Making Money - Terry Pratchett [137]
A second wave of pies was already in the air, circling the room in trajectories that dropped them into the struggling Lavishes. And then a figure fought its way out of the crowd, to the groans and screams of those who’d temporarily been in its way; this was because those who managed to escape having their feet trodden on by the big shoes jumped back in time to be scythed down by the ladder the newcomer was carrying. Then it’d innocently turned to see what mayhem it had caused, and the swinging ladder felled anyone too slow to get away. There was a method to it, though; as Moist watched, the clown stepped away from the ladder, leaving four people trapped among the rungs in such a way that any attempt to get out would cause huge pain to the other three and, in the case of one of the watchmen, a serious impairment of marriage prospects.
Red-nosed and raggedy-hatted, it bounced into the arena in great, leaping strides, his enormous boots flapping on the floor with every familiar step.
“Mr. Bent?” said Moist. “Is that you?”
“My jolly good pal Mr. Lipwig!” shouted the clown. “You think the ringmaster runs the circus, do you? Only by the consent of the clowns, Mr. Lipwig! Only by the consent of the clowns!”
Bent drew back his arm and hurled a pie at Lord Vetinari, but Moist was already in full leap before the pie started its journey. His brain came a poor third, and delivered its thoughts all in one go, telling him what his legs had apparently worked out for themselves: that the dignity of the great could rarely survive a faceful of custard, that a picture of an encustarded Patrician on the front page of the Times would rock the power politics of the city, and most of all, that in a post-Vetinari world he, Moist, would not see tomorrow, which was one of his lifelong ambitions.
As in a silent dream, he sailed toward the oncoming nemesis, reaching out with snail-pace fingers while the pie spun on to its date with history.
It hit him in the face.
The Patrician had not moved. Custard flew up and four hundred fascinated eyes watched as a glob of the stuff was thrown up by the collision and headed on toward Vetinari, who caught it in an upraised hand.
The little smack as it landed in his palm was the only sound in the room.
Vetinari inspected the captured custard.
He dipped a finger into it, and tasted the blob thereon. He cast his eyes upward thoughtfully, while the room held its collective breath, and then said: “I do believe it is pineapple.”
There was a thunder of applause. There had to be; even if you hated Vetinari, you had to admire the timing.
And now he was coming down the steps, advancing on a frozen and fearful clown.
“The clowns do not run my circus, sir,” he said, grabbing the man by his big red nose and pulling it to the full extent of the elastic. “Is that understood?”
The clown produced a bulbous horn and gave a mournful honk.
“Good. I’m glad you agree. And now I want to talk to Mr. Bent, please.”
There were two honks this time.
“Oh yes he is,” said Vetinari. “Shall we get him out for the boys and girls? What is 15.3 percent of 59.66?”
“You leave him alone! Just you leave him alone!”
The battered crowd parted yet again, this time for a disheveled Miss Drapes, as outraged and indignant as a mother hen. She was clasping something heavy to her sparse bosom, and Moist realized that it was a stack of ledgers.
“This is what it’s all about!” she announced triumphantly, flinging her arms wide. “It’s not his fault! They took advantage of him!”
She pointed an accusatory finger at the dripping ranks of the Lavishes. If a battle goddess was allowed to have a respectable blouse and hair escaping rapidly from a tight bun, then Miss Drapes could have been deified. “It was them! They sold the gold years ago!” This caused a general and enthusiastic uproar on all sides not containing a Lavish.
“There will be silence!” shouted Vetinari.
The lawyers rose. Mr. Slant