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.’