Making Money (Discworld 36)

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.