Making Money (12 page)

In exquisite white writing, like the inscription on some ancient ring, on the arrow 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.

“Oh…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 anyway. Moist found himself staring up at two terra-cotta-colored legs that were as thick as tree trunks.

“I Hope You Are Not Looking Up My Dress, Mr. Lipwig?” rumbled 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 around, holding another black arrow between her 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 noted.

“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, pulling up to the curb, 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 arm, glared across the carpet, and said—

“Oh…sorry, I thought this was Lord Vetinari’s coach…”

A hand 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?”

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

T
HE 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 jewelry 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.

“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’ 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,” said Heretofore.

“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 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?”

“Hurt? That’s not why I’m here!” hissed the dark figure.

“I know, but…do it neatly, all right?”

And then Heretofore was shutting the door behind him.

It was raining. He went in the doorway opposite. It was hard to hear noises over the rain and the sound of overflowing gutters, but he fancied he heard, above all this, a faint thump. It may have been his imagination, because he did not hear the door open, or the approach of the killer, and he nearly swallowed his tongue when the man loomed in front of him, pressed the box into his hand, and vanished into the rain.

A smell of peppermint drifted out onto the street; the man was thorough, and had used a peppermint bomb to cover his scent.

You stupid, stupid old fool! Heretofore said, in the turmoil of his skull. Why didn’t you take the money and shut up! I had no choice! He wouldn’t risk you telling anyone!

Heretofore felt his stomach heave. He’d never meant it to be like this! He’d never meant for anyone to die! And then he threw up.

That was last week. Things hadn’t got any better.

L
ORD
V
ETINARI
has a black coach.

Other people also have black coaches.

Therefore, not everyone in a black coach is Lord Vetinari.

It was an important philosophical insight that Moist, to his regret, had forgotten in the heat of the moment.

There was no heat now. Cosmo Lavish was cool, or at least making a spirited effort to be so. He wore black, of course, as people do to show how rich they are, but the real giveaway was the beard.