Making Money (Discworld 36)

Cosmo rose slowly to his feet and stepped out into the centre of the floor. 'I object most strongly to the suggestion that this scoundrel is in the best tradition of my - ' he began.

Mr Slant was on his feet as though propelled by a spring. Quick as he was, Moist was faster.

'I object!' he said.

'How do you dare object,' Cosmo spat, 'when you have admitted to being an arrogant scofflaw?'

'I object to Lord Vetinari's allegation that I have anything to do with the fine traditions of the Lavish family,' said Moist, staring into eyes that now seemed to be weeping green tears. 'For example, I have never been a pirate or traded in slaves - '

There was a great rising of lawyers.

Mr Slant glared. There was a great seating.

'They admit it,' said Moist. 'It's in the bank's own official history!'

'That is correct, Mr Slant,' said Vetinari. 'I have read it. Volenti non fit injuria clearly applies.'

The whirring started again. Mr Fusspot was coming back the other way. Moist forced himself not to look.

'Oh, this is low indeed!' snarled Cosmo. 'Whose history could withstand this type of malice?'

Moist raised a hand. 'Ooo, ooo, I know this one!' he said. 'Mine can. The worst I ever did was rob people who thought they were robbing me, but I never used violence and I gave it all back. Okay, I robbed a couple of banks, well, defrauded, really, but only because they made it so easy - '

'Gave it back?' said Slant, looking for some kind of response from Vetinari. But the Patrician was staring over the heads of the crowd, who were almost all engrossed in the transit of Mr Fusspot, and merely raised a finger in acknowledgement or dismissal.

'Yes, you may recall that I saw the error of my ways last year when the gods - ' Moist began.

'Robbed a couple of banks?' said Cosmo. 'Vetinari, are we to believe that you knowingly put the most important bank in the city into the charge of a known bank robber?'

The massed ranks of the Lavishes rose, united in defence of the money. Vetinari still stared at the ceiling.

Moist looked up. A disc, something white, was skimming through the air near the ceiling; it descended as it circled, and hit Cosmo between the eyes. A second one swooped on over Moist's hand and landed in the bosoms of the Lavishes.

'Should he have left it in the hands of unknown bank robbers?' a voice shouted, as collateral custard landed on every smart black suit. 'Here we are again!'

A second wave of pies was already in the air, circling the room in trajectories that dropped them into the struggling Lavishes. And then a figure fought its way out of the crowd, to the groans and screams of those who'd temporarily been in its way; this was because those who managed to escape having their feet trodden on by the big shoes jumped back in time to be scythed down by the ladder the newcomer was carrying. It innocently turned to see what mayhem it had caused, and the swinging ladder would fell anyone too slow to get away. There was a method to it, though: as Moist watched, the clown stepped away from the ladder, leaving four people trapped among the rungs in such a way that any attempt to get out would cause huge pain to the other three and, in the case of one of the watchmen, a serious impairment of marriage prospects.

Red-nosed and raggedy-hatted, it bounced into the arena in great leaping strides, its enormous boots flapping on the floor with every familiar step.

'Mr Bent?' said Moist. 'Is that you?'

'My jolly good pal Mr Lipwig!' shouted the clown. 'You think the ringmaster runs the circus, do you? Only by the consent of the clowns, Mr Lipwig! Only by the consent of the clowns!'

Bent drew back his arm and hurled a pie at Lord Vetinari.

But Moist was already in full leap before the pie started its journey. His brain came a poor third, and delivered its thoughts all in one go, telling him what his legs had apparently worked out for themselves: that the dignity of the great could rarely survive a face full of custard, that a picture of an encustarded Patrician on the front page of the Times would rock the power-politics of the city, and most of all that in a post-Vetinari world he, Moist, would not see tomorrow, which was one of his lifelong ambitions.

As in a silent dream he sailed towards the oncoming nemesis, reaching out with snail-pace fingers while the pie spun on to its date with history.

It hit him in the face.

Vetinari had not moved. Custard flew up and four hundred fascinated eyes watched as a glob of the stuff headed on towards the Patrician, who caught it in an upraised hand. The little smack as it landed on his palm was the only sound in the room.

Vetinari inspected the captured custard. He dipped a finger into it and tasted the blob thereon. He cast his eyes upwards, thoughtfully, while the room held its communal breath, and then said, pensively: 'I do believe it is pineapple.'

There was a thunder of applause. There had to be; even if you hated Vetinari, you had to admire the timing.

And now he was coming down the steps, advancing on a frozen and fearful clown.