Hot and Cold by samepaverge
Chapter 4
The Merchants' Guild is one of the youngest in Ankh-Morpork. It may not have the prestige (more of arrogance, really) of the Assassins' Guild or the popularity of the Seamstresses' Guild, but trade and commerce still is the heart of the city, and therefore they are, by extension, also important. Very, very important.
Eric Porbeagle just wished that the woman in front of him thought the same.
He had no idea why the Guildmaster gave him this task. He could only think of two things: either he is very hated or very capable. Miss Wishbone was a slight woman, he practically outweighed her, but she had an aura of, well, it wasn't Zen. In fact, it was the exact opposite. While she listened to him, she maintained a quietness similar to a dynamite a few seconds before it explodes and obliterates everything in a 20-metre radius. Porbeagle valued his life dearly.
"We-that is, the Guild-are advising you to cut your losses before everything goes underwater," repeated Porbeagle. He had been saying the same thing for the past ten minutes and he had run out of terrestrial metaphors and had moved on to aquatic ones.
Angela Wishbone sat stiffly. "I can't do that," she said. Miss Wishbone didn't bother with metaphors.
Porbeagle sighed. "We have looked at your father's books and, well," he paused and wiped a hand on his sweaty forehead, "things don't look pleasant."
"Look, I know it seems bad," Angela replied. "But I'm going to turn this whole thing around."
Porbeagle wondered what precisely it was that she was going to turn around. Only a quarter of the total number of employees had stuck around after Strawhat Wishbone's unfortunate death, and in a few days they would be gone too. Box production had stalled, and in this type of business if you aren't churning out, you might as well be rubbed off the face of the Disc.
Miss Wishbone, Porbeagle thought, had the tenacity of a bulldog and the business awareness of one. Too much of the former and too little of the latter. Non-traders are inclined to think that people on their field are throat-cutting, one upping money-grubbers, and they were right most of the time, but they have started to learn that it was better for business to cooperate rather than chuck explosives at each other. Cheaper and better. Lord Vetinari had even supported this kind of ethos, the Guild stuck to it as well, and needless to say, everyone in Ankh-Morpork and outside it could see the results. Anyone who cared to, at least.
Of course, if you expected that the city would suddenly gleam and sparkle and the people would walk around achieving sudden enlightment, you were a fool. Ankh-Morpork moves, but it changes slowly, and it operates like a windmill with a broken vane. Not a hundred percent efficient, but then in the not-so-distant past no one cared about efficiency when they were busy with survival. Porbeagle had lived in a time when overturning carts, waylaying the bearers of goods and merchandise and paying someone to nick the cogwheels of the other guy's line was nothing but true and solid business sense. It was rougher back then, oh yes.
Now there was the Guild, and these people, who in the past wouldn't even blink while pulling another bloke's means of living from under him, started trying to help each other in that genuine, thick-as-treacle way, well, they were themselves surprised that they didn't have to use flammable materials anymore as an aggressive business move. It was now talking and signing, deals and trade agreements, and while everyone had different ideas about different things, it was agreed that the cut down on the budget for 'Combustibles' was a very good and cost-effective thing indeed. The Guild, dare he say it, had begun to grasp the idea of a Greater Good.
Eric Porbeagle just wished that the woman in front of him thought the same.
"I know you have the best intentions for your father's business," he said, rubbing his sweaty palms together. "But we're well past the stage of damage control. In fact, we are already two rungs below." He didn't say that it was named 'Sell Everything While You Can', which was above 'Kill It With Fire' and below 'You Can Still Go To Bed-But You're Screwed'.
"Look, I'm not selling," Angela insisted, showing appropriately gritted teeth. "I already have plans for the future."
Yeah, and me Gran packs crossbows in her shack down at Wixon's, Porbeagle thought. "Alright," he said expectantly.
Miss Wishbone's impenetrable confidence seemed to blip for a second. "Well, I've thought about looking around for a better cardboard supplier, and maybe the manpower could be reduced for now, at least until sales looks better and the company recovers."
Porbeagle sighed. It was exactly what he would do, if he were a fool or just very, very stubborn, and sometimes there's no difference between the two. He could remember a time in the past when boxes were not as popular. People either used a good solid wooden cabinet for stationary item storage or a wooden crate for mobile transport. There was no halfway house for rogue objects who wanted to do both. He couldn't remember exactly what happened after that, or what sparked the box revolution, but suddenly everyone wanted cardboard boxes. It was rad, it was all the rage. People wanted to store their excesses in them, and it became convenient to keep your things instead of chucking them out of the street when you no longer needed them. Massive hoarding occurred throughout the city. The Wishbone Box Company was the first supplier of boxes in Ankh-Morpork. They were good boxes too, because they were made of good cardboard. The company, after all, was previously named Wishbone Cardboard Company before the big overhaul. The idea that you could fold cardboard and put things in them was simply genius.
He wished that Miss Wishbone could have see those days. Alas, she was born too late. Again, for reasons he could not fathom, the demand for cardboard boxes suddenly declined. Maybe everyone had enough boxes already or maybe there was nothing to put in boxes anymore. Or it could be as simple as everyone just re-using the boxes instead of buying new ones. When the sales for boxes started going down, so did their quality. Wishbone started buying second-rate cardboard, then third-rate, then cardboard that wasn't even worth stuffing your boots with. Things spun out of control, creditors had to be contacted, loans had to be acquired just to keep everything from collapsing. You had to admire Old Strawhat though, keeping the flimsy boxes coming and sticking around while his world fell down piece by corrugated piece. Perhaps it was because he had a family. You had to see it through, if you did. There was no other way. Strawhat knew that he wasn't only responsible for himself, he was responsible for Mrs. Wishbone, young Partyhat (when he was among the Living), Duncehat, Hardhat, and of course, Little Angie. He was a ruined businessman in the end, Strawhat was, but you could never say he was a terrible father. Porbeagle knew he Kept Things Together, and everyone knows that's the worst job in the world. Strawhat tried, and by golly gee he didn't go down without a fight.
When he died, the Palace took a double order of Wishbone's flimsy boxes. Mountains of paperwork to sort and file, they said.
No matter how unfortunate circumstances were, however, business was still business. The creditors would have to be paid, eventually, and 'eventually' had become 'right now'. Porbeagle was certain that the Guild of Accountants (and Usurers) have contacted Angela already. It always happens that the people you owe money to are always around, and their orbit becomes smaller and smaller as time passes. 'Loanshark's Law of Motion', he called it, and Wishbone had many. And if you think about getting more loans to cover up the other loans, forget about it. Creditors have quorum sensing, and if one of them knew that you gave bad credit, you would have to ride over to Uberwald to find someone who would lend you money. That was how it was in business, when things were good, they were good, when things are bad, well, Ankh-Morpork has a lot of high places. Old Strawhat was a brave man for sticking around, yes he was, but they still got him. In the end they would all be got.
Eric Porbeagle knew that the woman in front of him thought the same.
"You could do those things," Porbeagle explained. "If you could find the money. But as of now you have, well," he paused, making a show of opening a ledger and pointing his finger at a number, "a staggering sum of nothing."
Angela bristled, but kept herself in check. "Well I'm sure we could-"
"Borrow a bit of money from a generous creditor for a small interest?" Porbeagle supplied. "I'm really sorry to say this, but you and I know your Dad did that a long time ago. He borrowed bits of money from generous creditors for a small interest. And when things got worse he even borrowed outrageous sums of money from ungenerous usurers for a huge rate of interest. And things like money and lenders, Miss, are like rats and roaches, they never go away. Oh, you fumigate, maybe once, twice a week, thinking they're a thing of the past, but you as much blink and they're back like they were never gone." Porbeagle was treading in deep waters here, but he continued. "I know that you have taken your father's business to heart, and you have high hopes for it, but we all think it is time to see things sensibly."
Angela adopted a squint in a second and used it at Porbeagle. "Are you saying I'm not sensible? That I can't handle things? Is it because-because I'm a woman?"
Good gods, no! thought Porbeagle. He raised his hands up in defence. "I am sure you can manage your father's business very well, Miss Wishbone," In fact you're the only one who could in your family, which explains why you were so eager to take it. Everyone knew that her brother Duncehat was a smuggler at Pseudopolis, Hardhat was chugging it at the Mended Drum and their mum had tallied the stakes and pushed in all her chips. He'd be pitying her if she wasn't so likely to grab him by the collar and give him a good 'un, and by that he didn't mean a kiss.
Porbeagle gulped visibly. "I'm just saying, Miss," he continued. "that it would more prudent if we were to follow the advice of the Guild. It's what any sensible man-er, woman, would suggest. A person with such little experience as yours would surely-"
Porbeagle was suddenly aware of being grabbed by the collar and lifted up. He was face to face against Angela Wishbone in a second. "Here's what I think, Eric," she said, jaws visibly tensing, "I know I am, as you have succintly put it, with little experience, but I'm doing everything it takes to get Pa's manufactory on its feet, do you understand? I'm not giving up, I'm not backing down. Why? Because that's what he would have wanted. He died Keeping Things Together, and you know what? I knew he would. I knew it would happen. So I took it as a personal task to teach myself how to best succeed him, because he never taught me, and I'm going to do my father proud."
Dogged as a dog at your heels, Porbeagle thought. "I have heard that stubborness is just another word for stupidity," he blurted. He shouldn't have said that. He should not have said that. But there are just some things that you have to point out.
Angela smiled wolfishly. "So, I have heard, does cheek," she said. Then her next words had a strange note of finality, "Tell the Guild that I appreciate their advice."
In a moment, Eric Porbeagle found out why. He was vaguely aware of something bony hitting him, and the last thing he saw was a hazy oval shape surrounded by prematurely graying strands, a warped ceiling fixed shoddily, and then everything going bloop.