Going Postal полностью

‘Quite so,’ said Vetinari. ‘Incidentally, they all felt that their temples should get a tithe of the money,’ he added. ‘Each.’

‘Sixty thousand dollars?’ said Moist, sitting up. ‘That’s not right!’

‘I commend the speed of your mental arithmetic in your shaken state. No lack of clarity there , I’m glad to see,’ said Vetinari. ‘I would advise you to donate fifty thousand, split four ways. It is, after all, in a very public and very definite and incontrovertible way, a gift from the gods. Is this not a time for reverential gratitude?’

There was a lengthy pause, and then Moist raised a finger and managed, against all the odds, a cheerful smile. ‘Sound advice, my lord. Besides, a man never knows when he might need a prayer.’

‘Exactly,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘It is less than they demanded but more than they expect, and I did point out to them that the remainder of the money was all going to be used for the civic good. It is going to be used for the civic good, isn’t it, Mr Lipwig?’

‘Oh, yes. Indeed!’

‘That is just as well, since currently it’s sitting in Commander Vimes’s cells.’ Vetinari looked down at Moist’s trousers. ‘I see you still have mud all over your lovely golden suit, Postmaster. Fancy all that money being buried in a field. And you can still remember nothing about how you got there?’

Vetinari’s expression was getting on Moist’s nerves. You know, he thought. I know you know. You know I know you know. But I know you can’t be certain, not certain . ‘Well… there was an angel,’ he said.

‘Indeed? Any particular kind?’

‘The kind you only get one of, I think,’ said Moist.

‘Ah, good . Well, then it all seems very clear to me,’ said Vetinari, sitting back. ‘It is not often a mortal man achieves such a moment of glorious epiphany, but I am assured by the priests that such a thing could happen, and who should know better than they? Anyone even suggesting that the money was in some way… obtained in some wrong fashion will have to argue with some very turbulent priests and also, I assume, find their kitchen drawers quite impossible to shut. Besides, you are donating money to the city—’ he held up his hand when Moist opened his mouth, and went on, ‘that is, the Post Office, so the notion of private gain does not arise. There appears to be no owner for the money, although so far, of course, nine hundred and thirty-eight people would like me to believe it belongs to them. Such is life in Ankh-Morpork. So, Mr Lipwig, you are instructed to rebuild the Post Office as soon as possible. The bills will be met and, since the money is effectively a gift from the gods, there will be no drain on our taxes. Well done, Mr Lipwig. Very well done. Don’t let me detain you.’

Moist actually had his hand on the door handle when the voice behind him said: ‘Just one minor thing, Mr Lipwig.’

He stopped. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘It occurs to me that the sum which the gods so generously have seen fit to bestow upon us does, by pure happenstance, approximate to the estimated haul of a notorious criminal, which as far as I know has never been recovered.’

Moist stared at the woodwork in front of him. Why is this man ruling just one city? he thought. Why isn’t he ruling the world? Is this how he treats other people? It’s like being a puppet. The difference is, he arranges for you to pull your own strings.

He turned, face carefully deadpan. Lord Vetinari had walked over to his game.

‘Really, sir? Who was that, then?’ he said.

‘One Albert Spangler, Mr Lipwig.’

‘He’s dead, sir,’ said Moist.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, sir. I was there when they hanged him.’

‘Well remembered, Mr Lipwig,’ said Vetinari, moving a dwarf all the way across the board.

Damn, damn, damn! Moist shouted, but only for internal consumption.

He’d worked hard for that mon— well, the banks and merchants had worked har— well, somewhere down the line someone had worked hard for that money, and now a third of it had been… well, stolen , that was the only word for it.

Moist experienced a certain amount of unrighteous indignation about this.

Of course he would have given most of it to the Post Office, that was the whole point, but you could construct a damn good building for a lot less than a hundred thousand dollars and Moist had been hoping for a little something for himself.

Still, he felt good. Perhaps this was that ‘wonderful warm feeling’ people talked about. And what would he have done with the money? He never had time to spend it in any case. After all, what could a master criminal buy? There was a shortage of seaside properties with real lava flows near a reliable source of piranhas, and the world sure as hell didn’t need another Dark Lord, not with Gilt doing so well. Gilt didn’t need a tower with ten thousand trolls camped outside. He just needed a ledger and a sharp mind. It worked better, was cheaper and he could go out and party at night.