Making Money (Discworld 36)

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?' looper  -  A proper Hubert  -  One very big mattress  -  Some observations on tourism  -  Gladys makes a sandwich  -  The Blind Letter Office  -  Mrs Lavish's posterity  -  An ominous note  -  Flight planning  -  An even more ominous note, and certainly more ominous than the first note  -  Mr Lipwig boards the wrong coach

MOIST HAD SEEN GLASS being bent and blown, and marvelled at the skill of the people who did it  -  marvelled as only a man can marvel whose sole skill is in bending words. Some of those geniuses had probably worked on this. But so had their counterparts from the hypothetical Other Side, glassblowers who had sold their souls to some molten god for the skill to blow glass into spirals and intersecting bottles and shapes that seemed to be quite close but some distance away at the same time. Water gurgled, sloshed and, yes, glooped along glass tubing. There was a smell of salt.

Bent nudged Moist, pointed to an improbable wooden hatstand, and wordlessly handed him a long yellow oilskin coat and a matching rain hat. He had already donned a similar outfit, and had magically procured an umbrella from somewhere.

'It's the Balance of Payments,' he said, as Moist struggled into the coat. 'He never gets it right.' There was a crash from somewhere, and water droplets rained down on them. 'See?' Bent added.

'What's it doing?' said Moist.

Bent rolled his eyes. 'Hell knows, Heaven suspects,' he said. He raised his voice. 'Hubert? We have a visitor!'

A distant splashing grew louder and a figure appeared around the edge of the glassware.

Rightly or wrongly, Hubert is one of those names you put a shape to. There may well be tall, slim Huberts, Moist would be the first to agree, but this Hubert was shaped like a proper Hubert, which is to say, stubby and plump. He had red hair, unusual, in Moist's experience, in the standard model Hubert. It grew thickly, straight up from his head, like the bristles of a brush; about five inches up, it appeared to have been cut short with the aid of shears and a spirit level. You could have stood a cup and saucer on it.

'A visitor?' said Hubert nervously. 'Wonderful! We don't get many down here!' Hubert wore a long white coat, with a breast pocket full of pencils.