Making Money d-36

by Terry Pratchett

  'Yes, but it looks like a—' she began.

  'Ah, so you do know what it is and I don't need to explain,' said Moist briskly.

  He handed the newspaper back to its worried owner. 'You are Mr Cusper, aren't you?' he said. 'You have a balance of AM$7 with us, I believe?' For a moment the man looked impressed. Moist was really good at faces. 'I told you we aren't bothered about gold here,' said Moist.

  'Yeah, but…' the man began. 'Well, it's not much of a bank if people can take the gold out of it, is it?' he said.

  'But it doesn't make any difference,' said Moist. 'I did tell you all.'

  They looked uncertain. In theory, they should be stampeding up the steps. Moist knew what was holding them back. It was hope. It was the little voice inside that said: this isn't really happening. It was the voice that drove people to turn out the same pocket three times in a fruitless search for lost keys. It was the mad belief that the world is bound to start working properly again if I truly believe, and there will be keys. It was the voice that said 'This can't be happening' very loudly, in order to drown out the creeping dread that it was.

  He had about thirty seconds, while hope lasted.

  And then the crowd parted. Pucci Lavish did not know how to make an entrance. Harry King, on the other hand, did. The milling, uncertain throng opened up like the sea in front of a hydrophobic prophet, leaving a channel that was suddenly lined on either side by large, weathered-looking men with broken noses and a useful cross-section of scars. Along this recent avenue strode Harry King trailing cigar smoke. Moist managed to stand his ground until Mr King was a foot away, and made sure to look him in the eye.

  'How much money did I put in your bank, Mr Lipwig?' asked Harry.

  'Er, I believe it was fifty thousand dollars, Mr King,' said Moist.

  'Yes, I believe it was something like that,' said Mr King. 'Can yer guess what I am going to do now, Mr Lipwig?'

  Moist did not guess. The Splot was still circulating in his system and in his brain the answer clanged like a funeral bell. 'You're going to put some more in, aren't you, Mr King?'

  Harry King beamed, as if Moist was a dog that had just done a new trick. 'That's right, Mr Lipwig! I thought to myself: Harry, I thought.

  Fifty thousand dollars seems a bit on the lonely side, so I've come along to round it up to sixty thousand.'

  On signal, some more of Harry King's men came up behind him, carrying large chests between them. 'Most of it's gold and silver, Mr Lipwig,' said Harry. 'But I know you got lots of bright young men who can count it all up for you.'

  'This is very kind of you, Mr King,' said Moist, 'but at any minute the auditors are going to come back and the bank is going to be in big, big trouble. Please! I can't accept your money.'

  Harry leaned closer to Moist, enveloping him in cigar smoke and a hint of decayed cabbage. 'I know you're up to something,' he whispered, tapping the side of his nose. 'The bastards are out to get you, I can see that! I know a winner when I sees one, and I know you've got something up your sleeves, eh?'

  'Just my arms, Mr King, just my arms,' said Moist.

  'And long may you keep them,' said Harry, slapping him on the back.

  The men filed past Moist and deposited their cases on the floor.

  'I don't need a receipt,' said Harry. 'You know me, Mr Lipwig. You know you can trust me, just like I know I can trust you.'

  Moist shut his eyes, just for a moment. To think that he had worried about ending the day hanging.

  'Your money is safe with me, Mr King,' he said.

  'I know,' said Harry King. 'And when you've won the day, I'll send young Wallace along and he'll have a little chat with your monkey about how much interest I'm gonna get paid on this little lot, all right? Fair's fair?'

  'It certainly is, Mr King.'

  'Right,' said Harry. 'Now I'm off to buy some land.'

  There was some uncertain murmuring from the crowd, as he departed. The new deposit had thrown them. It had thrown Moist, too. People were wondering what Harry King knew. So did Moist. It was a terrible thing to have someone like Harry believing in you.

  Now the crowd had evolved a spokesman, who said: 'Look, what's going on? Has the gold gone or not?'

  'I don't know,' said Moist. 'I haven't had a look today.'

  'You say that as if it doesn't matter,' said Sacharissa.

  'Well, as I have explained,' Moist said, 'the city is still here. The bank is still here. I am still here.' He cast a glance towards Harry King's broad, retreating back. 'For the moment. So it doesn't look as if we need the gold cluttering up the place, do we?'

  Cosmo Lavish appeared in the doorway behind Moist. 'So, Mr Lipwig, it would appear that you are a trickster to the end.'

  'I beg your pardon?' said Moist.

  Other members of the ad hoc audit committee were pushing their way out, looking satisfied. They had, after all, been woken up very early in the morning and those who are awakened very early in the morning expect to kill before breakfast.

  'Have you finished already?' said Moist.

  'Surely you must know why we were brought here,' said one of the bankers. 'You know very well that last night the City Watch found no gold in your vaults. We can confirm this unhappy state of affairs.'

  'Oh well, you know how it is with money,' said Moist. 'You think you are broke and there it was all the time in your other trousers.'

  'No, Mr Lipwig, the joke is on you,' said Cosmo. 'The bank is a sham.' He raised his voice. 'I would advise all the investors you have misled to take their money back while they can!'

  'No! Squad, to me!' Commander Vimes pushed his way through the bewildered bankers at the same time as half a dozen troll officers pounded up the steps and ended up shoulder to shoulder in front of the double doors.

  'Are you a bloody fool, sir?' said Vimes, nose to nose with Cosmo. 'That sounded to me like incitement to riot! This bank is closed until further notice!'

  'I am a director of the bank, commander,' said Cosmo. 'You cannot keep me out.'

  'Watch me,' said Vimes. 'I suggest you direct your complaint to his lordship. Sergeant Detritus!'

  'Yessir!'

  'Nobody goes in there without a chitty signed by me. And Mr Lipwig, you will not leave the city, understood?'

  'Yes, commander.' Moist turned to Cosmo. 'You know, you're not looking well,' he said. 'That's not a good complexion you have there.'

  'No more words, Lipwig.' Cosmo leaned down. Close to, his face looked even worse, like the face of a wax doll, if a wax doll could sweat. 'We'll meet in court. It's the end of the road, Mr Lipwig. Or should I say… Mr Spangler?'

  Oh, gods, I should have done something about Cribbins, thought Moist. I was too busy trying to make money…

  And there was Adora Belle, being ushered through the crowd by a couple of watchmen who were also acting as crutches. Vimes hurried down the steps as if he'd been expecting her.

  Moist became aware that the background noise of the city was getting louder. The crowd had noticed it too. Somewhere, something big was happening, and this little confrontation was just a sideshow.

  'You think you are clever, Mr Lipwig?' said Cosmo.

  'No, I know I am clever. I think I'm unlucky,' said Moist. But he thought: I didn't have that many customers, surely? I can hear screams!

  With Cosmo shouting triumphantly behind him he pushed his way down to Adora Belle and the cluster of coppers.

  'Your golems, right?' he said.

  'Every golem in the city just stopped moving,' said Adora Belle. Their gazes met.

  'They're coming?' said Moist.

  'Yes, I think they are.'

  'Who are?' said Vimes suspiciously.

  'Er, them?' said Moist, pointing.

  A few people came running around the corner from the Maul and sprinted, grey-faced, past the crowd outside the bank. But they were only the flecks of foam driven before the tidal wave of people fleeing from the river area, and the wave of people broke on the bank as if it was a rock in
the way of the flood.

  But floating on the sea of heads, as it were, was a circular canvas about ten feet across of the sort that gets used to catch people who who very wisely jump from burning buildings. The five people carrying it were Dr Hicks and four other wizards and it was at this point you would notice the chalked circle and the magic symbols. In the middle of the portable magic circle sat Professor Flead, belabouring the wizards unsuccessfully with his ethereal staff. They fetched up alongside the steps as the crowd ran onwards.

  'I am sorry about this,' panted Hicks. 'It's the only way we could get him here and he insisted, oh how he insisted…'

  'Where's the young lady?' Flead shouted. His voice was barely audible in the living daylight. Adora Belle pushed her way through the policemen.

  'Yes, Professor Flead?' she said.

  'I have found your answer! I have spoken with several Umnians!'

  'I thought they all died thousands of years ago!'

  'Well, it is a department of necromancy,' Flead said. 'But I must admit they were a wee bit indistinct, even for me. Can I have a kiss? One kiss, one answer?'

  Adora Belle looked at Moist. He shrugged. The day was totally beyond him. He wasn't flying any more; he was simply being blown along by the gale.

  All right,' she said. 'But no tongues.'

  'Tongues?' said Flead sadly. 'I wish.'

  There was the briefest of pecks, but the ghostly necromancer beamed. 'Wonderful,' he said. 'I feel at least a hundred years younger.'

  'You have done the translations?' said Adora Belle. And at that moment Moist felt a vibration underfoot.

  'What? Oh that,' said Flead. 'It was those golden golems you were talking about—'

  — and another vibration, enough to cause a sense of unease in the bowels —

  '—although it turns out that the word in context doesn't mean golden at all. There are more than one hundred and twenty things it can mean, but in this case taken in conjunction with the rest of the paragraph it means a thousand.'

  The street shook again.

  'Four thousand golems, I think you'll find,' said Flead cheerfully. 'Oh, and here they are now!'

  They came along the streets six abreast, wall to wall and ten feet high. Water and mud cascaded off them. The city echoed to their tread.

  They did not trample people, but mere market stalls and coaches splintered under their massive feet. They spread out as they moved, fanning out across the city, thundering down side streets, heading for the gates which in Ankh-Morpork were always open, because there was no point in discouraging customers.

  And there were the horses, perhaps no more than a score in all the hurrying throng, saddles built into the clay of their backs, overtaking the two-legged golems, and not a man watched but thought: where can I get one of those?

  One man-shaped golem alone stopped in the middle of Sator Square, raised a fist as if in salute, dropped on one knee, and went still. The horses halted beside it, as if awaiting riders.

  The rest of the golems marched on with the sound of thunder, heading out of the city. And when the many-walled city of Ankh-Morpork had one more wall, out beyond the gates, they stopped. As one, they raised their right hands in a fist. Shoulder to shoulder, ringing the city, the golems… guarded. Silence fell.

  In Sator Square, Commander Vimes looked up at the poised fist and then at Moist.

  'Am I under arrest?' said Moist meekly.

  Vimes sighed. 'Mr Lipwig,' he said, 'there's no word for what you are.'

  The palace's big ground-floor council chamber was packed. Most people had to stand. Every guild, every interest group and everyone who just wanted to say they had been there… was there. The crowd overflowed into the palace grounds and out on to the streets. Children were climbing on the golem in the square, despite the efforts of the watchmen who were guarding it.[9]

  There was a large axe buried in the big table, Moist noticed; the force of it had split the wood. It had clearly been there for some time. Perhaps it was some kind of warning, or some kind of symbol. This was a council of war, after all, but without the war.

  'However, we are already getting some very threatening notes from the other cities,' said Lord Vetinari, 'so it is only a matter of time.'

  'Why?' said Archchancellor Ridcully of Unseen University, who had managed to get a seat by dint of elevating its protesting occupant out of it. 'All the things are doin' is standin' around outside the walls, yes?'

  'Quite so,' said Vetinari. 'And it's called aggressive defence. That is practically a declaration of war.' He gave a sad little sigh, the sign of a brain shifting down a gear. 'May I remind you of the famous dictum of General Tacticus: "Those who desire war, prepare for war"? Our city is surrounded by a wall of creatures each one of which, I gather, could only be stopped by a siege weapon. Miss Dearheart' — he paused to give Adora Belle a sharp little smile — 'has been kind enough to bring Ankh-Morpork an army capable of conquering the world, although I'm happy to accept her assurance that she didn't actually mean to.'

  'Then why don't we?' said Lord Downey, head of the Assassins' Guild.

  'Ah, Lord Downey. Yes, I thought someone would say that,' said Vetinari. 'Miss Dearheart? You have studied these golems.'

  'I've had half an hour!' Adora Belle protested. 'Hopping on one foot, I might add!'

  'Nevertheless, you are our expert. And you have had the assistance of the famously deceased Professor Flead.'

  'He kept trying to see up my dress!'

  'Please, madam?'

  'They have no chem that I can get at,' said Adora Belle. 'There's no way of opening their heads. As far as we can tell they have one overriding imperative, which is to defend the city. And that's all. It's actually carved into their clay.'

  'Nevertheless, there is such a thing as pre-emptive defence. That might be considered as "guarding". In your opinion, would they attack another city?'

  'I don't think so. Which city would you like me to test them on, my lord?' Moist shuddered. Sometimes Adora Belle just didn't care.

  'None,' said Vetinari. 'We are not going to have another wretched empire while I am Patrician. We've only just got over the last one. Professor Flead, have you been able to give them any instructions at all?'

  All heads turned to Flead and his portable circle, which had remained near the door out of the sheer impossibility of struggling further into the room.

  'What? No! I am certain I have the gist of Umnian, but I cannot make it move a step! I have tried every likely command, to no avail. It is most vexing!' He waved his staff at Dr Hicks. 'Come on, make yourself useful, you fellows. One more try!'

  'I think I might be able to communicate with them,' said Moist, staring at the axe, but his voice was lost in the disturbance as the grumbling students tried to manhandle the portable magic circle back through the crowded doorway.

  Let me just work out why, he thought. Yep… yep. It's actually… simple. Far too simple for a committee.

  'As' chairman of the, Merchant's' Guild gentlemen may, I point out that these thing's represent a valuable labour force in this' city—' said Mr Robert Parker.[10]

  'No slaves in Ankh-Morpork!' said Adora Belle, pointing a finger at Vetinari. 'You've always said that!'

  Vetinari lifted an eyebrow at her. Then he held the eyebrow and raised her a further eyebrow. But Adora Belle was unabashable.

  'Miss Dearheart, you have yourself explained that they have no chem. You cannot free them. I am ruling that they are tools, and since they regard themselves as servants of the city I will treat them as such.' He raised both hands at the general uproar, and went on: 'They will not be sold and will be treated with care, as tools should be. They will work for the good of the city and—'

  'No, that would be a terribly bad idea!' A white coat was struggling to get to the front of the crowd. It was topped by a yellow rain hat.

  'And you are… ?' said Vetinari.

  The figure removed its yellow hat, looked around and went rigid. A groan managed to escape fr
om its mouth.

  'Aren't you Hubert Turvy?' said Vetinari. Hubert's face remained locked in a mask of terror, so Vetinari, in a kinder tone, added: 'Do you want some time to think about that last question?'

  'I… only… just heard… about…' Hubert began. He looked around at the hundreds of faces, and blinked.

  'Mr Turvy, the alchemist of money?' Vetinari prompted. 'It may be written down on your clothes somewhere?'

  'I think I can assist here,' said Moist, and elbowed his way to the tongue-tied economist.

  'Hubert,' he said, putting a hand on the man's shoulder, 'all the people are here because they want to hear your amazing theory that demonstrates the inadvisability of putting these new golems to work. You don't want to disappoint them, do you? I know you don't meet many people, but everyone's heard of your wonderful work. Can you help them understand what you just shouted?'

  'We are agog,' said Lord Vetinari.

  In Hubert's head the rising terror of crowds was overturned by the urge to impart knowledge to the ignorant, which meant everyone except him. His hands grasped the lapels of his jacket. He cleared his throat.

  'Well, the problem is that, considered as a labour force, the golems are capable of doing the work per day of one hundred and twenty thousand men.'

  'Think of what they could do for the city!' said Mr Cowslick of the Artificers' Guild.

  'Well, yes. To begin with, they would put one hundred and twenty thousand men out of work,' said Hubert, 'but that would only be the start. They do not require food, clothing or shelter. Most people spend their money on food, shelter, clothing, entertainment and, not least, taxes. What would these golems spend it on? The demand for many things would drop and further unemployment would result. You see, circulation is everything. The money goes around, creating wealth as it does so.'

  'You seem to be saying that these things could beggar us!' said Vetinari.

  'There would be… difficult times,' said Hubert.