Making Money (13 page)

It was, technically, a goatee similar to that of Lord Vetinari. A thin line of black hair came down each cheek, made a detour to loop equally thinly under the nose, and met in a black triangle just below the lip, thus giving what Cosmo must have thought was a look of menacing elegance. And indeed, on Vetinari it did. On Cosmo the elegant facial topiary floated unhappily on blue jowls glistening with little tiny beads of sweat, and gave the effect of a pubic chin.

Some master barber had to deal with it, hair by hair, every day, and his job wouldn’t have been made any easier by the fact that Cosmo had inflated somewhat since the day he adopted the style. There is a time in a thoughtless young man’s life when his six-pack becomes a keg, but in Cosmo’s case it had become a tub of lard.

And then you saw the eyes, and they made up for everything. They had the faraway look of a man who can already see you dead…

But probably not those of a killer himself, Moist hazarded. He probably bought death when he needed it. True, on fingers that were slightly too pudgy for them were ostensibly knobbly poison rings, but surely anyone really in the business wouldn’t have so many, would they? Real killers didn’t bother to advertise. And why was the elegant black glove on the other hand? That was an Assassins’ Guild affectation. Yep, guild-school trained, then. Lots of upper-class kids went there for the education but didn’t do the Black Syllabus. He probably had a note from his mother saying he was excused from stabbing.

Mr. Fusspot was trembling with fear or, perhaps, rage. In Moist’s arms he was growling like a leopard.

“Ah, my stepmother’s little dog,” said Cosmo, as the coach began to move. “How sweet. I do not waste words. I will give you ten thousand dollars for him, Mr. Lipwig.”

He held out a piece of paper in the ungloved hand.

“My note of hand for the money. Anyone in this city will accept it.”

The voice of Cosmo was a kind of modulated sigh, as if talking was somehow painful.

Moist read:

Please pay the sum of Ten Thousand Dollars to Moi? von Lipwig

And it was signed across a one-penny stamp by Cosmo Lavish, with many a flourish.

Signed across a stamp…where had that come from? But you saw it more and more in the city, and if you asked anyone why, they said, “’Cos it makes it legal, see?” And it was cheaper than lawyers, and so it worked.

And here it was, ten thousand dollars pointing directly at him.

How dare he try to bribe me, thought Moist. In fact, that was his second thought, that of the soon-to-be wearer of a goldish chain. His first thought, courtesy of the old Moist, was: How dare he try to bribe me so small.

“No,” he said. “Anyway, I’ll get more than that for looking after him for a few months!”

“Ah yes, but my offer is less…risky.”

“You think?”

Cosmo smiled. “Come now, Mr. Lipwig. We’re men of the world—”

“—you and I, yes?” Moist finished. “That’s so predictable. Besides, you should have offered me more money first.”

At this point something happened in the vicinity of Cosmo’s forehead. Both eyebrows began to twist like Mr. Fusspot’s when he was puzzled. They writhed for a moment, and then Cosmo saw Moist’s expression, whereupon he slapped his brow and his momentary glare indicated that instant death would reward any comment.

He cleared his throat and said, “For what I can get free? We are making a very good case that my stepmother was insane when she made that will.”

“She seemed sharp as a tack to me, sir,” said Moist.

“With two loaded crossbows on her desk?”

“Ah, I see your point. Yes, if she was really sane, she’d have hired a couple of trolls with big, big clubs.”

Cosmo gave Moist a long, appraising look, or what he clearly thought was one, but Moist knew that tactic. It was supposed to make the lookee think they were being weighed up for a serious kicking, but it could just as easily mean “I’ll give him the ol’ hard eyeball while I’m wondering what to do next.” Cosmo might be a ruthless man, but he wasn’t a stupid one. A man in a gold suit gets noticed, and someone would remember whose coach he got into.

“I fear that my stepmother has landed you into a lot of trouble,” said Cosmo.

“I’ve been in trouble before,” said Moist.

“Oh? When was that?” And this came sharp and sudden.

Ah. The past. Not a good place to go. Moist tried to avoid it.

“Very little is known about you, Mr. Lipwig,” Cosmo went on. “You were born in Überwald, and you became our postmaster general. In between…”

“I’ve managed to survive,” said Moist.

“An enviable achievement indeed,” said Cosmo. He tapped on the side of the coach and it began to slow. “I trust it will continue. In the meantime, let me at least give you this…”

He tore the bill in half, and dropped the half that very emphatically did not carry his seal or signature onto Moist’s lap.

“What is this for?” said Moist, picking it up while trying to restrain the frantic Mr. Fusspot with the other hand.

“Oh, just a declaration of good faith,” said Cosmo, as the coach stopped. “One day you might feel inclined to ask me for the other half. But understand me, Mr. Lipwig, I don’t usually take the trouble to do things the hard way.”

“Don’t bother to do so on my account, please,” said Moist, wrenching the door open. Sator Square was outside, full of carts and people and embarrassingly potential witnesses.

For a moment, Cosmo’s forehead did that…eyebrow thing again. He gave it a slap, and said, “Mr. Lipwig, you misunderstand. This was the hard way. Good-bye. My regards to your young lady.”

Moist spun on the cobbles, but the door had slammed shut and the coach was speeding away.

“Why didn’t you add ‘We know where your children will go to school’?” he shouted after it.

What now? Hell’s bells, he had been dropped right in it!

A little way up the street, the palace beckoned.

Vetinari had some questions to answer. How had the man arranged it? The Watch said she’d died of natural causes! But he’d been trained as an assassin, yes? A real one, specializing in poisons, maybe?

He strode in through the open gates, but the guards stopped him at the building itself. Moist knew them of old. There was probably an entrance exam for them. If they answered the question “What is your name?” and got it wrong, they were hired. There were trolls that could outthink them.

But you couldn’t fool them, or talk them round. They had a list of people who could walk right in, and another of people who needed an appointment. If you weren’t on either, you didn’t get in.

However, one of their captains, bright enough to read large type, did recognize “Postmaster General” and “Chairman of the Royal Bank” and sent one of the lads knuckling off to see Drumknott, carrying a scribbled note. To Moist’s surprise, ten minutes later, he was being ushered into the Oblong Office.

Seats around the big conference table at one end of the room were fully occupied. Moist recognized a few guild leaders, but quite a few were average-looking citizens, working men, men who looked ill at ease indoors. Maps of the city were strewn across the table. He’d interrupted something. Or, rather, Vetinari had interrupted something for him.

Lord Vetinari got up as soon as Moist entered, and beckoned him forward.

“Please excuse me, ladies, gentlemen, but I do need some time with the postmaster general. Drumknott, do take everyone through the figures again, will you? Mr. Lipwig, this way if you please.”

Moist thought he heard muffled laughter behind them as he was ushered into what he at first thought was a high-ceilinged corridor, but which turned out to be a sort of an art gallery. Vetinari shut the door behind them. The click seemed, to Moist, to be very loud. His anger was draining fast, to be replaced by a very chilly feeling. Vetinari was a tyrant, after all. If Moist was never seen again, his lordship’s reputation would only be enhanced.

“Do put down Mr. Fusspot,” said Vetinari. “It will do the little chap good to run about.”

Moist lowered the dog to the ground. It was like dropping a shield. And now he could take in what it was this gallery exhibited.

What he’d thought were carved stone busts were faces, made of wax. And Moist knew how and when they were made, too.

They were death masks.

“My predecessors,” said Vetinari, strolling down the gallery. “Not a complete collection, of course. In some cases the head could not be found or was, as you might say, in a rather untidy state.”

There was a silence. Foolishly, Moist filled it.

“It must be strange, having them look down on you every day,” he managed.

“Oh, do you think so? I have to say I’d rather look down on them. Gross men, for the most part, greedy, venal, and clumsy. Cunning can do duty for thought up to a point, and then you die. Most of them died rich, fat, and terrified. They left the city the worse for their incumbency and the better for their death. But now the city works, Mr. Lipwig. We progress. We would not do so if the ruler was the kind of man who would kill elderly ladies, do you understand?”

“I never said—”

“I know exactly what you never said. You refrained from saying it very loudly.” Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “I am extremely angry, Mr. Lipwig.”

“But I’ve been dropped right in it!”

“Not by me,” said Vetinari. “I can assure you that if I had, as your ill-assumed street patois has it, ‘dropped you in it,’ you would fully understand all meanings of ‘drop’ and have an unenviable knowledge of ‘it.’”

“You know what I mean!”

“Dear me, is this the real Moist von Lipwig speaking, or is it just the man looking forward to his very nearly gold chain? Topsy Lavish knew she was going and simply changed her will. I salute her for it. The staff will accept you more easily, too. And she’s done you a great favor.”

“Favor? I was shot at!”

“That was just the Assassins’ Guild dropping you a note to say they are watching you.”

“There were two shots!”

“Possibly for emphasis?” said Vetinari, sitting down on a velvet-covered chair.

“Look, banking is supposed to be dull! Numbers, pensions, a job for life!”

“For life possibly, but apparently not for long,” said Vetinari, clearly enjoying this.

“Can’t you do something?”

“About Cosmo Lavish? Why should I? Offering to buy a dog is not illegal.”

“But the whole family is—how did you know that? I didn’t tell you!”

Vetinari waved a hand dismissively. “Know the man, know the method. I know Cosmo. In this sort of situation he will not resort to force if money will work. He can be very personable when he wants to be.”

“But I’ve heard about the rest of them. They sound a pretty poisonous bunch.”

“I couldn’t possibly comment. However, Topsy has helped you there. The Assassins’ Guild won’t take out a second contract on you. Conflict of interests, you see. I suppose technically they could accept a contract on the chairman, but I doubt if they will. Killing a lapdog? It would not look good on anyone’s résumé.”

“I didn’t sign up to deal with something like this!”

“No, Mr. Lipwig, you signed up to die,” snapped Vetinari, his voice suddenly as cold and deadly as a falling icicle. “You signed up to be justly hanged by the neck until dead for crimes against the city, against the public good, against the trust of man for man. And you were resurrected, because the city required you to be. This is about the city, Mr. Lipwig. It is always about the city. You know, of course, that I have plans?”

“It was in the Times. The Undertaking. You want to build roads and drains and streets under the city. There’s some dwarf machine we’ve got hold of, called a Device. And the dwarfs can make waterproof tunnels. The Artificers’ Guild is very excited about it all.”

“I gather by your somber tones that you are not?”

Moist shrugged. Engines of any sort had never interested him. “I don’t think much about it one way or another.”

“Astonishing,” said Vetinari, taken aback. “Well, Mr. Lipwig, you can at least guess at what we will need in very large amounts for this project.”

“Shovels?”

“Finance, Mr. Lipwig. And I would have it, if we had a banking system suitable for the times. I have every confidence in your ability to…shake things up a little.”

Moist tried one last throw. “The Post Office needs me—” he began.

“At the moment it does not, and you chafe at the thought,” said Vetinari. “You are not a man for the humdrum. I hereby grant you leave of absence. Mr. Groat has been your deputy, and while he may not have your…flair, let us say, he will, I am sure, keep things moving along.”

He stood up, indicating that the audience was at an end. “The city bleeds, Mr. Lipwig, and you are the clot I need. Go away and make money. Unlock the wealth of Ankh-Morpork. Mrs. Lavish gave you the bank in trust. Run it well.”

“It’s the dog that’s got the bank, you know!”

“And what a trusting little face he has,” said Vetinari, ushering Moist to the door. “Don’t let me detain you, Mr. Lipwig. Remember—it’s all about the city.”

T
HERE WAS ANOTHER
protest march going on when Moist walked to the bank. You got more and more of them lately. It was a funny thing, but everyone seemed to want to live under the despotic rule of the tyrannical Lord Vetinari. They poured into the city whose streets were apparently paved with gold.

It wasn’t gold. But the influx was having an effect, no doubt about it. Wages were falling, to start with.

This march was against the employment of golems, who uncomplainingly did the dirtiest jobs, worked around the clock, and were so honest they paid their taxes. But they weren’t human and they had glowing eyes, and people could get touchy about that sort of thing.

Mr. Bent must have been waiting behind a pillar. Moist was no sooner through the doors of the bank, Mr. Fusspot tucked happily under his arm, when the chief cashier was by his side.

“The staff are very concerned sir,” he said, piloting Moist toward the stairs. “I took the liberty of telling them that you would speak to them later.”