Making Money (14 page)

Moist was aware of the worried stares. And of other things, too, now that he was looking with an almost proprietorial eye. Yes, the bank had been built well, out of fine materials, but get past that and you could see the neglect and the marks of time. It was like the now-inconveniently-large house of a poor old widow who just couldn’t see the dust anymore. The brass was rather tarnished, the red velvet curtains frayed and a little bald in places, the marble floor was only erratically shiny—

“What?” he said. “Oh, yes. Good idea. Can you get this place cleaned up?”

“Sir?”

“The carpets are mucky, the plush ropes are unraveled, the curtains have seen better centuries, and the brass needs a jolly good scrub. The bank should look smart, Mr. Bent. You might give money to a beggar but you wouldn’t lend it to him, eh?”

Bent’s eyebrows rose. “And that’s the chairman’s view, is it?” he said.

“The chairman? Oh, yes. Mr. Fusspot’s very keen on clean. Isn’t that right, Mr. Fusspot?”

Mr. Fusspot stopped growling at Mr. Bent long enough to bark a couple of times.

“See?” said Moist. “When you don’t know what to do, comb your hair and clean your shoes. Words of wisdom, Mr. Bent. Jump to it.”

“I shall elevate myself to the best of my ability, sir,” said Bent. “Meanwhile, a young lady has called, sir. She seemed reluctant to give her name but said you would be pleased to see her. I have ushered her into the small boardroom.”

“Did you have to open a window?” said Moist hopefully.

“No, sir.”

That ruled out Adora Belle, then, to replace her with a horrifying thought. “She’s not one of the Lavish family, is she?”

“No, sir. And it’s time for Mr…. it’s time for the chairman’s lunch, sir. He has cold, boned chicken because of his stomach. I’ll have it sent along to the small boardroom, shall I?”

“Yes, please. Could you rustle up something for me?”

“Rustle, sir?” Bent looked puzzled. “You mean steal?”

Ah, that kind of man, Moist thought.

“I meant find me something to eat,” he translated.

“Certainly, sir. There is a small kitchen in the suite and we have a chef on call. Mrs. Lavish has lived here for some time. It will be interesting to have a master of the Royal Mint again.”

“I like the sound of master of the Royal Mint,” Moist said. “How about that, Mr. Fusspot?”

On cue, the chairman barked.

“Hmm,” said Bent. “One final thing, sir. Could you please sign these?” He indicated a pile of paperwork.

“What are they? They’re not minutes, are they? I don’t do minutes.”

“They are various formalities, sir. Basically, they add up to you signing a receipt for the bank on the chairman’s behalf, but I am advised that Mr. Fusspot’s paw mark should appear in the places ticked.”

“Does he have to read all this?” said Moist.

“No, sir.”

“Then I won’t. It’s a bank. You’ve given me the big tour. It’s not as though it’s got a wheel missing. Just show me where to sign.”

“Just here, sir. And here. And here. And here. And here. And here.

And here…”

T
HE LADY IN
the conference room was certainly an attractive woman, but since she worked for the Times, Moist felt unable to award her total ladylike status. Ladies didn’t fiendishly quote exactly what you said but didn’t exactly mean, or hit you around the ear with unexpectedly difficult questions. Well, come to think of it, they did, quite often, but she got paid for it.

But, he had to admit, Sacharissa Cripslock was fun.

“Sacharissa! This is a should-have-been-expected surprise!” he declared, as he stepped into the room.

“Mr. Lipwig! Always a pleasure!” said the woman. “So you are a dog’s body now?”

That kind of fun. A bit like juggling knives. You were instantly on your toes. It was as good as a workout.

“Writing the headlines already, Sacharissa?” he said. “I am merely carrying out the terms of Mrs. Lavish’s will.” He put Mr. Fusspot on the polished tabletop and sat down.

“So you are now chairman of the bank?”

“No, Mr. Fusspot here is the chairman,” said Moist. “Bark circumspectly at the nice lady with the busy pencil, Mr. Fusspot!”

“Woof,” said Mr. Fusspot.

“Mr. Fusspot is the chairman,” said Sacharissa, rolling her eyes. “Of course. And you take orders from him, do you?”

“Yes. I am master of the Royal Mint, by the way.”

“A dog and his master,” said Sacharissa. “How nice. And I expect you can read his thoughts because of some mystic bond between dog and man?”

“Sacharissa, I could not have put it better.”

They smiled at each other. This was only round one. Both knew they were barely warming up.

“So, I take it that you would not agree with those who say that this is one last ruse by the late Mrs. Lavish to keep the bank out of the hands of the rest of her family, believed by some to be totally incapable of running it anywhere but further into the ground? Or would you confirm the opinion of many that the Patrician has every intention of bringing the city’s uncooperative banking industry to heel, and finds in this situation the perfect opportunity?”

“Some who believe, those who say…who are these mysterious people?” said Moist, trying to raise an eyebrow as good as Vetinari’s. “And how is it that you know so many of them?”

Sacharissa sighed. “And you wouldn’t describe Mr. Fusspot as really little more than a convenient sock puppet?”

“Woof?” said the dog at the mention of his name.

“I find the very question offensive!” said Moist. “And so does he!”

“Moist, you are just no fun anymore.” Sacharissa closed her notebook. “You’re talking like…well, like a banker.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Remember, just because she’s shut the notebook doesn’t mean you can relax!

“No dashing around on mad stallions? Nothing to make us cheer? No wild dreams?” said Sacharissa.

“Well, I’m already tidying up the foyer.”

Sacharissa’s eyes narrowed. “Tidying the foyer? Who are you, and what have you done with the real Moist von Lipwig?”

“No, I’m serious. We have to clean up ourselves before we can clean up the economy,” said Moist, and felt his brain shift seductively into a higher gear. “I intend to throw out what we don’t need. For example, we have a room full of useless metal in the vault. That’ll have to go.”

Sacharissa frowned. “Are you talking about the gold?”

Where had that come from? Well, don’t try to back away, or she’ll go for the throat. Tough it out! Besides, it’s good to see her looking astonished.

“Yes,” he said.

“You can’t be serious!”

The notebook was instantly flipped open, and Moist’s tongue began to gallop. He couldn’t stop it. It would have been nice if it had talked to him first. Taking over his brain, it said:

“Dead serious! I am recommending to Lord Vetinari that we sell it all to the dwarfs. We do not need it. It’s a commodity and nothing more.”

“But what’s worth more than gold?”

“Practically everything. You, for example. Gold is heavy. Your weight in gold is not very much gold at all. Aren’t you worth more than that?”

Sacharissa looked momentarily flustered, to Moist’s glee. “Well, in a manner of speaking—”

“The only manner of speaking worth talking about,” said Moist flatly. “The world is full of things worth more than gold. But we dig the damn stuff up and then bury it in a different hole. Where’s the sense in that? What are we, magpies? Is it all about the gleam? Good heavens, potatoes are worth more than gold!”

“Surely not!”

“If you were shipwrecked on a desert island, what would you prefer, a bag of potatoes or a bag of gold?”

“Yes, but a desert island isn’t Ankh-Morpork!”

“And that proves gold is only valuable because we agree it is, right? It’s just a dream. But a potato is always worth a potato, anywhere. Add a knob of butter and a pinch of salt and you’ve got a meal, anywhere. Bury gold in the ground and you’ll be worrying about thieves forever. Bury a potato and in due season you could be looking at a dividend of a thousand percent.”

“Can I assume for a moment that you don’t intend to put us on the potato standard?” said Sacharissa sharply.

Moist smiled. “No, it won’t be that. But in a few days I shall be giving away money. It doesn’t like to stand still, you know. It likes to get out and make new friends.” The bit of Moist’s brain that was trying to keep up with his mouth thought: I wish I could make notes about this; I’m not sure I can remember it all. But the conversations of the last day were banging together in his memory and making a kind of music. He wasn’t sure he had all the notes yet, but there were bits he could hum. He just had to listen to himself for long enough to find out what he was talking about.

“By giving away you mean—” said Sacharissa.

“Hand over. Make a gift of. Seriously.”

“How? Why?”

“All in good time!”

“You are smirking at me, Moist!”

No, I’ve frozen because I’ve just heard what my mouth said, Moist thought. I don’t have a clue, I’ve just got some random thoughts. It’s…

“It’s about desert islands,” he said. “And why this city isn’t one.”

“And that’s it?”

Moist rubbed his forehead. “Miss Cripslock, Miss Cripslock…this morning I got up with nothing in mind but to seriously make headway with the paperwork and maybe lick the problem of that special 25p Cabbage Green stamp. You know, the one that’ll grow into a cabbage if you plant it? How can you expect me to come up with a new fiscal initiative by teatime?”

“All right, but—”

“It’ll take me at least until breakfast.”

He saw her write that down. Then she tucked the notebook in her handbag.

“This is going to be fun, isn’t it,” she said, and Moist thought: Never trust her when she’s put her notebook away, either. She’s got a good memory.

“Seriously, I think this is an opportunity for me to do something big and important for my adopted city,” said Moist, in his sincere voice.

“That’s your sincere voice,” she said.

“Well, I’m being sincere,” said Moist.

“But since you raise the subject, Moist, what were you doing with your life before the citizens of Ankh-Morpork greeted you with open palms?”

“Surviving,” said Moist. “In Überwald the old empire was breaking up. It was not unusual for a government to change twice over lunch. I worked at anything I could to make a living. By the way, I think you meant ‘arms’ back there,” he added.

“And when you got here you impressed the gods so much that they led you to a treasure trove so that you could rebuild our post office.”

“I’m very humble about that,” said Moist, trying to look it.

“Ye-ess. And the gods-given gold was all in used coinage from the plains cities…”

“You know what, I’ve often lain awake wondering about that myself,” said Moist, “and I reached the conclusion that the gods, in their wisdom, decided that the gift should be instantly negotiable.” I can go on like this for as long as you like, he thought, and you’re trying to play poker with no cards. You can suspect all you like, but I gave that money back! Okay, I stole it in the first place, but giving it back counts for something, doesn’t it? The slate is clean, isn’t it? Well, acceptably grubby, yes?

The door opened slowly, and a young and nervous woman crept in, holding a plate of cold, boned chicken. Mr. Fusspot brightened up as she placed it in front of him.

“Sorry, can we get you a coffee or something?” said Moist, as the girl headed back toward the door.

Sacharissa stood up. “Thank you, but no. I’m on a deadline, Mr. Lipwig. I’m sure we’ll be talking again very soon.”

“I’m certain of it, Miss Cripslock,” said Moist.

She took a step toward him and lowered her voice.

“Do you know who that girl was?”

“No, I hardly know anyone yet.”

“So you don’t know if you can trust her?”

“Trust her?”

Sacharissa sighed. “This is not like you, Moist. She’s just given a plate of food to the most valuable dog in the world. A dog that some people might like to see dead.”

“Why shouldn’t—” Moist began. They both turned to Mr. Fusspot, who was already licking the empty plate up the length of the table with an appreciative gronf-gronf noise.

“Er…can you see yourself out?” said Moist, hurrying toward the sliding plate.

“If you’re in any doubt, stick your fingers down his throat!” said Sacharissa from the door with what Moist considered an inappropriate amount of amusement.

He grabbed the dog and hurried through the far door, after the girl. It led to a narrow and not particularly well-decorated corridor with a green door at the end, from which came the sound of voices.

Moist barged through it.

In the small, neat kitchen beyond, a tableau greeted him. The young woman was backed against a table, and a bearded man in a white suit was wielding a big knife. They looked shocked.

“What’s going on!” Moist yelled.

“Er, er…you just ran through the door and shouted?” said the girl. “Was something wrong? I always give Mr. Fusspot his appetizer about now.”

“And I’m doing his entrée,” said the man, bringing the knife down on a tray of offal. “It’s chicken necks stuffed with giblets, with his special toffee pudding for afters. And who’s asking?”

“I’m the—I’m his owner,” said Moist, as haughtily as he could manage.

The chef removed his white hat. “Sorry, sir, of course you are. The gold suit and everything. This is Peggy, my daughter. I’m Aimsbury, sir.”

Moist had managed to calm down a little. “Sorry,” he said. “I was just worried that someone might try to poison Mr. Fusspot…”

“We were just talking about that,” said Aimsbury. “I thought that—hold on, you don’t mean me, do you?”

“No, no, certainly not!” said Moist to the man still holding a knife.

“Well, all right,” said Aimsbury, mollified. “You’re new, sir, you’re not to know. That Cosmo kicked Mr. Fusspot once!”

“He’d poison anyone, he would,” said Peggy.

“But I go down to the market every day, sir, and select the little dog’s food myself. And it’s stored downstairs in the cool room, and I have the only key.”