‘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!’