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Religion on the disc, and specifically in Ankh-Morpork, had always been more along the lines of a chore, rather than a matter of belief. It was, after all, difficult to deny the existence of gods when you not only knew exactly where they lived, but they had the habit of directly responding to those who challenged them, usually with a well-aimed bolt of lightning.
That said, there were atheists, such as Adora Belle Dearheart, though she would be the first to tell you it was less a matter of belief and more about defiance. She’d come to the decision to stop believing in gods in her early twenties, with the reasoning that if there was a god who had decided to do such horrible things as her life, then what reason did she have to give him the slightest respect, let alone worship?
Some might argue that the significant upturn in her life after having met Moist von Lipwig should be reason enough to start believing again. She levelled such arguments with a blunt stare and usually a puff of smoke to the face.
Her husband, however, was a little more cautious.
It wasn’t that he strictly believed in the gods, so much as that he knew they occasionally had reason to believe in him. And although his life was far more directly controlled by Havelock Vetinari, he was under no illusions about how thin the ice was where he dealt with higher powers on the whole.
Luckily, they had an understanding.
Albert Spangler, and a host of other identities, believed in gods in the same manner most on the disc believed. He gave dues when necessary, avoided dealing with the religion of his childhood as much as possible (though he did still enjoy potatoes), and otherwise only acknowledged any of them when swearing.
However, he was a firm believer in the Goddess, and relied very heavily upon certain virtues. He always tipped his hat to any statue of Hope, as he liked to believe they were in the same business.
Death had not been present at Albert Spangler’s hanging. So he’d mostly been making a statement for the crowds alone when he came up with the words, “I commend my soul to any god who can find it!”
In hindsight, this was probably Moist von Lipwig’s first mistake.
It was about a month after his first introduction to the Post Office. About two weeks since he’d taken on the Clacks. He was busy, and stressed, and starting to think Adora Belle may actually be interested in him, rather than any of his fronts, so he wasn’t thinking too clearly.
So when he paid for his breakfast and then turned around to find himself face to face with a hooded skeleton, his initial thoughts were surprisingly calm. In fact, all he could really say was, “You aren’t here for me, are you? Because I find it a little offensive when you didn’t show up the first time.”
The skeleton stared him down, not changing into a thin old man or a priest or a necromancy student trying to scare people. I am here for a danish. I have heard they are quite delicious.
“The apple custard goes a treat,” he advised, and then strolled out of the café and back to the Post Office.
Only there did what just happened really hit him, and he hid under his desk with a whimper.
Strangely, it was the dog that did him in.
He and Adora Belle were walking back to the Golem Trust when they passed Ole Foul Ron and his dog. They ignored Ron, as good Ankh-Morporkians did, but Moist made the mistake of glancing at the dog with the small smile he always had for animals.
“You should give the man a dollar to feed his little doggie.”
This request did not, as his brain tried to inform him, come from his own conscience. He didn’t have a conscience, thank you. And even if he had, his eyes reported stubbornly, it spoke in excellent time with the movements of that dog’s jaws.
Moist froze in place, just staring at the dog.
“Yes, isn’t it a cute little doggie?” the dog continued. “Poor, hopeless thing. Probably never gets a good meal, carting along this beggar. Probably the only thing the bastard cares about. Give him a dollar then, Mister Shiny Gold Bastard.”
“Moist?” Adora Belle finally seemed to realise he’d stopped and was looking back at him.
“Gods know you can afford it, what with the gods blessing you with all that shiny cash last month,” the dog grumbled. “So go on then. Poor doggie needs a sausage.”
At this point, Moist became aware of his sanity looking around the apartment of his head and considering what it might need to pack. “Poor doggie probably shouldn’t call people a Shiny Gold Bastard if he actually wants something for it.”
“What?” Adora Belle demanded, at the same time that the dog balked.
“Here, hold on! You saying you can understand me, then? You ain’t one of them magic types, are you?”
“What are you playing at?” Adora Belle asked, setting her hands on her hips. “Or have you completely lost your mind?”
“I think so, yes,” he said, turning away from the dog. He took a step forward, then looked back at it. The dog was definitely giving him a suspicious look.
A dog.
Giving him looks.
He grabbed Adora Belle’s arm and all but dragged her down the street.
The problem was that there was no one in Ankh-Morpork he could really go to in order to ask what was going on.
For one thing, he was only partially certain he wasn’t going crazy. Because now he was looking, he saw strange things everywhere. Death was a frequent visitor to Ankh-Morpork’s curry houses. Talking animals and vegetables were quite common around the University. Little old monks doing very normal activities for little old men such as sweeping floors showed up in very, very odd places, watching with shrewd eyes. Gods even occasionally showed up around their temples, and the worst of it was that the priests didn’t notice!
It got to the point that he found himself forced to give Adora Belle a very direct look one day. “Anoia?”
“Which her in particular?” she asked, and he twitched.
“All of them. I’m going for a walk.”
He could go to one of the temples and ask, but not only was he not sure about the etiquette of pointing out to a priest the crocodile god lazing in his serenity pool, but he knew the larger religions only tolerated him because he had, in point of fact, boosted belief by quite a bit. Telling them he’d never really believed on a practical level until he started seeing them around the place might, he figured, be somewhat bad for his health.
There was also the University, but he considered wizards, on the whole, to be a bit more trouble than they were worth. Ridcully seemed to like him well enough, but this wasn’t the sort of thing you interrupted an arch chancellor for. “Excuse me, sir, but how common is it for non-wizards to start noticing things that are really there, and how do I stop it?”
There was that Ponder Stibbons person he’d heard about. The only one in the lot that got anything done. But he had the feeling interrupting one of the busiest people in the University was probably around the same level of idiocy as interrupting its arch chancellor.
It wasn’t until he found himself seriously contemplating asking Death for advice that he realised it was easier just to go with it.
After all, he now knew he wasn’t the weirdest thing in this city by any means.
“And you would be Moist von Lipwig?”
Considering he was wearing his grey suit today, and currently eating breakfast in a very small, out of the way tavern on the edge of the commercial district, Moist knew he could probably get away with saying no. That bastard iconographer from the Times had finally got a really clear shot of him last week, but he was still average enough to pass it off with a ‘no, but I get that a lot these days’ with varying degrees of success.
But the man sitting down opposite him was a priest, and carried a very large axe. So he weighed his options very quickly, made a point of swallowing a mouthful he hadn’t been chewing, and offered a bright, charming smile.
“At your service. Though unfortunately also a disadvantage,” he said, extending a hand. The priest shook it once.
“Quite Reverend Mightily Oats,” he said. “I understand you’re favoured by the gods.”
“Uh, not exactly,” he said, and glanced around quickly to ensure no one was listening before admitting, “I did recently tell a court of enquiry that it was all a lie for the benefit of the Post Office.”
“Yes, I have become aware you said that,” he said, and Moist blinked. Oats didn’t smile, exactly, but there was a look in his eyes that Moist found strangely nerve-wracking. “It is, in fact, why I came to see you. I spend most of my time in Uberwald, but when I heard a messenger of the gods had confessed to holy fraud, I thought it was worth a visit.”
Moist’s eyes dropped to the axe. He knew full well that the temples were not particularly pleased with him lately, but so far they were all working on the ‘gods work in mysterious ways’ theory. True, they hadn’t directly given Moist the money, but by guiding him first to steal it and then use it to the benefit of good, well, was that in itself not an act of the gods?
But most priests didn’t carry axes like that.
“Look,” he said quickly, “it wasn’t that I was mocking anyone. No mocking was intended, and if it was, it certainly wasn’t a mocking of…” He paused to remind himself which religions used ‘quite reverend’ and would name a child ‘Mightily’. “…Om?”
Oats nodded once, his expression unchanging.
“In fact, really, the only person it mocked at all was the ones who think that the only thing religion is good for is capital gain, and really, don’t they deserve mockery? Is faith not reward enough itself? Belief in the gods is not something that should be given based on monetary value, as my recent actions have so clearly shown. Monetary value is itself its own form of belief based, in fact, on a belief in the city. Completely removed from the gods when you think about it.”
Oats gazed at him quietly for a few moments, then said, “Let me put you at some ease, Mr Lipwig. I am not here to smite you.”
“Oh,” he said, but didn’t relax. “You do that often?”
“Yes. Rarely humans, however.”
“Oh. Good on you. That must keep you quite occupied in Uberwald. Werewolves, vampires, that sort of thing, I assume.”
Oats didn’t bother to comment on that, just continued watching him thoughtfully for a few moments. “Many years ago, when I first went to the wilds of Uberwald, I struggled to find my true faith. I wanted proof of the gods. But I doubt even I would have really believed they showered you with gold,” he said with a quick smile, so fleeting it was barely there. “I was not surprised to hear of your falsehood. In all my time, I have never seen the gods provide what you may call concrete proof. Following the scripture as taught by my forebears brought me no comfort. It was people, and their actions, which showed me the truth of Om.”
“Uh. That’s… wonderful,” he said awkwardly. “Good on people.”
“And where is your belief, Mr Lipwig?” asked Oats. “What gives you your faith?”
He internally squirmed, wishing for his golden suit or a less public setting. Either of them would have made this situation much easier to get out of. “Faith is such a complex term. And belief… the very word implies doubt, really, doesn’t it? I always wonder at that, why religion uses the term so often. It’s like a dare, isn’t it? What is your belief? What aren’t you sure of? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I fully approve of working in the boundaries of hope, but I do think that’s very strange, the way so many stroll between hope and fear on that word belief. Don’t you?”
Oats’ gaze didn’t even shift once. “Not particularly. Fear and hope often inspire one another, and belief drives them both.”
“Oh. Well, then maybe you could explain it, but doubtless it would take a very long time and I really do have to get back to work,” he said, and took a moment to glance down at his plate. It had been a good meal, but he was very willing to give it up in the name of keeping his head on his neck.
“Have the gods ever spoken to you, Mr Lipwig?”
“Not recently, no,” he said, folding his napkin. This was not a lie, or even a half-truth, because he did not in any way consider letters to be gods. And they didn’t usually have much interesting to say anymore, anyway.
“Have you ever seen a sign? Something to make you think your destiny may not be your own?”
“I know my destiny isn’t my own,” he replied with a cheeky grin. “I am but a servant of a higher power known as Lord Vetinari. And it is with that in mind that I must now leave you, Quite Reverend. I’m sorry you had to travel all this way just to see a crook, but, well… I’m afraid that’s all I can now claim to be. Even if I am government sponsored.”
He tossed some notes on the table—too many, he realised later—and hurried out. He did notice Oats around a lot, over the next few days, but the man never approached him again. He took it as a blessing right up until he realised where that phrase came from, at which point Adora Belle gave him an odd look for groaning loudly in the middle of their lunch.
On his last day in Duke Harry’s compound, Moist and Iron Girder stared at each other in silence for several long minutes.
“Gonna miss her, eh, Mister Lipwig?” Simnel said cheerfully, slapping a greasy hand on Moist’s recently reacquired gold suit. “Well, I’d be lying if I didn’t say it won’t be t’same around here without thee.”
“Oh, you’ll still see me around,” he said with an automatic smile. “I am still Minister of the Railway, after all.”
“Hah! Well, be sure t’drop by and see ol’ Iron Girder from time t’time, all t’same. I’m sure she’ll miss thee and no mistake! For myself, I should get cleaned up for Sir Harry’s big to-do.” He gave Iron Girder a final fond pat, and then headed out.
Moist waited until he was properly out of sight before turning his full attention to the train. “We’ve only spoken the once, so I’ll understand if you won’t again. But something’s been bothering me of late, and since you’re the only one who has ever had the decency to speak to me directly, I thought it was worth the question,” he said. “Why?”
“You were the only one to ask,” was the surprisingly immediate response.
“Well, sure. But I’m hardly the only one to talk to you.”
“Not so. But perhaps the only one to listen.”
He pushed his hands in his pockets and furrowed his brow, considering. “I only listen because I know there’s something there to listen to. I had something of an experience a few years back, with some letters, you see.” He narrowed his eyes warily. “If I leave you alone for a while, are you going to start haunting my dreams like they do? Because I swear the money has picked up the habit these past few months, nagging me about money sinks, and I don’t think I have enough time in my night-schedule to pick up a third secretary.”
A gentle ticking felt like a laugh, and he had the distinct impression his audience was over. He sighed and rubbed his face, but accepted his lot in life and quietly left the compound.
He met Susan Sto Helit during his initial forays into taxes, since she was working at a school whose headmaster had very specific ideas about where their money should come from. It was only after he’d sat down beside her and started gently asking about how insane said headmaster was that he realised she was supposed to be invisible.
Luckily, her only concession to acknowledging it was a short, “You aren’t all you appear to be. I had wondered,” before she introduced herself and he had to stumble over realising he was speaking to the Susan Sto Helit. “But of course everyone knows the Man in the Golden Suit. Moist von Lipwig: Vetinari’s hound.”
“Hound? That’s rather vague, isn’t it?” he joked. “Surely I’m his lipwigzer.”
“A labrador more comes to mind,” she replied coolly. “You like to appear soft and handsome, so that no one realises what a dog bred for hunting can do.”
“You wound me, Lady Sto Helit!” he laughed. “I’m nothing more than a messenger; an enabler! I –”
“Yes, I think I see that.”
He paused as he noticed her voice change, and a small shadow from the window dared dig along her cheekbone to show the skull. Then he made certain his smile widened, and continued, “I’m actually here today on such a mission. Your headmaster has some fascinating ideas, and I was curious to see what you, as a member of staff, felt about them.”
It was a small moment, barely lasting more than an hour, but he couldn’t help noticing that she was one of the few people he couldn’t easily read. Which creeped him out enough that when, after five years of tax mastery, Vetinari turned him on the education system, his initial thought was ‘do not consult Susan Sto Helit’.
But then, he’d never really been a big believer in choice from the start.
Luckily, when he inevitably had to rely on her, she made no reference to any of the things he himself chose to ignore, only making a few vague comments about choice, freedom, and becoming a person you wanted to be. And when that idiot wizard from the Assassins Guild decided Moist would be a better statement about the needs of education inside out, she used a whole bunch of reality warping powers and let him lie about them later, so they could pretend the whole thing had been very normal and sensible and not at all about creating a world where even magic could be wrangled.
“If I may give you some advice, Mr Lipwig,” she said as they prepared to part ways, “although you are comfortable enough with the way things are now, I caution you to attempt to make new arrangements.”
“I don’t think I can,” he said, mock-regretful. Complaints aside, he did like his life, on the whole. “Even should Vetinari pass this mortal coil, I don’t doubt he’ll make some horrible deal with his successor to ensure my neck never moves far from the noose.”
She gave him a look that told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was being deliberately obtuse and she didn’t appreciate it. So he sighed and added, “Not that I would know how to do so even if I could.”
“Although I generally find prayer a meaningless past-time, it does occasionally get results,” she said, and then shook his hand one last time. When he lifted it to his lips, she allowed him a small, indulgent smile. “Take care of yourself, Mr Lipwig. My grandfather does not always appreciate those who court him.”
Time went on, as it had that tendency to do.
Vetinari, surprisingly, was the first to go. More surprisingly, the measures he’d put in place were not to make Moist patrician, but rather Captain Carrot of the Watch. Even more surprisingly, Carrot’s first act was not to see Moist hang, as Moist’s family and a good portion of the Watch had assumed, but rather to make it very clear that his hanging was going to be delayed until such time as he stopped being good for the kingdom.
“Kingdom?” Moist asked Vimes one night, as they stood on the palace walls and marvelled at how things changed.
“Slip of the tongue, lad,” he said dryly, and Moist had to smile.
“Does this mean we’ll have a bastard prince? I always thought they were supposed to be a bit more figurative.”
Vimes snorted, and two of the most powerful men in Ankh-Morpork stared out over their city. Their sensible, safe, working city, which was leading the disc in a change that would never be reversed.
Vimes passed. Angua became commander. Adora Belle’s hair went grey, while Moist’s was generally described as silver. His official title became the Platinum Minister, and he changed his suit colours accordingly.
And then, one day, Adora Belle got sick.
“Oi.”
Moist spent a few seconds pretending not to see the raven staring at him. His mind was elsewhere, anyway.
“Oi, Messenger.”
“Look who’s talking,” he said, and turned away from the open window. The raven flew in and settled, as ravens were apparently wont to do, on a crystal ball paperweight, so Moist collapsed in his desk chair and surrendered to the inevitable.
“I thought we had a deal. I pretend not to notice your lot, and you all avoid me,” he said. “It’s worked very well for the last thirty years, I don’t see why it has to change.”
“Well, I don’t see why I had to be the one to come chat with your fine self, but here we are then,” it replied snappily. “Hear your missus is counting her days.”
He glared but didn’t answer. The doctors all claimed she was strong – that she might last another five, maybe ten years. But Adora Belle was making arrangements, and despite the doctors’ insistence, Moist knew his beloved was not a pessimist, but a realist. He hated her for it.
“Werrlll, that’s quite the predicament, ain’t it?” The raven cocked its head to the side. “Quite the topic of conversation in certain circles, your missus.”
He frowned. “Why? She doesn’t even believe in the gods. Or anything else that’s really there.”
“Which these days, ain’t all that unusual, and normally wouldn’t be too much of a problem. Science gainin’ ground, magic comin’ under control, all that nonsense, all the higher-ups are genr’lly accepting of it happenin’, even if they ain’t that pleased all round,” it said, in much the same way a man in a nice suit might comment as he cracked his gold-ringed knuckles. “Thing is, they have certain understandings about who it was that enabled that change, you might say.”
His glare sharpened. “They can’t blame her –”
“Oh, no, ’course not. Don’t even blame you, come to think of it. It’s a genr’l understanding that even if certain humans got involved along the way, certain other parties had a bit more of a reach, if you follow my meaning,” it said, and Moist was honestly amazed it didn’t add, ‘wink, wink, nudge, nudge’ at the end, or at least spread a wing in the same motion. “Thing is some of those certain parties wouldn’t’ve gotten very far without certain humans. Humans that even now, those certain parties lay a bit of claim to. And, well, point of fact, Mister Messenger, is that some’ve the old gods are what you might call petty bastards.”
“So what are you saying?” he asked. “Adora Belle’s only sick because I got roped into being Vetinari’s lapdog all those years ago?”
“No, no, nothin’ like that. We’re not even talkin’ about life and death here,” it said, and just barely gave Moist enough time to change suspicious glares before adding, “It’s souls where’n the issue starts.”
“Souls?”
“Yeah. You know, the one you promised to anyone whose could find it,” it said casually. “And the one your missus is going to have tortured on account’ve those petty bastards wantin’ you to know about it.”
For several long seconds, Moist just stared at the bird silently. Then he lurched out of his seat and across the table, fingers just missing feathers as the raven threw itself off the ball and scrambled across the office.
“Oi, oi, hold on! I ain’t with them! I ain’t with them!” it squawked, barely just getting to the high point on top of the bookshelves before Moist could catch it again. “I’m here on account of some’ve the other folks! You know, those certain other parties! I’m here to help!”
“Help? Help?! What help have they ever been? They never even had the decency to show up and tell me I wasn’t crazy!” he yelled, grabbing a book to start throwing. “What help are words? Because that’s all I’ve ever gotten!”
“An’ now you’re getting’ more!” it cried. Moist’s book missed by inches and it cawed loudly, then shoved itself off the bookshelf to flutter to another bookshelf. “You didn’t think that handin’ your soul over to the gods was a lifetime-only deal, did ya? Souls don’t go so cheap!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he yelled. “I never sold my soul! I said one stupid sentence when I thought I was going to die! I didn’t even know Adora Belle then! They can’t do this to her!”
“It don’t matter what you did an’ didn’t want!” the raven insisted. “You set the terms, and it was your bad luck the lesser gods took you up on the offer! It was their good luck you turned out to be worth it! You and Vimes and Vetinari, you changed the disc, you did, but you’re the only one the big fellas can get at!”
Moist threw another book, but his heart wasn’t in it, so although it hit the bookshelf, it was nowhere near the bird. He leaned back against the wall, covering his face with his hand, then slid down until he was curled on the floor.
He didn’t bother to wipe away his tears. No one was here to see them, except the bird, and he’d be damned if he’d give it the respect of an act. No, if it insisted on talking to him as he was, then it could get him as he was. Besides, he hadn’t had the chance yet. Spike wouldn’t let him, and the kids needed him to be strong, and the doctors wanted him to have faith. He’d spent so much time being what they all wanted that…
He felt the bird land on his knee, and forced his eyes open. “I can’t sell a soul that’s not my own. How can I save her?”
“Werrlll, that’s the point of it,” the raven said. “Your terms were simple, but what you might call, deceptive. You didn’t exactly sell it, per se, you see.”
“What?”
“The word in point of fact was ‘commend’,” it reminded him. “Which, in godspeak, comes across a bit more like ‘loan’ than final sale, if you know what I mean. Which, in point of fact, is why you never got much beyond the occasional directive.”
Somehow, even as the ice cold settled around his heart, Moist felt himself calm slightly, and a weak smile settled on his lips. “And so bidding may begin.”
In the great history books of the disc, there are many people noted for their contributions to what is now called ‘the Modern Age’.
First among them is Lord Vetinari, the last and one true Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. He was aided, of course, by Lady Margoletta, a vampire rumoured to still walk the hills of Uberwald, Blodwyn Rhysson, first Queen of the Dwarves, and of course, Duke Commander Sam Vimes.
If you look very closely, there are others who are mentioned. Arch Chancellor Ridcully and Ponder Stibbons, of Unseen University. William de Worde, who introduced the Free Press. Dick Simnel, inventor of the steam engine.
Only a true scholar of government history, or someone still inclined to listen to their grandparents’ tales, will have heard of Moist von Lipwig.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” asked Susan, as she packed her marking away. She already knew no time at all would pass before she came back to it, but order was an ingrained habit. “Everyone used to say you loved the spotlight.”
The Golden Messenger grinned. He was a difficult figure to describe, which was probably why even the most devoted priests never bothered. He could have been twenty, or maybe thirty. His hair was blonde, or perhaps brown, or… or maybe copper? Not very tall, but definitely not short. About mid-range weight? Fit, certainly, but uh… not noticeably so, I might call him… no, not thin… um…
He had a bag. It hung over one shoulder, with a long strap, while the bag itself rested near his hip. And a horse. A golem horse called Flash.
“And the fact I still managed to go unnoticed in the great history means I won the game,” he said. “It was—and is—all about keeping score, Milady Susan.”
She ignored that with long practice. “And your new game? I hardly think you’re winning.”
“You’d be surprised. Besides, I got what I wanted,” he said, and then shrugged carelessly. “And now I get to spend my days surrounded by greedy people with agendas and plots just begging to be taken advantage of.”
“Not much changed all told, then.”
“Higher stakes, more fun.”
“And perhaps a more valued soul.”
He tipped his winged hat, and then carried on his way. Business needed attending, after all.