'I'm a martyr to them, shir,' said Cribbins. 'I'll shwear they're out to get me.' Springs twanged as he fought them with the fork and then, apparently satisfied, he wrestled them back on to his grey gums and champed them into place.
'That's better,' he announced.
'Good,' said Cosmo. 'And now, in view of the nature of your allegations, which Drumknott here has carefully transcribed and you have signed, let me ask you: why have you not gone to Lord Vetinari?'
'I've knowed men escape the nooshe, sir,' said Cribbins. 'It ain't too hard if you've got the readies. But I never heard of one get a big plum job the very next day. Gov'ment job, too. Then suddenly he's a banker, no lesh. Shomeone's watching over him, and I don't think it'sh a bleeding fairy. If I was to go to Vetinari, then, I'd be a bit shilly, right? But he's got your bank, and you ain't, which is a shame. Sho I'm your man, shir.'
'At a price, I have no doubt.'
'Well, yes, shomething in the way of expenses would help, yesh.'
'And you are sure that Lipwig and Spangler are one and the same?'
'It's the smile, sir. You never forget it. And he has this gift of chatting to people, he makes people want to do things his way. It's like magic, the little ingrate.'
Cosmo stared at him and then said, 'Give the reverend fifty dollars, Drum - Heretofore, and direct him to a good hotel. One where they might have a hot tub available.'
'Fifty dollarsh? growled Cribbins.
'And then please go ahead with that little acquisition, will you?'
'Yes, sir. Of course.'
Cosmo pulled a piece of paper towards him, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and began to write furiously.
'Fifty dollarsh?' said Cribbins again, appalled at the minimum wage of sin.
Cosmo looked up and stared at the man as if seeing him for the first time and not enjoying the novelty.
'Hah, yes. Fifty dollars indeed for now, reverend,' said Cosmo soothingly. 'And in the morning, if your memory is still as good, we will all look forward to a richer and righteous future. Do not let me detain you.'
He returned to his paperwork.
Heretofore grabbed Cribbins's arm and towed him forcibly out of the room. He'd seen what Cosmo was writing.
VetinariVetinariVetinari VetinariVetinariVetinari
VetinariVetinariVetinari VetinariVetinariVetinari
VetinariVetinariVetinari VetinariVetinariVetinari
VetinariVetinariVetinari VetinariVetinariVetinari...
It was time for the swordstick, he thought. Get it, hand it over, take the money and run.
Things were quiet in the Department of Post-Mortem Communications. They were never very loud at the best of times, although you always got, when the sounds of the university slid into silence, the reedy little gnat-sized voices leaking through from the Other Side.
The trouble was, thought Hicks, that too many of his predecessors had never had any kind of a life outside the department, where social skills were not a priority, and even when dead had still completely failed to get a life. So they hung around the department, reluctant to leave the place. Sometimes, when they were feeling strong and the Dolly Sisters Players were doing a new production, he let them out to paint the scenery.
Hicks sighed. That was the trouble with working in the DPMC, you could never exactly be the boss. In an ordinary job people retired, wandered back to the ol' workplace a few times while there was anyone who remembered them, and then faded into the ever-swelling past. But the former staff here never seemed to go...
There was a saying: 'Old necromancers never die'. When he told them this, people would say:'... and?' and Hicks would have to reply: 'That's all of it, I'm afraid. Just "Old necromancers never die".'
He was just tidying up for the night when, from his shadowy corner, Charlie said, 'Somebody coming through. Well, I say some body...'
Hicks spun round. The magic circle was glowing and a pearly pointy hat was already rising through the solid floor.
'Professor Head?' he said.