I Shall Wear Midnight - Terry Pratchett [29]
‘I don’t often see any money at all,’ she protested, stunned by this.
The Baron banged his stick on the floor again, as if applauding. ‘I doubt very much if you have ever seen money like this,’ he said merrily. ‘You see, although there are fifteen dollars in the bag, they are not the dollars that you are used to, or would be if you were used to them at all. They are old dollars, from before they started mucking about with the currency. The modern dollar is mostly brass, in my opinion, and contains as much gold as sea water. These, however, are the real shilling, if you’ll excuse my little joke.’
Tiffany excused his little joke, because she didn’t get it. He smiled at her puzzlement. ‘In short, Miss Tiffany Aching, if you take these coins to the right dealer, he should pay you, oh, I would estimate somewhere in the region of five thousand Ankh-Morpork dollars. I don’t know what that would be in terms of old boots, but quite possibly it could buy you an old boot the size of this castle.’
And Tiffany thought: I can’t take this. Apart from anything else the bag had become extremely heavy. Instead, she said, ‘That’s far too much for a witch.’
‘But not too much for a son,’ said the Baron. ‘Not too much for an heir, not too much for continuity down the generations. Not too much for removing a lie from the world.’
‘But it can’t buy me another pair of hands,’ said Tiffany, ‘or change one second of the past.’
‘Nevertheless, I must insist that you take it,’ said the Baron, ‘if not for your sake, then for mine. It will take a burden off my soul and, believe me, it could do with a bit of shining up at this time, don’t you agree? I am going to die soon, am I not?’
‘Yes, sir. Very soon, I think, sir.’
Tiffany was beginning to understand something about the Baron by now, and she wasn’t surprised when he laughed.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘most people would have said, “Oh, no, old chap, you’ve got ages yet, you will be up and out of here in no time, lots of life left in you!”’
‘Yes, sir. I’m a witch, sir.’
‘And in this context that means …?’
‘I try very hard not to have to tell lies, sir.’
The old man shifted in his chair, and was suddenly solemn. ‘When the time comes …’ he began, and hesitated.
‘I will keep you company, sir, if you wish,’ said Tiffany.
The Baron looked relieved. ‘Have you ever seen Death?’
She had been expecting this and was ready. ‘Usually you just feel him passing, sir, but I have seen him twice, in what would have been the flesh, if he had any. He’s a skeleton with a scythe, just like in the books – in fact, I think it’s because that’s what he looks like in the books. He was polite but firm, sir.’
‘I’ll bet he is!’ The old man was silent for a little while and then went on. ‘Did he … drop any hints about the afterlife?’
‘Yes, sir. Apparently it contains no mustard, and I got the impression that it contains no pickles either.’
‘Really? Bit of a blow, that. I suppose that chutney is out of the question?’
‘I did not go into the subject of pickled condiments in any depth, sir. He had a big scythe.’
There was a loud knocking at the door, and Miss Spruce called loudly, ‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘In tip-top condition, dear Miss Spruce,’ said the Baron loudly, then lowered his voice to say conspiratorially, ‘I believe our Miss Spruce does not like you very much, my dear.’
‘She thinks I’m unhygienic,’ said Tiffany.
‘Never really understood about all that nonsense,’ said the Baron.
‘It’s quite easy,’ said Tiffany. ‘I have to stick my hands in the fire at every opportunity.’
‘What? You put your hands in the fire?’
Now she was sorry she had mentioned it, but she knew the old man would not now be satisfied until she had shown him. She sighed and crossed over to the fireplace, pulling a large iron poker out of its stand. She admitted to herself that she liked showing off this trick occasionally, and the Baron would be an appreciative audience. But should she do it? Well, the fire trick was not that complicated