Making Money (4 page)

He just happened to glance out of the window, as anyone might.

The coachman was eating his lunch! His damn lunch! He had a little folding chair on the pavement, with his meal on a little folding table! It was a large pork pie and a bottle of beer! There was even a white tablecloth!

Moist went down the main stairs like a maddened tap dancer and ran out through the big double doors. In one crowded moment, as he hurried toward the coach, the meal, table, cloth, and chair were stowed in some unnoticeable compartment, and the man was standing by the invitingly open door.

“Look, what is this about?” Moist demanded, panting for breath. “I don’t have all—”

“Ah, Mr. Lipwig,” said Lord Vetinari’s voice from within, “do step inside. Thank you, Houseman, Mrs. Lavish will be waiting. Hurry up, Mr. Lipwig, I am not going to eat you. I have just had an acceptable cheese sandwich.”

What harm can it do to find out? It’s a question that left bruises down the centuries, even more than “It can’t hurt if I only take one” and “It’s all right if you only do it standing up.”

Moist climbed into the shadows. The door clicked behind him, and he turned suddenly.

“Oh, really,” said Lord Vetinari. “It’s just shut, it isn’t locked, Mr. Lipwig. Do compose yourself!” Beside him, Drumknott sat primly with a large leather satchel on his lap.

“What is it you want?” said Moist.

Lord Vetinari raised that eyebrow. “I? Nothing. What do you want?”

“What?”

“Well, you got into my coach, Mr. Lipwig.”

“Yes, but I was told it was outside!”

“And if you had been told it was black, would you have found it necessary to do anything about it? There is the door, Mr. Lipwig.”

“But you’ve been parked out here all morning!”

“It is a public street, sir,” said Lord Vetinari. “Now sit down. Good.”

The coach jerked into motion.

“You are restless, Mr. Lipwig,” said Vetinari. “You are careless of your safety. Life has lost its flavor, has it not?”

Moist didn’t reply.

“Let us talk about angels,” said Lord Vetinari.

“Oh yes, I know that one,” said Moist bitterly. “I’ve heard that one. That’s the one you got me with after I was hanged—”

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “Only mostly hanged, I think you’ll find. To within an inch of your life.”

“Whatever! I was hanged! And the worst part of that was finding out I only got two paragraphs in the Tanty Bugle!
*
Two paragraphs, may I say, for a life of ingenious, inventive, and strictly nonviolent crime? I could have been an example to youngsters! Page one got hogged by the Dyslectic Alphabet Killer, and he only managed A and W!”

“I confess the editor does appear to believe that it is not a proper crime unless someone is found in three alleys at once, but that is the price of a free press. And it suits us both, does it not, that Albert Spangler’s passage from this world was…unmemorable?”

“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, of course, the proud goldish 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 lock picks, 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 came to work in serious clothes but wore colorful ties in a mad, desperate attempt to show there was 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, mold, forge, and devise strange and inventive crimes. But they keep their money in old socks. They trust their socks better 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 looked up at the facade 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 cotton candy this big.

“Tell me, my lord,” Moist 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 deviled 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 for 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 smoothly. “And I bow to her wishes.”

“Did he often ‘work’ late?” said Moist, carefully quoting. No lady, eh? he thought.

“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. The tax gatherers used to have the top two floors, which may help engender a certain worried feeling. 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 piggy bank with a big coin stuck in the slot!”

“Oddly enough, it did used to be known as the Bad Penny,” said Vetinari. “It is a large treadmill that provides 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, but 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 onto an island of carpet. And the big desks were covered with sage-green leather. Ever since he was small, sage-green-leather-covered desks 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 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 while shaving. And Vetinari wore black, not a forward color 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!