Making Money - Terry Pratchett [139]
The advancing watchmen slowed down a little. Their job had a pension.
“Will no one at all make any move, please? I think I can deal with this,” said Moist, squinting along the blade. This was a time for delicacy…
“Oh, this is so silly,” said Pucci, strutting forward with a clatter of heels. “We’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. It’s our gold, isn’t it? Who cares what he wrote down in his books?”
The phalanx of Lavish lawyers rose very cautiously to their feet, while the two employed by Pucci began to whisper urgently to her. She ignored them. Everyone was staring at her now, not her brother. Everyone was paying attention to her.
“Could you please be quiet, Miss Lavish?” said Moist. The stillness of the blade worried him. Some part of Cosmo was functioning very well indeed.
“Oh yes, I expect you just would like me to shut up, and I’m not going to!” said Pucci gleefully. Like Moist confronted by an open notebook, she triumphantly plunged on without a care: “We can’t steal what already belongs to us, can we? So what if Father put the wretched gold to better use? It was just sitting there! Honestly, why are you all so dense? Everybody does it. It’s not stealing. I mean, the gold still exists, yes? In rings and things. It’s not as though anyone’s going to throw it away. Who cares where it is?”
Moist resisted the impulse to look at the other bankers in the room. Everyone does it, eh? Pucci was not going to get many Hogswatch cards this year. And her brother was staring at her in horror. The rest of the clan, those who weren’t still engrossed in decustarding themselves, were contriving to give the impression that they had never seen Pucci before. Who is this mad woman? said their faces. Who let her in? What is she talking about?
“I think your brother is very ill, miss,” he said.
Pucci tossed her admittedly fine locks dismissively. “Don’t worry about him, he’s just being silly,” she said. “He’s only doing it to attract attention. Silly boyish stuff about wanting to be Vetinari, as if anyone in their right mind would—”
“He’s dribbling green,” said Moist, but nothing cut through the barrage of chatter. He stared at Cosmo’s ravaged face, and everything made sense. Beard. Cap. Sword stick, yes, with someone’s tacky idea of what a blade made from the iron in the blood of a thousand men should look like. And what about the murder of a man who made rings? And under that stinking glove…
This is my world. I know how to do this.
“I beg your pardon! You are Lord Vetinari, aren’t you?” he said.
For a moment, Cosmo drew himself up and a spark of imperiousness shone through.
“Indeed! Yes indeed,” he said, raising one eyebrow. Then it sagged, and his puffy face sagged with it.
“Got ring. Vetin’ry ring,” he mumbled. “’S mine really. Good pain…”
The sword dropped, too.
Moist grabbed the man’s left hand and tore the glove off. It came away with a sucking sound and a smell that was unimaginably, nose-cakingly bad. The nearest guard threw up. So many colors, thought Moist. So many…wiggling things…
And there, still visible in the suppurating mass, was the unmistakable sullen gleam of stygium.
Moist grabbed Cosmo’s other hand.
“I think you ought to come outside, my lord, now you are the Patrician,” he said loudly. “You must meet the people…”
Once again, some inner Cosmo got a slippery grip, enough to cause the dribbling mouth to utter “Yes, this is very important…” before reverting to “Feel ill. Finger looks funny…”
“The sunshine will do it good,” said Moist, taking him gently in tow. “Trust me.”
CHAPTER 13
Gladys Is Doing It For Herself To the House of Mirth The history of Mr. Bent Usefulness of clowns as nurses is questioned Owlswick gets an angel The golden secret (not exactly dragon magic) The return of the teeth Vetinari looks ahead The bank triumphant The Glooper’s little gift How to spoil a perfect day
ON THE FIRST day of