Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [144]
Moist threw up his hands. “As you wish, sir, of course. It is a blow. May I request even-handed treatment, though?”
“Your meaning?” said the wizard.
“There is a horse stationed at each tower to be used when the tower breaks down,” said Moist.
“That is normal practice!” snapped Gilt.
“Only in the mountains,” said Moist calmly. “And even then only in the most isolated towers. But today, I suspect, there’s one at every tower. It’s a pony express, Archchancellor, apologies to Mr. Pony. They could easily beat our coach without sending a word of code.”
“You can’t possibly be suggesting that we’d take a message all the way on horseback!” said Gilt.
“You were suggesting I’d fly,” said Moist. “If Mr. Gilt is not confident in his equipment, Archchancellor, I suggest he concedes now.”
And there it was, a shadow on Gilt’s face. He was more than just irate now; he’d passed into the calm, limpid waters of utter, visceral fury.
“So let’s agree that this isn’t a test of horses against broomsticks,” said Moist. “It’s stagecoach against clacks tower. If the stage breaks down, we repair the stage. If a tower breaks down, you repair the tower.”
“That seems fair, I must say,” said Ridcully. “And I so rule. However, I must take Mr. Lipwig aside to issue a word of warning.”
The Archchancellor put his arm around Moist’s shoulders and led him around the coach. Then he leaned down until their faces were a few inches apart.
“You are aware, are you, that painting a few stars on a perfectly ordinary broomstick doesn’t mean it will get airborne?” he said.
Moist looked into a pair of milky-blue eyes that were as innocent as a child’s, particularly a child who is trying hard to look innocent.
“My goodness, doesn’t it?” he said.
The wizard patted him on the shoulder. “Best to leave things as they are, I feel,” he said happily.
Gilt smiled at Moist as they returned.
It was just too much to resist, so Moist didn’t. Raise the stakes. Always push your luck, because no one else would push it for you.
“Would you care for a little personal wager, Mr. Gilt?” he said. “Just to make it…interesting?”
Gilt handled it well, if you couldn’t read the tells, the little signs…
“Dear me, Mr. Lipwig, do the gods approve of gambling?” he said, and gave a short laugh.
“What is life but a lottery, Mr. Gilt?” said Moist. “Shall we say…one hundred thousand dollars?”
That did it. That was the last straw. He saw something snap inside Reacher Gilt.
“One hundred thousand? Where would you lay your hands on that kind of money, Lipwig?”
“Oh, I just place them together, Mr. Gilt. Doesn’t everyone know that?” said Moist, to general amusement. He gave the chairman his most insolent smile. “And where will you lay your hands on one hundred thousand dollars?”
“Hah. I accept the wager! We shall see who laughs tomorrow,” said Gilt bluntly.
“I’ll look forward to it,” said Moist.
And now I have you in the hollow of my hand, he thought to himself. The hollow of my hand. You’re enraged now. You’re making wrong decisions. You’re walking the plank.
He climbed up onto the coach and turned to the crowd. “Genua, ladies and gentlemen. Genua or bust!”
“Someone will!” yelled a wag in the crowd. Moist bowed and, as he straightened up, looked into the face of Adora Belle Dearheart.
“Will you marry me, Miss Dearheart?” he shouted.
There was an “oooh” from the crowd, and Sacharissa turned her head like a cat seeking the next mouse. What a shame the paper had only one front page, eh?
Miss Dearheart blew a smoke ring.
“Not yet,” she said calmly. This got a mixture of cheers and boos.
Moist waved, jumped down beside the driver, and said: “Hit it, Jim.”
Jim cracked his whip for the sound of the thing, and the coach moved away amid cheering. Moist looked back, and made out Mr. Pony pushing determinedly through the crowd in the direction of the Tump Tower.
Then he sat back and looked at the streets, in the light of the coach lamps.
Pehaps it was the gold working its way in from outside. He could feel something