig,
I feel that you are a dear, sweet man who will look after my little Mr Fusspot. Please be kind to him. He has been my only friend in difficult times. Money is such a crude thing in these circumstances, but the sum of $20,000 annually will be paid to you (in arrears) for performing this duty, which I beg you to accept.
If you do not, or if he dies of unnatural causes, your arse will belong to the Guild of Assassins. $100,000 is lodged with lord Downey, and his young gentlemen will hunt you down and gut you like the weasel you are, Smart Boy!
May the gods bless you for your kindness to a widow in distress.
Moist was impressed. Stick and carrot. Vetinari just used stick, or hit you over the head with the carrot.
Vetinari! Now there was a man with some questions to answer!
The hairs on the back of his neck, trained by decades of dodging in any case and suddenly made extra sensitive with Mrs Lavish's words still bouncing in his skull, bristled in terror. Something came through the window and thunked! into the door. But Moist was already diving for the carpet when the glass broke.
Shuddering in the door was a black arrow.
Moist crawled across the carpet, reached up, grabbed the arrow and ducked down again.
In exquisite white writing, like the inscription on some ancient ring, were the words:
GUILD OF ASSASSINS — 'WHEN STYLE MATTERS'.
It had to be a warning shot, right? Just a little grace note, yes? A sort of emphasis? Just in case?
Mr Fusspot took this opportunity to leap out of his basket and lick Moist's face. Mr Fusspot didn't care who he was or what he'd done, he just wanted to be friends.
'I think,' said Moist, giving in, 'that you and me ought to go walkies.'
The dog gave an excited little yip and went and tugged at the bag of accessories until it fell over. He disappeared inside, tail wagging madly, and came out dragging a little red velvet doggie coat on which the word 'Tuesday' was embroidered.
'Lucky guess, boy,' said Moist, as he buckled it up. This was difficult, because he was being washed by dog goo all the while.
'Er, you wouldn't know where your lead is, would you?' Moist ventured, trying not to swallow. Mr Fusspot bounced off to the bag and returned again with a red leash.
'O-kay,' said Moist. 'This is going to be the fastest walky in the history of walkies. It is, in fact, going to be a runny…'
As he reached up for the door handle, the door opened. Moist found himself staring up at two terracotta-coloured legs that were as thick as tree trunks.
'I Hope You Are Not Looking Up My Dress, Mr Lipwig?' rumbled Gladys, far above.
At what, exactly? Moist thought. 'Ah, Gladys,' he said. 'Would you just go and stand at the window? Thank you!'
There was a little tick! sound and Gladys turned round, holding another black arrow between thumb and forefinger. Its sudden deceleration in Gladys's grasp had caused it to catch fire.
'Someone Has Sent You An Arrow, Mr Lipwig,' she announced.
'Really? Just blow it out and put it in the in-tray, will you?' said Moist, crawling out of the door. 'I'm just going to see a man about a dog.'
He picked up Mr Fusspot and hurried down the stairs through the thronged hall, down the stone steps — and there, just pulling up to the kerb, was a black coach. Ha! The man was always one jump ahead, right?
He wrenched open the door as the coach came to a stop, landed heavily in an unoccupied seat with Mr Fusspot barking happily in his arms, glared across the carpet and said—
'Oh… sorry, I thought this was Lord Vetinari's coach…' A hand leaned over and slammed the door shut. It was wearing a large, black and very expensive glove, with jet beads embroidered into it. Moist's gaze followed it up an arm to a face, which said:
'No, Mr Lipwig. My name is Cosmo Lavish. I was just coming to see you. How do you do?'
Chapter 4
The dark ring — An unusual chin — A job for life but not for long' — Getting started — Fun with Journalism — It's all about the city — A mile in his shoes — A Lavish Occasion
THE MAN… MADE THINGS. He was an unsung craftsman, because the things he made never ended up with his name on them. No, they usually bore the names of dead men on them, men who were masters of their craft. He, in his turn, was the master of one craft. It was the craft of seeming.
'Do you have the money?'
'Yes.' The man in the brown robe indicated the stolid troll next to him.
'Why did you bring that? Can't abide 'em.'
'Five hundred dollars is a lot to carry, Mr Morpeth. And a lot to pay for jewellery that isn't even silver, I may add,' said the young man, whose name was Heretofore.
'Yes, well, that's the trick, ain't it?' said the old man. 'I know this ain't exactly proper, what you're doing. An' I told you stygium's rarer than gold. It just don't sparkle… Well, unless you do things wrong. Believe me, I could sell all I could get to the Assassins. Those fine gentlemen do like their black, so they do. They love it to bits.'
'It's not illegal. No one owns the letter V. Look, we've been through this. Let me see it.'
The old man gave Heretofore a look, then opened a drawer and put a small box on top of his desk. He adjusted the reflectors on the lamps and said: 'Okay, open it.'
The young man lifted the lid, and there it was, black as night, the serifed V a deeper, sharper shadow. He took a deep breath, reached out for the ring, and dropped it in horror.
'It's warm!'
There was a snort from the maker of things that seemed.' 'course it is. That's stygium, that is. It drinks the light. If you was out in full daylight you'd be sucking your fingers and yellin'. Keep it in a box when it's bright outside, right? Or wear a glove over it if you're a swanker.'
'It's perfect!'
'Yes. It is.' The old man snatched the ring back, and Heretofore began to tumble into his own private Hell. 'It's just like the real thing, ain't it,' growled the seemer. 'Oh,
don't look surprised. You think I don't know what I've made? I've seen the real one a coupla times, and this'd fool Vetinari hisself. That takes a lot of forgetting.'
'I don't know what you mean!' Heretofore protested.
'You are stupid, then.'
'I told you, no one owns the letter V!'
'You'll tell that to his lordship, will you? No, you won't. But you'll pay me another five hundred. I'm thinking of retiring anyway, and a little extra will get me a long way away'
'We had an agreement!'
'An' now we're having another one,' said Morpeth. 'This time you're buying forgetfulness.' The maker of things that seemed beamed happily. The young man looked unhappy and uncertain.
'This is priceless to someone, right?' Morpeth prompted.
'All right, five hundred, damn you.'
'Except it's a thousand now,' said the old man. 'See? You were too fast. You didn't haggle. Someone really needs my little toy, right? Fifteen hundred all in. You try to find anyone else in this city who can work stygium like me. An' if you open your mouth to say anything but "yes" it'll be two thousand. Have it my way'
There was a longer pause, and Heretofore said: 'Yes. But I'll have to come back with the rest.'
'You do that, mister. I'll be here waiting. There, that wasn't too hard, was it? Nothing personal, it's just business.'
The ring went back in the box, the box went back in the drawer. At a signal from the young man the troll dropped the bags on the floor and, job done, wandered off into the night.
Heretofore turned suddenly, and the seemer's right hand flew down behind the desk. It relaxed when the young man said: 'You'll be here later, yes?'
'Me? I'm always here. See yourself out.'
'You'll be here?'
'I just said yes, didn't I?'
In the darkness of the stinking hallway the young man opened the door, his heart thumping. A black-clad figure stepped inside. He couldn't see the face behind the mask, but he whispered: 'Box is in the top left drawer. Some kind of weapon on the right side. Keep the money. Just don't… hurt him, okay?'
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