Making Money - Terry Pratchett [81]
His feet rising and falling, as though he was walking on an invisible staircase, Mr. Bent departed in jerky haste.
“Very well, gentlemen, thank you for your helpful attitude,” said Moist, watching the retreating figure, “and for my part I will get those uniforms ordered this afternoon.”
“You’re a fast mover, Master,” said Mr. Shady.
“Stand still and your mistakes catch up with you!” said Moist. They laughed, because he’d said it, but the face of Cribbins rose up in his mind and, quite unconsciously, he put his hand in his pocket and touched the blackjack. He’d have to learn how to use it now, because a weapon you held and didn’t know how to use belonged to your enemy.
He’d bought it—why? Because it was like the lock picks, a token to prove, if only to himself, that he hadn’t given in, not all the way, that a part of him was still free. It was like the other ready-made identities, the escape plans, the caches of money and clothes. They told him that any day he could leave all this, melt into the crowd, say good-bye to the paperwork and the timetable and the endless, endless wanting.
They told him that he could give it up anytime he liked. Any hour, any minute, any second. And because he could, he didn’t…every hour, every minute, every second. There had to be a reason why.
“Mr. Lipwig! Mr. Lipwig!”
A young clerk dodged and weaved through the busyness of the Mint, and stopped in front of Moist, panting.
“Mr. Lipwig, there’s a lady in the hall to see you and we’ve thanked her for not smoking three times and she’s still doing it!”
The image of the wretched Cribbins vanished, and was replaced with a much better one.
Ah, yes. That reason.
MISS ADORA BELLE Dearheart, known to Moist as Spike, was standing in the middle of the banking hall. Moist just headed for the smoke.
“Hello, you,” she said, and that was that. “Can you take me away from all this?” She gestured with her nonsmoking hand. Staff had meaningfully surrounded her with tall brass ashtrays, full of white sand.
Moist shifted a couple of them, and let her out.
“How was—” he began, but she interrupted.
“We can talk on the way.”
“Where are we going?” Moist asked hopefully.
“Unseen University,” said Adora Belle, heading for the door. She had a large woven bag on her shoulder. It was apparently stuffed with straw.
“Not lunch then?” said Moist.
“Lunch can wait. This is important.”
“Oh.”
IT WAS LUNCHTIME at Unseen University, where every meal is important. It was hard to find a time when some meal or other was not in progress there. The library was unusually empty, and Adora Belle walked up to the nearest wizard who did not seem gainfully employed and demanded: “I want to see the Cabinet of Curiosity right away!”
“I don’t think we have anything like that,” said the wizard. “Who’s it by?”
“Please don’t lie. My name is Adora Belle Dearheart, so as you can imagine I’ve got a pretty short temper. My father brought me with him when you people asked him to come and look at the Cabinet, about twenty years ago. You wanted to find out how the doors worked. Someone must remember. It was in a big room. A very big room. And it had lots and lots of drawers. And the funny thing about them was—”
The wizard raised his hands quickly, as if to ward off further words. “Can you wait just one minute?” he suggested.
They waited for five. Occasionally, a pointy-hatted head peered around a bookshelf to look at them, and ducked away if it thought it’d been spotted.
Adora Belle lit a fresh cigarette. Moist pointed to a sign which said IF YOU ARE SMOKING, THANK YOU FOR BEING BEATEN ABOUT THE HEAD.
“That’s just for show,” said Adora Belle, expelling a stream of blue smoke. “All wizards smoke like chimneys.”
“Not in here, I notice,” said Moist, “and possibly this is because of all the highly inflammable books? It might be a good idea to—”
He felt the swish of the air and got a whiff of rain forest as something