lord vetinari requests silence — mr lipwig comes down - mr pump

moves on — fooling no one but yourself— the bird — the concludium

- freedom of choice

the great hall was in uproar. most of the wizards took the opportunity to congregate at the buffet, which was now clear. if there’s one thing a wizard hates, it’s having to wait while the person in front of them is in two minds about coleslaw. it’s a salad bar, they say, it’s got the kind of stuff salad bars have, if it was surprising it wouldn’t be a salad bar, you’re not here to look at it. what do you expect to find? rhino chunks? pickled coelacanth?

the lecturer in recent runes ladled more bacon bits into his salad bowl, having artfully constructed buttresses of celery and breastworks of cabbage to increase its depth five times.

‘any of you fellows know what this is all about?’ he said, raising his voice above the din. ‘seems to be upsetting a lot of people.’

‘it’s this clacks business,’ said the chair of indefinite studies. ‘i’ve never trusted it. poor collabone. decent young man in his way. a good man with a whelk. seems to be in a spot of bother . . .’

it was quite a large spot. devious collabone was opening and shutting his mouth on the other side of the glass like a stranded fish.

in front of him, mustrum ridcully reddened with anger, his tried and tested approach to most problems.

‘. . . sorry, sir, but this is what it says and you asked me to read it,’ collabone protested. ‘it goes on and on, sir—’

‘and that’s what the clacks people gave you?’ the archchancellor demanded. ‘are you sure?’

‘yes, sir. they did look at me in a funny way, sir, but this is definitely it. why should i make anything up, archchancellor? i spend most of my time in a tank, sir. a boring, boring, lonely tank, sir.’

‘not one more word!’ screamed greenyham. ‘i forbid it!’ beside him, mr nutmeg had sprayed his drink across several dripping guests.

‘excuse me? you forbid, sir?’ said ridcully, turning on greenyham in sudden fury. ‘sir, i am the master of this college! i will not, sir, be told what to do in my own university! if there is anything to be forbidden here, sir, i will do the forbidding! thank you! go ahead, mr collabone!’

‘er, er, er . . .’ collabone panted, longing for death.

‘i said carry on, man!’

‘er, er . . . yes . . . “there was no safety. there was no pride. all there was, was money. everything became money, and money became everything. money treated us as if we were things, and we died—”‘

‘is there no law in this place? that is outright slander!’ shouted stowley. ‘it’s a trick of some sort!’

‘by whom, sir?’ roared ridcully. ‘do you mean to suggest that mr collabone, a young wizard of great integrity, who i may say is doing wonderful work with snakes—’

‘—shellfish—’ murmured ponder stibbons.

‘—shellfish, is playing some kind of joke? how dare you, sir! continue, mr collabone!’

‘i, i, i—’

‘that is an order, dr collabone!’*

* archchancellor ridcully was a great believer in retaliation by promotion. you couldn’t have civilians criticizing one of his wizards. that was his job.

‘er . . . “blood oils the machinery of the grand trunk as willing, loyal people pay with their lives for the board’s culpable stupidity—” ’

the hubbub rose again. moist saw lord vetinari’s gaze traverse the room. he didn’t duck in time. the patrician’s stare passed right through him, carrying away who knew what. an eyebrow rose in interrogation. moist looked away, and sought out gilt.

he wasn’t there.

in the omniscope mr collabone’s nose now glowed like a beacon. he struggled, dropping pages, losing his place, but pressing on with the dogged, dull determination of a man who could spend all day

watching one oyster.

‘—nothing less than an attempt to blacken our good names in front of the whole city!’ stowley was protesting.

‘ “—unaware of the toll that is being taken. what can we say of the men who caused this, who sat in comfort round their table and killed us by numbers? this—” ’

‘i will sue the university! i will sue the university!’ screamed greenyham. he picked up a chair and hurled it at the omniscope. halfway to the glass it turned into a small flock of doves, which panicked and soared up to the roof.

‘oh, please sue the university!’ ridcully bellowed. ‘we’ve got a pond full of people who tried to sue the university—’

‘silence,’ said vetinari.

it wasn’t a very loud word, but it had an effect rather like that of a drop of black ink in a glass of clear water. the word spread out in coils and tendrils, getting everywhere. it strangled the noise.

of course, there is always someone not paying attention. ‘and furthermore,’ stowley went on, oblivious of the hush unfolding in his own little world of righteous indignation, ‘it’s plain that—’

‘i will have silence,’ vetinari stated.

stowley stopped, looked around and deflated. silence ruled.

‘very good,’ said vetinari quietly. he nodded at commander vimes of the watch, who whispered to another watchman, who pushed his way though the crowd and towards the door.

vetinari turned to ridcully. ‘archchancellor, i would be grateful if you would instruct your student to continue, please?’ he said in the same calm tone.

‘certainly! off you go, professor collabone. in your own time.’

‘er, er, er, er . . . it says further on: “the men obtained control of the trunk via a ruse known as the double lever, in the main using money entrusted to them by clients who did not suspect that—”‘

‘stop reading that!’ greenyham shouted. ‘this is ridiculous! it is just slander upon slander!’

‘i’m certain i spoke, mr greenyham,’ said vetinari.

greenyham faltered.

‘good. thank you,’ said vetinari. ‘these are very serious allegations, certainly. embezzlement? murder? i’m sure that mr— sorry, professor collabone is a trustworthy man’ - in the omniscope devious collabone, unseen university’s newest professor, nodded desperately - ‘who is only reading what has been delivered, so it would appear that they have originated from within your own company. serious allegations, mr greenyham. made in front of all these people. are you suggesting i should treat them as some sort of prank? the city is watching, mr greenyham. oh, stowley appears to be ill.’

‘this is not the place for—’ greenyham tried, aware once more of the creaking of ice.

‘it is the ideal place,’ said vetinari. ‘it is public. in the circumstances, given the nature of the allegations, i’m sure everyone would require that i get to the bottom of them as soon as possible, if only to prove them totally groundless.’ he looked around. there was a chorus of agreement. even the upper crust loved a show.

‘what do you say, mr greenyham?’ said vetinari.

greenyham said nothing. the cracks were spreading, the ice was breaking up on every side.

‘very well,’ said vetinari. he turned to the figure beside him.

‘commander vimes, be so kind as to send men to the offices of the grand trunk company, ankh-sto associates, sto plains holdings, ankh futures and particularly to the premises of the ankh-morpork mercantile credit bank. inform the manager, mr cheeseborough, that the bank is closed for audit and i wish to see him in my office at his earliest convenience. any person in any of those premises who so much as moves a piece of paper before my clerks arrive will be arrested and held complicit in any or all of such offences as may be uncovered. while this is happening, moreover, no person concerned with the grand trunk company or any of its employees is to leave this room.’

‘you can’t do that!’ greenyham protested weakly, but the fire had drained out of him. mr stowley had collapsed on the floor, with his head in his hands.

‘can i not?’ said vetinari. ‘i am a tyrant. it’s what we do.’

‘what is happening? who am i? where is this place?’ moaned stowley, a man who believed in laying down some groundwork as soon as possible.

‘but there’s no evidence! that wizard’s lying! someone must have been bribed!’ greenyham pleaded. not only had the ice broken up, but he was on the floe with the big hungry walrus.

‘mr greenyham,’ said lord vetinari, ‘one more uninvited outburst from you and you will be imprisoned. i hope that is clear?’

‘on what charge?’ said greenyham, still managing to find a last reserve of hauteur from somewhere.

‘there doesn’t have to be one!’ robe swirling like the edge of darkness, vetinari swung round to the omniscope and devious collabone, for whom two thousand miles suddenly wasn’t far enough. ‘continue, professor. there will be no further interruptions.’

moist watched the audience as collabone stuttered and mispronounced his way through the rest of the message. it dealt with generalities rather than particulars, but there were dates, and names, and thundering denunciations. there was nothing new, not really new, but it was packaged in fine language and it was delivered by the dead.

we who died on the dark towers demand this of you . . .

he ought to be ashamed.

it was one thing to put words in the mouths of the gods; priests did it all the time. but this, this was a step too far. you had to be some kind of bastard to think of something like this.

he relaxed a bit. a fine upstanding citizen wouldn’t have stooped so low, but he hadn’t got this job because he was a fine upstanding citizen. some tasks needed a good honest hammer. others needed a twisty corkscrew.

with any luck, he could believe that, if he really tried.

there had been a late fall of snow, and the fir trees around tower 181 were crusted with white under the hard, bright starlight.

everyone was up there tonight - grandad, roger, big steve-oh, wheezy halfsides, who was a dwarf and had to sit on a cushion to reach the keyboards, and princess.

there had been a few muffled exclamations as the message came through. now there was silence, except for the sighing of the wind. princess could see people’s breath in the air. grandad was drumming his fingers on the woodwork.

then wheezy said: ‘was that all real?’

the breath clouds got denser. people were relaxing, coming back to the real world.

‘you saw the instructions we got,’ said grandad, staring across the dark forests. ‘don’t change anything. send it on, they told us. we sent it on. we damn well did send it on!’

‘who was it from?’ said steve-oh.

‘it doesn’t matter,’ said grandad. ‘message comes in, message goes out, message moves on.’

‘yeah, but was it really from—’ steve-oh began.

‘bloody hell, steve-oh, you really don’t know when to shut up, do you?’ said roger.

‘only i heard about tower 93, where the guys died and the tower sent a distress signal all by itself,’ mumbled steve-oh. he was fast on the keys, but not knowing when to shut up was only one of his social failings. in a tower, it could get you killed.

‘dead man’s handle,’ said grandad. ‘you should know that. if there’s no activity for ten minutes when a signature key is slotted, the drum drops the jacquard into the slot and the counterweight falls and the tower sends the help sign.’ he spoke the words as if reading them from a manual.

‘yeah, but i heard that in tower 93 the jacquard was wedged and—’

‘i can’t stand this,’ muttered grandad. ‘roger, let’s get this tower working again. we’ve got local signals to send, haven’t we?’

‘sure. and stuff waiting on the drum,’ said roger. ‘but gilt said we weren’t to restart until—’

‘gilt can kiss my—’ grandad began, then remembered the present company and finished:’—donkey. you read what went through just now! do you think that bas— that man is still in charge?’

princess looked out from the upstream window. ‘182’s lit up,’ she announced.

‘right! let’s light up and shift code,’ grandad growled. ‘that’s what we do! and who’s going to stop us? all those without something to do, get out! we are running!’

princess went out on to the little platform, to be out of the way. underfoot the snow was like icing sugar, in her nostrils the air was like knives.

when she looked across the mountains, in the direction she’d learned to think of as downstream, she could see that tower 180 was sending. at that moment, she heard the thump and click of 181’s own shutters opening, dislodging snow. we shift code, she thought. it’s what we do.

up on the tower, watching the star-like twinkle of the trunk in the clear, freezing air, it was like being part of the sky.

and she wondered what grandad most feared: that dead clacks-men could send messages to the living, or that they couldn’t.

collabone finished. then he produced a handkerchief and rubbed away at whatever the green stuff was that had begun to grow on the glass. this made a squeaking sound.

he peered nervously through the smear. ‘is that all right, sir? i’m not in some sort of trouble, am i?’ he asked. ‘only at the moment i think i’m close to translating the mating call of the giant clam . . .’

‘thank you, professor collabone; a good job well done. that will be all,’ said archchancellor ridcully coldly. ‘unhinge the mechanism, mr stibbons.’ a look of fervid relief passed across devious colla-bone’s face just before the omniscope went blank.

‘mr pony, you are the chief engineer of the grand trunk, are you not?’ said vetinari, before the babble could rise again.

the engineer, suddenly the focus of attention, backed away waving his hands frantically. ‘please, your lordship! i’m just an engineer, i don’t know anything—’

‘calm yourself, please. have you heard that the souls of dead men travel on the trunk?’

‘oh, yes, your lordship.’

‘is it true?

‘well, er . . .’ pony looked around, a hunted man. he’d got his pink flimsies, and they would show everyone that he was nothing more than a man who’d tried to make things work, but right now all he could find on his side was the truth. he took refuge in it. ‘i can’t see how, but, well . . . sometimes, when you’re up a tower of a night, and the shutters are rattlin’ and the wind’s singing in the rigging, well, you might think it’s true.’

‘i believe there is a tradition called “sending home”?’ said lord vetinari.

the engineer looked surprised. ‘why, yes, sir, but . . .’ pony felt he ought to wave a little flag for a rational world in which, at the moment, he didn’t have a lot of faith, ‘the trunk was dark before we ran the message, so i don’t see how the message could have got on—’

‘unless, of course, the dead put it there?’ said lord vetinari. ‘mr pony, for the good of your soul and, not least, your body, you will go now to the tump tower, escorted by one of commander vimes’s men, and send a brief message to all the towers. you will obtain the paper tapes, which i believe are known as drum rolls, from all the towers on the grand trunk. i understand that they show a record of all messages originating at that tower, which cannot be readily altered?’

‘that will take weeks to do, sir!’ pony protested.

‘an early start in the morning would seem in order, then,’ said lord vetinari.

mr pony, who had suddenly spotted that a spell a long way from ankh-morpork might be a very healthy option just now, nodded and said, ‘right you are, my lord.’

‘the grand trunk will remain closed in the interim,’ said lord vetinari.

‘it’s private property!’ greenyham burst out.

‘tyrant, remember,’ said vetinari, almost cheerfully. ‘but i’m sure that the audit will serve to sort out at least some aspects of this mystery. one of them, of course, is that mr readier gilt does not seem to be in this room.’

every head turned.

‘perhaps he remembered another engagement?’ said lord vetinari. ‘i think he slipped out some time ago.’

it dawned on the directors of the grand trunk that their chairman was absent and, which was worse, they weren’t. they drew together.

‘i wonder if, uh, at this point at least we could discuss the matter with you privately, your lordship?’ said greenyham. ‘readier was not an easy man to deal with, i’m afraid.’

‘not a team player,’ gasped nutmeg.

‘who?’ said stowley. ‘what is this place? who are all these people?’

‘left us totally in the dark most of the time—’ said greenyham.

‘i can’t remember a thing—’ said stowley. ‘i’m not fit to testify, any doctor will tell you . . .’

‘i think i can say on behalf of all of us that we were suspicious of him all along—’

‘mind’s a total blank. not a blessed thing . . . what’s this thing with fingers on . . . who am i . . .’

lord vetinari stared at the board for five seconds longer than was comfortable, while tapping his chin gently with the knob of his cane. he smiled faintly.

‘quite,’ he said. ‘commander vimes, i think it would be iniquitous to detain these gentlemen here any longer.’ as the faces in front of him relaxed into smiles full of hope, that greatest of all gifts, he added: ‘to the cells with them, commander. separate cells, if you please. i shall see them in the morning. and if mr slant comes to see you on their behalf, do tell him i’d like a little chat, will you?’

that sounded . . . good. moist strolled towards the door, while the hubbub rose, and had almost made it when lord vetinari’s voice came out of the throng like a knife.

‘leaving so soon, mr lipwig? do wait a moment. i shall give you a lift back to your famous post office.’

for a moment, just a slice of a second, moist contemplated running. he did not do so. what would be the point?

the crowd parted hurriedly as lord vetinari headed towards the door; behind him, the watch closed in.

ultimately, there is the freedom to take the consequences.

the patrician leaned back in the leather upholstery as the coach drew away. ‘what a strange evening, mr lipwig,’ he said. ‘yes, indeed.’

moist, like the suddenly bewildered mr stowley, considered that his future happiness lay in saying as little as possible.

‘yes, sir,’ he said.

‘i wonder if that engineer will find any evidence that the strange message was put on the clacks by human hands?’ he wondered aloud.

‘i don’t know, my lord.’

‘you don’t?’

‘no, sir.’

‘ah,’ said vetinari. ‘well, the dead are known to speak, sometimes. ouija boards and seances, and so on. who can say they wouldn’t use the medium of the clacks?’

‘not me, sir.’

‘and you are clearly enjoying your new career, mr lipwig.’

‘yes, sir.’

‘good. on monday your duties will include the administration of the grand trunk. it is being taken over by the city.’

oh well, so much for future happiness . . .

‘no, my lord,’ said moist.

vetinari raised an eyebrow. ‘there is an alternative, mr lipwig?’

‘it really is private property, sir. it belongs to the dearhearts and the other people who built it.’

‘my, my, how the worm turns,’ said vetinari. ‘but the trouble is, you see, they weren’t good at business, only at mechanisms. otherwise they would have seen through gilt. the freedom to succeed goes hand in hand with the freedom to fail.’

‘it was robbery by numbers,’ said moist. ‘it was find the lady done with ledgers. they didn’t stand a chance.’

vetinari sighed. ‘you drive a hard bargain, mr lipwig.’ moist, who wasn’t aware he had tried to drive a bargain at all, said nothing. ‘oh, very well. the question of ownership will remain in abeyance for now, until we have plumbed the sordid depths of this affair. but what i truly meant was that a great many people depend on the trunk for their living. out of sheer humanitarian considerations, we must do something. sort things out, postmaster.’

‘but i’m going to have my hands more than full with the post office!’ moist protested.

‘i hope you are. but in my experience, the best way to get something done is to give it to someone who is busy,’ said vetinari.

‘in that case, i’m going to keep the grand trunk running,’ said moist.

‘in honour of the dead, perhaps,’ said vetinari. ‘yes. as you wish. ah, here is your stop.’

as the coachman opened the door lord vetinari leaned towards moist. ‘oh, and before dawn i do suggest you go and check that everyone’s left the old wizarding tower,’ he said.

‘what do you mean, sir?’ said moist. he knew his face betrayed nothing.

vetinari sat back. “well done, mr lipwig.’

there was a crowd outside the post office, and a cheer went up as moist made his way to the doors. it was raining now, a grey, sooty drizzle that was little more than fog with a slight weight problem.

some of the staff were waiting inside. he realized the news hadn’t got around. even ankh-morpork’s permanent rumour-mill hadn’t been able to beat him back from the university.

‘what’s happened, postmaster?’ said groat, his hands twisting together. ‘have they won?’

‘no,’ said moist, but they picked up the edge in his voice.

‘have we won?’

‘the archchancellor will have to decide that,’ said moist. ‘i suppose we won’t know for weeks. the clacks has been shut down, though. i’m sorry, it’s all complicated . . .’

he left them standing and staring as he trudged up to his office, where mr pump was standing in the corner.

‘good evening, mr lipvig,’ the golem boomed.

moist sat down and put his head in his hands. this was victory, but it didn’t feel like it. it felt like a mess.

the bets? well, if leadpipe got to genua you could make a case under the rules that he’d won, but moist had a feeling that all bets were off now. that meant people would get their money back, at least.

he’d have to keep the trunk going, gods knew how. he’d sort of promised the gnu, hadn’t he? and it was amazing how people had come to rely on the clacks. he wouldn’t know how leadpipe had fared for weeks, and even moist had got used to daily news from genua. it was like having a finger cut off. but the clacks was a big, cumbersome monster of a thing, too many towers, too many people, too much effort. there had to be a way of making it better and sleeker and cheaper . . . or maybe it was something so big that no one could run it at a profit. maybe it was like the post office, maybe the profit turned up spread around the whole of society.

tomorrow he’d have to take it all seriously. proper mail runs. many more staff. hundreds of things to do, and hundreds of other things to do before you could do those things. it wasn’t going to be fun any more, cocking a snook, whatever a snook was, at the big slow giant. he’d won, so he’d have to pick up the pieces and make everything work. and come in here the next day and do it all again.

this wasn’t how it was supposed to end. you won, and you pocketed the cash and walked away. that was how the game was supposed to go, wasn’t it?

his eye fell on anghammarad’s message box, on its twisted, corroded strap, and he wished he was at the bottom of the sea.

‘mr lipwig?’

he looked up. drumknott the clerk was standing in the doorway, with another clerk behind him.

‘yes?’

‘sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said the clerk. ‘we’re here to see mr pump. just a minor adjustment, if you don’t mind?’

‘what? oh. fine. whatever. go ahead.’ moist waved a hand vaguely.

the two men walked over to the golem. there was some muted conversation, and then it knelt down and they unscrewed the top of its head.

moist stared in horror. he knew it was done, of course, but it was shocking to see it happening. there was some rummaging around that he couldn’t make out, and then the cranium was replaced, with a little pottery noise.

‘sorry to have disturbed you, sir,’ said drumknott, and the clerks left.

mr pump stayed on his knees for a moment, and then rose slowly. the red eyes focused on moist, and the golem stuck out his hand.

‘i do not know what a pleasure is, but i am sure that if i did, then working with you would have been one,’ he said. ‘now i must leave you. i have another task.’

‘you’re not my, er, parole officer any more?’ said moist, taken aback.

‘correct.’

‘hold on,’ said moist, as light dawned, ‘is vetinari sending you after gilt?’

‘i am not at liberty to say.’

‘he is, isn’t he? you’re not following me any more?’

‘i am not following you any more.’

‘so i’m free to go?’

‘i am not at liberty to say. good night, mr lipvig.’ mr pump paused at the door. ‘i am not certain what happiness is, either, mr lipvig, but i think - yes, i think i am happy to have met you.’

and, ducking to get through the doorway, the golem left.

that only leaves the werewolf, thought part of moist’s mind, faster than light. and they’re not much good at boats and completely lost when it comes to oceans! it’s the middle of the night, the watch are running around like madmen, everyone’s busy, i’ve got a bit of cash and i’ve still got the diamond ring and a deck of cards . . . who’d notice? who’d care? who’d worry?

he could go anywhere. but that wasn’t really him thinking that, was it . . . it was just a few old brain cells, running on automatic. there wasn’t anywhere to go, not any more.

he walked over to the big hole in the wall and looked down into the hall. did anyone go home here? but now the news had got around, and if you wanted any hope of anything delivered anywhere tomorrow, you came to the post office. it was quite busy, even now.

‘cup of tea, mr lipwig?’ said the voice of stanley, behind him.

‘thank you, stanley,’ said moist, without looking round. down below, miss maccalariat was standing on a chair and nailing something to the wall.

‘everyone says we’ve won, sir, ‘cos the clacks has been shut down ‘cos the directors are in prison, sir. they say all mr upwright has to do is get there! but mr groat says the bookies probably won’t pay up, sir. and the king of lancre wants some stamps printed, but it’ll come a bit pricey, sir, since they only write about ten letters a year up there. still, we’ve showed them, eh, sir? the post office is back!’

‘it’s some kind of banner,’ said moist, aloud.

‘sorry, mr lipwig?’ said stanley.

‘er . . . nothing. thank you, stanley. have fun with the stamps. good to see you standing up so . . . straight . . .’

‘it’s like having a new life, sir,’ said stanley. ‘i’d better go, sir, they need help with the sorting . . .’

the banner was crude. it read: ‘thank you mr lipwic!’

gloom rolled around moist. it was always bad after he’d won, but this time was the worst. for days his mind had been flying and he’d felt alive. now he felt numb. they’d put up a banner like that, and he was a liar and a thief. he’d fooled them all, and there they were, thanking him for fooling them.

a quiet voice from the doorway behind him said: ‘mad al and the boys told me what you did.’

‘oh,’ said moist, still not turning round. she’ll be lighting a cigarette, he thought.

‘it wasn’t a nice thing to do,’ adora belle dearheart went on, in the same level tone.

‘there wasn’t a nice thing that would work,’ said moist.

‘are you going to tell me that the ghost of my brother put the idea in your head?’ she said.

‘no. i dreamed it up myself,’ said moist.

‘good. if you’d tried that, you’d be limping for the rest of your life, believe me.’

‘thank you,’ said moist leadenly. ‘it was just a lie i knew people would want to believe. just a lie. it was a way to keep the post office going and get the grand trunk out of gilt’s hands. you’ll probably get it back, if you want it. you and all the other people gilt swindled. i’ll help, if i can. but i don’t want thanking.’

he felt her draw nearer.

‘it’s not a lie,’ she said. ‘it’s what ought to have been true. it pleased my mother.’

‘does she think it’s true?’

‘she doesn’t want to think it isn’t.’

no one does. i can’t stand this, moist thought. ‘look, i know what i’m like,’ he said. ‘i’m not the person everyone thinks i am. i just wanted to prove to myself i’m not like gilt. more than a hammer, you understand? but i’m still a fraud by trade. i thought you knew that. i can fake sincerity so well that even i can’t tell. i mess with people’s heads—’

‘you’re fooling no one but yourself,’ said miss dearheart, and reached for his hand.

moist— shook her off, and ran out of the building, out of the city and back to his old life, or lives, always moving on, selling glass as diamond, but somehow it just didn’t seem to work any more, the flair wasn’t there, the fun had dropped out of it, even the cards didn’t seem to work for him, the money ran out, and one winter in some inn that was no more than a slum he turned his face to the wall—

and an angel appeared.

‘what just happened?’ said miss dearheart.

perhaps you do get two . . .

‘only a passing thought,’ said moist. he let the golden glow rise. he’d fooled them all, even here. but the good bit was that he could go on doing it; he didn’t have to stop. all he had to do was remind himself, every few months, that he could quit any time. provided he knew he could, he’d never have to. and there was miss dearheart, without a cigarette in her mouth, only a foot away. he leaned forward—

there was a loud cough behind them. it turned out to have come from groat, who was holding a large parcel.

‘sorry to interrupt, sir, but this just arrived for you,’ he said, and sniffed disapprovingly. ‘messenger, not one of ours. i thought i’d better bring it straight up ‘cos there’s something moving about inside it . . .’

there was. and airholes, moist noted. he opened the lid with care, and pulled his fingers away just in time.

‘twelve and a half per cent! twelve and a half per cent!’ screamed the cockatoo, and landed on groat’s hat.

there was no note inside, and nothing on the box but the address.

‘why’d someone send you a parrot?’ said groat, not caring to raise a hand within reach of the curved beak.

‘it’s gilt’s, isn’t it?’ said miss dearheart. ‘he’s given you the bird?’

moist smiled. ‘it looks like it, yes. pieces of eight!’

‘twelve and a half per cent!’ yelled the cockatoo.

‘take it away, will you, mr groat?’ said moist. ‘teach it to say . . . to say . . .’

‘trust me?’ said miss dearheart.

‘good one!’ said moist. ‘yes, do that, mr groat.’

when groat had gone, with the cockatoo balancing happily on his shoulder, moist turned back to the woman.

‘and tomorrow,’ he said, ‘i’ll definitely get the chandeliers back!’

‘what? most of this place doesn’t have a ceiling,’ said miss dearheart, laughing.

‘first things first. trust me! and then, who knows? i might even find the fine polished counter! there’s no end to what’s possible!’

and out in the bustling cavern white feathers began to fall from the roof. they may have been from an angel, but were more likely to be coming from the pigeon that a hawk was just disembowelling on a beam. still, they were feathers. it’s all about style.

sometimes the truth is arrived at by adding all the little lies together and deducting them from the totality of what is known.

lord vetinari stood at the top of the stairs in the great hall of the palace, and looked down on his clerks. they’d taken over the whole huge floor for this concludium.

chalked markings - circles, squares, triangles - were drawn here and there on the floor. within them, papers and ledgers were piled in dangerously neat heaps. and there were clerks, some working inside the outlines and some moving noiselessly from one outline to another bearing pieces of paper as if they were a sacrament. periodically clerks and watchmen arrived with more files and ledgers, which were solemnly received, assessed and added to the relevant pile.

abacuses clicked everywhere. clerks would pad back and forth and sometimes they would meet in a triangle and bend their heads in quiet discussion. this might result in their heading away in new directions or, increasingly as the night wore on, one clerk would go and chalk a new outline, which would begin to fill with paper. sometimes an outline would be emptied and rubbed out and its contents distributed among nearby outlines.

no enchanter’s circle, no mystic’s mandala was ever drawn with such painfully meticulous care as the conclusions being played out on the floor. hour after hour it went on, with a patience that at first terrified and then bored. it was the warfare of clerks, and it harried the enemy through many columns and files. moist could read words that weren’t there but the clerks found the numbers that weren’t there, or were there twice, or were there but going the wrong way. they didn’t hurry. peel away the lies, and the truth would emerge, naked and ashamed and with nowhere else to hide.

at 3 a.m. mr cheeseborough arrived, in a hurry and bitter tears, to learn that his bank was a shell of paper. he brought his own clerks, with their nightshirts tucked into hastily donned trousers, who went down on their knees alongside the other men and spread out more papers, double-checking figures in the hope that if you stared at numbers long enough they’d add up differently.

and then the watch turned up with a small red ledger, and it was given a circle of its own, and soon the whole pattern re-formed around it . . .

it wasn’t until almost dawn that the sombre men arrived. they were older and fatter and better - but not showily, never showily -dressed, and moved with the gravity of serious money. they were financiers too, richer than kings (who are often quite poor), but hardly anyone in the city outside their circle knew them or would notice them in the street. they spoke quietly to cheeseborough as to one who’d suffered a bereavement, and then talked among themselves, and used little gold propelling pencils in neat little notebooks to make figures dance and jump through hoops. then quiet agreement was reached and hands were shaken, which in this circle carried infinitely more weight than any written contract. the first domino had been steadied. the pillars of the world ceased to tremble. the credit bank would open in the morning, and when it did so bills would be honoured, wages would be paid, the city would be fed.

they’d saved the city with gold more easily, at that point, than any hero could have managed with steel. but in truth it had not exactly been gold, or even the promise of gold, but more like the fantasy of gold, the fairy dream that the gold is there, at the end of the rainbow, and will continue to be there for ever provided, naturally, that you don’t go and look.

this is known as finance.

on the way back home to a simple breakfast, one of them dropped off at the guild of assassins to pay his respects to his old friend lord downey, during which current affairs were only lightly touched upon. and reacher gilt, wherever he had gone, was now certainly the worst insurance risk in the world. the people who guard the rainbow don’t like those who get in the way of the sun.