Making Money (24 page)

“Mr. Igor?” he said.

Igor looked up from a crate in which he had been rummaging. He held what looked like a metal colander in his hands.

“How may I be of thurvith, thur?”

“Can you get me some old books with pictures of gods and boats and maybe some views of the city too?”

“Indeed, thur. There ith an antiquarian booktheller in Lobbin Clout.” Igor put the metal device aside, pulled a battered leather bag from under the table, and, after a moment’s thought, put a hammer in it.

Even in the world of the newly fledged Mr. Clamp, it was still so late at night that it was too early in the morning.

“Er…I’m sure it can wait until daylight,” he volunteered.

“Oh, I alwayth thhop at night, thur,” said Igor, “when I’m after…bargainth.”

M
OIST WOKE FULLY
dressed and far too early, with Mr. Fusspot standing on his chest and squeaking his rubber bone very loudly. As a result, Moist was being dribbled on in no small way.

Behind Mr. Fusspot was Gladys. Behind her were two men in black suits.

“His lordship has agreed to see you, Mr. Lipwig,” said one of them quite cheerfully.

Moist tried to wipe the slobber off his lapel, and only succeeded in shining the suit.

“Do I want to see him?”

One of the men smiled.

“Ooooh yes!”

“A
HANGING ALWAYS MAKES
me hungry,” said Lord Vetinari, working carefully on a hard-boiled egg. “Don’t you find this so?”

“Um…I’ve only been hanged once,” said Moist. “I didn’t feel like eating much.”

“I think it is the chilly early-morning air,” said Vetinari, apparently not hearing this. “It puts an edge on the appetite.”

He looked directly at Moist for the first time, and appeared concerned.

“Oh dear, you’re not eating, Mr. Lipwig? You must eat. You look a little peaky. I trust your job is not getting on top of you?”

Somewhere en route to the palace, Moist thought, he must have stepped into another world. It had to be something like that. It was the only explanation.

“Er…who was hanged?” he said.

“Owlswick Jenkins, the forger,” said Vetinari, devoting himself again to the surgical removal of the white from the yolk. “Drumknott, perhaps Mr. Lipwig would like some fruit? Or some of that bowel-lacerating grain-and-nut concoction you favor so much?”

“Indeed, sir,” said the secretary.

Vetinari leaned forward as if inviting Moist to join a conspiracy and added, “I believe the cook does kippers for the guards. Very fortifying. You really do look quite pale. Don’t you think he looks pale, Drumknott?”

“Verging on the wan, sir.”

It was like having acid dropped slowly into your ear. Moist thought frantically, but the best he could come up with was: “Was it a well-attended hanging?”

“Not very. I don’t think it was properly advertised,” said Vetinari, “and, of course, his crime was not associated with buckets of gore. That always makes the crowd cheer as you know. But Owlswick Jenkins was there, oh yes. He never cut a throat but he bled the city, drop by drop.”

Vetinari had removed and eaten the whole of the white of the egg, leaving the yolk glowing and unsullied.

What would I have done if I was Vetinari and found my prison was about to become a laughingstock? There’s nothing like laughter for undermining authority, Moist thought. More important, what would he have done if he was him, which of course he is…

You’d hang someone else, that’s what you’d do. You’d find some wretch of the right general shape who was waiting in the slammer for the hemp fandango and cut him a deal. Oh, he’d hang right enough, but under the name of Owlswick Jenkins. News would get out that the stand-in had been pardoned but died accidentally or something, and his dear ol’ mum or his wife and kids would get an anonymous bag of wonga and escape a little bit of shame.

And then the crowd would get their hanging. Now, with any luck, Bellyster had a job washing spittoons, justice or something vaguely similar would be seen to be done, and the message would be sent out that crimes against the city should be contemplated exclusively by those with cast-iron necks, and even then, only maybe.

Moist realized he was touching his own neck. Sometimes he woke up in the night, even now, just a moment after the void opened under his feet—

Vetinari was looking at him. It wasn’t exactly a smile on his face, but Moist got the nape-twitching feeling that, when he tried to think like Vetinari, his lordship slid in on those thoughts like some big black spider on a bunch of bananas and scuttled around where he shouldn’t.

And the certainty hit him. Owlswick wouldn’t have died anyway. Not with a talent like that. He would have dropped through the trapdoor to a new life, just as Moist had. He’d have woken up to be given the angel offer, which for Owlswick would have been a nice light room somewhere, three meals a day, his potty emptied on demand, and all the ink he wanted. From an Owlswick point of view, he’d be getting heaven. And Vetinari…would get the world’s best forger, working for the city.

Oh, damn. I’m right in his way. I’m in Vetinari’s way.

The orange-gold ball of the rejected yolk glowed on Vetinari’s plate.

“Your wonderful plans for paper money are progressing?” said his lordship. “I’m hearing such a lot about them.”

“What? Oh…yes. Er…I’d like to put your head on a dollar bill, please.”

“But of course. A good place to put a head, considering all the places a head might be put.”

Like a spike, yeah. He needs me, Moist thought, as the totally-not-a-threat sank in. But how much?

“Look, I—”

“Possibly your fertile mind can assist me with a little puzzle, Mr. Lipwig.” Vetinari dabbed at his lips and pushed back his chair. “Do follow me. Drumknott, please bring the ring. And the tongs, of course, just in case.”

He led the way out onto the balcony, trailed by Moist, and leaned on the balustrade with his back to the foggy city.

“Still a lot of cloud about, but I think the sun should break through at any time, don’t you think?” he said.

Moist glanced up at the sky. There was a patch of pale gold among the billows, like the yolk of an egg. What was the man doing?

“Pretty soon, yes,” he ventured.

The secretary handed Vetinari a small box.

“That’s the box for your signet ring,” said Moist.

“Well done, Mr. Lipwig, observant as ever! Do take it.”

Guardedly, Moist picked up the ring. It was black and had an odd, organic feel to it. The V seemed to stare at him.

“Do you notice anything unusual about it?” said Vetinari, watching him carefully.

“Feels warm,” said Moist.

“Yes it does, doesn’t it,” said Vetinari. “That is because it is made of stygium. It’s called a metal, but I strongly believe that it is an alloy, and a magically constructed one at that. The dwarfs sometimes find it in the Loko Region, and it is extremely expensive. One day I shall write a monograph on its fascinating history, but for now, all I will say is that it is usually only of interest to those who, by inclination or lifestyle, move in darkness—and also, of course, to those who find a life without danger hardly worth living. It can kill, you see. In direct sunshine it heats within a few seconds to a temperature that will melt iron. No one knows why.”

Moist glanced up at the hazy sky. The boiled-egg glow of the sun drifted into another bank of fog. The ring cooled.

“Occasionally there is a fad among young assassins for stygium rings. Classically, they wear an ornate black glove over the ring during the day. It’s all about risk, Mr. Lipwig. It’s about living with Death in your pocket. I swear, there are people who will pull a tiger’s tail for mischief. Of course, people who are interested in coolth rather than danger just wear the glove. Be that as it may, less than two weeks ago the only man in the city who carries a stock of stygium and knows how to work it was murdered, late at night. The murderer dropped a peppermint bomb afterward. Who do you think did it?”

I’m not going to look up, thought Moist. This is just a game. He wants me to sweat.

“What was taken?” he said.

“The Watch does not know, because, you see, what was taken was, de facto, not there.”

“All right, what was left behind?” said Moist, and thought: He’s not looking at the sky, either…

“Some gems and a few ounces of stygium in the safe,” said Vetinari. “You didn’t ask how the man was killed.”

“How was—”

“Crossbow shot to the head, while he was seated. Is this exciting, Mr. Lipwig?”

“Hit man, then,” said Moist desperately. “It was planned, because he’d brought the bomb. Maybe the dead man didn’t pay a debt. Perhaps he was a fence and tried to pull a scam. There’s not enough information!”

“There never is,” said Vetinari. “My cap comes back from the cleaners subtly changed, and a young man who works there dies in a brawl. A former gardener here comes in at the dead of night to buy a rather worn pair of Drumknott’s old boots. Why? Perhaps we shall never know. Why was a picture of myself stolen from the Royal Art Gallery last month? Who benefits?”

“Uh, why was this stygium left in the safe?”

“Good question. The key was in the man’s pocket. So what is our motive?”

“Not enough information! Revenge? Silence? Maybe he’s made something he shouldn’t? Can you make a dagger out of this stuff?”

“Ah, I think you are getting warm, Mr. Lipwig. Not about a weapon, because accretions of stygium much bigger than a ring tend to explode without warning. But he was a rather greedy man, that is true.”

“An argument over something?” said Moist. Yes, I am getting warm, thank you! And what are the tongs for? To pick it up after it’s dropped through my hand?

The light was growing; he could see faint shadows on the wall, he felt the sweat trickle down his spine—

“An interesting thought. Do give me that ring back,” said Vetinari, proffering the box.

Hah! So it was just a show to scare him, after all, Moist thought, flicking the wretched ring into the box. I’ve never even heard of stygium before today! He must have made it up—

He sensed the heat before it, and saw the ring blaze white-hot as it fell into the box. The lid snapped shut, leaving a purple hole in Moist’s vision.

“Remarkable, isn’t it,” said Vetinari. “Incidentally, I think you were needlessly silly to hold it all that time. I’m not a monster, you know.”

No, monsters don’t play tricks with your brain, thought Moist. At least, while it’s still inside your head…

“Look, about Owlswick, I didn’t mean—” he began, but Vetinari held up a hand.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Mr. Lipwig. In fact, I invited you here in your capacity as de facto deputy chairman of the Royal Bank. I want you to loan me—that is to say, the city—half a million dollars at two percent. You are, of course, at liberty to refuse.”

So many thoughts scrambled for the emergency exit in Moist’s brain that only one remained:

We’re going to need some bigger notes…

M
OIST RAN BACK
to the bank, and straight to the little door under the stairs. He liked it down in the undercroft. It was cool and peaceful, apart from the gurgling of the Glooper and the screams.

That last bit was wrong, wasn’t it?

The pink poisons of involuntary insomnia slopped around in his head as he broke into a run.

The former Owlswick was sitting in a chair, apparently clean-shaven except for a pointy little beard. Some kind of metal helmet had been attached to his head, and from it wires ran down into some glowing, clicking device that only an Igor would want to understand. The air smelled of thunderstorms.

“What are you doing to this poor man?” Moist yelled.

“Changing hith mind, thur,” said Igor, pulling a huge knife switch.

The helmet buzzed. Clamp blinked.

“It tickles,” he said. “And, for some reason, it tastes of strawberries.”

“You’re putting lightning right into his head!” said Moist. “That’s barbaric!”

“No, thur. Barbarianth don’t have the capabilitieth,” said Igor smoothly. “All I’m doing, thur, ith taking out all the bad memo-rieth and thtoring them—” here he pulled a cloth aside to reveal a big jar full of green liquid, containing something rounded and studded with still more wires “—into thith!”

“You’re putting his brain into a…parsnip?”

“It ith a turnip,” said Igor.

“It’s amazing what they can do, isn’t it,” said a voice by Moist’s elbow. He looked down.

Mr. Clamp, now helmetless, beamed up at him. He looked shiny and alert, like a better class of shoe salesman. Igor had even managed a suit transplant.

“Are you all right?” said Moist.

“Fine!”

“What did…it feel like?”

“Hard to explain,” said Clamp. “But it sounded like the smell of raspberries tastes.”

“Really? Oh. I suppose that’s all right, then. And you really feel okay, in yourself?” said Moist, probing for the dreadful drawback. It had to be there. But Owls—Exorbit looked happy and full of confidence and vim, a man ready to take what life threw at him and knock it out of the court.

Igor was winding up his wiring with what, under all those scars, was a very smug look on what was probably his face.

Moist felt a pang of guilt. He was an Überwald boy, he’d come down the Vilinus Pass like everyone else, trying to seek his fortune—correction, everybody else’s fortune—and he had no right to pick up the fashionable lowland prejudice against the clan of Igors. After all, didn’t they simply put into practice what so many priests professed to believe: that the body was just a rather heavy cheap suit clothing the invisible, everlasting soul, and therefore, swapping around bits and pieces like spare parts was surely no worse than running a shonky shop for used clothing? It was a constant source of hurt amazement to Igors that people couldn’t see that this was both sensible and provident, at least up until the time when the axe slipped and you needed someone to lend a hand in a hurry. At a time like that, even an Igor looked good.