Making Money (Discworld #36) - Page 4

The dark ring  –  An unusual chin  –  A job for life but not for long'  –  Getting started  –  Fun with Journalism  –  It's all about the city  –  A mile in his shoes  –  A Lavish Occasion

THE MAN… MADE THINGS. He was an unsung craftsman, because the things he made never ended up with his name on them. No, they usually bore the names of dead men on them, men who were masters of their craft. He, in his turn, was the master of one craft. It was the craft of seeming.

'Do you have the money?'

'Yes.' The man in the brown robe indicated the stolid troll next to him.

'Why did you bring that? Can't abide 'em.'

'Five hundred dollars is a lot to carry, Mr Morpeth. And a lot to pay for jewellery that isn't even silver, I may add,' said the young man, whose name was Heretofore.

'Yes, well, that's the trick, ain't it?' said the old man. 'I know this ain't exactly proper, what you're doing. An' I told you stygium's rarer than gold. It just don't sparkle… Well, unless you do things wrong. Believe me, I could sell all I could get to the Assassins. Those fine gentlemen do like their black, so they do. They love it to bits.'

'It's not illegal. No one owns the letter V. Look, we've been through this. Let me see it.'

The old man gave Heretofore a look, then opened a drawer and put a small box on top of his desk. He adjusted the reflectors on the lamps and said: 'Okay, open it.'

The young man lifted the lid, and there it was, black as night, the serifed V a deeper, sharper shadow. He took a deep breath, reached out for the ring, and dropped it in horror.

'It's warm!'

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There was a snort from the maker of things that seemed.' 'course it is. That's stygium, that is. It drinks the light. If you was out in full daylight you'd be sucking your fingers and yellin'. Keep it in a box when it's bright outside, right? Or wear a glove over it if you're a swanker.'

'It's perfect!'

'Yes. It is.' The old man snatched the ring back, and Heretofore began to tumble into his own private Hell. 'It's just like the real thing, ain't it,' growled the seemer. 'Oh, don't look surprised. You think I don't know what I've made? I've seen the real one a coupla times, and this'd fool Vetinari hisself. That takes a lot of forgetting.'

'I don't know what you mean!' Heretofore protested.

'You are stupid, then.'

'I told you, no one owns the letter V!'

'You'll tell that to his lordship, will you? No, you won't. But you'll pay me another five hundred. I'm thinking of retiring anyway, and a little extra will get me a long way away'

'We had an agreement!'

'An' now we're having another one,' said Morpeth. 'This time you're buying forgetfulness.' The maker of things that seemed beamed happily. The young man looked unhappy and uncertain.

'This is priceless to someone, right?' Morpeth prompted.

'All right, five hundred, damn you.'

'Except it's a thousand now,' said the old man. 'See? You were too fast. You didn't haggle. Someone really needs my little toy, right? Fifteen hundred all in. You try to find anyone else in this city who can work stygium like me. An' if you open your mouth to say anything but "yes" it'll be two thousand. Have it my way'

There was a longer pause, and Heretofore said: 'Yes. But I'll have to come back with the rest.'

'You do that, mister. I'll be here waiting. There, that wasn't too hard, was it? Nothing personal, it's just business.'

The ring went back in the box, the box went back in the drawer. At a signal from the young man the troll dropped the bags on the floor and, job done, wandered off into the night.

Heretofore turned suddenly, and the seemer's right hand flew down behind the desk. It relaxed when the young man said: 'You'll be here later, yes?'

'Me? I'm always here. See yourself out.'

'You'll be here?'

'I just said yes, didn't I?'

In the darkness of the stinking hallway the young man opened the door, his heart thumping. A black-clad figure stepped inside. He couldn't see the face behind the mask, but he whispered: 'Box is in the top left drawer. Some kind of weapon on the right side. Keep the money. Just don't… hurt him, okay?'

'Hurt? That's not why I'm here!' hissed the dark figure.

'I know, but… do it neatly, all right?'

And then Heretofore was shutting the door behind him.

It was raining. He went and stood in the doorway opposite. It was hard to hear noises above the rain and the sound of overflowing gutters, but he fancied he heard, above all this, a faint thump. It may have been his imagination, because he did not hear the door open or the approach of the killer, and he nearly swallowed his tongue when the man loomed in front of him, pressed the box into his hand and vanished into the rain.

A smell of peppermint drifted out on to the street; the man was thorough, and he used a peppermint bomb to cover his scent.

You stupid, stupid old fool! Heretofore said, in the turmoil of his skull. Why didn't you take the money and shut up! I had no choice! He wouldn't risk you telling anyone!

Heretofore felt his stomach heave. He'd never meant it to be like this! He'd never meant for anyone to die! And then he threw up.

That was last week. Things hadn't got any better.

Lord Vetinari has a black coach.

Other people also have black coaches.

Therefore, not everyone in a black coach is Lord Vetinari.

It was an important philosophical insight that Moist, to his regret, had forgotten in the heat of the moment.

There was no heat now. Cosmo Lavish was cool, or at least making a spirited effort to be so. He wore black, of course, as people do to show how rich they are, but the real giveaway was the beard.

It was, technically, a goatee similar to that of Lord Vetinari. A thin line of black hair came down each cheek, made a detour to loop equally thinly under the nose, and met in a black triangle just below the lip, thus giving what Cosmo must have thought was a look of menacing elegance. And indeed, on Vetinari it was. On Cosmo the elegant facial topiary floated unhappily on blue jowls glistening with little tiny beads of sweat, and gave the effect of a pubic chin.

Some master barber had to deal with it hair by hair every day, and his job wouldn't have been made any easier by the fact that Cosmo had inflated somewhat since the day he had adopted the style. There is a time in a thoughtless young man's life when his six-pack becomes a keg, but for Cosmo it had become a tub of lard.

And then you saw the eyes, and they made up for everything. They had the faraway look of a man who can already see you dead…

But probably not those of a killer himself, Moist hazarded. He probably bought death when he needed it. True, on fingers that were slightly too podgy for them were ostensibly knobbly poison rings, but surely anyone really in the business wouldn't have so many, would they? Real killers didn't bother to advertise. And why was the elegant black glove on the other hand? That was an Assassins' Guild affectation. Yep, guild-school trained, then. Lots of upper-class kids went there for the education but didn't do the Black Syllabus. He probably had a note from his mother saying he was excused stabbing.

Mr Fusspot was trembling with fear or, perhaps, rage. In Moist's arms he was growling like a leopard.

'Ah, my stepmother's little dog,' said Cosmo as the coach began to move. 'How sweet. I do not waste words. I will give you ten thousand dollars for him, Mr Lipwig.' He held out a piece of paper in the ungloved hand. 'My note of hand for the money. Anyone in this city will accept it.'

The voice of Cosmo was a kind of modulated sigh, as if talking was somehow painful. Moist read:

Please pay the sum of Ten Thousand Dollars to Moist von Lipwig

And it was signed across a One Penny stamp by Cosmo Lavish, with many a flourish.

Signed across a stamp… Where had that come from? But you saw it more and more in the city, and if you asked anyone why, they said: ' 'cos it makes it legal, see?' And it was cheaper than lawyers, and so it worked.

And here it was, ten thousand dollars pointing directly at him.

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 gold-ish chain. His first thought, courtesy of the old Moist, was: how dare he try to bribe me so small.

'No,' he said. 'Anyway, I'll get more than that for looking after him for a few months!'

'Ah yes, but my offer is less… risky.'

'You think?'

Cosmo smiled. 'Come now, Mr Lipwig. We're men of the world – '

' – you and I, yes?' Moist finished. 'That's so predictable. Besides, you should have offered me more money first.'

At this point something happened in the vicinity of Cosmo's forehead. Both eyebrows began to twist like Mr Fusspot's when he was puzzled. They writhed for a moment, and then Cosmo saw Moist's expression, whereupon he slapped his brow and his momentary glare indicated that instant death would reward any comment.

He cleared his throat and said: 'For what I can get free? We are making a very good case that my stepmother was insane when she made that will.'

'She seemed sharp as a tack to me, sir,' said Moist.

'With two loaded crossbows on her desk?'

'Ah, I see your point. Yes, if she was really sane she'd have hired a couple of trolls with big, big clubs.'

Cosmo gave Moist a long, appraising look, or what he clearly thought was one, but Moist knew that tactic. It was supposed to make the lookee think they were being weighed up for a serious kicking, but it could just as easily mean 'I'll give him the ol' hard eyeball while I'm wondering what to do next'. Cosmo might be a ruthless man, but he wasn't a stupid one. A man in a gold suit gets noticed, and someone would remember whose coach he got into.

'I fear that my stepmother has landed you in a lot of trouble,' said Cosmo.

'I've been in trouble before,' said Moist.

'Oh? When was that?' And this came sharp and sudden.

Ah. The past. Not a good place to go. Moist tried to avoid it.

'Very little is known about you, Mr Lipwig,' Cosmo went on. 'You were born in Uberwald, and you became our Postmaster General. In between…'

'I've managed to survive,' said Moist.

'An enviable achievement indeed,' said Cosmo. He tapped on the side of the coach and it began to slow. 'I trust it will continue. In the meantime, let me at least give you this…'

He tore the bill in half and dropped the half that very emphatically did not carry his seal or signature on to Moist's lap.

'What's this for?' said Moist, picking it up while trying to restrain the frantic Mr Fusspot with the other hand.

'Oh, just a declaration of good faith,' said Cosmo, as the coach stopped. 'One day you might feel inclined to ask me for the other half. But understand me, Mr Lipwig, I don't usually take the trouble to do things the hard way.'

'Don't bother to do so on my account, please,' said Moist, wrenching the door open. Sator Square was outside, full of carts and people and embarrassingly potential witnesses.

lor a moment Cosmo's forehead did that… eyebrow thing again.

He gave it a slap, and said: 'Mr Lipwig, you misunderstand. This was the hard way. Goodbye. My regards to your young lady.'

Moist spun on the cobbles, but the door had slammed shut and the coach was speeding away.

'Why didn't you add "We know where your children will go to school"?' he shouted after it.

What now? Hell's bells, he had been dropped right in it!

A little way up the street, the palace beckoned. Vetinari had some questions to answer. How had the man arranged it? The Watch said she'd died of natural causes! But he'd been trained as an assassin, yes? A real one, specializing in poisons, maybe.

He strode in through the open gates, but the guards stopped him at the building itself. Moist knew them of old. There was probably an entrance exam for them. If they answered the question 'What is your name?' and got it wrong, they were hired. There were trolls that could out-think them. But you couldn't fool them, or talk them round. They had a list of people who could walk right in, and another of people who needed an appointment. If you weren't on either, you didn't get in.

However, their captain, bright enough to read large type, did recognize 'Postmaster General' and 'Chairman of the Royal Bank' and sent one of the lads knuckling off to see Drumknott, carrying a scribbled note. To Moist's surprise, ten minutes later he was being ushered into the Oblong Office.

Seats around the big conference table at one end of the room were fully occupied. Moist recognized a few guild leaders, but quite a few were average-looking citizens, working men, men who looked ill at ease indoors. Maps of the city were strewn across the table. He'd interrupted something. Or rather, Vetinari had interrupted something for him.

Lord Vetinari got up as soon as Moist entered, and beckoned him forward.

'Please excuse me, ladies, gentlemen, but I do need some time with the Postmaster General. Drumknott, do take everyone through the figures again, will you? Mr Lipwig, this way, if you please.'

Moist thought he heard muffled laughter behind them as he was ushered into what he at first thought was a high-ceilinged corridor but which turned out to be a sort of art gallery. Vetinari shut the door behind them. The click seemed, to Moist, to be very loud. His anger was draining fast, to be replaced by a very chilly feeling. Vetinari was a tyrant, after all. If Moist was never seen again his lordship's reputation would only be enhanced.

'Do put Mr Fusspot down,' said Vetinari. 'It will do the little chap good to run about.'

Moist lowered the dog to the ground. It was like dropping a shield. And now he could take in what it was this gallery exhibited.

What he'd thought were carved stone busts were faces, made of wax. And Moist knew how and when they were made, too.

They were death masks.

'My predecessors,' said Vetinari, strolling down the line. 'Not a complete collection, of course. In some cases the head could not be found or was, as you might say, in a rather untidy state.'

There was a silence. Foolishly, Moist filled it.

'It must be strange, having them look down on you every day,' he managed.

'Oh, do you think so? I have to say I've rather looked down on them. Gross men, for the most part, greedy, venal and clumsy. Cunning can do duty for thought up to a point, and then you die. Most of them died rich, fat and terrified. They left the city the worse for their incumbency and the better for their death. But now the city works, Mr Lipwig. We progress. We would not do so if the ruler was the kind of man who would kill elderly ladies, do you understand?'

'I never said – '

'I know exactly what you never said. You refrained from saying it very loudly.' Vetinari raised an eyebrow. 'I am extremely angry, Mr Lipwig.'

'But I've been dropped right in it!'

'Not by me,' said Vetinari. 'I can assure you that if I had, as your ill-assumed street patois has it, "dropped you in it" you would fully understand all meanings of "drop" and have an unenviable knowledge of "it".'

'You know what I mean!'

'Dear me, is this the real Moist von Lipwig speaking, or is it just the man looking forward to his very nearly gold chain? Topsy Lavish knew she was going and simply changed her will. I salute her for it. The staff will accept you more easily, too. And she's done you a great favour.'

'Favour? I was shot at!'

'That was just the Assassins' Guild dropping you a note to say they are watching you.'

'There were two shots!'

'Possibly for emphasis?' said Vetinari, sitting down on a velvet-covered chair.

'Look, banking is supposed to be dull! Numbers, pensions, a job for life!'

'For life possibly, but apparently not for long,' said Vetinari, clearly enjoying this.

'Can't you do something?'

'About Cosmo Lavish? Why should I? Offering to buy a dog is not illegal.'

'But the whole family is –  How did you know that? I didn't tell you!'

Vetinari waved a hand dismissively. 'Know the man, know the method. I know Cosmo. In this sort of situation he will not resort to force if money will work. He can be very personable when he wants to be.'

'But I've heard about the rest of them. They sound a pretty poisonous bunch.'

'I couldn't possibly comment. However, Topsy has helped you there. The Assassins' Guild won't take out a second contract on you. Conflict of interests, you see. I suppose technically they could accept a contract on the chairman, but I doubt if they will.

Killing a lap-dog? It would not look good on anyone's resume.'

'I didn't sign up to deal with something like this!'

'No, Mr Lipwig, you signed up to die,' snapped Vetinari, his voice suddenly as cold and deadly as a falling icicle. 'You signed up to be justly hanged by the neck until dead for crimes against the city, against the public good, against the trust of man for man. And you were resurrected, because the city required you to be. This is about the city, Mr Lipwig. It is always about the city. 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 Artificers' Guild are very excited about it all.'

'I gather by your sombre tones that you are not?'

Moist gave a shrug. Engines of any sort had never interested him. 'I don't think much about it one way or the other.'

'Astonishing,' said Vetinari, taken aback. 'Well, Mr Lipwig, you can at least guess at what we will need in very large amounts for this project.'

'Shovels?'

'Finance, Mr Lipwig. And I would have it, if we had a banking system suitable for the times. I have every confidence in your ability to… shake things up a little.'

Moist tried one last throw. 'The Post Office needs me – ' he began.

'At the moment it does not, and you chafe at the thought,' said Vetinari. 'You are not a man for the humdrum. I hereby grant you leave of absence. Mr Groat has been your deputy, and while he may not have your… flair, let us say, he will I am sure keep things moving along.'

He stood up, indicating that the audience was at an end. 'The city bleeds, Mr Lipwig, and you are the clot I need. Go away and make money. Unlock the wealth of Ankh-Morpork. Mrs Lavish gave you the bank in trust. Run it well.'

'It's the dog that's got the bank, you know!'

'And what a trusting little face he has,' said Vetinari, ushering Moist to the door. 'Don't let me detain you, Mr Lipwig. Remember: it's all about the city.'

There was another protest march going on when Moist walked to the bank. There'd been more and more of them lately. It was a funny thing, but everyone seemed to want to live under the despotic rule of the tyrannical Lord Vetinari. They poured into the city whose streets were apparently paved with gold.

It wasn't gold. But the influx was having an effect, no doubt about it. Wages were falling, to start with.

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.

Mr Bent must have been waiting behind a pillar. Moist was no sooner through the doors of the bank, Mr Fusspot tucked happily under his arm, than the chief cashier was by his side.

'The staff are very concerned, sir,' he said, piloting Moist towards the stairs. 'I took the liberty of telling them that you would speak to them later.'

Moist was aware of the worried stares. And of other things, too, now that he was looking with an almost proprietorial eye. Yes, the bank had been built well out of fine materials; get past that and you could see the neglect and the marks of time. It was like the now inconveniently large house of a poor old widow who just couldn't see the dust any more. The brass was rather tarnished, the red velvet curtains frayed and a little bald in places, the marble floor was only erratically shiny –

'What?' he said. 'Oh, yes. Good idea. Can you get this place cleaned up?'

'Sir?'

'The carpets are mucky, the plush ropes are unravelled, the curtains have seen better centuries and the brass needs a jolly good scrub. The bank should look smart, Mr Bent. You might give money to a beggar but you wouldn't lend it to him, eh?'

Bent's eyebrows rose. 'And that's the chairman's view, is it?' he said.

'The chairman? Oh, yes. Mr Fusspot's very keen on clean. Isn't that right, Mr Fusspot?'

Mr Fusspot stopped growling at Mr Bent long enough to bark a couple of times.

'See?' said Moist. 'When you don't know what to do, comb your hair and clean your shoes. Words of wisdom, Mr Bent. Jump to it.'

'I shall elevate myself to the best of my ability, sir,' said Bent. 'Meanwhile, a young lady has called, sir. She seemed reluctant to give her name but said you would be pleased to see her. I have ushered her into the small boardroom.'

'Did you have to open a window?' said Moist hopefully.

'No, sir.'

That ruled out Adora Belle, then, to replace her with a horrifying thought. 'She's not one of the Lavish family, is she?'

'No, sir. And it's time for Mr… it's time for the chairman's lunch, sir. He has cold boned chicken because of his stomach. I'll have it sent along to the small boardroom, shall I?'

'Yes, please. Could you rustle up something for me?'

'Rustle, sir?' Bent looked puzzled. 'You mean steal?'

Ah, that kind of man, Moist thought.

'I meant find me something to eat,' he translated.

'Certainly, sir. There is a small kitchen in the suite and we have a chef on call. Mrs Lavish has lived here for some time. It will be interesting to have a Master of the Royal Mint again.'

'I like the sound of Master of the Royal Mint,' Moist said. 'How about that, Mr Fusspot?'

On cue, the chairman barked.

'Hmm,' said Bent. 'One final thing, sir. Could you please sign these?' He indicated a pile of paperwork.

'What are they? They're not minutes, are they? I don't do minutes.'

'They are various formalities, sir. Basically, they add up to your signing a receipt for the bank on the chairman's behalf, but I am advised that Mr Fusspot's paw mark should appear in the places ticked.'

'Does he have to read all this?' said Moist.

'No, sir.'

'Then I won't. It's a bank. You've given me the big tour. It's not as though it's got a wheel missing. Just show me where to sign.'

'Just here, sir. And here. And here. And here. And here. And here. And here…

The lady in the boardroom was certainly an attractive woman, but since she worked for the Times Moist felt unable to award her total ladylike status. Ladies didn't fiendishly quote exactly what you said but didn't exactly mean, or hit you around the ear with unexpectedly difficult questions. Well, come to think of it, they did, quite often, but she got paid for it.

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 constantly on your toes. It was as good as a workout.

'Writing the headlines already, Sacharissa?' he said. 'I am merely carrying out the terms of Mrs Lavish's will.' He put Mr Fusspot on the polished tabletop and sat down.

'So you're now chairman of the bank?'

'No, Mr Fusspot here is the chairman,' said Moist. 'Bark circumspectly at the nice lady with the busy pencil, Mr Fusspot!'

'Woof,' said Mr Fusspot.

'Mr Fusspot is the chairman,' said Sacharissa, rolling her eyes. 'Of course. And you take orders from him, do you?'

'Yes. I am Master of the Royal Mint, by the way.'

'A dog and his master,' said Sacharissa. 'How nice. And I expect you can read his thoughts because of some mystic bond between dog and man?'

'Sacharissa, I could not have put it better.'

They smiled at each other. This was only round one. Both knew they were barely warming up.

'So, I take it that you would not agree with those who say that this is one last ruse by the late Mrs Lavish to keep the bank out of the hands of the rest of her family, believed by some to be totally incapable of running it anywhere but further into the ground? Or would you confirm the opinion of many that the Patrician has every intention of bringing the city's uncooperative banking industry to heel, and finds in this situation the perfect opportunity?'

'Some who believe, those who say… Who are these mysterious people?' said Moist, trying to raise an eyebrow as good as Vetinari's. And how is it that you know so many of them?'

Sacharissa sighed. 'And you wouldn't describe Mr Fusspot as really little more than a convenient sock puppet?'

'Woof?' said the dog at the mention of his name.

'I find the very question offensive!' said Moist. 'And so does he!'

'Moist, you are just no fun any more.' Sacharissa closed her notebook. 'You're talking like… well, like a banker.'

'I'm glad you think so.' Remember, just because she's shut the notebook doesn't mean you can relax!

'No dashing around on mad stallions? Nothing to make us cheer? No wild dreams?' said Sacharissa.

'Well, I'm already tidying up 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. Taking over his brain, it said: 'Deadly serious! I am recommending to Lord Vetinari that we sell it all to the dwarfs. We do not need it. It's a commodity and nothing more.'

'But what's worth more than gold?'

'Practically everything. You, for example. Gold is heavy. Your weight in gold is not very much gold at all. Aren't you worth more than that?'

Sacharissa looked momentarily flustered, to Moist's glee. 'Well, in a manner of speaking – '

'The only manner of speaking worth talking about,' said Moist flatly. '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. 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 for ever. Bury a potato and in due season you could be looking at a dividend of a thousand per cent.'

'Can I assume for a moment that you don't intend to put us on the potato standard?' said Sacharissa sharply.

Moist smiled. 'No, it won't be that. But in a few days I shall be giving away money. It doesn't like to stand still, you know. It likes to get out and make new friends.' The bit of Moist's brain that was trying to keep up with his mouth thought: I wish I could make notes about this, I'm not sure I can remember it all. But the conversations of the last day were banging together in his memory and making a kind of music. He wasn't sure he had all the notes yet, but there were bits he could hum. He just had to listen to himself for long enough to find out what he was talking about.

'By give away you mean – ' said Sacharissa.

'Hand over. Make a gift of. Seriously.'

'How? Why?'

'All in good time!'

'You are smirking at me, Moist!'

No, I've frozen because I've just heard what my mouth said, Moist thought. I don't have a clue, I've just got some random thoughts. It's…

'It's about desert islands,' he said. 'And why this city isn't one.'

'And that's it?'

Moist rubbed his forehead. 'Miss Cripslock, Miss Cripslock… this morning I got up with nothing in mind but to seriously make headway with the P