Making Money

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.

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?