Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [115]
Vetinari’s expression was getting on Moist’s nerves. You know, he thought. I know you know. You know I know you know. But I know you can’t be certain, not certain.
“Well…there was an angel,” he said.
“Indeed? Any particular kind?”
“The kind you only get one of, I think,” said Moist.
“Ah, good. Well then, it all seems very clear to me,” said Vetinari, sitting back. “It is not often a mortal man achieves such a moment of glorious epiphany, but I am assured by the priests that such a thing could happen, and who should know better than they? Anyone even suggesting that the money was in some way…obtained in some wrong fashion will have to argue with some very turbulent priests and also, I assume, find their kitchen drawers quite impossible to shut. Besides, you are donating money to the city”—he held up his hand when Moist opened his mouth, and went on—“that is, the Post Office, so the notion of private gain does not arise. There appears to be no owner for the money, although so far, of course, nine hundred and thirty-eight people would like me to believe it belongs to them. Such is life in Ankh-Morpork. So, Mr. Lipwig, you are instructed to rebuild the Post Office as soon as possible. The bills will be met and, since the money is effectively a gift from the gods, there will be no drain on our taxes. Well done, Mr. Lipwig. Very well done. Don’t let me detain you.”
Moist actually had his hand on the door handle when the voice behind him said: “Just one minor thing, Mr. Lipwig.”
He turned. Lord Vetinari had walked over to his game.
“Yes, sir?”
“It occurs to me that the sum which the gods so generously have seen fit to bestow upon us does, by pure happenstance, appear to equal the estimated haul of a notorious criminal, which as far as I know has never been recovered.”
Moist stared at the woodwork in front of him. Why is this man ruling just one city? he thought. Why isn’t he ruling the world? Is this how he treats other people? It’s like being a puppet. The difference is, he arranges for you to pull your own strings.
He turned, face carefully deadpan.
“Really, sir? Who was that, then?” he said.
“One Alfred Spangler, Mr. Lipwig.”
“He’s dead, sir,” said Moist.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. I was there when they hanged him.”
“Well remembered, Mr. Lipwig,” said Vetinari, moving a dwarf all the way across the board.
DAMN, DAMN, DAMN! Moist shouted, but only for internal consumption.
He’d worked hard for that mon—well, the banks and merchants had worked har—well, somewhere down the line someone had worked hard for that money, and now a third of it had been…well, stolen, that was the only word for it.
Moist experienced a certain amount of unrighteous indignation about this.
Of course, he would have given most of it to the Post Office, that was the whole point, but you could build a damn good building for a lot less than a hundred thousand dollars, and Moist had been hoping for a little something for himself.
Still, he felt good. Perhaps this was that “warm and fuzzy wonderful warm feeling” people talked about. And what would he have done with the money? He’d never have time to spend it in any case. After all, what could a master criminal buy? There was a shortage of seaside properties with real lava flows near a reliable source of piranhas, and the world as sure as hell didn’t need another Dark Lord, not with Gilt doing so well. Gilt didn’t need a tower with ten thousand trolls camped outside. He just needed a ledger and a sharp mind. It worked better, cheaper, and he could go out and party at night.
Handing all that gold over to a copper had been a difficult thing to do, but there really was no choice. He’d got them by the short and curlies, anyway. No one was going to stand up and say the gods didn’t do this sort of thing. True, they’d never done it so far, but you could never tell, with gods. Certainly there were queues outside the three temples, once the Times had put out its afternoon edition.
This had presented the priesthoods with a philosophical