Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [157]
This is known as Finance.
On the way back home to a simple breakfast, one of them dropped by the Guild of Assassins to pay his respects to his old friend Lord Downey, during which visit current affairs were only lightly touched upon. And Reacher Gilt, wherever he had gone, was now certainly the worst insurance risk in the world. The people who guard the rainbow don’t like those who get in the way of the sun.
Epilogue
—Some Time After
THE FIGURE IN THE CHAIR did not have long hair, or an eyepatch. It didn’t have a beard or, rather, it wasn’t intending to have a beard. It hadn’t shaved for several days.
It groaned.
“Ah, Mr. Gilt,” said Lord Vetinari, looking up from his playing board. “You are awake, I see. I’m sorry for the manner in which you were brought here, but some quite expensive people wish to see you dead and I thought it would be a good idea if we had this little meeting before they did.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” said the figure. “My name is Randolph Stippler, and I have papers to prove it—”
“And wonderful papers they are, Mr. Gilt. But enough of that. No, it is about angels that I wish to talk to you now.”
Reacher Gilt, wincing occasionally as the aches from three days of being carried by a golem made themselves felt, listened in mounting puzzlement to the angelic theories of Lord Vetinari.
“—brings me on to my point, Mr. Gilt. The Royal Mint needs an entirely new approach. Frankly, it’s moribund and not at all what we need in the Century of the Anchovy. Yes, there is a way forward. In recent months, Mr. Lipwig’s celebrated stamps have become a second currency in this city. So light, so easy to carry, you can even send them through the mail! Fascinating, Mr. Gilt. At last people are loosening their grip on the idea that money should be shiny. Do you know that a typical one-penny stamp may change hands up to twelve times before being affixed to an envelope and redeemed? What the Mint needs to see it through is a man who understands the dream of currency. There will be a salary and, I believe, a hat.”
“You are offering me a job?”
“Yes, Mr. Stippler,” said Vetinari. “And, to show the sincerity of my offer, let me point out the door behind you. If at any time in this interview you feel you wish to leave, you have only to step through it, and you will never hear from me again…”
Some little time later, the clerk Drumknott padded into the room. Lord Vetinari was reading a report on the previous night’s secret meeting of the Thieves’ Guild inner inner council.
He tidied up the trays quite noiselessly, and then came and stood by Vetinari.
“There are ten overnights off the clacks, my lord,” he said. “It’s good to have it back in operation.”
“Indeed, yes,” said Vetinari, not looking up. “Otherwise how in the world would people be able to find out what we want them to think? Any foreign mail?”
“The usual packets, my lord. The Uberwald one has been most deftly tampered with.”
“Ah, dear Lady Margolotta,” said Vetinari, smiling.
“I’ve taken the liberty of removing the stamps for my nephew, my lord,” Drumnott went on.
“Of course,” said Vetinari, waving a hand.
Drumknott looked around the office and focused on the slab where the little stone armies were endlessly in combat. “Ah, I see you have won, my lord,” he said.
“Yes, I must make a note of the gambit.”
“But Mr. Gilt, I notice, is not here…”
Vetinari sighed. “You have to admire a man who really believes in freedom of choice,” he said, looking at the open doorway. “Sadly, he did not believe in angels.”
About the Author
TERRY PRATCHETT’s novels have sold more than thirty-five million (give or take a few million) copies worldwide. He lives in England. Visit his website at www.terrypratchettbooks.com.
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