Walking the Disc

Moist had always been careful about disguises. A mustache that could come off at a tug had no place in his life. But since he had the world’s most forgettable face, a face that was still a face in the crowd even when it was by itself, it helped, sometimes, to give people something to tell the Watch about. Spectacles were an obvious choice, but Moist achieved very good results with his own design of nose and ear wigs. Show a man a pair of ears that small songbirds had apparently nested in, watch the polite horror in his eyes, and you could be certain that would be all he would remember.

The money looked after itself. It sailed down the centuries, buried in paperwork, hidden behind lawyers, groomed, invested, diverted, converted, laundered, dried, ironed and polished, and kept safe from harm and taxes, and, above all, kept safe from the Lavishes themselves. They knew their descendents -- they’d raised them, after all -- and so, the money came with bodyguards of trustees, managers, and covenants, disgorging only a measured amount of itself to the next generation, enough to maintain the lifestyle with which their name had become synonymous and with a bit left over for them to indulge in the family tradition of fighting among themselves over, yes, the money.

And she left, taking the wretched golems with her.*

*The dwarfs didn’t think to count them and see if any had been left behind. It wouldn’t have made any difference, but later on the king might not have shouted at them so much.

He saw her write that down. Then she tucked the notebook in her handbag. “This is going to be fun, isn’t it,” she said, and Moist thought: Never trust her when she’s put her notebook away, either. She’s got a good memory. “Seriously, I think this is an opportunity for me to do something big and important for my adopted city,” said Moist, in his sincere voice. “That’s your sincere voice,” she said. “Well, I’m being sincere,” said Moist. “But since you raise the subject, Moist, what were you doing with your life before the citizens of Ankh-Morpork greeted you with open palms?” “Surviving,” said Moist. “In Überwald the old empire was breaking up. It was not unusual for a government to change twice over lunch. I worked at anything I could to make a living. By the way, I think you meant ‘arms’ back there,” he added. “And when you got here you impressed the gods so much that they led you to a treasure trove so that you could rebuild our post office.” “I’m very humble about that,” said Moist, trying to look it. “Ye-ess. And the gods-given gold was all in used coinage from the plains cities...” “You know what, I’ve often lain awake wondering about that myself,” said Moist, “and I reached the conclusion that the gods, in their wisdom, decided that the gift could be instantly negotiable.” I can go on like this or as long as you like, he thought, and you’re trying to play poker with no cards. You can suspect all you like, but I gave that money back! Okay, I stole it in the first place, but giving it back counts for something, doesn’t it? The slate is clean, isn’t it? Well, acceptably grubby, yes?

“The world is full of things worth more than gold. But we dig the damn stuff up and then bury it in a different hole. Where’s the sense in that? What are we, magpies? Is it all about the gleam? Good heavens, potatoes are worth more than gold!” “Surely not!” “If you were shipwrecked on a desert island, what would you prefer, a bag of potatoes or a bag of gold?” “Yes, but a desert island isn’t Ankh-Morpork!” “And that proves gold is only valuable because we agree it is, right? It’s just a dream. But a potato is always worth a potato, anywhere. Add a knob of butter and a pinch of salt and you’ve got a meal, anywhere. Bury gold in the ground and you’ll be worrying about thieves forever. Bury a potato and in due season you could be looking at a dividend of a thousand percent.”

“No dashing around on mad stallions? Nothing to make us cheer? No wild dreams?” said Sacharissa. “Well, I’m already tidying the foyer.” Sacharissa’s eyes narrowed. “Tidying the foyer? Who are you, and what have you done with the real Moist von Lipwig?” “No, I’m serious. We have to clean up ourselves before we can clean up the economy,” said Moist, and felt his brain shift seductively into a higher gear. “I intend to throw out what we don’t need. For example, we have a room full of useless metal in the vault. That’ll have to go.” Sacharissa frowned. “Are you talking about the gold?” Where had that come from? Well, don’t try to back away, or she’ll go for the throat. Tough it out! Besides, it’s good to see her looking astonished. “Yes,” he said. “You can’t be serious!” The notebook was instantly flipped open, and Moist’s tongue began to gallop. He couldn’t stop it. It would have been nice if it had talked to him first.

But, he had to admit, Sacharissa Cripslock was fun. “Sacharissa! This is a should-have-been-expected surprise!” he declared, as he stepped into the room. “Mr. Lipwig! Always a pleasure!” said the woman. “So you are a dog’s body now?” That kind of fun. A bit like juggling knives. You were instantly on your toes. It was as good as a workout.

This march was against the employment of golems, who uncomplainingly did the dirtiest jobs, worked around the clock, and were so honest they paid their taxes. But they weren’t human and they had glowing eyes, and people could get touchy about that sort of thing.

“You know, of course, that I have plans?” “It was in the Times. The Undertaking. You want to build roads and drains and streets under the city. There’s some dwarf machine we’ve got hold of, called a Device. And the dwarfs can make waterproof tunnels. The Artificer’s Guild is very excited about it all.”

How dare he try to bribe me, thought Moist. In fact, that was his second thought, that of the soon-to-be wearer of a goldish chain. His first thought, courtesy of the old Moist, was: How dare he try to bribe me so small.

Moist felt the winds grow colder. “How long does a dog live?” “An ordin’ry dog?” said Nobby Nobbs. “Or a dog who stands between a bunch of Lavishes and another fortune?” “Corporal Nobbs, that was a pertinent remark!” snapped Sergeant Angua. “Sorry, Sarge.”

“Yes, well, I suppose the little doggie needs feeding,” said Moist, “but I wouldn’t have thought that--” “The........problem, if such it be, is in fact his paperwork,” said Mr. Slant. “Wrong pedigree?” said Moist. “Not his pedigree,” said Mr. Slant, opening his briefcase. “You may be aware that the late Sir Joshua left one percent share in the bank to Mr. Fusspot?” A cold, black wind began to blow through Moist’s mind. “Yes,” he said. “I am.” “The late Mrs. Lavish has left him another fifty percent. That, by the customs of the bank, means that he is the new chairman, Mr. Lipwig. And you own him.”

Moist was sitting at his desk looking busy when Stanley came back, ushering in Mr. Slant, the city’s best-known and, at three hundred and fifty-one, probably also its oldest lawyer. He was accompanied by Sergeant Angua and Corporal Nobbs, widely rumored to be the Watch’s secret werewolf. Corporal Nobbs was accompanied by a large wicker hamper and Sergeant Angua, carrying a large bag and a squeaky rubber bone, which she occasionally, in an absentminded way, squeaked. Things were looking up but strange.