It'll end in trouble, my lord,' said Ridcully. He'd found it a good general comment in practically any debate. Besides, it was so often true.
Lord Vetinari sighed. In my experience, practically everything does,' he said. That is the nature of things. All we can do is sing as we go,'
He stood up. 'However, I will pay a personal visit to the dwarfs in question,' He reached out to ring a bell on his desk, stopped, and with a smile at the priest moved his hand instead to a brass and leather tube that hung from two brass hooks. The mouthpiece was in the shape of a dragon.
He whistled into it, and then said, 'Mr Drumknott? My coach, please,'
'Is it me,' said Ridcully, giving the new-fangled speaking tube a nervous glance, 'or is there a terrible smell in here?'
Lord Vetinari gave him a quizzical look and glanced down.
There was a basket just underneath his desk. In it was what appeared to be, at first glance and certainly at first smell, a dead dog. It lay with all four legs in the air. Only the occasional gentle expulsion of wind suggested that some living process was going on.
'It's his teeth,' he said coldly. The dog Wuffles turned over and regarded the priest with one baleful black eye.
'He's doing very well for a dog of his age,' said Hughnon, in a desperate attempt to climb a suddenly tilting slope. 'How old would he be now?'
'Sixteen,' said the Patrician. 'That's over a hundred in dog years.'
Wuffles dragged himself into a sitting position and growled, releasing a gust of stale odours from the depths of his basket.
'He's very healthy,' said Hughnon while trying not to breathe. 'For his age, I mean. I expect you get used to the smell.'
'What smell?' said Lord Vetinari.
'Ah. Yes. Indeed,' said Hughnon.
As Lord Vetinari's coach rattled off through the slush towards Gleam Street it may have surprised its occupant to know that, in a cellar quite near by, someone looking very much like him was chained to the wall.
It was quite a long chain, giving him access to a table and chair, a bed, and a hole in the floor.
Currently he was at the table. On the other side of it was Mr Pin. Mr Tulip was leaning menacingly against the wall. It would be clear to any experienced person that what was going on here was 'good cop, bad cop' with the peculiar drawback that there were no cops. There was just an apparently endless supply of Mr Tulip.
'So... Charlie,' said Mr Pin, 'how about it?'
'It's not illegal, is it?' said the man addressed as Charlie.
Mr Pin spread his hands. 'What's legality, Charlie? Just words on paper. But you won't be doing anything wrong.'
Charlie nodded uncertainly. 'But ten thousand dollars doesn't sound like the kind of money you get for doing something right,' he said. 'Not for just saying a few words,'
'Mr Tulip here once got even more money than that for saying just a few words, Charlie,' said Mr Pin soothingly.
'Yeah, I said, "Give me all the --ing cash or the girl gets it,"' said Mr Tulip.
'Was that right?' said Charlie, who seemed to Mr Pin to have a highly developed death wish.
'Absolutely right for that occasion, yes,' he said.
'Yes, but it's not often people make money like that,' said the suicidal Charlie. His eyes kept straying to the monstrous bulk of Mr Tulip, who was holding a paper bag in one hand and, in the other hand, a spoon. He was using the spoon to ferry a fine white powder to his nose, his mouth and once, Charlie would have sworn, his ear.
'Well, you are a special man, Charlie,' said Mr Pin. 'And afterwards you will have to stay out of sight for a long time.'
'Yeah,' said Mr Tulip, in a spray of powder. There was a sudden strong smell of mothballs.
'All right, but why did you have to kidnap me, then? One minute I was locking up for the night, next minute - bang! And you've got me chained up.'
Mr Pin decided to change tack. Charlie was arguing too much for a man in the same room as Mr Tulip, especially a Mr Tulip who was halfway through a bag of powdered mothballs. He gave him a big friendly smile.