Mort carefully picked up the bag and pulled out one small gold coin.
'A down payment,' he said, putting it on the table.
Cutwell picked up the coin as if he expected it to go bang or evaporate, and examined it carefully.
'I've never seen this sort of coin before,' he said accusingly. 'What's all this curly writing?'
'It's gold, though, isn't it?' said Mort. 'I mean, you don't have to accept it —'
'Sure, sure, it's gold,' said Cutwell hurriedly. 'It's gold all right. I just wondered where it had come from, that's all.'
'You wouldn't believe me,' said Mort. 'What time's sunset around here?'
'We normally manage to fit it in between night and day,' said Cutwell, still staring at the coin and taking little sips from the blue bottle. 'About now.'
Mort glanced out of the window. The street outside already had a twilight look to it.
'I'll be back,' he muttered, and made for the door. He heard the wizard call out something, but Mort was heading down the street at a dead run.
He started to panic. Death would be waiting for him forty miles away. There would be a row. There would be a terrible —
AH, BOY.
A familiar figure stepped out from the flare around a jellied eel stall, holding a plate of winkles.
THE VINEGAR IS PARTICULARLY PIQUANT. HELP YOURSELF, I HAVE AN EXTRA PIN.
But, of course, just because he was forty miles away didn't mean he wasn't here as well. . . .
And in his untidy room Cutwell turned the gold coin over and over in his fingers, muttering 'walls' to himself, and draining the bottle.
He appeared to notice what he was doing only when there was no more to drink, at which point his eyes focused on the bottle and, through a rising pink mist, read the label which said 'Granny Weatherwax's Ramrub Invigoratore and Passion's Philtre, Onne Spoonful Onlie before bed and that Smalle'.
'By myself?' said Mort.
CERTAINLY. I HAVE EVERY FAITH IN YOU.
'Gosh!'
The suggestion put everything else out of Mort's mind, and he was rather surprised to find that he didn't feel particularly squeamish. He'd seen quite a few deaths in the last week or so, and all the horror went out of it when you knew you'd be speaking to the victim afterwards. Most of them were relieved, one or two of them were angry, but they were all glad of a few helpful words.
THINK YOU CAN DO IT?
'Well, sir. Yes. I think.'
THAT'S THE SPIRIT. I'VE LEFT BlNKY BY THE HORSETROUGH ROUND THE CORNER. TAKE HIM STRAIGHT HOME WHEN YOU'VE FINISHED.
hurried out after him. The ancient ancestor watched them go with a critical expression, its jowls rhythmically chewing.
'That was what they call a demon around here?' it said. 'Offler rot this country of dampness, even their demons are third-rate, not a patch on the demons we had in the Old Country.'
The wife placed a small bowl of rice in the folded middle pair of hands of the Offler statue (it would be gone in the morning) and stood back.
'Husband did say that last month at the Curry Gardens he served a creature who was not there,' she said. 'He was impressed.'
Ten minutes later the man returned and, in solemn silence, placed a small heap of gold coins on the table. They represented enough wealth to purchase quite a large part of the city.
'He had a bag of them,' he said.