Making Money by Terry Pratchett Page A

legs!”
    “I assume he will 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 another document from the thin and rather battered briefcase. “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, went 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 the 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 wall. 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, 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