Mr Slant nodded automatically, remembered himself, sat down and fumbled with his notes. He had lost his place. 'And now we come to, er, the matter of the bank—'

'Mrs Lavish, a lady many of us were privileged to know, recently confided in me that she was dying,' said Lord Vetinari briskly. 'She asked me for advice on the future of the bank, given that her obvious heirs were, in her words, "as nasty a bunch of weasels as you could hope not to meet"—'

All thirty-one of the Lavish lawyers stood up and spoke at once, incurring a total cost to their clients of AM$119.28.

Mr Slant glared up at them.

Mr Slant did not, despite what had been said, have the respect of Ankh-Morpork's legal profession. He commanded its fear. Death had not diminished his encyclopedic memory, his guile, his talent for corkscrew reasoning and the vitriol of his stare. Do not cross me this day, it advised the lawyers. Do not cross me, lor if you do I will have the flesh from your very bones and the marrow therein. You know those leather-bound tomes you have on the wall behind your desk to impress your clients? I have read them all, and I wrote half of them. Do not try me. I am not in a good mood.

One by one, they sat down.[13]

'If I may continue?' said Vetinari. 'I understand that Mrs Lavish subsequently interviewed Mr Lipwig and considered that he would be a superb manager in the very best traditions of the Lavish family and the ideal guardian for the dog Mr Fusspot, who is, by the custom of the bank, its chairman.'

Cosmo rose slowly to his feet and stepped out into the centre of the floor. 'I object most strongly to the suggestion that this scoundrel is in the best tradition of my—' he began.

Mr Slant was on his feet as though propelled by a spring. Quick as he was, Moist was faster.

'I object!' he said.

'How do you dare object,' Cosmo spat, 'when you have admitted to being an arrogant scofflaw?'

'I object to Lord Vetinari's allegation that I have anything to do with the fine traditions of the Lavish family,' said Moist, staring into eyes that now seemed to be weeping green tears. 'For example, I have never been a pirate or traded in slaves—'

There was a great rising of lawyers.

Mr Slant glared. There was a great seating.

'They admit it,' said Moist. 'It's in the bank's own official history!'

'That is correct, Mr Slant,' said Vetinari. 'I have read it. Volenti non fit injuria clearly applies.'

The whirring started again. Mr Fusspot was coming back the other way. Moist forced himself not to look.

'Oh, this is low indeed!' snarled Cosmo. 'Whose history could withstand this type of malice?'

Moist raised a hand. 'Ooo, ooo, I know this one!' he said. 'Mine can. The worst I ever did was rob people who thought they were robbing me, but I never used violence and I gave it all back. Okay, I robbed a couple of banks, well, defrauded, really, but only because they made it so easy—'

'Gave it back?' said Slant, looking for some kind of response from Vetinari. But the Patrician was staring over the heads of the crowd, who were almost all engrossed in the transit of Mr Fusspot, and merely raised a finger in acknowledgement or dismissal.

'Yes, you may recall that I saw the error of my ways last year when the gods—' Moist began.

'Robbed a couple of banks?' said Cosmo. 'Vetinari, are we to believe that you knowingly put the most important bank in the city into the charge of a known bank robber?'

The massed ranks of the Lavishes rose, united in defence of the money. Vetinari still stared at the ceiling.

Moist looked up. A disc, something white, was skimming through the air near the ceiling; it descended as it circled, and hit Cosmo between the eyes. A second one swooped on over Moist's hand and landed in the bosoms of the Lavishes.

'Should he have left it in the hands of unknown bank robbers?' a voice shouted, as collateral custard landed on every smart black suit. 'Here we are again!'

A second wave of pies was already in the air, circling the room in trajectories that dropped them into the struggling Lavishes. And then a figure fought its way out of the crowd, to the groans and screams of those who'd temporarily been in its way; this was because those who managed to escape having their feet trodden on by the big shoes jumped back in time to be scythed down by the ladder the newcomer was carrying. It innocently turned to see what mayhem it had caused, and the swinging ladder would fell anyone too slow to get away. There was a method to it, though: as Moist watched, the clown stepped away from the ladder, leaving four people trapped among the rungs in such a way that any attempt to get out would cause huge pain to the other three and, in the case of one of the watchmen, a serious impairment of marriage prospects.

Red-nosed and raggedy-hatted, it bounced into the arena in great leaping strides, its enormous boots flapping on the floor with every familiar step.

'Mr Bent?' said Moist. 'Is that you?'

'My jolly good pal Mr Lipwig!' shouted the clown. 'You think the ringmaster runs the circus, do you? Only by the consent of the clowns, Mr Lipwig! Only by the consent of the clowns!'

Bent drew back his arm and hurled a pie at Lord Vetinari.

But Moist was already in full leap before the pie started its journey. His brain came a poor third, and delivered its thoughts all in one go, telling him what his legs had apparently worked out for themselves: that the dignity of the great could rarely survive a face full of custard, that a picture of an encustarded Patrician on the front page of the Times would rock the power-politics of the city, and most of all that in a post-Vetinari world he, Moist, would not see tomorrow, which was one of his lifelong ambitions.

As in a silent dream he sailed towards the oncoming nemesis, reaching out with snail-pace fingers while the pie spun on to its date with history.

It hit him in the face.

Vetinari had not moved. Custard flew up and four hundred fascinated eyes watched as a glob of the stuff headed on towards the Patrician, who caught it in an upraised hand. The little smack as it landed on his palm was the only sound in the room.

Vetinari inspected the captured custard. He dipped a finger into it and tasted the blob thereon. He cast his eyes upwards, thoughtfully, while the room held its communal breath, and then said, pensively: 'I do believe it is pineapple.'

There was a thunder of applause. There had to be; even if you hated Vetinari, you had to admire the timing.

And now he was coming down the steps, advancing on a frozen and fearful clown.

'The clowns do not run my circus, sir,' he said, grabbing the man by his big red nose and pulling it to the full extent of the elastic. 'Is that understood?'

The clown produced a bulbous horn and gave a mournful honk.

'Good. I'm glad you agree. And now I want to talk to Mr Bent, please.'

There were two honks this time.

'Oh yes he is,' said Vetinari. 'Shall we get him out for the boys and girls? What is 15.3 per cent of 59.66?

'You leave him alone! Just you leave him alone!'

The battered crowd parted yet again, this time for a dishevelled Miss Drapes, as outraged and indignant as a mother hen. She was clasping something heavy to her sparse bosom, and Moist realized that it was a stack of ledgers.

'This is what it's all about!' she announced triumphantly, flinging her arms wide. 'It's not his fault! They took advantage of him!'

She pointed an accusatory finger at the dripping ranks of the Lavishes. If a battle goddess were allowed to have a respectable blouse and hair escaping rapidly from a tight bun, then Miss Drapes could have been deified. 'It was them! They sold the gold years ago!' This caused a general and enthusiastic uproar on all sides not containing a Lavish.