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?”
CHAPTER 4
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
THE 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
“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?”
CHAPTER 4
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
THE 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
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