in which we learn the theory of baize-space — devious collabone - the
grand trunk burns — so sharp you’ll cut yourself— finding miss
dearheart - a theory of disguise - igor moveth on - ‘let this
moment never end’ - a brush with the trunk - the big sail unfurls -
the message is received
mustrum ridcully, archchancellor of unseen university, levelled his cue and took careful aim.
the white ball hit a red ball, which rolled gently into a pocket. this was harder than it looked because more than half of the snooker table served as the archchancellor’s filing system,* and indeed to get to the hole the ball had to pass through several piles of paperwork, a tankard, a skull with a dribbly candle on it and a lot of pipe ash. it did so.
* ridcully practised the first available surface method of filing.
‘well done, mr stibbons,’ said ridcully.
‘i call it baize-space,’ said ponder stibbons proudly.
every organization needs at least one person who knows what’s going on and why it’s happening and who’s doing it, and at uu this role was filled by stibbons, who often wished it wasn’t. right now he was present in his position as head of inadvisably applied magic, and his long-term purpose was to see that his department’s budget went through on the nod. to this end, therefore, a bundle of thick pipes led from under the heavy old billiard table, out through a hole in the wall and across the lawn into the high energy magic building, where - he sighed - this little trick was taking up 40 per cent of the rune-time of hex, the university’s thinking engine.
‘good name,’ said ridcully, lining up another shot.
‘as in phase-space?’ said ponder, hopefully. ‘when a ball is just about to encounter an obstacle that is not another ball, you see, hex moves it into a theoretical parallel dimension where there is unoccupied flat surface and maintains speed and drag until it can be brought back to this one. it really is a most difficult and intricate piece of unreal-time spell casting—’
‘yes, yes, very good,’ said ridcully. ‘was there something else, mr stibbons?’
ponder looked at his clipboard. ‘there’s a polite letter from lord vetinari asking on behalf of the city whether the university might consider including in its intake, oh, twenty-five per cent of less able students, sir?’
ridcully potted the black, through a heap of university directives.
‘can’t have a bunch of grocers and butchers telling a university how to run itself, stibbons!’ he said firmly, lining up on a red. ‘thank them for their interest and tell them we’ll continue to take one hundred per cent of complete and utter dullards, as usual. take ‘em in dull, turn ‘em out sparklin’, that’s always been the uu way! anythin’ else?’
‘just this message for the big race tonight, archchancellor.’
‘oh, yes, that thing. what should i do, mr stibbons? i hear there’s heavy betting on the post office.’
‘yes, archchancellor. people say the gods are on the side of mr lipwig.’
‘are they betting?’ said ridcully, watching with satisfaction as the ball rematerialized on the other side of a neglected ham sandwich.
‘i don’t think so, sir. he can’t possibly win.’
‘was he the fella who rescued the cat?’
‘that was him, sir, yes,’ said ponder.
‘good chap. what do we think of the grand trunk? bunch of bean-crushers, i heard. been killin’ people on those towers of theirs. man in the pub told me he’d heard the ghosts of dead signallers haunt the trunk. i’ll try for the pink.’
‘yes, i’ve heard that, sir. i think it’s an urban myth,’ said ponder.
‘they travel from one end of the trunk to the other, he said. not a bad way to spend eternity, mark you. there’s some splendid scenery up in the mountains.’ the archchancellor paused, and his big face screwed up in thought. ‘haruspex’s big directory of varying dimensions,’ he said at last.
‘pardon, archchancellor?’
‘that’s the message,’ said ridcully. ‘no one said it had to be a letter, eh?’ he waved a hand over the tip of the cue, which grew a powdering of fresh chalk. ‘give them a copy each of the new edition. send ‘em to our man in genua . . . what’s his name, thingummy, got a funny name . . . show him the old alma pater is thinkin’ of him.’
‘that’s devious collabone, sir. he’s out studying oyster communications in a low intensity magical field for his b.thau.’
‘good gods, can they communicate?’ said ridcully.
‘apparently, archchancellor, although thus far they’re refusing to talk to him.’
‘why’d we send him all the way out there?’
‘devious h. collabone, archchancellor?’ ponder prompted. ‘remember? with the terrible halitosis?’
‘oh, you mean dragonbreath collabone?’ said ridcully, as realization dawned. ‘the one who could blow a hole in a silver plate?’
‘yes, archchancellor,’ said ponder patiently. mustrum ridcully always liked to triangulate in on new information from several positions. ‘you said that out in the swamps no one would notice? if you remember, we allowed him to take a small omniscope.’
‘did we? far-thinking of us. call him up right now and tell him what’s going on, will you?’
‘yes, archchancellor. in fact i’ll leave it a few hours because it’s still night time in genua.’
‘that’s only their opinion,’ said ridcully, sighting again. ‘do it now, man.’
fire from the sky . . .
everyone knew that the top half of the towers rocked as the messages flew along the trunk. one day, someone was going to do something about it. and all old signallers knew that if the connecting rod operating the shutters on the down-line was pushed up to open them on the same blink as the connecting rod on the up-line was pulled down to close the shutters on the other side of the tower, the tower lurched. it was being pushed from one side and pulled from the other, which would have roughly the same effect as a column of marching soldiers could have on an old bridge. that wasn’t too much of a problem, unless it occurred again and again so that the rocking built up to a dangerous level. but how often would that happen?
every time the woodpecker arrived at your tower, that was how often. and it was like an illness that could only attack the weak and sick. it wouldn’t have attacked the old trunk, because the old trunk was too full of tower captains who’d shut down instantly and strip the offending message out of the drum, secure in the knowledge that their actions would be judged by superiors who knew how a tower worked and would have done the same thing themselves.
it would work against the new trunk, because there weren’t enough of those captains now. you did what you were told or you didn’t get paid and if things went wrong it wasn’t your problem. it was the fault of whatever idiot had accepted this message for sending in the first place. no one cared about you, and everyone at headquarters was an idiot. it wasn’t your fault; no one listened to you. headquarters had even started an employee of the month scheme to show how much they cared. that was how much they didn’t care.
and today you’d been told to shift code as fast as possible, and you didn’t want to be the one accused of slowing the system down, so you watched the next tower in line until your eyes watered and you hit keys like a man tapdancing on hot rocks.
one after another, the towers failed. some burned when the shutter boxes broke free and smashed on the cabin roofs, spilling blazing oil. there was no hope of fighting fire in a wooden box sixty feet up in the air; you slid down the suicide line and legged it to a safe distance to watch the show.
fourteen towers were burning before someone took their hands off the keys. and then what? you’d been given orders. there were to be no, repeat no other messages on the trunk while this message was being sent. what did you do next?
moist awoke, the grand trunk burning in his head.
the smoking gnu wanted to break it down and pick up the pieces, and he could see why. but it wouldn’t work. somewhere on the line there was going to be one inconvenient engineer who’d risk his job to send a message ahead saying: it’s a killer, shift it slowly. and that would be that. oh, it might take a day or two to get the thing to genua, but they had weeks to work with. and someone else, too, would be smart enough to compare the message with what had been sent by the first tower. gilt would wriggle out of it - no, he’d storm out of it. the message had been tampered with, he’d say, and he’d be right. there had to be another solution.
the gnu were on to something, though. changing the message was the answer, if only he could do it in the right way.
moist opened his eyes. he was at his desk, and someone had put a pillow under his head.
when was the last time he’d slept in a decent bed? oh, yes, the night mr pump had caught him. he’d spent a couple of hours in a rented bed that had a mattress which didn’t actually move and wasn’t full of rocks. bliss.
his immediate past life scampered before his eyes. he groaned.
‘good morning, mr lipvig,’ said mr pump from the corner. ‘your razor is sharp, the kettle is hot and i am sure a cup of tea is on the way.’
‘what time is it?’
‘noon, mr lipvig. you did not get in until dawn,’ the golem added reproachfully.
moist groaned again. six hours to the race. and then so many pigeons would come home to roost it’d be like an eclipse.
‘there is much excitement,’ said the golem, as moist shaved. ‘it has been agreed that the starting line will be in sator square.’
moist stared at his reflection, barely listening. he always raised the stakes, automatically. never promise to do the possible. anyone could do the possible. you should promise to do the impossible, because sometimes the impossible was possible, if you could find the right way, and at least you could often extend the limits of the possible. and if you failed, well, it had been impossible.
but he’d gone too far this time. oh, it’d be no great shame to admit that a coach and horses couldn’t travel at a thousand miles an hour, but gilt would strut about it and the post office would remain just a little, old-fashioned thing, behind the times, small, unable to compete. gilt would find some way to hold on to the grand trunk, cutting even more corners, killing people out of greed—
‘are you all right, mr lipvig?’ said the golem behind him.
moist stared into his own eyes, and what flickered in the depths.
oh, boy.
‘you have cut yourself, mr lipvig,’ said mr pump. ‘mr lipvig?’
shame i missed my throat, moist thought. but that was a secondary thought, edging past the big dark one now unfolding in the mirror.
look into the abyss and you’ll see something growing, reaching towards the light. it whispered: do this. this will work. trust me.
oh, boy. it’s a plan that will work, moist thought. it’s simple and deadly, like a razor. but it’d need an unprincipled man to even think about it.
no problem there, then.
i’ll kill you, mr gilt. i’ll kill you in our special way, the way of the weasel and cheat and liar. i’ll take away everything but your life. i’ll take away your money, your reputation and your friends. i’ll spin words around you until you’re cocooned in them. i’ll leave you nothing, not even hope . . .
he carefully finished shaving, and wiped the remnant of the foam off his chin. there was not, in truth, that much blood.
‘i think i could do with a hearty breakfast, mr pump,’ he said. ‘and then i have a few things to do. in the meantime, can you please find me a broomstick? a proper birch besom? and then paint some stars on the handle?’
the makeshift counters were crowded when moist went down, but the bustle stopped when he entered the hall. then a cheer went up. he nodded and waved cheerfully, and was immediately surrounded by people waving envelopes. he did his best to sign them all.
‘a lot o’ extra mail for genua, sir!’ mr groat exulted, pushing his way through the crowd. ‘never seen a day like it, never!’
‘jolly good, well done,’ moist murmured.
‘and the mail for the gods has gone right up, too!’ groat continued.
‘pleased to hear it, mr groat,’ said moist.
‘we’ve got the first sto lat stamps, sir!’ said stanley, waving a couple of sheets above his head. ‘the early sheets are covered in flaws, sir!’
‘i’m very happy for you,’ said moist. ‘but i’ve got to go and prepare a few things.’
‘aha, yes!’ said mr groat, winking.’ “a few things”, eh? just as you say, sir. stand aside, please, postmaster coming through!’
groat more or less pushed customers out of the way as moist, trying to avoid the people who wanted him to kiss babies or were trying to grab a scrap of his suit for luck, made it out into the fresh air.
then he kept to the back streets, and found a place that did a very reasonable double soss, egg, bacon and fried slice, in the hope that food could replace sleep.
it was all getting out of hand. people were putting out bunting and setting up stalls in sator square. the huge floating crowd that was the street population of ankh-morpork ebbed and flowed around the city, and tonight it would contract to form a mob in the square, and could be sold things.
finally he plucked up his courage and headed for the golem trust. it was closed. a bit more graffiti had been added to the strata that now covered the boarded-up window. it was just above knee-level and said, in crayon: ‘golms are made of poo.’ it was good to see the fine old traditions of idiot bigotry being handed down, in a no-good-at-all kind of way.
dolly sisters, he thought wildly, staying with an aunt. did she ever mention the aunt’s name?
he ran in that direction.
dolly sisters had once been a village, before the sprawl had rolled over it; its residents still considered themselves apart from the rest of the city, with their own customs - dog turd monday, up needles all - and almost their own language. moist didn’t know it at all. he pushed his way through the narrow lanes, looking around desperately for— what? a column of smoke?
actually, that wasn’t a bad idea . . .
he reached the house eight minutes later, and hammered on the door. to his relief, she opened it, and stared at him.
she said: ‘how?’
he said: ‘tobacconists. not many women around here have a hundred-a-day habit.’
‘well, what do you want, mr clever?’
‘if you help me, i can take gilt for everything he’s got,’ said moist. ‘help me. please? on my honour as a totally untrustworthy man?’
that at least got a brief smile, to be replaced almost immediately by the default expression of deep suspicion. then some inner struggle resolved itself.
‘you’d better come into the parlour,’ she said, opening the door all the way.
that room was small, dark and crowded with respectability. moist sat on the edge of a chair, trying not to disturb anything, while he strained to hear women’s voices along the hallway. then miss dearheart slipped in and shut the door behind her.
‘i hope this is all right with your family,’ said moist. ‘i—’
‘i told them we were courting,’ said miss dearheart. ‘that’s what parlours are for. the tears of joy and hope in my mother’s eyes were a sight to see. now, what do you want?’
‘tell me about your father,’ said moist. ‘i’ve got to know how the grand trunk was taken over. have you still got any paperwork?’
‘it won’t do any good. a lawyer looked at it and said it would be very hard to make a case—’
‘i intend to appeal to a higher court,’ said moist.
‘i mean, we can’t prove a lot of things, not actually prove—’ miss dearheart protested.
‘i don’t have to,’ said moist.
‘the lawyer said it would take months and months of work to—’ she went on, determined to find a snag.
‘i’ll make someone else pay for it,’ said moist. ‘have you got books? ledgers? anything like that?’
‘what are you intending to do?’ miss dearheart demanded.
‘it’s better if you don’t know. it really is. i know what i’m doing, spike. but you shouldn’t.’
‘well, there’s a big box of papers,’ said miss dearheart uncertainly. ‘i suppose i could just sort of . . . leave it in here while i’m tidying up . . .’
‘good.’
‘but can i trust you?’
‘on this? my gods, no! your father trusted gilt, and look what happened! i wouldn’t trust me if i was you. but i would if i was me.’
‘the funny thing is, mr lipwig, that i find myself trusting you all the more when you tell me how untrustworthy you are,’ said miss dearheart.
moist sighed. ‘yes, i know, spike. wretched, isn’t it? it’s a people thing. could you fetch the box, please?’
she did so, with a puzzled frown.
it took all afternoon and even then moist wasn’t sure, but he’d filled a small notebook with scribbles. it was like looking for piranhas in a river choked with weeds. there were a lot of bones on the bottom. but, although sometimes you thought you’d glimpsed a flash of silver, you could never be sure you’d seen a fish. the only way to be certain was to jump in.
by half past four sator square was packed.
the wonderful thing about the golden suit and the hat with wings was that, if moist took them off, he wasn’t him any more. he was just a nondescript person with unmemorable clothes and a face you might vaguely think you’d seen before.
he wandered through the crowd, heading towards the post office. no one gave him a second glance. most didn’t bother with a first glance. in a way he’d never realized until now, he was alone. he’d always been alone. it was the only way to be safe.
the trouble was, he missed the golden suit. everything was an act, really. but the man in the golden suit was a good act. he didn’t want to be a person you forgot, someone who was one step above a shadow. underneath the winged hat, he could do miracles or, at least, make it appear that miracles had been done, which is nearly as good.
he’d have to do one in an hour or two, that was certain.
oh well . . .
he went round the back of the post office, and was about to slip inside when a figure in the shadow said, ‘pissed!’
‘i suspect you mean psst?’ said moist. sane alex stepped out of the shadows; he was wearing his old grand trunk donkey jacket and a huge helmet with horns on.
‘we’re running slow with the canvas—’ he began.
‘why the helmet?’ said moist.
‘it’s a disguise,’ said alex.
‘a big horned helmet?’
‘yes. it makes me so noticeable that no one will suspect i’m trying not to be noticed, so they won’t bother to notice me.’
‘only a very intelligent man would think of something like that,’ said moist carefully. ‘what’s happening?’
‘we need more time,’ said alex.
‘what? the race starts at six!’
‘it won’t be dark enough. we won’t be able to get the sail up until half past at least. we’ll be spotted if we poke our heads over the parapet before then.’
‘oh, come on! the other towers are far too far away!’
‘people on the road aren’t,’ said alex.
‘blast!’ moist had forgotten about the road. all it would take later was someone saying he’d seen people on the old wizarding tower . . .
‘listen, we’ve got it all ready to raise,’ said alex, watching his face. ‘we can work fast when we’re up there. we just need half an hour of darkness, maybe a few minutes more.’
moist bit his lip. ‘okay. i can do that, i think. now get back there and help them. but don’t start until i get there, understand? trust me!’
i’m saying that a lot, he thought after the man had hurried away. i just hope they will.
he went up to his office. the golden suit was on its hanger. he put it on. there was work to do. it was dull, but it had to be done. so he did it.
at half past five the floorboards creaked as mr pump walked into the room, dragging a broomstick behind him.
‘soon it will be time for the race, mr lipvig,’ he said.
‘i must finish a few things,’ said moist. ‘there’s letters here from builders and architects, oh, and someone wants me to cure their warts . . . i really have to deal with the paperwork, mr pump.’
in the privacy of reacher gilt’s kitchen, igor very carefully wrote a note. there were niceties to be observed, after all. you didn’t just leg it like a thief in the night. you tidied up, made sure the larder was stocked, washed the dishes and took exactly what you were owed from the petty cash box.
shame, really. it had been a pretty good job. gilt hadn’t expected him to do much, and igor had enjoyed terrorizing the other servants. most of them, anyway.
‘it’s so sad you’re going, mr igor,’ said mrs glowbury, the cook. she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘you’ve been a real breath of fresh air.’
‘can’t be helped, mrthth glowbury,’ said igor. ‘i thall mith your thteak and kidney pie, and no mithtake. it doth my heart good to thee a woman who can really make thomething out of leftoverth.’
‘i’ve knitted you this, mr igor,’ said the cook, hesitantly proffering a small soft package. igor opened it with care, and unfolded a red and white striped balaclava.
‘i thought it would help keep your bolt warm,’ said mrs glowbury, blushing.
igor agonized for a moment. he liked and respected the cook. he’d never seen a woman handle sharp knives so skilfully. sometimes, you had to forget the code of the igors.
‘mrthth glowbury, you did thay you had a thithter in quirm?’ he said.
‘that’s right, mr igor.’
‘now would be a very good time for you to go and vithit her,’ said igor firmly. ‘do not athk me why. goodbye, dear mrthth glowbury. i thall remember your liver with fondneth.’
now it was ten minutes to six.
‘if you leave now, mr lipvig, you will be just in time for the race,’ the golem rumbled, from the corner.
‘this is work of civic importance, mr pump,’ said moist severely, reading another letter. ‘i am showing rectitude and attention to duty.’
‘yes, mr lipvig.’
he let it go on until ten minutes past the hour, because it’d take five minutes to get to the square, at a nonchalant saunter. with the golem lumbering beside him, in something approaching the antithesis of both nonchalance and sauntering, he left the post office behind.
the crowd in the square parted at his approach, and there were cheers and some laughter when people saw the broomstick over his shoulder. it had stars painted on it, therefore it must be a magic broomstick. of such beliefs are fortunes made.
find the lady, find the lady . . . there was a science to it, in a way. of course, it helped if you found out how to hold three cards in a loose stack; that was really the key. moist had learned to be good at that, but he had found mere mechanical tricks a bit dull, a bit beneath him. there were other ways, ways to mislead, to distract, to anger. anger was always good. angry people made mistakes.
there was a space in the centre of the square, round the stagecoach on which leadpipe jim sat proudly. the horses gleamed, the coach-work sparkled in the torchlight. but the group standing around the coach sparkled rather less.
there were a couple of people from the trunk, several wizards and, of course, otto chriek the iconographer. they turned and welcomed moist with expressions ranging from relief to deep suspicion.
‘we were considering disqualification, mr lipwig,’ said ridcully, looking severe.
moist handed the broom to mr pump. ‘i do apologize, arch-chancellor,’ he said. ‘i was checking some stamp designs and completely lost track of time. oh, good evening, professor pelc’
the professor of morbid bibliomancy gave him a big grin and held up a jar. ‘and professor goitre,’ he said. ‘the old chap thought he’d like to see what all the fuss is about.’
‘and this is mr pony of the grand trunk,’ said ridcully.
moist shook hands with the engineer. ‘mr gilt not with you?’ he said, winking.
‘he’s, er, watching from his coach,’ said the engineer, looking nervously at moist.
‘well, since you are both here, mr stibbons will hand you each a copy of the message,’ said the archchancellor. ‘mr stibbons?’
two packages were handed over. moist undid his, and burst out laughing.
‘but it’s a book!’ said mr pony. ‘it’ll take all night to code. and there’s diagrams!’
okay, let’s begin, thought moist, and moved like a cobra. he snatched the book from the startled pony, thumbed through it quickly, grabbed a handful of pages and ripped them out, to a gasp from the crowd.
‘there you are, sir,’ he said, handing the pages back. ‘there is your message! pages 79 to 128. we’ll deliver the rest of the book and the recipient can put your pages in later, if they arrive!’ he was aware of professor pelc glaring at him, and added: ‘and i’m sure it can be repaired very neatly!’
it was a stupid gesture but it was big and loud and funny and cruel and if moist didn’t know how to get the attention of a crowd he didn’t know anything. mr pony backed away, clutching the stricken chapter.
‘i didn’t mean—’ he tried, but moist interrupted with: ‘after all, we’ve got a big coach for such a small book.’
‘it’s just that pictures take time to code—’ mr pony protested. he wasn’t used to this sort of thing. machinery didn’t answer back.
moist allowed a look of genuine concern to cross his face. ‘yes, that does seem unfair,’ he said. he turned to ponder stibbons. ‘don’t you think that’s unfair, mr stibbons?’
the wizard looked puzzled. ‘but once they’ve coded it it’ll only take them a couple of hours to get it to genua!’ he said.
‘nevertheless, i must insist,’ said moist. ‘we don’t want an unfair advantage. stand down, jim,’ he called up to the coachman. ‘we’re going to give the clacks a head start.’ he turned to ponder and mr pony with an expression of innocent helpfulness. ‘would an hour be all right, gentlemen?’
the crowd exploded. gods, i’m good at this, moist thought. i want this moment to go on for ever . . .
‘mr lipwig!’ a voice called out. moist scanned the faces, and spotted the caller.
‘ah, miss sacharissa. pencil at the ready?’
‘are you seriously telling us you’ll wait while the grand trunk prepares their message?’ she said. she was laughing.
‘indeed,’ said moist, grasping the lapels of his gleaming jacket. ‘we in the post office are fair-minded people. may i take this opportunity to tell you about our new green cabbage stamp, by the way?’
‘surely you’re going too far, mr lipwig?’
‘all the way to genua, dear lady! did i mention the gum is cabbage-flavoured?’
moist couldn’t have stopped himself now for hard money. this was where his soul lived: dancing on an avalanche, making the world up as he went along, reaching into people’s ears and changing their minds. for this he offered glass as diamonds, let the find the lady cards fly under his fingers, stood smiling in front of clerks examining fake bills. this was the feeling he craved, the raw naked excitement of pushing the envelope—
reacher gilt was moving through the crowd, like a shark among minnows. he gave moist a carefully neutral look, and turned to mr pony.
‘is there some problem, gentlemen?’ he said. ‘it’s getting late.’
in a silence punctuated by chuckles from the crowd, pony tried to explain, in so far as he now had any grip of what was going on.
‘i see,’ said gilt. ‘you are pleased to make fun of us, mr lipwig? then allow me to say that we of the grand trunk will not take it amiss if you should leave now. i think we can spare you a couple of hours, eh?’
‘oh, certainly,’ said moist. ‘if it will make you feel any better.’
‘indeed it will,’ said gilt gravely. ‘it would be best, mr lipwig, if you were a long way away from here.’
moist heard the tone, because he was expecting it. gilt was being reasonable and statesmanlike, but his eye was a dark metal ball and there was the harmonic of murder in his voice. and then gilt said: ‘is mr groat well, mr lipwig? i was sorry to hear of the attack.’
‘attack, mr gilt? he was hit by falling timber,’ said moist. and that question entitles you to no mercy at all, no matter what.
‘ah? then i was misinformed,’ said gilt. ‘i shall know not to listen to rumours in future.’
‘i shall pass on your good wishes to mr groat,’ said moist.
gilt raised his hat. ‘goodbye, mr lipwig. i wish you the best of luck in your gallant attempt. there are some dangerous people on the road.’
moist raised his own hat and said: ‘i intend to leave them behind very soon, mr gilt.’
there, he thought. we’ve said it all, and the nice lady from the newspaper thinks we’re good chums or, at least, just business rivals being stiffly polite to each other. let’s spoil the mood.
‘goodbye, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘mr pump, be so good as to put the broom on the coach, would you?’
‘broom?’ said gilt, looking up sharply. ‘that broom? the one with stars on it? you’re taking a broomstick?’
‘yes. it will come in handy if we break down,’ said moist.
‘i protest, archchancellor!’ said gilt, spinning round. ‘this man intends to fly to genua!’
‘i have no such intention!’ said moist. ‘i resent the allegation!’
‘is this why you appear so confident?’ snarled gilt. and it was a snarl, there and then, a little sign of a crack appearing.
a broomstick could travel fast enough to blow your ears off. it wouldn’t need too many towers to break down, and heavens knew they broke down all the time, for a broomstick to beat the clacks to genua, especially since it could fly direct and wouldn’t have to follow the big dog-leg the coach road and the grand trunk took. the trunk would have to be really unlucky, and the person flying the broom would be really frozen and probably really dead, but a broomstick could fly from ankh-morpork to genua in a day. that might just do it.
gilt’s face was a mask of glee. now he knew what moist intended.
round and round she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows . . .
it was the heart of any scam or fiddle. keep the punter uncertain or, if he is certain, make him certain of the wrong thing.
‘i demand that no broomstick is taken on the coach!’ said gilt to the archchancellor, which was not a good move. you didn’t demand anything from wizards. you requested. ‘if mr lipwig is not confident in his equipment,’ gilt went on, ‘i suggest he concedes right now!’
‘we’ll be travelling alone on some dangerous roads,’ said moist. ‘a broomstick might be essential.’
‘however, i am forced to agree with this . . . gentleman,’ said ridcully, with some distaste. ‘it would not look right, mr lipwig.’
moist threw up his hands. ‘as you wish, sir, of course. it is a blow. may i request even-handed treatment, though?’
‘your meaning?’ said the wizard.
‘there is a horse stationed at each tower to be used when the tower breaks down,’ said moist.
‘that is normal practice!’ snapped gilt.
‘only in the mountains,’ said moist calmly. ‘and even then only at the most isolated towers. but today, i suspect, there’s one at every tower. it’s a pony express, archchancellor, with apologies to mr pony. they could easily beat our coach without sending a word of code.’
‘you can’t possibly be suggesting that we’d take the message all the way on horseback!’ said gilt.
‘you were suggesting i’d fly,’ said moist. ‘if mr gilt is not confident in his equipment, archchancellor, i suggest he concedes now.’
and there it was, a shadow on gilt’s face. he was more than just irate now; he’d passed into the calm, limpid waters of utter, visceral fury.
‘so let’s agree that this isn’t a test of horses against broomsticks,’ said moist. ‘it’s stagecoach against clacks tower. if the stage breaks down, we repair the stage. if a tower breaks down, you repair the tower.’
‘that seems fair, i must say,’ said ridcully. ‘and i so rule. however, i must take mr lipwig aside to issue a word of warning.’
the archchancellor put his arm round moist’s shoulders and led him round the coach. then he leaned down until their faces were a few inches apart.
‘you are aware, are you, that painting a few stars on a perfectly ordinary broomstick doesn’t mean it will get airborne?’ he said.
moist looked into a pair of milky blue eyes that were as innocent as a child’s, particularly a child who is trying hard to look innocent.
‘my goodness, doesn’t it?’ he said.
the wizard patted him on the shoulder. ‘best to leave things as they are, i feel,’ he said happily.
gilt smiled at moist as they returned.
it was just too much to resist, so moist didn’t. raise the stakes. always push your luck, because no one else would push it for you.
“would you care for a little personal wager, mr gilt?’ he said. ‘just to make it . . . interesting?’
gilt handled it well, if you couldn’t read the tells, the little signs . . .
‘dear me, mr lipwig, do the gods approve of gambling?’ he said, and gave a short laugh.
‘what is life but a lottery, mr gilt?’ said moist. ‘shall we say . . . one hundred thousand dollars?’
that did it. that was the last straw. he saw something snap inside reacher gilt.
‘one hundred thousand? where would you lay your hands on that kind of money, lipwig?’
‘oh, i just place them together, mr gilt. doesn’t everyone know that?’ said moist, to general amusement. he gave the chairman his most insolent smile. ‘and where will you lay your hands on one hundred thousand dollars?’
‘hah. i accept the wager! we shall see who laughs tomorrow,’ said gilt bluntly.
‘i’ll look forward to it,’ said moist.
and now i have you in the hollow of my hand, he thought to himself. the hollow of my hand. you’re enraged, now. you’re making wrong decisions. you’re walking the plank.
he climbed up on to the coach and turned to the crowd. ‘genua, ladies and gentlemen. genua or bust!’
‘someone will!’ yelled a wag in the crowd. moist bowed, and, as he straightened up, looked into the face of adora belle dearheart.
‘will you marry me, miss dearheart?’ he shouted.
there was an ‘oooh’ from the crowd, and sacharissa turned her head like a cat seeking the next mouse. what a shame the paper had only one front page, eh?
miss dearheart blew a smoke ring. ‘not yet,’ she said calmly. this got a mixture of cheers and boos.
moist waved, jumped down beside the driver and said: ‘hit it, jim.’
jim cracked his whip for the sound of the thing, and the coach moved away amidst cheering. moist looked back, and made out mr pony pushing determinedly through the crowd in the direction of the tump tower. then he sat back and looked at the streets, in the light of the coach lamps.
perhaps it was the gold working its way in from outside. he could feel something filling him, like a mist. when he moved his hand, he was sure that it left a trail of flecks in the air. he was still flying.
‘jim, do i look all right?’ he said.
‘can’t see much of you in this light, sir,’ said the coachman. ‘can i ask a question?’
‘go ahead, please.’
‘why’d you give those bastards just those middle pages?’
‘two reasons, jim. it makes us look good and makes them look like whiny kids. and the other is, it’s the bit with all the colour illustrations. i hear it takes ages to code one of those.’
‘you’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself, mr lipwig! eh? damn straight!’
‘drive like the blazes, jim!’
‘oh, i know how to give them a show, sir, you can bank on it! hyahp the whip cracked again, and the sound of hooves bounced off the buildings.
‘six horses?’ said moist, as they rattled up broadway.
‘aye, sir. might as well make a name for myself, sir,’ said the coachman.
‘slow down a bit when you get to the old wizard tower, will you? i’ll get off there. did you get some guards?’
‘four of them, mr lipwig,’ jim announced. ‘lying low inside. men of repute and integrity. known ‘em since we were lads: nosher harry, skullbreaker tapp, grievous bodily harmsworth and joe “no nose” tozer. they’re mates, sir, don’t you worry, and they’re looking forward to a little holiday in genua.’
‘yeah, we’ve all got our buckets and spades,’ growled a voice from inside.
‘i’d rather have them than a dozen watchmen,’ said jim happily.
the coach rattled on, leaving the outlying suburbs behind. the road under the wheels became rougher, but the coach swung and danced along on its steel springs.
‘when you’ve dropped me off you can rein them in a bit. no need to rush, jim,’ said moist, after a while.
in the light of the coach lamps moist saw jim’s red face glow with guile.
‘it’s your plan, eh, sir?’
‘it’s a wonderful plan, jim!’ said moist. and i shall have to make sure it doesn’t work.
the lights of the coach disappeared, leaving moist in chilly darkness. in the distance the faintly glowing smokes of ankh-morpork made a great trailing mushroom of cloud that blotted out the stars. things rustled in the bushes, and a breeze wafted the scent of cabbages over the endless fields.
moist waited until he got some night vision. the tower appeared, a column of night without stars. all he had to do was find his way through the dense, brambly, root-knotted woodland—
he made a noise like an owl. since moist was no ornithologist, he did this by saying ‘woo woo’.
the woodland exploded with owl hoots, except that these were owls that roosted in the old wizarding tower, which drove you mad in a day. it had no obvious effect on them except that the noises they made resembled every possible sound that could be made by a living or even dying creature. there was definitely some elephant in there, and possibly some hyena, too, with a hint of bedspring.
when the din had died down a voice from a few feet away whispered: ‘all right, mr lipwig. it’s me, adrian. grab my hand and let’s go before the others start fighting again.’
‘fighting? what about?’
‘they drive each other up the wall! feel this rope? can you feel it? right. you can move fast. we scouted out a trail and strung the rope—’
they hurried through the trees. you had to be really close to the tower to see the glow coming through the ruined doorway at the base. undecided adrian had fixed some of his little cold lights up the inner wall. stones moved under moist’s feet as he scrambled to the summit. he paid them no attention, but ran up the spiral stair so fast that when he reached the top he spun.
mad al caught him by the shoulders. ‘no rush,’ he said cheerfully. ‘we’ve got ten minutes to go.’
‘we’d have been ready twenty minutes ago if somebody hadn’t lost the hammer,’ muttered sane alex, tightening a wire.
‘what? i put it in the tool box, didn’t i?’ said mad al.
‘in the spanner drawer!’
‘so?’
‘who in their right mind would look for a hammer in the spanner drawer?’
down below, the owls started up again.
‘look,’ said moist quickly, ‘that’s not important, is it? right now?’
‘this man,’ said sane alex, pointing an accusing wrench, ‘this man is mad!’
‘not as mad as someone who keeps his screws neatly by size in jam jars,’ said mad al.
‘that counts as sane!’ said alex hotly.
‘but everyone knows rummaging is half the fun! besides—’
‘it’s done,’ said undecided adrian.
moist looked up. the gnu’s clacks machine rose up into the night, just as it had done on the post office roof. behind it, in the direction of the city, an h-shaped structure climbed even further. it looked a little like a ship’s mast, an effect maybe caused by the wires that steadied it. they rattled in the faint breeze.
‘you must have upset someone,’ adrian went on, while the other two settled down a bit. ‘a message was sent through twenty minutes ago, from gilt himself. he said the big one will go through duplex, great care must be taken not to change it in any way, there is to be no other traffic at all until there’s a restart message from gilt, and he’ll personally sack the entire staff of any tower that does not strictly follow those instructions.’
‘it just goes to show, the grand trunk is a people company,’ said moist.
undecided adrian and mad al walked over to the big frame and began to unwind some ropes from their cleats.
oh well, thought moist, now for it . . .
‘there’s just one alteration to the plan,’ he said, and took a breath. ‘we’re not sending the woodpecker.’
‘what do you mean?’ said adrian, dropping his rope. ‘that was the plan!’
‘it’ll destroy the trunk,’ said moist.
‘yes, that was the plan, sure enough,’ said al. ‘gilt’s as good as painted “kick me” on his pants! look, it’s falling down of its own accord anyway, okay? it was an experiment in the first place! we can rebuild it faster and better!’
‘how?’ said moist. ‘where will the money come from? i know a way to destroy the company but leave the towers standing. they were stolen from the dearhearts and their partners. i can give them back! but the only way to build a better line of towers is to leave the old ones intact. the trunk’s got to earn!’
‘that’s the sort of thing gilt would say!’ snapped al.
‘and it’s true,’ said moist. ‘alex, you’re sane, tell the man! keep the trunk operating, replace one tower at a time, never dropping any code!’ he waved a hand towards the darkness. ‘the people out on the towers, they want to be proud of what they do, yes? it’s tough work and they don’t get paid enough but they live to shift code, right? the company’s running them into the ground but they still shift code!’
adrian tugged at his rope. ‘hey, the canvas is stuck,’ he announced to the tower in general. ‘it must have been caught up when we furled it . . .’
‘oh, i’m sure the woodpecker will work,’ said moist, plunging on. ‘it might even damage enough towers for long enough. but gilt will twist his way out of it. do you understand? he’ll shout about sabotage!’
‘so what?’ said mad al. ‘we’ll have this lot back on the cart in an hour and no one will know we were ever here!’
‘i’ll climb up and free it, shall i?’ said undecided adrian, shaking the canvas.
‘i said it won’t work? said moist, waving him away. ‘look, mr al, this isn’t going to be settled by fire. it’s going to be settled with words. we’ll tell the world what happened to the trunk.’
‘you’ve been talking to killer about that?’ said alex.
‘yes,’ said moist.
‘but you can’t prove anything,’ said alex. ‘we heard it was all legal.’
‘i doubt it,’ said moist. ‘but that doesn’t matter. i don’t have to prove anything. i said this is about words, and how you can twist them, and how you can spin them in people’s heads so that they think the way you want them to. we’ll send a message of our own, and do you know what? the boys in the towers will want to send it, and when people know what it says they’ll want to believe it, because they’ll want to live in a world where it’s true. it’s my words against gilt’s, and i’m better at them than he is. i can take him down with a sentence, mr mad, and leave every tower standing. and no one will ever know how it was done—’
there was a brief exclamation behind them, and the sound of canvas unrolling quite fast.
‘trust me,’ said moist.
‘we’ll never get another chance like this,’ said mad al.
‘exactly!’ said moist.
‘one man has died for every three towers standing,’ said mad al. ‘did you know that?’
‘you know they’ll never really die while the trunk is alive,’ said moist. it was a wild shot, but it hit something, he sensed it. he rushed on: ‘it lives while the code is shifted, and they live with it, always going home. will you stop that? you can’t stop it! i won’t stop it! but i can stop gilt! trust me!’
the canvas hung like a sail, if as someone intended to launch the tower. it was eighty feet high and thirty feet wide and moved a little in the wind.
‘where’s adrian?’ said moist.
they looked at the sail. they rushed to the edge of the tower. they looked down into darkness.
‘adrian?’ said mad al uncertainly.
a voice from below said: ‘yes?’
‘what are you doing?’
‘just, you know . . . hanging around? and an owl has just landed on my head.’
there was a small tearing noise beside moist. sane alex had cut a hole in the canvas.
‘here it comes!’ he reported.
‘what?’ said moist.
‘the message! they’re sending from tower 2! take a look,’ alex said, backing away.
moist peered through the slit, back towards the city. in the distance, a tower was sparkling.
mad al strode over to the half-sized clacks array and grabbed the handles.
‘all right, mr lipwig, let’s hear your plan,’ he said. ‘alex, give me a hand! adrian, just . . . hang on, all right?’
‘it’s trying to push a dead mouse in my ear,’ said a reproachful voice from below.
moist shut his eyes, lined up the thoughts that had been buzzing for hours, and began to speak.
behind and above him, the huge expanse of canvas was just enough to block the line of sight between the two distant towers. in front of him, the smoking gnu’s half-sized tower was just the right size to look, to the next tower in line, like a bigger tower a long way off. at night all you could see were the lights.
the clacks in front of him shook as the shutters rattled. and now a new message was dropping across the sky . . .
it was only a few hundred words. when moist had finished, the clacks rattled out the last few letters and then fell silent.
after a while moist said: ‘will they pass it along?’
‘oh, yes,’ said mad al, in a flat voice. ‘they’ll send it. you’re sitting up in a tower in the mountains and you get a signal like that? you’ll get it away and out of your tower as fast as you can.’
‘i don’t know if we ought to shake your hand or throw you off the tower,’ said sane alex sullenly. ‘that was evil.’
‘what sort of person could dream up something like that?’ said mad al.
‘me. now let’s pull adrian up, shall we?’ said moist quickly. ‘and then i’d better get back to the city . . .’
an omniscope is one of the most powerful instruments known to magic, and therefore one of the most useless.
it can see everything, with ease. getting it to see anything is where wonders have to be performed because there is so much everything - which is to say, everything that can, will, has, should or might happen in all possible universes - that anything, any previously specified thing, is very hard to find. before hex had evolved the control thaumarhythms, completing in a day a task that would have taken five hundred wizards at least ten years, omniscopes were used purely as mirrors because of the wonderful blackness they showed. this, it turned out, is because ‘nothing to see’ is what most of the universe consists of, and many a wizard has peacefully trimmed his beard while gazing into the dark heart of the cosmos.
there were very few steerable omniscopes. they took a long time to make and cost a great deal. and the wizards were not at all keen on making any more. omniscopes were for them to look at the universe, not for the universe to look back at them.
besides, the wizards did not believe in making life too easy for people. at least, for people who weren’t wizards. an omniscope was a rare, treasured and delicate thing.
but today was a special occasion, and they had thrown open the doors to the richer, cleaner and more hygienic sections of ankh-morpork society. a long table had been set for second tea. nothing too excessive - a few dozen roast fowls, a couple of cold salmon, one hundred linear feet of salad bar, a pile of loaves, one or two kegs of beer and, of course, the chutney, pickle and relish train, one trolley not being considered big enough. people had filled their plates and were standing around chatting and, above all, being there. moist slipped in unnoticed, for now, because people were watching the university’s biggest omniscope.
archchancellor ridcully thumped the side of the thing with his hand, causing it to rock.
‘it’s still not working, mr stibbons!’ he bellowed. ‘here’s that damn enormous fiery eye again!’
‘i’m sure we have the right—’ ponder began, fiddling with the rear of the big disc.
‘it’s me, sir, devious collabone, sir,’ said a voice from the omniscope. the fiery eye pulled back and was replaced by an enormous fiery nose. ‘i’m here at the terminal tower in genua, sir. sorry about the redness, sir. i’ve picked up an allergy to seaweed, sir.’
‘hello, mr collabone!’ yelled ridcully. ‘how are you? how’s the—’
‘—shellfish research—’ murmured ponder stibbons.
‘—shellfish research comin’ along?’
‘not very well, actually, sir. i’ve developed a nasty—’
‘good, good! lucky chap!’ ridcully yelled, cupping his hands to increase the volume. ‘i wouldn’t mind bein’ in genua myself at this time of year! sun, sea, surf and sand, eh?’
‘actually it’s the wet season, sir, and i’m a bit worried about this fungus that’s growing on the omni—’
‘wonderful!’ shouted ridcully. ‘well, i can’t stand here and chew your fat all day! has anything arrived? we are agog!’
‘could you just stand back a little bit further, please, mr collabone?’ said ponder. ‘and you don’t really need to speak so . . . loudly, archchancellor.’
‘chap’s a long way away, man!’ said ridcully.
‘not as such, sir,’ said ponder, with well-honed patience. ‘very well, mr collabone, you may proceed.’
the crowd behind the archchancellor pressed forward. mr collabone backed away. this was all a bit too much for a man who spent his days with no one to talk to but bivalves.
‘er, i’ve had a message by clacks, sir, but—’ he began.
‘nothin’ from the post office?’ said ridcully.
‘no, sir. nothing, sir.’
there were cheers and boos and general laughter from the crowd. from his shadowy corner, moist saw lord vetinari, right by the archchancellor. he scanned the rest of the crowd and spotted readier gilt, standing off to one side and, surprisingly, not smiling. and gilt saw him.
one look was enough. the man wasn’t certain. not totally certain.
welcome to fear, said moist to himself. it’s hope, turned inside out. you know it can’t go wrong, you’re sure it can’t go wrong . . .
but it might.
i’ve got you.
devious collabone coughed. ‘er, but i don’t think this is the message archchancellor ridcully sent,’ he said, his voice gone squeaky with nervousness.
‘what makes you think that, man?’
‘because it says it isn’t,’ collabone quavered. ‘it says it’s from dead people . . .’
‘you mean it’s an old message?’ said ridcully.
‘er, no, sir. er . . . i’d better read it, shall i? do you want me to read it?’
‘that’s the point, man!’
in the big disc of glass, collabone cleared his throat.
‘ “who will listen to the dead? we who died so that words could fly demand justice now. these are the crimes of the board of the grand trunk: theft, embezzlement, breach of trust, corporate murder—” ’
