Making Money d-36

by Terry Pratchett

  'Then what course of action do you propose, Mr Turvy?'

  Hubert looked puzzled. 'I don't know, sir. I didn't know I had to find solutions as well'

  'Any of the other cities would attack us if they had these golems,' said Lord Downey, 'and surely we don't have to think of their jobs, do we? Surely a little bit of conquest would be in order?'

  'An empirette, perhaps?' said Vetinari sourly. 'We use our slaves to create more slaves? But do we want to face the whole world in arms? For that is what we would do, at the finish. The best that we could hope for is that some of us would survive. The worst is that we would triumph. Triumph and rot. That is the lesson of history, Lord Downey. Are we not rich enough?'

  That started another clamour.

  Moist, unnoticed, pushed his way through the heaving crowd until he reached Dr Hicks and his crew, who were fighting their way back to the big golem.

  'Can I come with you, please?' he said. 'I want to try something.'

  Hicks nodded, but while the portable circle was being dragged out into the street he said: 'I think Miss Dearheart tried everything. The professor was very impressed.'

  'There's something she didn't try. Trust me. Talking of trust, who are these lads holding the blanket?'

  'My students,' said Hicks, trying to keep the circle steady.

  'They want to study necro— er, post-mortem communications? Why?'

  'Apparently it's good for getting girls,' sighed Hicks. There were sniggers.

  'In a necromancy department? What kind of girls do they get?'

  'No, it's because when they graduate they get to wear the hooded black robe and the skull ring. I think the term one of them used was "babe magnet".'

  'But I thought wizards aren't allowed to marry?'

  'Marriage?' said Hicks. 'Oh, I don't think they think about that!

  'We never did in my day!' shouted Flead, who was being shaken back and forth as the circle was dragged through the crowds. 'Can't you blast some of these people with Black Fire, Hicks? You're a necromancer, for the sake of the seven hells! You are not supposed to be nice! Now I can see what's going on I think I shall have to spend a lot more time in the department!'

  'Could I have a quiet word?' whispered Moist to Hicks. 'The lads can manage by themselves, can't they? Tell them to catch us up at the big golem.'

  He hurried on, and was not at all surprised to find Hicks hurrying to catch him up. He pulled the not-really-a-necromancer into the shelter of a doorway and said: 'Do you trust your students?'

  'Are you mad?'

  'It's just that I have a little plan to save the day, the downside of which is that Professor Flead will no longer, alas, be available to you in your department.'

  'By unavailable you mean… ?'

  'Alas, you would never see him again,' said Moist. 'I can tell that would be a blow.'

  Hicks coughed. 'Oh dear. He wouldn't be able to come back at all?'

  'I think not.'

  'Are you sure?' said Hicks carefully. 'No possibility?'

  'I'm pretty sure.'

  'Hm. Well, of course it would indeed be a blow.'

  'A big blow. A big blow,' Moist agreed.

  'I wouldn't want him… hurt, of course.'

  'Anything but. Anything but,' said Moist, trying not to laugh. We humans are good at this curly thinking, aren't we, he thought.

  'And he has had a good innings, when all's said and done.'

  'Two of them,' said Moist, 'when you come to think about it.'

  'What do you want us to do?' said Hicks, against the distant shouts of the ghostly professor berating the students.

  'There's such a thing, I believe, as… an insorcism?'

  'Those? We're not allowed to do those! They're totally against university rules!'

  'Well, wearing the black robe and the skull ring has got to count for something, hasn't it? I mean, your predecessors would turn in their dark coffins if they thought you wouldn't agree to the minor naughtiness I have in mind…' And Moist explained, in one simple sentence.

  Louder shouts and curses indicated that the portable circle was almost upon them.

  'Well, doctor?' said Moist.

  A complex spectrum of expressions chased one another across Dr Hicks's face. 'Well, I suppose…'

  'Yes, doctor?'

  'Well, it'd be like sending him to Heaven, right?'

  'Exactly! I couldn't have put it better myself!'

  'Anyone could put it better than this shower!' snapped Flead, right behind him. 'The department has really been allowed to go uphill since my day! Well, we shall see what we can do about that!'

  'Before you do, professor, I must speak to the golem,' said Moist. 'Can you translate for me?'

  'Can but won't,' snapped Flead.

  'You tried to help Miss Dearheart earlier on.'

  'She is attractive. Why should I bequeath to you knowledge it took me a century to acquire?'

  'Because there're fools back there who want to use these golems to start a war?'

  'Then that will reduce the number of fools.'

  In front of them now was the lone golem. Even kneeling, this one's face was level with Moist's eyes. The head turned to look blankly at him. The guards around the golem, on the other hand, looked at Moist with deep suspicion.

  'We are going to perform a little magic, officers,' Moist told them.

  The corporal in charge looked as if this did not meet with his approval. 'We've got to guard it,' he pointed out, eyeing the black robes and the shimmering Professor Flead.

  'That's fine, we can work around you,' said Moist. 'Do please stay. I'm sure there's not much risk.'

  'Risk?' said the corporal.

  'Although perhaps it might be better if you fanned out to keep the public away,' Moist went on. 'We would not want anything to happen to members of the public. If, perhaps, you could push them back a hundred yards or so?'

  'Told to stay here,' said the corporal, looking Moist up and down. He lowered his voice. 'Er, aren't you the Postmaster General?'

  Moist recognized the look and the tone. Here we go… 'Yes, indeed,' he said.

  The watchman lowered his voice still further. 'So, er, do you by any chance have any of the Blue—'

  'Can't help you there,' said Moist quickly, reaching into his pocket, 'but I do just happen to have here a very rare 20p Cabbage Green stamp with the highly amusing "misprint" that caused a bit of a stir last year, you may remember. This is the only one left. Very collectable.'

  A small envelope appeared in his hand. Just as quickly, it vanished into the corporal's pocket.

  'We can't let anything happen to members of the public,' he said, 'so I suggest we'd better keep them back a hundred yards or so.'

  'Good thinking,' said Moist.

  A few minutes later Moist had the square to himself, the watchmen having worked out quite quickly that the further back from danger they pushed the public the further from said danger they too would be.

  And now, Moist thought, for the Moment of Truth. If possible, though, it would become the Moment of Plausible Lies, since most people were happier with them.

  The Umnian golems were bigger and heavier than the ones commonly seen around the city, but they were beautiful. Of course they were — they had probably been made by golems. And their builders had given them what looked like muscles, and calm, sad faces. In the last hour or so, in defiance of the watchmen, the lovable kids of the city had managed to scrawl a black moustache on this one.

  O-kay. Now for the professor…

  'Tell me, professor, do you enjoy being dead?' he said.

  'Enjoy? How can anyone enjoy it, you fool?' said Flead.

  'Not much fun?'

  'Young man, the word "fun" is not applicable to existence beyond the grave,' said Flead.

  'And is that why you hang around the department?'

  'Yes! It maybe run by amateurs these days, but there's always something going on.'

  'Certainly,' said Moist. 'However, I'm wondering if some
one of your… interests would not find them better served somewhere where there is always something coming off.'

  'I do not understand your meaning.'

  'Tell me, professor, have you heard of the Pink PussyCat Club?'

  'No, I have not. Cats are not normally pink in these times, are they?'

  'Really? Well, let me tell you about the Pink PussyCat Club,' said Moist. 'Excuse us, Dr Hicks.' He waved away Hicks, who winked and led his students back to the crowd. Moist put his arm around the ghostly shoulders. It was uncomfortable to hold it there with no actual shoulder to take the weight, but style was everything in these matters.

  Some urgent whispering passed to and fro, and then Flead said: 'You mean it's… smutty?'

  Smut, thought Moist. He really is old.

  'Oh, yes. Even, I might go so far as to say, suggestive.'

  'Do they show their… ankles?' said Flead, his eyes gleaming.

  'Ankles,' said Moist. 'Yes, yes, I rather think they do.' Ye gods, he wondered, is he that old?

  'All the time?'

  'Twenty-four hours a day. They never clothe,' said Moist. 'And sometimes they spin around a pole upside down. Take it from me, professor, for you, eternity might not be long enough.'

  'And you just want a few words translated?'

  'A small glossary of instructions.'

  'And then I can go?'

  'Yes!'

  'I have your word?'

  'Trust me. I'll just explain this to Dr Hicks. He may take some persuading.'

  Moist strolled over to the huddle of people who weren't necromancers at all. The post-mortem communicator's response was other than he expected. Second thoughts were arising.

  'I wonder if we'd be doing the right thing, setting him loose in a pole-dancing establishment?' said Hicks doubtfully.

  'No one will see him. And he can't touch. They're very big on not touching in that place, I'm told.'

  'Yes, I suppose all he can do is ogle the young ladies.' There was some sniggering from the students.

  'So? They're paid to be ogled at,' said Moist. 'They are professional oglees. It's an ogling establishment. For oglers. And you heard what's going on in the palace. We could be at war in a day. Do you trust them? Trust me.'

  'You use that phrase an awful lot, Mr Lipwig,' said Hicks. 'Well, I'm very trustworthy. Ready, then? Hold back until I summon you, and then you can take him to his last resting place.'

  There were people in the crowd with sledgehammers. You'd have a job to crack a golem if it didn't want you to, but he ought to get them out of here as soon as possible.

  This probably wouldn't work. It was too simple. But Adora Belle had missed it, and so had Flead. The corporal now so bravely holding back the crowds wouldn't have, because it was all about orders, but nobody had asked him. You just had to think a little.

  'Come on, young man,' said Flead, still where his bearers had left him. 'Let's get on with it, shall we?'

  Moist took a deep breath. 'Tell me how to say: "Trust me, and only me. Form ranks of four and march ten miles hubwards of the city. Walk slowly,"' he said.

  'Hee, hee. You are a sharp one, Mr Lipstick!' said Flead, his mind full of ankles. 'But it won't work, you know. We tried things like that.'

  'I can be very persuasive.'

  'It won't work, I tell you. I have found not one single word that they will react to.'

  'Well, professor, it's not what you say, it's the way that you say it, isn't it? Sooner or later it's all about style.'

  'Ha! You are a fool, man.'

  'I thought we had a deal, professor? And I shall want a number of other phrases.' He looked around at the golem horses, as still as statues. 'And one phrase I shall need is the equivalent of "Giddyup", and while I think of it I shall need "Whoa", too. Or do you want to go back to the place where they've never heard of pole-dancing?'

  Chapter 11

  The golems go — True worth — At work: servants of a higher truth — Back in trouble again — The beautiful butterfly — The insanity of Vetinari — Mr Bent wakes up — Mysterious requirements

  THINGS WERE GETTING HEATED in the conference room. This, to Lord Vetinari, was not a problem. He was a great believer in letting a thousand voices be heard, because this meant that all he actually needed to do was listen only to the ones that had anything useful to say, 'useful' in this case being defined in the classic civil service way as 'inclining to my point of view'. In his experience, it was a number generally smaller than ten. The people who wanted a thousand, etc., really meant that they wanted their own voice to be heard while the other 999 were ignored, and for this purpose the gods had invented the committee. Vetinari was very good at committees, especially when Drumknott took the minutes. What the Iron Maiden was to stupid tyrants, the committee was to Lord Vetinari; it was only slightly more expensive,[11] far less messy, considerably more efficient and, best of all, you had to force people to climb inside the Iron Maiden.

  He was just about to appoint the ten noisiest people on to a Golem Committee that could be locked in a distant office when a Dark Clerk appeared, apparently out of a shadow, and whispered something in Drumknott's ear. The secretary leaned down towards his master.

  'Ah, it would appear that the golems have gone,' said Vetinari cheerfully, as the dutiful Drumknott stepped back.

  'Gone?' said Adora Belle, trying to see across to the window. 'What do you mean, gone?'

  'Not here any more,' said Vetinari. 'Mr Lipwig, it seems, has taken them away. They are leaving the vicinity of the city in an orderly fashion.'

  'But he can't do that!' Lord Downey was enraged. 'We haven't decided what to do with them yet!'

  'He, however, has,' said Vetinari, beaming.

  'He shouldn't be allowed to leave the city! He is a bank robber! Commander Vimes, do your duty and arrest him!' This was from Cosmo.

  Vimes's look would have frozen a saner man. 'I doubt if he's going far, sir', he said. 'What do you wish me to do, your lordship?'

  'Well, the ingenious Mr Lipwig appears to have a purpose,' said Vetinari, 'so perhaps we should go and find out what it is?'

  The crowd made for the door, where it got stuck and fought itself.

  As it piled out into the street, Vetinari put his hands behind his head and leaned back with his eyes shut. 'I love democracy. I could listen to it all day. Get the coach out, will you, Drumknott?'

  'That is being done at this moment, sir.'

  'Did you put him up to this?'

  Vetinari opened his eyes. 'Miss Dearheart, always a pleasure,' he murmured, waving away the smoke. 'I thought you had gone. Imagine my delight at finding you have not.'

  'Well, did you?' said Adora Belle, her cigarette noticeably shortening as she took another drag. She smoked as if it was a kind of warfare.

  'Miss Dearheart, I believe it would be impossible for me to put Moist von Lipwig up to anything that could be more dangerous than the things he finds to do of his own free will. While you were away he took to climbing high buildings for fun, picked every lock in the Post Office and took up with the Extreme Sneezing fraternity, who are frankly insane. He needs the heady whiff of danger to make his life worth living.'

  'He never does that sort of thing when I'm here!'

  'Indeed. Can I invite you to ride with me?'

  'What did you mean by saying "indeed" like that?' said Adora Belle suspiciously.

  Vetinari raised an eyebrow. 'By now, if I have been adept at judging the way your fiance thinks, we should be going to see an enormous hole…'

  We're going to need stone, thought Moist as the golems dug. Lots of stone. Can they make mortar? Of course they can. They're the Lancre army knife of tools.

  It was fearful, the way they could dig, even in this worn-out, hopeless soil. Dirt was fountaining into the air. Half a mile away, the Old Wizarding Tower, a landmark on the road to Sto Lat, brooded over an area of scrub and desolation that was unusual on the heavily farmed plains. A lot of magic had been used here once. Plants grew twisty or n
ot at all. The owls that haunted the ruins made sure their meals came from some distance away. It was the perfect site. No one wanted it. It was a wasteland, and a wasteland shouldn't be allowed to go to waste.

  What a weapon, he thought, as his golem horse circled the diggers. They could collapse a city in a day. What a terrible force they would be in the wrong hands.

  Thank goodness they are in mine…

  The crowd was keeping its distance, but was also getting bigger and bigger. The city had turned out to watch. To be a true citizen of Ankh-Morpork was to never miss a show. As for Mr Fusspot, he was apparently having the time of his life standing on the horse's head. There's nothing a small dog likes more than a high place from which to yap madly at people… No, actually, there was, and the chairman had managed to wedge his toy between a clay ear and a paw, and stopped barking to growl every time Moist made a tentative grab at it.

  'Mr Lipwig!'

  He looked round to see Sacharissa hurrying towards him, waving her notebook. How does she do it? he wondered, watching her as, dirt raining around her, she scurried past lines of digging golems. She's even here before the Watch.

  'You have a golem horse, I see,' she shouted as she reached him. 'It looks beautiful.'

  'It's rather like riding a flowerpot that you can't steer,' said Moist, having to yell to make himself heard over the noise. 'The saddle could use some padding, too. Good, though, aren't they? Notice how they keep jinking all the time, just like the real thing?'

  'And why are the golems burying themselves?'

  'I ordered them to!'

  'But they are immensely valuable!'

  'Yes. So we should keep them safe, right?'

  'But they belong to the city!'

  'They were taking up a lot of room, don't you think? I'm not claiming them, in any case!'

  'They could do wonderful things for the city, couldn't they?' More people were arriving now, and gravitating towards the man in the golden suit because he was always good value for money.

  'Like embroil it in a war or create an army of beggars? My way's better!'

  'I'm sure you are going to tell us what it is!' shouted Sacharissa.