Making Money (29 page)

“Who is dead, yes?”

“Very much so. Extremely dead.”

“Isn’t that just a tiny bit like necromancy?”

“Ah, but, you see, for necromancy you require skulls and bones and a general necropolitan feel,” said Dr. Hicks. He looked at their expressions. “Ah, I see where you’re going here,” he said, with a little laugh that cracked a bit around the edges. “Don’t be deceived by appearances. I don’t need all this. Professor Flead does. He’s a bit of a traditionalist, and wouldn’t get out of his urn for anything less than the full Rite of Souls complete with the Dread Mask of Summoning.” He twanged a fang.

“And that’s the Dread Mask of Summoning, is it?” said Moist. The wizard hesitated for a moment before saying: “Of course.”

“Only it looks just like the Dread Sorcerer mask they sell in Boffo’s shop in Tenth Egg Street,” said Moist. “Excellent value at five dollars, I thought.”

“I, er, think you must be mistaken,” said Hicks.

“I don’t think so,” said Moist, “you left the label on.”

“Where? Where?” The I’m-not-a-necromancer-at-all snatched up the mask and turned it over in his hands, looking for—

He saw Moist’s grin and rolled his eyes.

“All right, yes,” he muttered. “We lost the real one. Everything gets lost around here, you just wouldn’t believe it. They’re not clearing up the spells properly. Was there a huge squid in the corridor?”

“Not this afternoon,” said Adora Belle.

“Yes, what’s the reason for the squid?”

“Oooh, let me tell you about the squid!” said Hicks.

“Yes?”

“You don’t want to know about the squid!”

“We don’t?”

“Believe me! Are you sure it wasn’t there?”

“It’s the sort of thing you notice,” said Adora Belle.

“With any luck that one’s worn off, then,” said Hicks, relaxing. “It really is getting impossible. Last week everything in my filing cabinet filed itself under W. No one seems to know why.”

“And you were going to tell us about the skulls,” said Adora Belle.

“All fake,” said Hicks.

“Excuse me?” The voice was dry and crackly and came from the shadows in the far corner.

“Apart from Charlie, of course,” Hicks added hurriedly. “He’s been here for ever.”

“I’m the backbone of the department,” said the voice, a shade proudly.

“Look, shall we get started?” said Hicks, rummaging in a black velvet sack. “There are some hooded black robes on the hook behind the door. They’re just for show, of course, but nec—Postmortem Communications is all about theater, really. Most of the people we…communicate with are wizards, and frankly, they don’t like change.”

“We’re not going to do anything—ghoulish, are we?” said Adora Belle, looking at a robe doubtfully.

“Apart from talk to someone who’s been dead for three hundred years,” said Moist. He was not naturally at ease in the presence of skulls. Humans have been genetically programmed not to be, ever since monkey times, because (a) whatever turned that skull into a skull might still be around and you should head for a tree now, and (b) skulls look like they’re having a laugh at one’s expense.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Hicks, taking a small ornamental jar out of the black bag and polishing it on his sleeve. “Professor Flead willed his soul to the university. He’s a bit crabby, I have to say, but he can be cooperative if we put on a decent show.” He stood back. “Let’s see…grisly candles, Circle of Namareth, Glass of Silent Time, the Mask, of course, the Curtains of, er, Curtains, and,” here he put a small box down beside the bottle, “the vital ingredients.”

“Sorry? You mean all those expensive-sounding other things aren’t vital?” said Moist.

“They’re more like…scenery,” said Hicks, adjusting the hood. “I mean, we could all sit around reading the script out loud, but without the costumes and scenery who’d want to turn up? Are you interested in the theater at all?” he added, in a hopeful voice.

“I go when I can,” said Moist guardedly, because he recognized the hope in the man’s voice.

“You didn’t by any chance see ’Tis Pity She’s an Instructor in Unarmed Combat at the Little Theater recently? It was put on by the Dolly Sisters Players?”

“Uh, no, I’m afraid not.”

“I played Sir Andrew Fartswell,” said Dr. Hicks, in case Moist was due a sudden attack of recollection.

“Oh, that was you was it?” said Moist, who’d met actors before. “Everyone at work was talking about it!”

I’m okay so long as he doesn’t ask which night they talked about, he thought. There’s always one night in every play when something hilariously dreadful happens. But he was lucky; an experienced actor knows when not to push his luck.

Instead, Hicks said, “Do you know ancient languages?”

“I can do Basic Droning,” said Moist.

“I can speak formal Golem. Is this ancient enough for you?” said Adora Belle, and made Moist’s spine tingle. The private language of the golems was usually hell on the human tongue, but it sounded unbearably sexy when Adora Belle uttered it. It was like silver in the air.

“What was that?” said Hicks.

“The common language of golems for the last twenty thousand years,” said Adora Belle.

“Really? Most, er, moving…er…We’ll begin…”

I
N THE COUNTING
house no one dared to look up as the desk of the chief cashier rumbled around on its turntable like some ancient tumbrel. Papers flew under Mavolio Bent’s hands while his brain drowned in poisons and his feet treadled continually to release the dark energies choking his soul.

He didn’t calculate, not as other men saw it. Calculation was for people who couldn’t see the answer turning gently in their head. To see was to know. It always had been.

The mound of accumulated paperwork dwindled as the fury of his thinking wracked him.

There were new accounts being opened all the time. And why? Was it because of trust? Probity? An urge toward thrift? Was it because of anything that could be called worth?

No! It was because of Lipwig! People whom Mr. Bent had never seen before and hoped never to see again were pouring into the bank, their money in boxes, their money in piggy banks, and quite often their money in socks. Sometimes they were actually wearing the socks!

And they were doing this because of words! The bank’s coffers were filling up because the wretched Mr. Lipwig made people laugh and made people hope. People liked him. No one had ever liked Mr. Bent, as far as he was aware. Oh, there had been a mother’s love and a father’s arms, the one chilly, the other too late, but where had they got him? In the end he’d been left alone. So he’d run away and found the gray caravan and entered a new life based on numbers and on worth and solid respect, and he had worked his way up and yes, he was a man of worth and yes, he had respect. Yes, respect. Even Mr. Cosmo respected him.

And now here was Lipwig, and who was he? No one seemed to know, except for the suspicious man with the unstable teeth. One day there was no Lipwig, next day he was the postmaster general! And now he was in the bank, a man whose worth was in his mouth and who showed no respect for anyone! And he made people laugh—and the bank filled up with money!

And did the Lavishes lavish anything on you? said a familiar little voice in his head. It was a hated little part of himself that he had beaten and starved and punched back into its wardrobe for years. It wasn’t the voice of his conscience. He was the voice of his conscience. It was the voice of the…the mask.

“No!” snapped Bent. Some of the nearest clerks looked up at the unaccustomed noise and then hurriedly lowered their heads for fear of catching his eye. Bent stared fixedly at the sheet in front of him, watching the numbers roll past. Rely on the numbers! They didn’t let you down…

Cosmo doesn’t respect you, you fool, you fool. You have run their bank for them and cleaned up after them! You made, they spent…and they laugh at you. You know they do. Silly Mr. Bent with his funny walk, silly, silly, silly…

“Get away from me, get away,” he whispered.

The people like him because he likes them. No one likes Mr. Bent.

“But I have worth. I have value!” Mr. Bent pulled another worksheet toward himself and sought solace in its columns. But he was pursued…

Where was your worth and value when you made the numbers dance, Mr. Bent? The innocent numbers? You made them dance and somersault and cartwheel when you cracked your whip, and they danced into the wrong places, didn’t they, because Sir Joshua demanded his price! Where did the gold dance off to, Mr. Bent? Smoke and mirrors!

“No!”

In the counting house all the pens ceased moving for a few seconds, before scribbling again with frantic activity.

Eyes watering with shame and rage, Mr. Bent tried to unscrew the top from his patent fountain pen. In the muted silence of the banking hall, the sound of the green pen being deployed had the same effect as the sound of the axman sharpening his blade. Every clerk bent low to his desk. Mr. Bent Had Found A Mistake. All anyone could do was keep their eyes on the paper in front of them and hope against hope that it was not theirs.

Someone, and please gods it would not be them, would have to go and stand in front of the high desk. They knew that Mr. Bent did not like mistakes: Mr. Bent believed that mistakes were the result of a deformity of the soul.

At the sound of the Pen of Doom, one of the senior clerks hurried to Mr. Bent’s side. Those workers who risked being turned to water by the ferocity of Mr. Bent’s stare essayed a quick glance and saw her being shown the offending document. There was a distant tut-tut sound. Her tread as she came down the steps and crossed the floor echoed in deadly, praying silence. She did not know, as she scurried, button-boots flashing, to the desk of one of the youngest and newest clerks, that she was about to meet a young man who was destined to go down in history as one of the great heroes of banking.

T
HE DARK ORGAN
music filled the Department of Postmortem Communications. Moist assumed it was all part of the ambience, although the mood would have been more precisely obtained if the tune it was playing did not appear to be “Cantata and Fugue for Someone Who Has Trouble with the Pedals.”

As the last note died, after a long illness, Dr. Hicks spun around on the stool and raised the mask.

“Sorry about that, I have two left feet sometimes. Could you both just chant a bit while I do the mystic waving, please? Don’t worry about words. Anything seems to work if it sounds sepulchral enough.”

As he walked around the circle, chanting variants on oo! and raah!, Moist wondered how many bankers raised the dead during the course of an afternoon. Probably not a high number. He shouldn’t be doing this, surely. He should be out there making money. Owls—Clamp must have finished the design by now. He could be holding his first note in his hands by tomorrow! And then there was damn Cribbins, who could be talking to anyone. True, the man had a rap sheet as long as a roller towel, but the city worked by alliances and if he met up with the Lavishes then Moist’s life would unravel all the way back to the gallows—

“In my day we at least hired a decent mask,” growled an elderly voice. “I say, is that a woman over there?”

A figure had appeared in the circle, without any bother or fuss, apart from the grumbling. It was in every respect the picture of a wizard—robed, pointy-hatted, bearded, and elderly, with the addition of a silvery monochrome effect overall and some slight transparency.

“Ah, Professor Flead,” said Hicks, “it’s kind of you to join us…”

“You know you brought me here and it’s not as if I had anything else to do,” said Flead. He turned back to Adora Belle and his voice became pure syrup. “What is your name, my dear?”

“Adora Belle Dearheart.”

The warning tone of voice was lost on Flead.

“How delightful,” he said, giving her a gummy smile. Regrettably, this made little strings of saliva vibrate in his mouth like the web of a very old spider. “And would you believe me if I told you that you bear a striking resemblance to my beloved concubine Fenti, who died more than three hundred years ago? The likeness is astounding!”

“I’d say that was a pickup line,” said Adora Belle.

“Oh dear, such cynicism,” sighed the late Flead, turning to the Head of Postmortem Communications.

“Apart from this young lady’s wonderful chanting, it was frankly a mess, Hicks,” he said sharply. He tried to pat Adora Belle’s hand, but his fingers passed right through.

“I’m sorry, professor, we just don’t get the funding these days,” said Hicks.

“I know, I know. It was ever thus, Doctor. Even in my day, if you needed a corpse you had to go out and find your own! And if you couldn’t find one, you jolly well had to make one! It’s all so nice now, so damn correct. So a fresh egg technically does the trick, but whatever happened to style? They tell me they’ve made an engine that can think now, but of course the Fine Arts are always last in the queue! And so I’m brought to this: one barely competent Postmortem Communicator and two people from Central Groaning!”

“Necromancy is a fine art?” said Moist.

“None finer, young man. Get things just a tiny bit wrong and the spirits of the vengeful dead may enter your head via your ears and blow your brains out down your nose.”

The eyes of Moist and Adora Belle focused on Dr. Hicks like those of an archer on his target. He waved his hands frantically and mouthed “Not very often!”

“What is a pretty young woman like you doing here, hmm?” said Flead, trying to grab Adora Belle’s hand again.

“I’m trying to translate a phrase from Umnian,” she said, giving him a wooden smile and absentmindedly wiping her hand on her dress.

“Are women allowed to do that sort of thing these days? What fun! One of my greatest regrets, you know, is that when I was in possession of a body I didn’t let it spend enough time in the company of young ladies…”

Moist looked around to see if there was any kind of emergency lever. There had to be something, if only in the event of nasal brain explosion.