Making Money d-36

by Terry Pratchett

  'What? Oh, yes. Er, I'd like to put your head on a dollar bill, please.'

  'But of course. A good place to put a head, considering all the places a head might be put.'

  Like a spike, yeah. He needs me, Moist thought, as the totally-not-a-threat sank in. But how much?

  'Look, I—'

  'Possibly your fertile mind can assist me with a little puzzle, Mr Lipwig.' Vetinari dabbed at his lips and pushed back his chair. 'Do follow me. Drumknott, please bring the ring. And the tongs, of course, just in case.'

  He led the way out on to the balcony, trailed by Moist, and leaned on the balustrade with his back to the foggy city.

  'Still a lot of cloud about, but I think the sun should break through at any time, don't you?' he said.

  Moist glanced up at the sky. There was a patch of pale gold among the billows like the yolk of an egg. What was the man doing?

  'Pretty soon, yes,' he ventured.

  The secretary handed Vetinari a small box.

  'That's the box for your signet ring,' said Moist.

  'Well done, Mr Lipwig, observant as ever! Do take it.'

  Guardedly, Moist picked up the ring. It was black and had an odd, organic feel to it. The V seemed to stare at him.

  'Do you find anything unusual about it?' said Vetinari, watching him carefully.

  'Feels warm,' said Moist.

  'Yes it does, doesn't it,' said Vetinari. 'That is because it is made of stygium. It's called a metal, but I strongly believe that it is an alloy, and a magically constructed one at that. The dwarfs sometimes find it in the Loko region, and it is extremely expensive. One day I shall write a monograph on its fascinating history, but for now all I will say is that it is usually only of interest to those who by inclination or lifestyle move in darkness — and also, of course, to those who find a life without danger hardly worth living. It can kill, you see. In direct sunshine it heats within a few seconds to a temperature that will melt iron. No one knows why.'

  Moist glanced up at the hazy sky. The boiled-egg glow of the sun drifted into another bank of fog. The ring cooled.

  'Occasionally there is a fad among young assassins for stygium rings. Classically, they wear an ornate black glove over the ring during the day. It's all about risk, Mr Lipwig. It's about living with Death in your pocket. I swear, there are people who will pull a tiger's tail for mischief. Of course, people who are interested in coolth rather than danger just wear the glove. Be that as it may, less than two weeks ago the only man in the city who carries a stock of stygium and knows how to work it was murdered, late at night. The murderer dropped a peppermint bomb afterwards. Who do you think did it?'

  I'm not going to look up, thought Moist. This is just a game. He wants me to sweat. 'What was taken?' he said.

  'The Watch does not know because, you see, what was taken was, de facto, not there.'

  'All right, what was left behind?' said Moist, and thought: he's not looking at the sky, either…

  'Some gems and a few ounces of stygium in the safe,' said Vetinari. 'You didn't ask how the man was killed.'

  'How was—'

  'Crossbow shot to the head, while he was seated. Is this exciting, Mr Lipwig?'

  'Hit man, then,' said Moist desperately. 'It was planned. He didn't pay a debt. Perhaps he was a fence and tried to pull a scam. There's not enough information!'

  'There never is,' said Vetinari. 'My cap comes back from the cleaners subtly changed, and a young man who works there dies in a brawl. A former gardener here comes in at dead of night to buy a rather worn pair of Drumknott's old boots. Why? Perhaps we shall never know. Why was a picture of myself stolen from the Royal Art Gallery last month? Who benefits?'

  'Uh, why was this stygium left in the safe?'

  'Good question. The key was in the man's pocket. So what is our motive?'

  'Not enough information! Revenge? Silence? Maybe he's made something he shouldn't? Can you make a dagger out of this stuff?'

  'Ah, I think you are getting warm, Mr Lipwig. Not about a weapon, because accretions of stygium much bigger than a ring tend to explode without warning. But he was a rather greedy man, that is true.'

  'An argument over something?' said Moist. Yes, I am getting warm, thank you! And what are the tongs for? To pick it up after it's dropped through my hand?

  The light was growing; he could see faint shadows on the wall, he felt the sweat trickle down his spine—

  'An interesting thought. Do give me that ring back,' said Vetinari, proffering the box.

  Hah! So it was just a show to scare me, after all, Moist thought, flicking the wretched ring into the box. I've never even heard of stygium before! He must have made it up—

  He sensed the heat and saw the ring blaze white-hot as it fell into the box. The lid snapped shut, leaving a purple hole in Moist's vision.

  'Remarkable, isn't it?' said Vetinari. 'Incidentally, I think you were needlessly silly to hold it all that time. I'm not a monster, you know.'

  No, monsters don't play tricks with your brain, thought Moist. At least, while it's still inside your head…

  'Look, about Owlswick, I didn't mean—' he began, but Vetinari held up a hand.

  'I don't know what you are talking about, Mr Lipwig. In fact, I invited you here in your capacity as de facto deputy chairman of the Royal Bank. I want you to loan me — that is to say, the city — half a million dollars at two per cent. You are, of course, at liberty to refuse.'

  So many thoughts scrambled for the emergency exit in Moist's brain that only one remained.

  We're going to need some bigger notes…

  Moist ran back to the bank, and straight to the little door under the stairs. He liked it down in the undercroft. It was cool and peaceful, apart from the gurgling of the Glooper and the screams. That last bit was wrong, wasn't it?

  The pink poisons of involuntary insomnia slopped around in his head as he broke once more into a run.

  The former Owlswick was sitting in a chair, apparently clean shaven except for a pointy little beard. Some kind of metal helmet had been attached to his head, and from it wires ran down into a glowing, clicking device that only an Igor would want to understand. The air smelled of thunderstorms.

  'What are you doing to this poor man?' Moist yelled.

  'Changing hith mind, thur,' said Igor, pulling a huge knife switch.

  The helmet buzzed. Clamp blinked. 'It tickles,' he said. 'And for some reason it tastes of strawberries.'

  'You're putting lightning right into his head!' said Moist. 'That's barbaric!'

  'No, thur. Barbarianth don't have the capability,' said Igor smoothly. 'All I'm doing, thur, ith taking out all the bad memorieth and thtoring them' — here he pulled a cloth aside to reveal a big jar full of green liquid, in which was something rounded and studded with still more wires — 'in thith!'

  'You're putting his brain into a… parsnip?'

  'It'th a turnip,' said Igor.

  'It's amazing what they can do, isn't it?' said a voice by Moist's elbow. He looked down.

  Mr Clamp, now helmetless, beamed up at him. He looked shiny and alert, like a better class of shoe salesman. Igor had even managed a suit transplant.

  'Are you all right?' said Moist.

  'Fine!'

  'What did… it feel like?'

  'Hard to explain,' said Clamp. 'But it sounded like the smell of raspberries tastes.'

  'Really? Oh. I suppose that's all right, then. And you really feel okay? In yourself?' said Moist, probing for the dreadful drawback. It had to be there. But Owls— Exorbit looked happy and full of confidence and vim, a man ready to take what life threw at him and knock it out of the court.

  Igor was winding up his wiring with a very smug look on what, under all those scars, was probably his face.

  Moist felt a pang of guilt. He was an Uberwald boy, he'd come down the Vilinus Pass like everyone else, trying to seek his fortune — correction, everybody else's fortune — and he had no right to pick up the fashionable lowlan
d prejudice against the clan of Igors. After all, didn't they simply put into practice what so many priests professed to believe: that the body was just a rather heavy suit of cheap material clothing the invisible, everlasting soul, and therefore, swapping around bits and pieces like spare parts was surely no worse than running a shonky shop for used clothing? It was a constant source of hurt amazement to Igors that people couldn't see that this was both sensible and provident, at least up until the time when the axe slipped and people needed someone to lend a hand in a hurry. At a time like that, even an Igor looked good.

  Mostly they looked… serviceable. Igors, with their obliviousness to pain, wonderful aids to healing and marvellous ability to carry out surgery on themselves with the help of a hand mirror, could presumably not look like a stumpy butler who'd been left in the rain for a month. Igorinas all looked stunning, but there was invariably something — a beautifully curved scar under one eye, a ring of decorative stitching around a wrist — that was for the Look. That was disconcerting, but an Igor always had his heart in the right place. Or a heart, at least.

  'Well, er… well done, Igor,' Moist managed. 'Ready to make a start on the ol' dollar bill, then, Mr, er… Clamp?'

  Mr Clamp's smile was full of sunbeams. 'Done it!' he announced. 'Did it this morning!'

  'Surely not!'

  'Indeed I have! Come and see!' The little man walked over to a table and lifted a sheet of paper.

  The banknote gleamed, in purple and gold. It gave off money in rays. It seemed to float above the paper like a small magic carpet. It said wealth and mystery and tradition—

  'We're going to make so much money!' said Moist. We'd better, he added to himself. We'll need to print at least 600,000 of these, unless I can come up with some bigger denominations.

  But there it was, so beautiful you wanted to cry, and make lots like it, and put them in your wallet.

  'How did you do it so quickly?'

  'Well, a lot of it is just geometry,' said Mr Clamp. 'Mr Igor here was kind enough to make me a little device which was a great help there. It's not finished, of course, and I haven't even started on the other side yet. I think I'll make a start on that now, in fact, while I'm still fresh.'

  'You think you can do better?' said Moist, awed in the presence of genius.

  'I feel so… full of energy!' said Clamp.

  'That would be the elecktrical fluid, I expect,' said Moist.

  'No, I mean I can see so clearly what needs to be done! Before, it was all like some horrible weight I had to lift, but now everything is clear and light!'

  'Well, I'm glad to hear it,' said Moist, not totally certain that he was. 'Do excuse me, I have a bank to run.'

  He hurried through the arches and entered the main hall via the unassuming door in time to very nearly collide with Bent.

  'Ah, Mr Lipwig, I wondered where you were—'

  'Is this going to be important, Mr Bent?'

  The chief cashier looked offended — as if he'd ever trouble Moist about anything that was not important.

  'There are lots of men outside the Mint,' he said. 'With trolls and carts. They say you want them to install a' — Bent shuddered — 'a printing engine!'

  'That's right,' said Moist. 'They're from Teemer & Spools. We must print the money here. It'll look more official and we can control what goes out of the doors.'

  'Mr Lipwig. You are turning the bank into a… a circus!'

  'Well, I'm the man with the top hat, Mr Bent, so I suppose I'm the ringmaster!' He said it with a laugh, to lighten the mood a little, but Bent's face was a sudden thundercloud.

  'Really, Mr Lipwig? And whoever told you the ringmaster runs the circus? You are very much mistaken, sir! Why are you cutting out the other shareholders?'

  'Because they don't know what a bank is about. Come with me to the Mint, will you?' He strode through the main hall, having to dodge and weave between the queues.

  'And you know what a bank is about, do you, sir?' said Bent, following behind with his jerky flamingo step.

  'I'm learning. Why do we have one queue in front of each clerk?' Moist demanded. 'It means that if one customer takes up a lot of time, the whole queue has to wait. Then they'll start hopping sideways from one queue to another and the next thing you know someone has a nasty head wound. Have one big queue and tell people to go to the next clerk free. People don't mind a long queue if they can see that it's moving— Sorry, sir!'

  This was to a customer he'd collided with, who steadied himself, grinned at Moist and said, in a voice from a past that should have stayed buried: 'Why, if it isn't my old friend Albert. You're doin' well for yourself, ain't you?' The stranger spluttered his words through ill-fitting teeth: 'You in your shuit o' lightsh!'

  Moist's past life flashed before his eyes. He didn't even need to go to the bother of dying, although he felt as though he was going to.

  It was Cribbins! It could only be Cribbins!

  Moist's memory sandbagged him, one bag after another. The teeth! Those damn false teeth! They were that man's pride and joy. He'd prised them out of the mouth of an old man he'd robbed, while the poor devil lay dying of fear! He'd joked that they had a mind of their own! And they spluttered and popped and slurped and fitted so badly that they once turned round in his mouth and bit him in the throat!

  He used to take them out and talk to them! And, aargh, they were so old, and the stained teeth had been carved from walrus ivory and the spring was so strong that sometimes it'd force the top of his head back so that you could see right up his nose!!

  It all came back like a bad oyster.

  He was just Cribbins. No one knew his first name. Moist had teamed up with him, oh, ten years ago and they'd run the old legacy con in Uberwald one winter. He was much older than Moist and still had the serious personal problem that made him smell of bananas.

  And he was a nasty piece of work. Professionals had their pride. There had to be some people you wouldn't rob, some things you didn't steal. And you had to have style. If you didn't have style, you'd never fly.

  Cribbins didn't have style. He wasn't violent, unless there was absolutely no chance of retaliation, but there was some generalized, wretched, wheedling malice about the man that had got on Moist's soul.

  'Is there a problem, Mr Lipwig?' said Bent, glaring at Cribbins.

  'What? Oh… no…' said Moist. It's a shakedown, he thought. That bloody picture in the paper. But he can't prove a thing, not a thing.

  'You are mistaken, sir,' said Moist. He looked around. The queues were moving, and no one was paying them any attention.

  Cribbins put his head on one side and gave Moist an amused look. 'Mishtaken, shir? Could be. I could be mistaken. Life on the road, making new chums every day, you know — well, you wouldn't, would you, on account of not being Albert Shpangler. Funny, though, 'cos you have his smile, sir, hard to change a man's smile, and your smile ish, like, in front of your face, like you ish looking out from behind it slurp. Just like young Albert's smile. Bright lad he was, very quick, very quick, I taught him everything I knew.'

  —and that took about ten minutes, Moist thought, and a year to forget some of it. You're the sort that gives criminals a bad name—

  "course, sir, you're wonderin', can the leopard change his shorts?

  Can that ol' rascal I knew all them years ago have forsook the wide and wobbly for the straight an' narrow?' He glanced at Moist, and amended: 'Whoopsh! No, 'course you ain't, on account of you never seein' me before. But I was scrobbled in Pseudopolis, you see, thrown into the clink for malicious lingering, and that's where I found Om.'

  'Why? What had he done?' It was stupid, but Moist couldn't resist it.

  'Do not jest, sir, do not jest,' said Cribbins solemnly. 'I am a changed man, a changed man. It is my task to pass on the good news, shir.' Here, with the speed of a snake's tongue, Cribbins produced a battered tin from inside his greasy jacket. 'My crimes weigh me down like chains of hot iron, sir, like chains, but I am a man anxious to unburd
en himself by means of good works and confession, the last bein' most important. I have to get a lot off my chest before I can sleep easy, sir.' He rattled the box. 'For the kiddies, sir?'

  This would probably work better if I hadn't seen you do this before, Moist thought. The penitent thief must be one of the oldest cons in the book.

  He said: 'Well, I'm glad to hear it, Mr Cribbins. I'm sorry I'm not the old friend you are looking for. Let me give you a couple of dollars… for the kiddies.'

  The coins clanked on the bottom of the tin. 'Thank you kindly, Mister Spangler,' said Cribbins.

  Moist flashed a little smile. 'In fact I'm not Mr Spangler, Mr—'

  I called him Cribbins! Just then! I called him Cribbins! Did he tell me his name? Did he notice? He must have noticed!

  '—I beg your pardon, I mean reverend,' he managed, and the average person would not have noticed the tiny pause and quite adroit save. But Cribbins wasn't average.

  'Thank you, Mister Lipwig,' he said, and Moist heard the drawn-out 'Mister' and the explosively sardonic 'Lipwig'. They meant Gotcha!

  Cribbins winked at Moist and strolled off through the banking hall, shaking his tin, his teeth accompanying him with a medley of horrible dental noises.

  'Woe and thrice woe !szss is the man who stealssh by words, for his tongue shall cleave to the roof of his mouth pock! Spare a few coppersh for the poor orphans sweessh! Brothers and shisters! To those svhip! that hath shall be giveneth generally shpeaking…'

  'I shall call the guards,' said Mr Bent firmly. 'We don't allow beggars in the bank.'

  Moist grabbed his arm. 'No,' he said urgently, 'not with all these people in here. Manhandling a man of the cloth and all that. It won't look good. I think he'll be going soon.'

  Now he'll let me stew, thought Moist, as Cribbins headed nonchalantly towards the door. That's his way. He'll spin it out. Then he'll hit me for money, again and again.

  Okay, but what could Cribbins prove? But did there need to be proof? If he started talking about Albert Spangler, it could get bad. Would Vetinari throw him to the wolves? He might. He probably would. You could bet your hat that he wouldn't play the resurrection game without lots of contingency plans.