Making Money d-36

by Terry Pratchett

  Moist and Adora Belle looked at one another. Their glances agreed: it's him. Of course it's him. Downey and all the rest of them will know it's him. Things that live on damp walls will know it's him. And no one will ever prove it.

  'You can trust us,' said Moist.

  'Yes. I know,' said Vetinari. 'Come, Mr Fusspot. There maybe cake.'

  Moist didn't fancy another ride in the coach. Coaches carried some unpleasant associations right now.

  'He's won, hasn't he?' said Adora Belle, as the fog billowed around them.

  'Well, he's got the chairman eating out of his hand.'

  'Is he allowed to do that?'

  'I think that comes under the rule of Quia Ego Sic Dico.'

  'Yes, what does that mean?'

  ' "Because I say so", I think.'

  'That doesn't sound like much of a rule!'

  'Actually, it's the only one he needs. All in all he could be—'

  'You owe me five grand, Mishter Spangler!'

  The figure was out of the gloom and behind Adora Belle in one movement.

  'No tricks, mish, on account o' this knife,' said Cribbins, and Moist heard Adora Belle's sharp intake of breath. 'Your chum promised it to me for peaching you, and since you peached yourshelf and shent him to the loony house I reckon you owe me, right?'

  Moist's slowly moving hand found his pocket, but it was bereft of aid. His little helpers had been confiscated; the Tanty didn't like you to bring blackjacks and lockpicks in with you and expected you to buy such things from the warders, like everyone else.

  'Put the knife away and we can talk,' he said.

  'Oh yeah, talk! You like talkin', you do! You got a magic tongue, you have! I sheen you! You flap it about and you're the golden boy! You tell 'em you're goin' to rob them and they laugh! How d'you get away with that, eh?'

  Cribbins was champing and spitting with rage. Angry people make mistakes, but that's no comfort when they're holding a knife a few inches from your girlfriend's kidneys. She'd gone pale, and Moist had to hope that she'd worked out that this was no time to stamp her foot. Above all, he had to stop himself from looking over Cribbins's shoulder, because in the edge of his vision he was sure someone was creeping up.

  'This is no time for rash moves,' he said loudly. The shadow in the fog appeared to halt.

  'Cribbins, this is why you never made it,' Moist went on. 'I mean, do you expect me to have that money on me?'

  'Plenty of places round here for ush to be coshy while we wait, eh?'

  Dumb, thought Moist. Dumb but dangerous. And a thought said: it's brain against brain. And a weapon he doesn't know how to use belongs to you. Push him.

  'Just back away and we'll forget we saw you,' he said. 'That's the best offer you're going to get.'

  'You're going to try to talk your way out of this, you shmarmy bashtard? I'm goin' to—'

  There was a loud twang, and Cribbins made a noise. It was the sound of someone trying to scream, except that even screaming was too painful. Moist grabbed Adora Belle as the man bent double, clutching at his mouth. There was a ping, and blood appeared on Cribbins's cheek, causing him to whimper and roll up into a ball. Even then, there were more twangs as a dead man's dentures, mistreated and ill-used over the years, finally gave up the ghost who made a determined effort to take the hated Cribbins with him. Later on, the doctor said one spring even made it into his sinuses.

  Captain Carrot and Nobby Nobbs ran out of the fog and stared down at the man who twitched now and again with a ping.

  'Sorry, sir, we lost you in the murk,' said Carrot. 'What happened to him?'

  Moist held Adora Belle tightly. 'His dentures exploded,' he said.

  'How could that happen, sir?'

  'I have no idea, captain. Why not do a good deed and get him to the hospital?'

  'Will you want to prefer charges, Mr Lipwig?' said Carrot, lifting the whimpering Cribbins with some care.

  'I'd prefer a brandy,' said Moist. He thought perhaps Anoia was just awaiting her moment. I'd better go to her temple and hang up a big, big ladle. It may not be a good idea to be ungrateful…

  Secretary Drumknott tiptoed into Lord Vetinari's office on velvet-shod feet.

  'Good morning,' said his lordship, turning away from the window. 'The fog has a very pleasing tint of yellow this morning. Any news about Heretofore?'

  'The Watch in Quirm are searching for him, sir,' said Drumknott, putting the city edition of the Times in front of him.

  'Why?'

  'He bought a ticket for Quirm.'

  'But he will have bought another one from the coachman for Genua. He will run as far as he can. Send a short clacks to our man there, will you?'

  'I hope you are right, sir.'

  'Do you? I hope I am wrong. It will be good for me. Ah. Ahaha.'

  'Sir?'

  'I see the Times has put colour on the front page again. The front and back of the one-dollar note.'

  'Yes, sir. Very nice.'

  'Actual size, too,' said Vetinari, still smiling. 'I see here that this is to familiarize people with the look of the thing. Even now, Drumknott, even now, honest citizens are carefully cutting out both sides of this note and gluing them together.'

  'Shall I have a word with the editor, sir?'

  'Don't. It will be more entertaining to let things take their course.'

  Vetinari leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes with a sigh. 'Very well, Drumknott, I feel strong enough now to hear what the political cartoon looks like.'

  There was a crackle of paper as Drumknott found the right page.

  'Well, there is a very good likeness of Mr Fusspot.' Under Vetinari's chair the dog opened his eyes at the sound of his name. So did his new master, with more urgency.

  'Surely he has nothing in his mouth?'

  'No, sir,' said Drumknott calmly. 'This is the Times of Ankh-Morpork, sir.'

  Vetinari relaxed again. 'Continue.'

  'He is on a leash, sir, and looking unaccustomedly ferocious. You are holding the leash, sir. In front of him, and backing nervously into a corner, are a group of very fat cats. They are wearing top hats, sir.'

  'As cats do, yes.'

  'And they have the words "The Banks" on them,' Drumknott added.

  'Subtle indeed!'

  'Whilst you, sir, are waving a handful of paper money at them and the speech bubble says—'

  'Don't tell me. "THIS does NOT taste of pineapple"?'

  'Well done, sir. Incidentally, it does so happen that the chairmen of the rest of the city banks wish to see you, at your convenience.'

  'Good. This afternoon, then.'

  Vetinari got up and walked over to the window. The fog was thinning, but its drifting cloud still obscured the city.

  'Mr Lipwig is a very… popular young man, is he not, Drumknott?' said Vetinari, staring into the gloom.

  'Oh yes, sir,' said the secretary, folding up the newspaper. 'Extremely so.'

  'And very confident in himself, I think.'

  'I would say so.'

  And loyal?'

  'He took a pie for you, sir.'

  A tactical thinker at speed, then.'

  'Oh yes.'

  'Bearing in mind his own future was riding on the pie as well.'

  'He is certainly sensitive to political currents, no doubt about it,' said Drumknott, picking up his bundle of files.

  And, as you say, popular,' said Vetinari, still a gaunt outline against the fog.

  Drumknott waited. Moist was not the only one sensitive to political currents.

  An asset to the city, indeed,' said Vetinari, after a while. And we should not waste him. Obviously, though, he should be at the Royal Bank long enough to bend it to his satisfaction,' he mused.

  Drumknott said nothing, but arranged some of the files into a more pleasing order. A name struck him, and he shifted a file to the top.

  'Of course, then he will get restless again and a danger to others as well as himself…'

  Drumknott smiled at his files.
His hand hovered…

  'Apropos of nothing, how old is Mr Creaser?'

  'The Taxmaster? In his seventies, sir,' said Drumknott, opening the file he had just selected. 'Yes, seventy-four, it says here.'

  'We have recently pondered his methods, have we not?'

  'Indeed we have, sir. Last week.'

  'Not a man with a flexible cast of mind, I feel. A little at sea in the modern world. Holding someone upside down over a bucket and giving them a good shaking is not the way forward. I won't blame him when he decides to take an honourable and well-earned retirement.'

  'Yes, sir. When would you like him to decide that, sir?' said Drumknott.

  'No rush,' said Vetinari. 'No rush.'

  'Have you given any thought to his successor? It's not a job that creates friends,' said Drumknott. 'It would need a special sort of person.'

  'I shall ponder it,' said Vetinari. 'No doubt a name will present itself.'

  The bank staff were at work early, pushing through the crowds who were filling the street because a) this was another act in the wonderful street theatre that was Ankh-Morpork and b) there was going to be big trouble if their money had gone missing. There was, however, no sign of Mr Bent or Miss Drapes.

  Moist was in the Mint. Mr Spools's men had, well, they'd done their best. It's an apologetic phrase, commonly used to mean that the result is just one step above mediocre, but their best was one leap above superb.

  'I'm sure we can improve them,' said Mr Spools, as Moist gloated.

  'They arc perfect, Mr Spools!'

  'Anything but. But it's kind of you to say so. We've done seventy thousand so far.'

  'Nothing like enough!'

  'With respect, we are not printing a newspaper here. But we're getting better. You have talked about other denominations… ?'

  'Oh, yes. Two, five and ten dollars to start with. And the fives and tens will talk.'

  Nothing like enough, he thought, as the colours of money flowed through his fingers. People will queue up for this. They won't want the grubby, heavy coins, not when they see this! Backed by golems! What is a coin compared to the hand that holds it? That's worth! That's value! Hm, yes, that'd look good on the two-dollar note, too, I'd better remember that.

  'The money… will talk?' said Mr Spools carefully.

  'Imps,' said Moist. 'They're only a sort of intelligent spell. They don't even have to have a shape. We'll print them on the higher denominations.'

  'Do you think the university will agree to that?' said Spools.

  'Yes, because I'm going to put Ridcully's head on the five-dollar note. I'll go and talk to Ponder Stibbons. This looks like a job for inadvisably applied magic if ever I saw one.'

  'And what would the money say?'

  'Anything we want it to. "Is your purchase really necessary?" perhaps, or "Why not save me for a rainy day?" The possibilities are endless!'

  'It usually says goodbye to me,' said a printer, to ritual amusement.

  'Well, maybe we can make it blow you a kiss as well,' said Moist. He turned to the Men of the Sheds, who were beaming and gleaming with new-found importance. 'Now, if some of you gentlemen will help me carry this lot into the bank…'

  The hands of the clock were chasing one another to the top of the hour when Moist arrived, and there was still no sign of Mr Bent.

  'Is that clock right?' said Moist, as the hands began the relaxing stroll to the half-hour.

  'Oh yes, sir,' said a counter clerk. 'Mr Bent sets it twice a day.'

  'Maybe, but he hasn't been here for more than—'

  The doors swung open, and there he was. Moist had for some reason expected the clown outfit, but this was the smooth and shiny, ironed-in-his-clothes Bent with the smart jacket and pinstripe trousers and-

  -the red nose. And he was arm in arm with Miss Drapes.

  The staff stared at it all, too shocked for a reaction.

  'Ladies and gentlemen,' said Bent, his voice echoing in the sudden silence, 'I owe so many apologies. I have made many mistakes. Indeed, my whole life has been a mistake. I believed that true worth lodged in lumps of metal. Much of what I believed is worthless, in fact, but Mr Lipwig believed in me and so I am here today. Let us make money based not on a trick of geology but on the ingenuity of hand and brain. And now—' He paused, because Miss Drapes had squeezed his arm.

  'Oh, yes, how could I forget?' Bent went on. 'What I do now believe with all my heart is that Miss Drapes will marry me in the Chapel of Fun in the Fools' Guild on Saturday, the ceremony to be conducted by the Reverend Brother "Whacko" Whopply. You are all of course invited—'

  '—but be careful what you wear because it's a whitewash wedding,' said Miss Drapes coyly, or what she probably thought was coyly.

  'And with that it only remains for me to—' Bent tried to continue, but the staff had realized what their ears had heard, and closed in on the couple, the women drawn to the soon-not-to-be-Miss Drapes by the legendarily high gravity of an engagement ring, while the men went from slapping Mr Bent on the back to the unthinkable, which involved picking him up and carrying him around the room on their shoulders.

  Eventually it was Moist who had to cup his hands and shout: 'Look at the time, ladies and gentlemen! Our customers are waiting, ladies and gentlemen! Let us not stand in the way of making money! We mustn't be a dam in the economic flow!'

  … and he wondered what Hubert was doing now…

  With his tongue out in concentration, Igor removed a slim tube from the gurgling bowels of the Glooper.

  A few bubbles zigzagged to the top of the central hydro unit and burst on the surface with a gloop.

  Hubert breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  'Well done, Igor, only one more to… Igor?'

  'Right here, thur,' said Igor, stepping out from behind him.

  'It looks as though it's working, Igor. Good old hyphenated silicon! But you're sure it'll still work as an economic modeller afterwards?'

  'Yeth, thur. I am confident in the new valve array. The thity will affect the Glooper, if you withth, but not the other way around.'

  'Even so, it would be dreadful if it fell into the wrong hands, Igor. I wonder if I should present the Glooper to the government. What do you think?'

  Igor gave this some thought. In his experience a prime definition of 'the wrong hands' was 'the government'.

  'I think you ought to take the opportunity to get out a bit more, thur,' he said kindly.

  'Yes, I suppose I have been overdoing it,' said Hubert. 'Um… about Mr Lipwig…'

  'Yeth?'

  Hubert looked like a man who had been wrestling with his conscience and got a knee in his eye. 'I want to put the gold back in the vault. That'll stop all this trouble.'

  'But it wath thtolen away yearth ago, thur,' Igor explained patiently. 'It wathn't your fault.'

  'No, but they were blaming Mr Lipwig, who's always been very kind to us.'

  'I think he got off on that one, thur.'

  'But we could put it back,' Hubert insisted. 'It would come back from wherever it was taken to, wouldn't it?'

  Igor scratched his head, causing a faint metallic noise. He had been following events with more care than Hubert employed and as far as he could see the missing gold had been spent by the Lavishes years ago. Mr Lipwig had been in trouble, but it seemed to Igor that trouble hit Mr Lipwig like a big wave hitting a flotilla of ducks. Afterwards there was no wave but there was still a lot of duck.

  'It might,' he conceded.

  'So that would be a good thing, yes?' Hubert insisted. 'And he's been very kind to us. We owe him that little favour.'

  'I don't think—'

  'That is an order, Igor!'

  Igor beamed. At last! All this politeness had been getting on his nerves. What an Igor expected was insane orders. That was what an Igor was born (and to some extent, made) for. A shouted order to do something of dubious morality with an unpredictable outcome? Thweet!

  Of course, thunder and lightning would have been more a
ppropriate. Instead there was nothing more than the bubbling of the Glooper and gentle glassy noises that always made Igor think he was in a wind-chime factory. But sometimes you just had to improvise.

  He topped up the little Gold Reserve flask to the ten tons marker, fiddled with the shiny valve array for a minute or two, and then stood back.

  'When I turn thith wheel, marthter, the Glooper will depothit an analogue of the gold in the vault and then clothe the connection.'

  'Very good, Igor.'

  'Er, you wouldn't like to thout thomething, would you,' he hinted.

  'Like what?'

  'Oh, I don't know… perhapth: "They said… sorry, thaid… thorry… I wath mad but thith will thow them!!"'

  'That's not really me.'

  'No?' said Igor. 'Perhapth a laugh, then?'

  'Would that help?'

  'Yeth, thur,' said Igor. 'It will help me.'

  'Oh, very well, if you think it will help,' said Hubert. He took a sip from the jug Igor had just used, and cleared his throat.

  'Hah,' he said. 'Er, hahahh hah HA HA HA HA HA HA…'

  What a waste of a wonderful gift, thought Igor, and turned the handle.

  Gloop!

  Even from down here in the vaults you could hear the buzz of activity in the banking hall.

  Moist walked under the weight of a crate of banknotes, to Adora Belle's annoyance.

  'Why can't you put them in a safe?'

  'Because those're full of coins. Anyway, we'll have to keep them in here for now, until we get sorted out.'

  'It's really just a victory thing, isn't it? Your triumph over gold.'

  'A bit, yes.'

  'You got away with it again.'

  'I wouldn't exactly put it like that. Gladys has applied to be my secretary'

  'Here's a tip: don't let her sit on your lap.'

  'I'm being serious here! She's ferocious! She probably wants my job now! She believes everything she reads!'

  'There's your answer, then. Good grief, she's the least of your problems!'

  'Every problem is an opportunity,' said Moist primly.