Making Money d-36

by Terry Pratchett

  'Yes, Stanley?'

  'Lord Vetinari is in the coach yard, sir, inspecting the new automatic pick-up mechanism. He says there is no rush, sir.'

  'He says there is no rush,' said Moist to Adora Belle.

  'We'd better hurry, then?'

  'Exactly.'

  'Remarkably like a gibbet,' said Lord Vetinari, while behind him coaches rumbled in and out.

  'It will allow a fast coach to pick up mailbags without slowing,' said Moist. 'That means letters going from small country offices can travel express without slowing the coach. It could save a few minutes on a long run.'

  'And of course if I let you have some of the golem horses the coaches might travel at a hundred miles an hour, I'm told, and I wonder if those glowing eyes could see even through this murk.'

  'Possibly, sir. But in fact I already have all the golem horses,' said Moist.

  Vetinari gave him a cool look, and then said: 'Hah! And you also have all your ears. What exchange rate are we discussing?'

  'Look, it's not that I want to be Lord of the Golems—' Moist began.

  'On the way, please. Do join me in my coach,' said Vetinari.

  'Where are we going?'

  'Hardly any distance. We're going to see Mr Bent.'

  The clown who opened the little sliding door in the Fools' Guild's forbidding gates looked from Vetinari to Moist to Adora Belle, and wasn't very happy about any of them.

  'We are here to see Dr Whiteface,' said Vetinari. 'I require you to let us in with the minimum of mirth.'

  The door snapped back. There was some hurried whispering and a clanking noise, and one half of the double doors opened a little way, just enough for people to walk through in single file. Moist stepped forward, but Vetinari put a restraining hand on his shoulder and pointed up with his stick.

  'This is the Fools' Guild,' he said. 'Expect… fun.'

  There was a bucket balanced on the door. He sighed and gave it a push with his stick. There was a thud and a splash from the other side.

  'I don't know why they persist in this, I really don't,' he said, sweeping through. 'It's not funny and it could hurt someone. Mind the custard.' There was a groan from the dark behind the door.

  'Mr Bent was born Charlie Benito, according to Dr Whiteface,' said Vetinari, pushing his way through the tent that occupied the guild's quadrangle. 'And he was born a clown.'

  Dozens of clowns paused in their daily training to watch them pass. Pies remained unflung, trousers did not fill with whitewash, invisible dogs paused in mid-widdle.

  'Born a clown?' said Moist.

  'Indeed, Mr Lipwig. A great clown, from a family of clowns. You saw him yesterday. The Charlie Benito make-up has been passed down for centuries.'

  'I thought he'd gone mad!'

  'Dr Whiteface, on the other hand, thinks he has come to his senses. Young Bent had a terrible childhood, I gather. No one told him he was a clown until he was thirteen. And his mother, for reasons of her own, discouraged all clownishness in him.'

  'She must have liked clowns once,' said Adora Belle. She looked around her. All the clowns hurriedly looked away.

  'She loved clowns,' said Vetinari. 'Or should I say, one clown. And for one night.'

  'Oh. I see,' said Moist. 'And then the circus moved on?'

  'As circuses do, alas. After which I suspect she rather went off men with red noses.'

  'How do you know all this?' said Moist.

  'Some of it is informed conjecture, but Miss Drapes has got a lot out of him in the last couple of days. She is a lady of some depth and determination.'

  On the far side of the big tent there was another doorway, where the head of the guild was waiting for them.

  He was white all over — white hat, white boots, white costume and white face — and on that face, delineated in thin lines of red greasepaint, a smile belying the real face, which was as cold and proud as that of a prince of Hell.

  Dr Whiteface nodded at Vetinari. 'My lord…'

  'Dr Whiteface,' said the Patrician. 'And how is the patient?'

  'Oh, if only he had come to us when he was young,' said Whiteface, 'what a clown he would have been! What timing! Oh, by the way, we do not normally allow women visitors into the guild building, but in these special circumstances we are waiving this rule.'

  'Oh, I'm so glad,' said Adora Belle, acid etching every syllable.

  'It is simply that, whatever the Jokes For Women group says, women are just not funny.'

  'It is a terrible affliction,' Adora Belle agreed.

  'An interesting dichotomy, in fact, since neither are clowns,' said Vetinari.

  'I've always thought so,' said Adora Belle.

  'They are tragic,' said Vetinari, 'and we laugh at their tragedy as we laugh at our own. The painted grin leers out at us from the darkness, mocking our insane belief in order, logic, status, the reality of reality. The mask knows that we are born on the banana skin that leads only to the open manhole cover of doom, and all we can hope for are the cheers of the crowd.'

  'Where do the squeaky balloon animals fit in?' said Moist.

  'I have no idea. But I understand that when the would-be murderers broke in Mr Bent strangled one with quite a lifelike humorous pink elephant made out of balloons.'

  'Just imagine the noise,' said Adora Belle cheerfully.

  'Yes! What a turn! And without any training! And the business with the ladder? Pure battle-clowning! Superb!' said Whiteface. 'We know it all now, Havelock. After his mother died, his father came back and of course took him off to the circus. Any clown could see the boy had funny bones. Those feet! They should have sent him to us! A boy of that age, it can be very tricky! But no, he was bundled into his grandfather's old gear and shoved out into the ring in some tiny little town, and, well, that's where clowning lost a king.'

  'Why? What happened?' said Moist.

  'Why do you think? They laughed at him.'

  It was raining, and wet branches lashed at him as he bounded through the woods, whitewash still dribbling from his baggy trousers. The pants themselves bounced up and down on their elastic braces, occasionally hitting him under the chin.

  The boots were good, though. They were amazing boots. They were the only ones he'd ever had that fitted.

  But his mother had brought him up properly. Clothes should be a respectable grey, mirth was indecent, and make-up was a sin.

  Well, punishment had come fast enough!

  At dawn he found a barn. He scraped off the dried custard and caked greasepaint and washed himself in a puddle. Oh, that face! The fat nose, the huge mouth, the white tear painted on — he would remember it in nightmares, he knew it.

  At least he still had his own shirt and drawers, which covered all the important bits. He was about to throw everything else away when an inner voice stopped him. His mother was dead and he hadn't been able to stop the bailiffs taking everything, even the brass ring Mother polished every day. He'd never see his father again… he had to keep something, there had to be something, something so that he might remember who and why he was and where he'd come from and even why he'd left. The barn yielded a sack full of holes; that was good enough. The hated suit was stuffed inside.

  Later that day he'd come across some caravans parked under the trees, but they were not the garish wagons of the circus. Probably they were religious, he thought, and Mother had approved of the quieter religions, provided the gods weren't foreign.

  They gave him rabbit stew. And when he looked over the shoulder of a man sitting quietly at a small folding table, he saw a book full of numbers, all written down. He liked numbers. They'd always made sense in a world that didn't. And then he'd asked the man, very politely, what the number at the bottom was, and the answer had been: 'It's what we call the total', and he'd replied: 'No, that's not the total, that's three farthings short of the total.' 'How do you know?'

  said the man, and he'd said: 'I can see it is', and the man had said: 'But you only just glanced at it!' And he'd said: 'Well, yes, is
n't that how?'

  And then more books were opened and the people gathered round and gave him sums to do, and they were all so, so easy…

  It was all the fun the circus couldn't be, and involved no custard, ever.

  He opened his eyes, and made out the indistinct figures.

  'Am I going to be arrested?'

  Moist glanced at Vetinari, who waved a hand vaguely.

  'Not necessarily,' said Moist carefully. 'We know about the gold.'

  'Sir Joshua said he would let it be known about my… family.'

  'Yes, we know.'

  'People would laugh. I couldn't stand that. And then I think I… you know, I think I convinced myself that the gold was all a dream? That provided I never looked for it, it would still be there.' He paused, as if random thoughts were queueing for the use of the mouth. 'Dr Whiteface has been kind enough to show me the history of the Charlie Benito face…' Another pause. 'I hear I threw custard pies with considerable accuracy. Perhaps my ancestors will be proud.'

  'How do you feel now?' said Moist.

  'Oh, quite well in myself,' said Bent. 'Whoever that is.'

  'Good. Then I want to see you at work tomorrow, Mr Bent.'

  'You can't ask him to go back so soon!' Miss Drapes protested.

  Moist turned to Whiteface and Vetinari. 'Could you please leave us, gentlemen?'

  There was an affronted look on the chief clown's face, which was made worse by the permanent happy smile, but the door shut behind them.

  'Listen, Mr Bent,' said Moist urgently. 'We're in a mess—'

  'I believed in the gold, you know,' said Bent. 'Didn't know where it was, but I believed.'

  'Good. And it probably still exists in Pucci's jewellery box,' said Moist. 'But I want to open the bank again tomorrow, and Vetinari's people have been through every piece of paper in the place, and you can guess what kind of mess they leave. And I want to launch the notes tomorrow, you know? The money that doesn't need gold? And the bank doesn't need gold. We know this. It worked for years with a vault full of junk! But the bank needs you, Mr Bent. The Lavishes are in real trouble, Cosmo's locked up somewhere, the staff are all over the place and tomorrow, Mr Bent, the bank opens and you must be there. Please? Oh, and the chairman has graciously barked assent to putting you on a salary of sixty-five dollars a month. I know you are not a man to be influenced by money, but the rise might be worth considering by a man contemplating a, ah, change in his domestic arrangements?'

  It wasn't a shot in the dark. It was a shot in the light, clear blazing light. Miss Drapes was definitely a woman with a plan, and it had to be a better one than the rest of a life spent in a narrow room in Elm Street.

  'It's your choice, of course,' he said, standing up. 'Are they treating him all right, Miss Drapes?'

  'Only because I'm here,' she said smartly. 'This morning three clowns came in with a big rope and a small elephant and wanted to pull one of his poor teeth! And then I'd hardly got them out when two more came in and started to whitewash the room, very inefficiently in my opinion! I got them out of here in very short order, I can tell you!'

  'Well done, Miss Drapes!'

  Vetinari was waiting outside the building with the coach door open.

  'You will get in,' he said.

  'Actually it's a very short walk to—'

  'Get in, Mr Lipwig. We will go the pretty way.

  'I believe you think our relationship is a game,' said Vetinari, as the coach pulled away. 'You believe that all sins will be forgiven. So let me give you this.'

  He took up a black walking stick, topped with a silver skull, and tugged at the handle.

  'This curious thing was in the possession of Cosmo Lavish,' he said, as the blade slid out.

  'I know. Isn't it a replica of yours?' said Moist.

  'Oh really!' said Vetinari. 'Am I a "sword made of the blood of a thousand men" kind of ruler? It'll be a crown of skulls next, I suppose. I believe Cosmo had it made.'

  'So it's a replica of a rumour?' Outside the coach, some gates were swung open.

  'Indeed,' said Vetinari. 'A copy of something that does not exist. One can only hope that it is not authentic in every respect.'

  The coach door was opened, and Moist stepped down into the palace gardens. They had the usual look of such places — neat, tidy, lots of gravel and pointy trees and no vegetables.

  'Why are we here?' said Adora Belle. 'It's about the golems, isn't it?'

  'Miss Dearheart, what do our local golems think about this new army?'

  'They don't like them. They think they will be the cause of trouble. They have no chem that can be changed. They're worse than zombies.'

  'Thank you. A further question: will they kill?'

  'Historically, golem-makers have learned not to make golems that kill—'

  'Is that a no?'

  'I don't know!'

  'We make progress. Is it possible to give them an order which cannot be countermanded by another person?'

  'Well, er… Yes. If no one else knows the secret.'

  'Which is?' Vetinari turned back to Moist, and drew the sword.

  'It must be the way I give the orders, sir,' said Moist, squinting downwards at the blade for the second time. It really did glint.

  He was braced for what happened, except that it happened in entirely the wrong way.

  Vetinari handed him the sword and said: 'Miss Dearheart, I really wish you would not leave the city for long periods. It makes this man seek danger. Tell us the secret, Mr Lipwig.'

  'I think it could be too dangerous, sir.'

  'Mr Lipwig, do I need a badge that says tyrant?'

  'Can I make a bargain?'

  'Of course. I am a reasonable man.'

  'Will you keep to it?'

  'No. But I will make a different bargain. The Post Office can have six golem horses. The other golem warriors will be considered wards of the Golem Trust, but the use of four hundred of them to improve the operation of the clacks system will, I am sure, meet with international approval. We will replace gold with golems as a basis for our currency, as you have so eloquently pleaded. The two of you have made the international situation very… interesting—'

  'Sorry, why is it me that's holding this sword?' said Moist.

  '—and you tell us the secret and, best of all, you live,' Vetinari finished, 'and who is going to give you a better offer?'

  'Oh, all right,' said Moist, 'I knew this would have to happen. The golems obey me be—'

  '—because you wear a golden suit and therefore in their eyes must be an Umnian priest,' said Vetinari. 'Because for an order to be fully realized the right person must say the right words to the right recipient. And I used to be quite a scholar. It's a matter of reasoning. Do not continue to stand there with your mouth open.'

  'You already knew?'

  'It wasn't exactly dragon magic'

  'And why did you give me this horrible sword?'

  'It is tasteless, isn't it,' said Vetinari, taking it from him. 'One might imagine it belonging to someone with a name like Krax the Mighty. I was just interested to see that you were more fearful when you were holding it. You really are not a violent man, are you…'

  'That wasn't necessary!' said Moist. Adora Belle was grinning.

  'Mr Lipwig, Mr Lipwig, Mr Lipwig, will you never learn?' said Vetinari, sheathing the sword. 'One of my predecessors used to have people torn apart by wild tortoises. It was not a quick death. He thought it was a hoot. Forgive me if my pleasures are a little more cerebal, will you? Let me see, now, what was the other thing? Oh yes, I regret to tell you that a man called Owlswick Clamp has died.'

  There was something about the way he said it…

  'Did an angel call him?'

  'Very likely, Mr Lipwig. But should you find yourself in need of more designs, I'm sure I can find someone in the palace to assist.'

  'It was meant to be, I'm sure,' said Moist. 'I'm glad he's gone to a better place.'

  'Less damp, certainly. Go now. My coa
ch is at your disposal. You have a bank to open! The world spins on, and this morning it is spinning on my desk. Come, Mr Fusspot.'

  'Can I make a suggestion that might help?' said Moist, as Vetinari turned away.

  'What is it?'

  'Well, why don't you tell all the other Plains governments about the golden secret? That would mean no one could use them as soldiers. That would take the pressure off.'

  'Hmm, interesting. And would you agree with that, Miss Dearheart?'

  'Yes! We don't want golem armies! It's a very good idea!'

  Vetinari reached down and gave Mr Fusspot a dog biscuit. When he straightened up there was an almost imperceptible change in his expression.

  'Last night,' he said, 'some traitor sent the golden secret to the rulers of every major city in the Plains via a clacks message, the origin of which appears to be untraceable. It wasn't you, was it, Mr Lipwig?'

  'Me? No!'

  'But you just suggested it, did you not? Some would call it treason, incidentally.'

  'I only just mentioned it,' said Moist. 'You can't pin it on me! Anyway it was a good idea,' he added, trying not to catch Adora Belle's eye. 'If you don't think of not using fifty-foot-high killer golems first, someone else will!

  He heard her giggle, for the first time ever.

  'You have found forty-foot killer golems now, Miss Dearheart?' said Vetinari, looking stern, as though he might add, 'Well, I hope you brought enough for everybody!'

  'No, sir. There aren't any,' said Adora Belle, trying to look serious and not succeeding.

  'Well, never mind. I'm sure some ingenious person will devise one for you eventually. When they do, don't hesitate to refrain from bringing it home. In the meantime, we have this wretched fait accompli.' Vetinari shook his head in what Moist was sure was genuinely contrived annoyance and went on: 'An army that will obey anyone with a shiny jacket, a megaphone and the Umnian words for "Dig a hole and bury yourselves" would turn war into nothing but a rather entertaining farce. You may be assured, I'm putting together a committee of inquiry. It will not rest, apart from statutory tea and biscuit breaks, until it has found the culprit. I shall take a personal interest, of course.'

  Of course you will, Moist thought. And I know that lots of people heard me shout Umnian commands, but I'm betting on a man who thinks war is a wicked waste of customers. A man who's a better con artist than I'll ever be, who thinks committees are a kind of wastepaper basket, who can turn sizzle into sausage every day…