Making Money d-36 Read online

  'Yes, but I wasn't expecting an afterlife like this! I have to do what I'm told for the rest of my life?'

  'Correction, your new life. That is a crude summary, yes,' said Vetinari. 'Let me rephrase things, however. Ahead of you, Mr Lipwig, is a life of respectable quiet contentment, of civic dignity and, of course, in the fullness of time a pension. Not to mention the proud gold-ish chain.'

  Moist winced at this. 'And if I don't do what you say?'

  'Hmm? Oh, you misunderstand me, Mr Lipwig. That is what will happen to you if you decline my offer. If you accept it, you will survive on your wits against powerful and dangerous enemies, with every day presenting fresh challenges. Someone may even try to kill you.'

  'What? Why?'

  'You annoy people. A hat goes with the job, incidentally.'

  'And this job makes real money?'

  'Nothing but money, Mr Lipwig. It is in fact that of Master of the Royal Mint.'

  'What? Banging out pennies all day?'

  'In short, yes. But it is traditionally attached to a senior post at the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork, which will occupy most of your attention. You can make money, as it were, in your spare time.'

  'A banker! Me?'

  'Yes, Mr Lipwig.'

  'But I don't know anything about running a bank!'

  'Good. No preconceived ideas.'

  'I've robbed banks!'

  'Capital! Just reverse your thinking,' said Lord Vetinari, beaming. 'The money should be on the inside!

  The coach slowed to a stop.

  'What is this about?' said Moist. 'Actually about?'

  'When you took over the Post Office, Mr Lipwig, it was a disgrace. Now it works quite efficiently. Efficiently enough to be boring, in fact. Why, a young man might find himself climbing by night, perhaps, or picking locks for the thrill of it, or even flirting with Extreme Sneezing. How are you finding the lockpicks, by the way?'

  It had been a poky little shop in a poky alley, and there had been no one in there but the little old lady who'd sold him the picks. He still didn't know exactly why he'd bought them. They were only geographically illegal, but it gave him a little thrill to know they were in his jacket. It was sad, like those businessmen who come to work in serious clothes but wear colourful ties in a mad despairing attempt to show there is a free spirit in there somewhere.

  Oh gods, I've become one of them. But at least he doesn't seem to know about the blackjack.

  'I'm not too bad,' he said.

  'And the blackjack? You, who have never struck another man? You clamber on rooftops and pick the locks on your own desks. You're like a caged animal, dreaming of the jungle! I'd like to give you what you long for. I'd like to throw you to the lions.'

  Moist began to protest, but Vetinari held up a hand.

  'You took our joke of a Post Office, Mr Lipwig, and made it a solemn undertaking. But the banks of Ankh-Morpork, sir, are very serious indeed. They are serious donkeys, Mr Lipwig. There have been too many failures. They're stuck in the mud, they live in the past, they are hypnotized by class and wealth, they think gold is important.'

  'Er…isn't it?'

  'No. And thief and swindler that you are, pardon me, once were, you know it, deep down. For you, it was just a way of keeping score,' said Vetinari. 'What does gold know of true worth? Look out of the window and tell me what you see.'

  'Um, a small scruffy dog watching a man taking a piss in an alley,' said Moist. 'Sorry, but you chose the wrong time.'

  'Had I been taken less literally,' said Lord Vetinari, giving him a look, 'you would have seen a large, bustling city, full of ingenious people spinning wealth out of the common clay of the world. They construct, build, carve, bake, cast, mould, forge and devise strange and inventive crimes. But they keep their money in old socks. They trust their socks more than they trust banks. Coinage is in artificially short supply, which is why your postage stamps are now a de facto currency. Our serious banking system is a mess. A joke, in fact.'

  'It'll be a bigger joke if you put me in charge,' said Moist.

  Vetinari gave him a brief little smile. 'Will it?' he said. 'Well, we all need a chuckle sometimes.'

  The coachman opened the door, and they stepped out.

  Why temples? thought Moist, as he gazed up at the façade of the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork. Why do they always build banks to look like temples, despite the fact that several major religions a) are canonically against what they do inside and b) bank there.

  He'd looked at it before, of course, but had never really bothered to see it until now. As temples of money went, this one wasn't bad. The architect at least knew how to design a decent column, and also knew when to stop. He had set his face like flint against any prospect of cherubs, although above the columns was a high-minded frieze showing something allegorical involving maidens and urns. Most of the urns, and, Moist noticed, some of the young women, had birds nesting in them. An angry pigeon looked down at Moist from a stony bosom.

  Moist had walked past the place many times. It never looked very busy. And behind it was the Royal Mint, which never showed any signs of life at all.

  It would be hard to imagine an uglier building that hadn't won a major architectural award. The Mint was a gaunt brick and stone block, its windows high, small, many and barred, its doors protected by portcullises, its whole construction saying to the world: Don't Even Think About It.

  Up until now Moist hadn't even thought about it. It was a mint. That sort of place held you upside down over a bucket and shook you hard before they let you out. They had guards, and doors with spikes.

  And Vetinari wanted to make him the boss of it. There was going to have to be a huge razor blade in a stick of candyfloss this big.

  'Tell me, my lord,' he said carefully. 'What happened to the man who used to occupy the post?'

  'I thought you would ask, so I looked it up. He died aged ninety, of a schism of the heart.'

  That didn't sound too bad, but Moist knew enough to probe further. 'Anyone else died lately?'

  'Sir Joshua Lavish, the chairman of the bank. He died six months ago in his own bed, aged eighty.'

  'A man can die in some very unpleasant ways in his own bed,' Moist pointed out.

  'So I believe,' said Lord Vetinari. 'In this case, however, it was in the arms of a young woman called Honey after a very large meal of devilled oysters. How unpleasant that was I suppose we shall never know.'

  'She was his wife? You said it was his own—'

  'He had an apartment in the bank,' said Lord Vetinari. 'A traditional perk that was useful when he was' — here Vetinari paused lor a fraction of a second — 'working late. Mrs Lavish was not present at the time.'

  'If he was a Sir, shouldn't she be a Lady?' said Moist.

  'It is rather characteristic of Mrs Lavish that she does not like being a Lady,' said Lord Vetinari. 'And I bow to her wishes.'

  'Did he often "work" late?' said Moist, carefully quoting.

  'With astonishing regularity for his age, I understand,' said Vetinari.

  'Oh, really?' said Moist. 'You know, I think I recall the obituary in the Times. But I don't remember any of that sort of detail.'

  'Yes, what is the Press coming to, one wonders.'

  Vetinari turned and surveyed the building. 'Of the two, I prefer the honesty of the Mint,' he said. 'It growls at the world. What do you think, Mr Lipwig?'

  'What's that round thing I always see poking out of the roof?' said Moist. 'It makes it look like a money box with a big coin stuck in the slot!'

  'Oddly enough, it did use to be known as the Bad Penny,' said Vetinari. 'It is a large treadmill to provide power for the coin stamping and so forth. Powered by prisoners once upon a time, when "community service" wasn't just a word. Or even two. It was considered cruel and unusual punishment, however, which does rather suggest a lack of imagination. Shall we go in?'

  'Look, sir, what is it you would want me to do?' said Moist, as they climbed the marble steps. 'I know a bit about banking, bu
t how do I run a mint?'

  Vetinari shrugged. 'I have no idea. People turn handles, I assume. Someone tells them how often, and when to stop.'

  'And why will anyone want to kill me?'

  'I couldn't say, Mr Lipwig. But there was at least one attempt on your life when you were innocently delivering letters, so I expect your career in banking will be an exciting one.'

  They reached the top of the steps. An elderly man in what might have been the uniform of a general in one of the more unstable kinds of armies held open the door for them.

  Lord Vetinari gestured for Moist to enter first.

  'I'm just going to have a look around, all right?' said Moist, stumbling through the doorway. 'I really haven't had time to think about this.'

  'That is understood,' said Vetinari.

  'I'm committing myself to nothing by it, right?'

  'Nothing,' said Vetinari. He strolled to a leather sofa and sat down, beckoning Moist to sit beside him. Drumknott, ever attentive, hovered behind them.

  'The smell of banks is always pleasing, don't you think?' said Vetinari. 'A mix of polish and ink and wealth.'

  And ursery,' said Moist.

  'That would be cruelty to bears. You mean usury, I suspect. The churches don't seem to be so much against it these days. Incidentally, only the current chairman of the bank knows my intentions. To everyone else here today, you are merely carrying out a brief inspection on my behalf. It is just as well you are not wearing the famous gold suit.'

  There was a hush in the bank, mostly because the ceiling was so high that sounds were just lost, but partly because people lower their voices in the presence of large sums of money. Red velvet and brass were much in evidence. There were pictures everywhere, of serious men in frock coats. Sometimes footsteps echoed briefly on the white marble floor and were suddenly swallowed when their owner stepped on to an island of carpet. And the big desks were covered with sage-green leather. Ever since he was small, a sage-green leather desktop had been Wealth to Moist. Red leather? Pah! That was for parvenus and wannabes. Sage green meant that you'd got there, and that your ancestors had got there too. It should be a little bit worn, for the best effect.

  On the wall above the counter a big clock, supported by cherubs, ticked away. Lord Vetinari was having an effect on the bank. Staff were nudging one another and pointing with their expressions.

  In truth, Moist realized, they were not a readily noticeable pair. Nature had blessed him with the ability to be a face in the background, even when he was standing only a few feet away. He wasn't ugly, he wasn't handsome, he was just so forgettable he sometimes surprised himself whilst shaving. And Vetinari wore black, not a forward colour at all, but nevertheless his presence was like a lead weight on a rubber sheet. It distorted the space around it. People didn't immediately see him, but they sensed his presence.

  Now people were whispering into speaking tubes. The Patrician was here and no one was formally greeting him! There would be trouble!

  ' How is Miss Dearheart?' said Vetinari, apparently oblivious of the growing stir.

  'She's away,' said Moist bluntly.

  'Ah, the Trust has located another buried golem, no doubt.'

  'Yes.'

  'Still trying to carry out orders given to it thousands of years ago?'

  'Probably. It's out in the wilderness somewhere.'

  'She is indefatigable,' said Vetinari happily. 'Those people are resurrected from darkness to turn the wheels of commerce, for the general good. Just like you, Mr Lipwig. She is doing the city a great service. And the Golem Trust, too.'

  'Yes,' said Moist, letting the whole resurrection thing pass.

  'But your tone says otherwise.'

  'Well…' Moist knew he was squirming, but squam anyway. 'She's always rushing off because they've traced another golem in some ancient sewer or something—'

  'And not rushing off after you, as it were?'

  'And she's been away for weeks on this one,' said Moist, ignoring the comment because it was probably accurate, 'and she won't tell me what it's about. She just says it's very important. Something new.'

  'I think she's mining,' said Vetinari. He began to tap his cane on the marble, slowly. It made a ringing sound. 'I have heard that golems appear to be mining on dwarf land this side of Chimeria, near the coach road. Much to the interest of the dwarfs, I might add. The King leased the land to the Trust and wants to make certain he gets a look at what is dug up.'

  'Is she in trouble?'

  'Miss Dearheart? No. Knowing her, the king of the dwarfs might be. She's a very… composed young lady, I've noticed.'

  'Hah! You don't know the half of it.'

  Moist made a mental note to send Adora Belle a message as soon as this was over. The whole situation with golems was heating up once more, what with the guilds complaining about them taking jobs. She was needed in the city — by the golems, obviously.

  He became aware of a subtle noise. It came from below, and sounded very much like air bubbling through liquid, or maybe water being poured out of a bottle with the familiar blomp-blomp sound.

  'Can you hear that?' he said.

  'Yes.'

  'Do you know what it is?'

  'The future of economic planning, I understand.' Lord Vetinari looked, if not worried, then at least unaccustomedly puzzled. 'Something must have happened,' he said. 'Mr Bent is normally oiling his way across the floor within seconds of my entrance. I hope nothing unamusing has happened to him.'

  A pair of big elevator doors opened at the far end of the hall, and a man stepped through. For just a moment, probably unnoticed by anyone who had never had to read faces for a living, he was anxious and upset, but it passed with speed as he adjusted his cuffs and set his face in the warm, benevolent smile of someone who is about to take some money off you.

  Mr Bent was in every way smooth and uncreased. Moist had been expecting a traditional banker's frock coat, but instead there was a very well cut black jacket above pinstripe trousers. Mr Bent was also silent. His feet, soundless even on the marble, were unusually large for such a dapper man, but the shoes, black and polished, mirror-shiny, were well made. Perhaps he wanted to show them off, because he walked like a dressage horse, lifting each foot very deliberately off the ground before setting it down again. Apart from that incongruity, Mr Bent had the air about him of one who stands quietly in a cupboard when not in use.

  'Lord Vetinari, I am so sorry!' he began. 'I'm afraid there was unfinished business—'

  Lord Vetinari got to his feet. 'Mr Mavolio Bent, allow me to present Mr Moist von Lipwig,' he said. 'Mr Bent is the chief cashier here.'

  'Ah, the inventor of the revolutionary unsecured One Penny note?' said Bent, extending a thin hand. 'Such audacity! I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr Lipwig.'

  'One penny note?' said Moist, mystified. Mr Bent, despite his protestation, did not look pleased at all.

  'Did you not listen to what I was saying?' said Vetinari. 'Your stamps, Mr Lipwig.'

  'A de facto currency,' said Bent and light dawned on Moist. Well, it was true, he knew it. He'd meant stamps to be stuck to letters, but people had decided, in their untutored way, that a penny stamp was nothing more than a very light, government-guaranteed penny and, moreover, one that you could put in an envelope. The advertising pages were full of the businesses that had sprouted on the back of the beguilingly transferable postage stamps: 'Learn The Uttermost Secrets Of The Cosmos! Send 8 penny Stamps for booklet!' A lot of stamps wore out as currency without ever seeing the inside of a posting box.

  Something in Bent's smile annoyed Moist, though. It was not quite as kind when seen close to. 'What do you mean by "unsecured"?' he said.

  'How do you validate its claim to be worth a penny?'

  'Er, if you stick it on a letter you get a penny's worth of travel?' said Moist. 'I don't see what you're getting at—'

  'Mr Bent is one of those who believe in the pre-eminence of gold, Mr Lipwig,' said Vetinari. 'I'm sure you'll get along exac
tly like a house on fire. I shall leave you now, and await your decision with, ah, compound interest. Come, Drumknott. Perhaps you will drop in to see me tomorrow, Mr Lipwig?'

  Moist and Bent watched them go. Then Bent glared at Moist. I suppose I must show you around… sir,' he said.

  'I have a feeling that we haven't quite hit it off, Mr Bent,' said Moist.

  Bent shrugged, an impressive manoeuvre on that gaunt frame. It was like watching an ironing-board threatening to unfold.

  'I know nothing to your discredit, Mr Lipwig. But I believe the chairman and Lord Vetinari have a dangerous scheme in mind, and you are their catspaw, Mr Lipwig, you are their implement.'

  'This would be the new chairman?'

  'That is correct.'

  'I don't particularly want or intend to be an implement,' said Moist.

  'Good for you, sir. But events are eventuating—'

  There was a crash of broken glass from below, and a faint muffled voice shouted: 'Damn! There goes the Balance of Payments!'

  'Let's have that tour, shall we?' said Moist brightly. 'Starting with what that was?'

  'That abomination?' Bent gave a little shudder. 'I think we should leave that until Hubert has cleaned up. Oh, will you look at that? It really is terrible…'

  Mr Bent strode across the floor until he was under the big, solemn clock. He glared at it as if it had mortally offended him, and snapped his fingers, but a junior clerk was already hurrying across the floor with a small stepladder. Mr Bent mounted the steps, opened the clock, and moved the second hand forward by two seconds. The clock was slammed shut, the steps dismounted, and the accountant returned to Moist, adjusting his cuffs.

  He looked Moist up and down. 'It loses almost a minute a week. Am I the only person who finds this offensive? It would appear so, alas. Let's start with the gold, shall we?'

  'Ooo, yes,' said Moist. 'Let's!'

  Chapter 2

  The promise of gold — The Men of the Sheds — The cost of a penny and the usefulness of widows — Overheads underfoot — Security, the importance thereof — A fascination with transactions — A son of many fathers — Alleged untrustworthiness in a case of flaming underwear — The Panopticon of the World and the blindness of Mr Bent — An Arch Comment