'But since you raise the subject, Moist, what were you doing with your life before the citizens of Ankh-Morpork greeted you with open palms?'

'Surviving,' said Moist. 'In Uberwald the old empire was breaking up. It was not unusual for a government to change twice over lunch. I worked at anything I could to make a living. By the way, I think you meant "arms" back there,' he added.

'And when you got here you impressed the gods so much that they led you to a treasure trove so that you could rebuild our Post Office.'

'I'm very humble about that,' said Moist, trying to look it.

'Ye-ess. And the god-given gold was all in used coinage from the Plains cities…'

'You know what, I've often lain awake wondering about that myself,' said Moist, 'and I reached the conclusion that the gods, in their wisdom, decided that the gift should be instantly negotiable.' I can go on like this for as long as you like, he thought, and you're trying to play poker with no cards. You can suspect all you like, but I gave that money back! Okay, I stole it in the first place, but giving it back counts for something, doesn't it? The slate is clean, isn't it? Well, acceptably grubby, yes?

The door opened slowly, and a young and nervous woman crept in, holding a plate of cold chicken. Mr Fusspot brightened up as she placed it in front of him.

'Sorry, can we get you a coffee or something?' said Moist, as the girl headed back towards the door.

Sacharissa stood up. 'Thank you, but no. I'm on a deadline, Mr Lipwig. I'm sure we'll be talking again very soon.'

'I'm certain of it, Miss Cripslock,' said Moist.

She took a step towards him and lowered her voice. 'Do you know who that girl was?'

'No, I hardly know anyone yet.'

'So you don't know if you can trust her?'

'Trust her?'

Sacharissa sighed. 'This is not like you, Moist. She's just given a plate of food to the most valuable dog in the world. A dog that some people might like to see dead.'

'Why shouldn't—' Moist began. They both turned to Mr Fusspot, who was already licking the empty plate up the length of the table with an appreciative gronf-gronf noise.

'Er… can you see yourself out?' said Moist, hurrying towards the sliding plate.

'If you're in any doubt, stick your fingers down his throat!' said Sacharissa from the door with, Moist considered, an inappropriate amount of amusement.

He grabbed the dog and hurried through the far door, after the girl. It led to a narrow and not particularly well decorated corridor with a green door at the end, from which came the sound of voices.

Moist barged through it.

In the small, neat kitchen beyond, a tableau greeted him. The young woman was backed against a table, and a bearded man in a white suit was wielding a big knife. They looked shocked.

'What's going on?' Moist yelled.

'Er, er… you just ran through the door and shouted?' said the girl. 'Was something wrong? I always give Mr Fusspot his appetizer about now.'

'And I'm doing his entree,' said the man, bringing the knife down on a tray of offal. 'It's chicken necks stuffed with giblets, with his special toffee pudding for afters. And who's asking?'

'I'm the— I'm his owner,' said Moist, as haughtily as he could manage.

The chef removed his white hat. 'Sorry, sir, of course you are. The gold suit and everything. This is Peggy, my daughter. I'm Aimsbury, sir.'

Moist had managed to calm down a little. 'Sorry,' he said. 'I was just worried that someone might try to poison Mr Fusspot…'

'We were just talking about that,' said Aimsbury. 'I thought that— Hold on, you don't mean me, do you?'

'No, no, certainly not!' said Moist to the man still holding a knife.

'Well, all right,' said Aimsbury, mollified. 'You're new, sir, you're not to know. That Cosmo kicked Mr Fusspot once!'

'He'd poison anyone, he would,' said Peggy.

'But I go down to the market every day, sir, and select the little dog's food myself. And it's stored downstairs in the cool room, and I have the only key.'

Moist relaxed. 'You couldn't knock up an omelette for me, could you?' he said.

The chef looked panicky. 'That's eggs, right?' he said nervously. 'Never really got involved with cooking eggs, sir. He has a raw one in his steak tartare on Fridays and Mrs Lavish used to have two raw ones in her gin and orange juice every morning, and that is about it between me 'n' eggs. I've got a pig's head sousing if you'd fancy some of that. Got tongue, hearts, marrowbone, sheep's head, nice bit o' dewlap, melts, slaps, lights, liver, kidneys, beccles—'

In his youth, Moist had been served a lot off that menu. It was exactly the sort of food that you should serve to kids if you want them to grow up skilled in the arts of barefaced lying, sleight of hand and camouflage. As a matter of course Moist had hidden those strange wobbly meats under his vegetables, on one occasion achieving a potato twelve inches high.

Light dawned. 'Did you cook much for Mrs Lavish?' said Moist.

'Nosir. She lived on gin, vegetable soup, her morning pick-me-up and—'

'Gin,' said Peggy firmly.

'So you're basically a dog chef?'

'Canine, sir, if it's all the same to you. You may have read my book? Cooking with Brains?' Aimsbury said this rather hopelessly, and rightly so.

'Unusual path to follow,' said Moist.

'Well, sir, it enables me to… it's safer… well, the truth is, I have an allergy, sir.' The chef sighed. 'Show him, Peggy.'

The girl nodded and pulled a grubby card out of her pocket. 'Please don't say this word, sir,' she said, and held it up.

Moist stared.

'You just can't avoid it in the catering business, sir,' said Aimsbury miserably.

This wasn't the time, really wasn't the time. But if you weren't interested in people, then you didn't have the heart of a trickster.

'You're allergic to g— this stuff?' he said, correcting himself just in time.

'No, sir. The word, sir. I can handle the actual allium in question, I can even eat it, but the sound of it, well…'

Moist looked at the word again, and shook his head sadly.

'So I have to shun restaurants, sir.'

'I can see that. How are you with the word… "leek"?'

'Yes, sir, I know where you're going, I've been there. Far leek, tar lick… no effect at all'

'Just garlic, then— Oh, sorry…'

Aimsbury froze, with a distant expression on his face.

'Gods, I'm so sorry, I honestly didn't mean—' Moist began.

'I know,' said Peggy wearily. 'The word just forces its way out, doesn't it? He'll be like this for fifteen seconds, then he'll throw the knife straight ahead of him, and then he'll speak in fluent Quirmian for about four seconds, and then he'll be fine. Here' — she handed Moist a bowl containing a large brown lump — 'you go back in there with the sticky toffee pudding and I'll hide in the pantry. I'm used to it. And I can do you an omelette, too.' She pushed Moist through the door and shut it behind him.

He put down the bowl, to the immediate and fully focused interest of Mr Fusspot.

Watching a dog try to chew a large piece of toffee is a pastime fit for gods. Mr Fusspot's mixed ancestry had given him a dexterity of jaw that was truly awesome. He somersaulted happily around the floor making faces like a rubber gargoyle in a washing machine.

After a few seconds Moist distinctly heard the twang of a knife vibrating in woodwork, followed by a scream of: 'Nom d'une bouilloire! Pourquoi est-ce que je suis hardiment ri sous cape a part les dieux?'

There was a knock at the double doors, followed instantly by the entry of Bent. He was carrying a large round box.

'The suite is now ready for you, Master,' he announced. 'That is to say, for Mr Fusspot.'

'A suite?'

'Oh, yes. The chairman has a suite.'