Making Money d-36

by Terry Pratchett

  Red-nosed and raggedy-hatted, it bounced into the arena in great leaping strides, its enormous boots flapping on the floor with every familiar step.

  'Mr Bent?' said Moist. 'Is that you?'

  'My jolly good pal Mr Lipwig!' shouted the clown. 'You think the ringmaster runs the circus, do you? Only by the consent of the clowns, Mr Lipwig! Only by the consent of the clowns!'

  Bent drew back his arm and hurled a pie at Lord Vetinari.

  But Moist was already in full leap before the pie started its journey. His brain came a poor third, and delivered its thoughts all in one go, telling him what his legs had apparently worked out for themselves: that the dignity of the great could rarely survive a face full of custard, that a picture of an encustarded Patrician on the front page of the Times would rock the power-politics of the city, and most of all that in a post-Vetinari world he, Moist, would not see tomorrow, which was one of his lifelong ambitions.

  As in a silent dream he sailed towards the oncoming nemesis, reaching out with snail-pace fingers while the pie spun on to its date with history.

  It hit him in the face.

  Vetinari had not moved. Custard flew up and four hundred fascinated eyes watched as a glob of the stuff headed on towards the Patrician, who caught it in an upraised hand. The little smack as it landed on his palm was the only sound in the room.

  Vetinari inspected the captured custard. He dipped a finger into it and tasted the blob thereon. He cast his eyes upwards, thoughtfully, while the room held its communal breath, and then said, pensively: 'I do believe it is pineapple.'

  There was a thunder of applause. There had to be; even if you hated Vetinari, you had to admire the timing.

  And now he was coming down the steps, advancing on a frozen and fearful clown.

  'The clowns do not run my circus, sir,' he said, grabbing the man by his big red nose and pulling it to the full extent of the elastic. 'Is that understood?'

  The clown produced a bulbous horn and gave a mournful honk.

  'Good. I'm glad you agree. And now I want to talk to Mr Bent, please.'

  There were two honks this time.

  'Oh yes he is,' said Vetinari. 'Shall we get him out for the boys and girls? What is 15.3 per cent of 59.66?

  'You leave him alone! Just you leave him alone!'

  The battered crowd parted yet again, this time for a dishevelled Miss Drapes, as outraged and indignant as a mother hen. She was clasping something heavy to her sparse bosom, and Moist realized that it was a stack of ledgers.

  'This is what it's all about!' she announced triumphantly, flinging her arms wide. 'It's not his fault! They took advantage of him!'

  She pointed an accusatory finger at the dripping ranks of the Lavishes. If a battle goddess were allowed to have a respectable blouse and hair escaping rapidly from a tight bun, then Miss Drapes could have been deified. 'It was them! They sold the gold years ago!' This caused a general and enthusiastic uproar on all sides not containing a Lavish.

  'There will be silence!' shouted Vetinari.

  The lawyers rose. Mr Slant glared. The lawyers sank.

  And Moist wiped pineapple custard from his eyes just in time.

  'Look out! He's got a daisy!' he shouted, and then thought: I just shouted 'Look out! He's got a daisy!', and I think I'm going to remember, for ever, just how embarrassing this is.

  Lord Vetinari looked down at the improbably large flower in the clown's buttonhole. A tiny drop of water glistened in the almost well-concealed nozzle.

  'Yes,' he said, 'I know. Now, sir, I do indeed believe you are Mr Bent. I recognize the walk, you see. If you are not, then all you have to do is squeeze. And all I have to do is let go. I repeat: I'd like to hear from Mr Bent.'

  Sometimes the gods don't have the right sense of occasion, Moist thought. There should be thunder, a plangent tone, a chord of tension, some kind of celestial acknowledgement that here was the moment of tru—

  '9.12798,' said the clown.

  Vetinari smiled and patted him on the shoulder. 'Welcome back,' he said, and looked around until he found Dr Whiteface of the Fools' Guild.

  'Doctor, would you take care of Mr Bent, please? I think he needs to be among his own.'

  'It would be an honour, my lord. Seven pies in the air at once and a four-man ladder tie? Exemplary! Whoever you are, brother, I offer you the joke handshake of welcome…'

  'He's not going anywhere without me,' said Miss Drapes grimly, as the white-faced clown stepped forward.

  'Indeed, who could imagine how he would,' said Vetinari. 'And please extend the courtesy of your guild to Mr Bent's young lady, doctor,' he added, to the surprise and delight of Miss Drapes, who clung on daily to the 'lady' but had reluctantly said goodbye to the 'young' years ago.

  'And will somebody please release those people from that ladder? I think a saw will be required,' Vetinari went on. 'Drumknott, collect up these intriguing new ledgers that Mr Bent's young lady has so kindly supplied. And I think Mr Lavish needs medical attention—'

  'I… do… not!' Cosmo, dripping custard, was trying to remain upright. It was painful to watch. He managed to point a furious but wavering finger at the tumbled books. 'Those,' he declared, 'are the property of the bank!'

  'Mr Lavish, it is clear to us all that you are ill—' Vetinari began.

  'Yes, you'd like everyone to believe that, wouldn't you — impostor!' Cosmo said, visibly swaying. In his head the crowd cheered.

  'The Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork,' said Vetinari, without taking his eyes off Cosmo, 'prides itself on its red-leather ledgers, which without fail are embossed with the seal of the city in gold leaf. Drumknott?'

  'These are cheap card-bound ones, sir. You can buy them anywhere. The writing within, however, is the unmistakable fine copperplate hand of Mr Bent.'

  'You are sure?'

  'Oh, yes. He does a wonderful cursive script.'

  'Fake,' said Cosmo, as if his tongue was an inch thick, 'all fake. Stolen!'

  Moist looked at the watching people, and saw the shared expression. Whatever you thought of him, it was not good to see a man fall to bits where he stood. A couple of watchmen were sidling carefully towards him.

  'I never stole a thing in my life!' said Miss Drapes, bridling enough for a gymkhana. 'They were in his wardrobe—' She hesitated, and decided she'd rather be scarlet than grey. 'I don't care what Lady Deirdre Waggon thinks! And I've taken a look inside them, too! Your father took the gold and sold it and forced him to hide it in the numbers! And that's not the half of it!'

  '… Beautiful but'fly,' Cosmo slurred, blinking at Vetinari. 'You not me any mo'. Walked mile in y'shoes!'

  Moist also edged in his direction. Cosmo had the look of someone who might explode at any moment, or collapse, or just possibly fall on Moist's neck mumbling things like: 'You're m'bestest pal, you are, it's you'n'me 'gainst the worl', pal.'

  Greenish sweat was pouring down the man's face.

  'I think you need a lie-down, Mr Lavish,' said Moist cheerfully. Cosmo tried to focus on him.

  ''s a good pain,' the dripping man confided. 'Got li'l hat, got sword o' t'ousand men's—' and with a whisper of steel a grey blade, with an evil red glitter to it, was pointing between Moist's eyes. It didn't waver. Behind it, Cosmo was trembling and twitching, but the sword stayed rigid and unmoving.

  The advancing watchmen slowed down a little. Their job had a pension.

  'Will no one at all make any move, please? I think I can deal with this,' said Moist, squinting along the blade. This was a time for delicacy…

  'Oh, this is so silly,' said Pucci, strutting forward with a clatter of heels. 'We've got nothing to be ashamed of. It's our gold, isn't it? Who cares what he wrote down in his books?'

  The phalanx of Lavish lawyers rose very cautiously to their feet, while the two employed by Pucci began to whisper urgently to her. She ignored them. Everyone was staring at her now, not her brother. Everyone was paying attention to her.

  'Could you please be quiet, M
iss Lavish?' said Moist. The stillness of the blade worried him. Some part of Cosmo was functioning very well indeed.

  'Oh yes, I expect you just would like me to shut up, and I'm not going to!' said Pucci gleefully. Like Moist confronted by an open notebook, she triumphantly plunged on without a care: 'We can't steal what already belongs to us, can we? So what if Father put the wretched gold to better use? It was just sitting there! Honestly, why are you all so dense? Everybody does it. It's not stealing. I mean, the gold still exists, yes? In rings and things. It's not as though anyone's going to throw it away. Who cares where it is?'

  Moist resisted the impulse to look at the other bankers in the room. Everyone does it, eh? Pucci was not going to get many Hogswatch cards this year. And her brother was staring at her in horror. The rest of the clan, those who weren't still engrossed in decustarding themselves, were contriving to give the impression that they had never seen Pucci before. Who is this mad woman? said their faces. Who let her in? What is she talking about?

  'I think your brother is very ill, miss,' Moist said.

  Pucci tossed her admittedly fine locks dismissively. 'Don't worry about him, he's just being silly,' she said. 'He's only doing it to attract attention. Silly boyish stuff about wanting to be Vetinari, as if anyone in their right mind would—'

  'He's dribbling green,' said Moist, but nothing cut through the barrage of chatter. He stared at Cosmo's ravaged face, and everything made sense. Beard. Cap. Swordstick, yes, with someone's tacky idea of what a blade made from the iron in the blood of a thousand men should look like. And what about the murder of a man who made rings? What was in that stinking glove…

  This is my world. I know how to do this.

  'I beg your pardon! You are Lord Vetinari, aren't you?' he said.

  For a moment Cosmo drew himself up and a spark of imperiousness shone through. 'Indeed! Yes indeed,' he said, raising one eyebrow. Then it sagged, and his puffy face sagged with it.

  'Got ring. Vetin'ri ring,' he mumbled. ''s mine really. Good pain…'

  The sword dropped, too.

  Moist grabbed the man's left hand and tore the glove off. It came away with a sucking sound and a smell that was unimaginably, nose-cakingly bad. The nearest guard threw up. So many colours, thought Moist. So many… wiggling things…

  And there, still visible in the suppurating mass, the unmistakable sullen gleam of stygium.

  Moist grabbed Cosmo's other hand.

  'I think you ought to come outside, my lord, now you are the Patrician,' he said loudly. 'You must meet the people…'

  Once again some inner Cosmo got a slippery grip, enough to cause the dribbling mouth to utter: 'Yes, this is very important…' before reverting to: 'Feel ill. Finger looks funny…'

  'The sunshine will do it good,' said Moist, taking him gently in tow. 'Trust me.'

  Chapter 13

  Gladys Does It For Herself — To the House of Mirth — The history of Mr Bent — Usefulness of clowns as nurses is questioned — Owlswick gets an angel — The golden secret (not exactly dragon magic) — The return of the teeth — Vetinari looks ahead — The Bank Triumphant — The Glooper's little gift — How to spoil a perfect day

  ON THE FIRST DAY of the rest of his life Moist von Lipwig woke up, which was nice given that on any particular day a number of people do not, but woke up alone, which was less pleasing.

  It was 6 a.m., and the fog seemed glued to the windows, so thick that it should have contained croutons. But he liked these moments, before the fragments of yesterday reassembled themselves.

  Hold on, this wasn't the suite, was it? This was his room in the Post Office, which had all the luxury and comfort that you would normally associate with the term 'civil service issue'.

  A piece of yesterday fell into place. Oh yes, Vetinari had ordered the bank shut while his clerks looked at everything this time. Moist wished them luck with the late Sir Joshua's special cupboard…

  There was no Mr Fusspot, which was a shame. You don't appreciate an early-morning slobber until it's gone. And there was no Gladys, either, which was worrying.

  She didn't turn up while he was getting dressed, either, and there was no copy of the Times on his desk. His suit needed pressing, too.

  He eventually found her pushing a trolley of mail in the sorting room. The blue dress had gone, to be replaced by a grey one which, by the nascent standard of golem dressmaking, looked quite smart.

  'Good morning, Gladys,' Moist ventured. 'Any chance of some pressed trouser?'

  'There Is Always A Warm Iron In The Postmen's Locker Room, Mr Lipwig.'

  'Oh? Ah. Right. And, er… the Times?

  'Four Copies Are Delivered To Mr Groat's Office Every Morning, Mr Lipwig,' said Gladys reproachfully.

  'I suppose a sandwich is totally out of—'

  'I Really Must Get On With My Duties, Mr Lipwig,' said the golem reproachfully.

  'You know, Gladys, I can't help thinking that there's something different about you,' said Moist.

  'Yes! I Am Doing It For Myself,' said Gladys, her eyes glowing.

  'Doing what, exactly?'

  'I Have Not Ascertained This Yet, But I Am Only Ten Pages Into The Book.'

  'Ah. You've been reading a new book? But not one by Lady Deirdre Waggon, I'll wager.'

  'No, Because She Is Out Of Touch With Modern Thought. I Laugh With Scorn.'

  'Yes, I imagine she would be,' said Moist thoughtfully. 'And I expect Miss Dearheart gave you said book?'

  'Yes. It Is Entitled Why Men Get Under Your Feet By Releventia Flout,' said Gladys earnestly.

  And we start out with the best of intentions, thought Moist: find 'em out, dig 'em up, make 'em free. But we don't know what we're doing, or what we're doing it to.

  'Gladys, the thing about books… well, the thing… I mean, just because it's written down, you don't have to… that is to say, it doesn't mean it's… what I'm getting at is that every book is—'

  He stopped. They believe in words. Words give them life. I can't tell her that we just throw them around like jugglers, we change their meaning to suit ourselves…

  He patted Gladys on the shoulder. 'Well, read them all and make up your own mind, eh?'

  'That Was Very Nearly Inappropriate Touching, Mr Lipwig.'

  Moist started to laugh, and stopped at the sight of her grave expression.

  'Er, only for Ms Flout, I expect,' he said, and went to grab a Times before they were all stolen.

  It must have been another bittersweet day for the editor. After all, there can only be one front page. In the end he'd stuffed in everything: the 'I do believe it is pineapple' line, plus picture, with the dripping Lavishes in the background, and, oh yes, here was Pucci's speech, in detail. It was wonderful. And she'd gone on and on. It was all perfectly clear from her point of view: she was right and everyone was silly. She was so in love with her own voice that the watchmen had to write down their official caution on a piece of paper and hold it up in front of her before they towed her away, still talking…

  And someone had got a picture of Cosmo's ring catching the sunlight. It was near perfect surgery, they said down at the hospital, and had probably saved his life, they said, and how had Moist known what to do, they said, when the entirety of Moist's relevant medical knowledge was that a finger shouldn't have green mushrooms growing on it—

  The paper was twitched out of his hands.

  'What have you done with Professor Flead?' Adora Belle demanded. 'I know you've done something! Don't lie.'

  'I haven't done anything!' Moist protested, and checked the wording. Yes, technically true.

  'I've been to the Department of Post-Mortem Communications, you know!'

  'And what did they say?'

  'I don't know! There was a squid blocking the door! But you've done something, I know it! He told you the secret of getting through to the golems, didn't he?'

  'No.' Absolutely true. Adora Belle hesitated.

  'He didn't?'

  'No. I got some extra voca
bulary, but that's no secret.'

  'Will it work for me?'

  'No.' Currently true.

  'They'd only take orders from a man? I bet that's it!'

  'I don't think so.' True enough.

  'So there is a secret?'

  'It's not really a secret. Flead told us. He just didn't know it was a secret.' True.

  'It's a word?'

  'No.' True.

  'Look, why won't you tell me? You know you can trust me!'

  'Well, yes. Of course. But can I trust you if someone holds a knife to your throat?'

  'Why should they do that?'

  Moist sighed. 'Because you'll know how to command the biggest army there has ever been! Did you look around outside? Didn't you see all the coppers? They turned up right after the hearing!'

  'What coppers?'

  'Those trolls re-laying the cobbles? How often do you see that happening? The line of cabs that aren't interested in passengers? The battalion of beggars? And the coach yard around the back is full of hangers-on, lounging about and watching the windows. Those coppers. It's called a stake-out, and I'm the meat—'

  There was a knock at the door. Moist recognized it; it sought to alert without disturbing.

  'Come in, Stanley,' he said. The door opened.

  'It's me, sir,' said Stanley, who went through life with the care of a man reading a manual translated from a foreign language.

  'Yes, Stanley.'

  'Head of Stamps, sir,' said Stanley.