Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [143]
“Surely you’re going too far, Mr. Lipwig?”
“All the way to Genua, dear lady! Did I mention the gum is cabbage-flavored?”
Moist couldn’t have stopped himself now for hard money. This was where his soul lived: dancing on an avalanche, making the world up as he went along, reaching into people’s ears and changing their minds. For this he offered glass as diamonds, let the Find the Lady cards fly under his fingers, stood smiling in front of clerks examining fake bills. This was the feeling he craved, the raw, naked excitement of pushing the envelope—
Reacher Gilt was moving through the crowd like a shark among minnows. He gave Moist a carefully neutral look, and turned to Mr. Pony.
“Is there some problem, gentlemen?” he said. “It’s getting late.”
In a silence punctuated by chuckles from the crowd, Pony tried to explain, insofar as he now had any grip on what was going on.
“I see,” said Gilt. “You are pleased to make fun of us, Mr. Lipwig? Then allow me to say that we of the Grand Trunk will not take it amiss if you should leave now. I think we can spare you a couple of hours, eh?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Moist. “If it will make you feel any better.”
“Indeed it will,” said Gilt gravely. “It would be best, Mr. Lipwig, if you were a long way away from here.”
Moist heard the tone, because he was expecting it. Gilt was being reasonable and statesmanlike, but his eye was a dark metal ball and there was the harmonic of murder in his voice. And then Gilt said: “Is Mr. Groat well, Mr. Lipwig? I was sorry to hear of the attack.”
“Attack, Mr. Gilt? He was hit by falling timber,” said Moist. And that question entitles you to no mercy at all, no matter what.
“Ah? Then I was misinformed,” said Gilt. “I shall know not to listen to rumors in future.”
“I shall pass on your good wishes to Mr. Groat,” said Moist.
Gilt raised his hat. “Good-bye, Mr. Lipwig. I wish you the best of luck in your gallant attempt. There are some dangerous people on the road.”
Moist raised his own hat and said: “I intend to leave them behind very soon, Mr. Gilt.”
There, he thought. We’ve said it all, and the nice lady from the newspaper thinks we’re good chums or, at least, just business rivals being stiffly polite to each other. Let’s spoil the mood.
“Good-bye, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Mr. Pump, be so good as to put the broom on the coach, would you?”
“Broom?” said Gilt, looking up sharply. “That broom? The one with stars on it? You’re taking a broomstick?”
“Yes, it will come in handy if we break down,” said Moist.
“I protest, Archchancellor!” said Gilt, spinning around. “This man intends to fly to Genua!”
“I have no such intention!” said Moist. “I resent the allegation!”
“Is this why you appear so confident?” snarled Gilt. And it was a snarl, there and then, a little sign of a crack appearing.
A broomstick could travel fast enough to blow your ears off. It wouldn’t need too many towers to break down, and heavens knew they broke down all the time, for a broomstick to beat the clacks to Genua, especially since it could fly directly and wouldn’t have to follow the big dog-leg the coach road and the Grand Trunk took. The Trunk would have to be really unlucky, and the person flying the broom would be really frozen and probably really dead, but even in a day a broomstick could fly from Ankh-Morpork to Genua. That might just do it.
Gilt’s face was a mask of glee. Now he knew what Moist intended.
Round and round she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows…
It was the heart of any scam or fiddle. Keep the punter uncertain, or, if he is certain, make him certain of the wrong thing.
“I demand that no broomstick is taken by the coach!” said Gilt to the Archchancellor, which was not a good move. You didn’t demand anything from wizards. You requested. “If Mr. Lipwig is not confident in his equipment,” Gilt went on, “I suggest he concedes right now!”
“We’ll be traveling alone on some dangerous roads,” said Moist. “A broomstick might be essential.”
“However, I am forced to agree with this…gentleman,