Terry Pratchett - Making money: a novel of Discworld

Waiting in darkness A bargain sealed
The hanging man Golem with a blue dress on
Crime and punishment A chance to make real money
The chain of goldish No unkindness to bears
Mr. Bent keeps time

THEY LAY IN the dark, guarding. There was no way of measuring the passage of time, nor any inclination to measure it. There was a time when they had not been here, and there would be a time, presumably, when they would, once more, not be here. They would be somewhere else. This time in between was immaterial.

But some had shattered and some, the younger ones, had gone silent.

The weight was increasing.

Something must be done.

One of them raised his mind in song.

IT WAS A hard bargain, but hard on whom? That was the question. And Mr. Blister the lawyer wasnt getting an answer. He would have liked an answer. When parties are interested in unprepossessing land, it might just pay for smaller parties to buy up any neighboring plots, just in case the party of the first part had heard something, possibly at a party.

But it was hard to see what there was to know.

He gave the woman on the other side of his desk a suitable concerned smile.

You understand, Miss Dearheart, that this area is subject to dwarf mining law? That means all metals and metal ore are owned by the Low King of the dwarfs. You will have to pay him a considerable royalty on any that you remove. Not that there will be any, Im bound to say. It is said to be sand and silt all the way down, and apparently it is a very long way down.

He waited for any kind of reaction from the woman opposite, but she just stared at him. Blue smoke from her cigarette spiraled toward the office ceiling.

Then there is the matter of antiquities, said the lawyer, watching as much of her expression as could be seen through the haze. The Low King has decreed that all jewelry, armor, ancient items classified as Devices, weaponry, pots, scrolls, bones extracted by you from the land in question will also be subject to a tax or confiscation.

Miss Dearheart paused as if to compare the litany against an internal list, stubbed out her cigarette, and said, Is there any reason to believe that there are any of those things there?

None whatsoever, said the lawyer, with a wry smile. Everyone knows that we are dealing with a barren waste, but the king is insuring against what everyone knows being wrong. It so often is.

He is asking for a lot of money for a very short lease!

Which you are willing to pay. This makes dwarfs nervous, you see. Its very unusual for a dwarf to part with land, even for a few years. I gather he needs the money because of all this Koom Valley business.

Im paying the sum demanded!

Quite so, quite so. But I

Will he honor the contract?

To the letter. That at least is certain. Dwarfs are sticklers in such matters. All you need to do is sign and, regrettably, pay.

Miss Dearheart reached into her bag and placed a thick sheet of paper on the table.

This is a bankers note for five thousand dollars, drawn on the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork.

The lawyer smiled. A name to trust, he said, and added, traditionally, at least. Do sign where Ive put the crosses, will you?

He watched carefully as she signed, and she got the impression he was holding his breath.

There, she said, pushing the contract across the desk.

Perhaps you could assuage my curiosity, madam? he said. Since the ink is drying on the lease?

Miss Dearheart looked around the room conspiratorially, as if the heavy old bookcases concealed a multitude of ears.

Can you keep a secret, Mr. Blister?

Oh, indeed, madam. Indeed!

She looked around cautiously.

Even so, this should be said quietly, she hissed.

He nodded hopefully, leaned forward, and for the first time in many years felt a womans breath in his ear:

So can I, she said.

That was nearly three weeks ago

SOME OF THE things you could learn up a drainpipe at night were surprising. For example, people paid attention to small soundsthe click of a window catch, the clink of a lock pickmore than they did to big sounds, like a brick falling into the street or even (for this was, after all, Ankh-Morpork) a scream.

These were loud sounds, which were, therefore, public sounds, which, in turn, meant they were everyones problem and, therefore, not mine. But small sounds were nearby and suggested such things as stealth betrayed, and were, therefore, pressing and personal.

Therefore, he tried not to make little noises.

Below him, the coach yard of the Central Post Office buzzed like an overturned hive. Theyd got the turntable working really well now. The overnight coaches were arriving and the new berwald Flyer was gleaming in the lamplight. Everything was going right, which was, to the nighttime climber, why everything was going wrong.

The climber thrust a brick key into soft mortar, shifted his weight, moved his foo

Damn pigeon! It flew up in panic, his other foot slipped, his fingers lost their grip on the drainpipe, and when the world had stopped churning, he was owing the postponement of his meeting with the distant cobbles to his hold on a brick key, which was, lets face it, nothing more than a long, flat nail with a T-piece grip.

And you cant bluff a wall, he thought. If you swing, you might get your hand and foot on the pipe, or the key might come out.

Ohkay

He had other keys and a small hammer. Could he knock one in without losing his grip on the other?

Above him, the pigeon joined its colleagues on a higher ledge.

The climber thrust the nail into the mortar with as much force as he dared, pulled the hammer out of his pocket, and, as the Flyer departed below with clattering and jingling, dealt the nail one massive blow.

It went in. He dropped the hammer, hoping the sound of its impact would be masked by the general bustle, and grabbed the new hold before it had hit the ground.

Ohkay. And now I amstuck?

The pipe was less than three feet away. Fine. This would work. Move both hands onto the new hold, swing gently, get his left hand around the pipe, and he could drag himself across the gap. Then it would be just

The pigeon was nervous. For pigeons, its the default state of being. It chose this point to lighten the load.

Ohkay. Correction: Two hands were now gripping the suddenly very slippery nail.

Damn.

And at this point, because nervousness runs through pigeons faster than a streaker through a convent, a gentle patter began.

There are times when it does not get any better than this does not spring to mind.

And then a voice from below said: Whos up there?