Making Money

‘—to say arrest this man, commander. Be so good as to handcuff him to a sturdy officer and put him in my coach.’

‘What?’ said Moist.

‘What?’ screamed Adora Belle.

‘The directors of the Royal Bank are pressing charges of embezzlement against you and the chairman, Mr Lipwig.’ Vetinari reached down and picked up Mr Fusspot by the scruff of his neck. The little dog swung gently back and forth in the Patrician’s grasp, wide eyes open wider in terror, his toy vibrating apologetically in his mouth.

‘You can’t seriously blame him for anything,’ Moist protested.

‘Alas, he is the chairman, Mr Lipwig. His paws are on the documents.’

‘How can you do this to Moist after what’s just happened?’ said Adora Belle. ‘Hasn’t he just saved the day?’

‘Possibly, although I’m not sure who he has saved it for. The law must be obeyed, Miss Dearheart. Even tyrants have to obey the law.’ He paused, looking thoughtful, and continued: ‘No, I tell a lie, tyrants do not have to obey the law, obviously, but they do have to observe the niceties. At least, I do.’

‘But he didn’t take—’ Adora Belle began.

‘Nine o’clock tomorrow, in the Great Hall,’ said Vetinari. ‘I invite all interested parties to attend. We shall get to the bottom of this.’ He raised his voice. ‘Are there any directors of the Royal Bank here? Ah, Mr Lavish. Are you well?’

Cosmo Lavish, walking unsteadily, pushed his way through the crowd, supported on one arm by a young man in a brown robe.

‘You have had him arrested?’ said Cosmo.

‘One uncontested fact is that Mr Lipwig, on behalf of Mr Fusspot, did formally take responsibility for the gold.’

‘Indeed he did,’ said Cosmo, glaring at Moist.

‘But in the circumstances I feel I should look into all aspects of the situation.’

‘We are in agreement there,’ said Cosmo.

‘And to that end I am arranging for my clerks to enter the bank tonight and examine its records,’ Vetinari went on.

‘I cannot agree to your request,’ said Cosmo.

‘Fortunately, it was not a request.’ Lord Vetinari tucked Mr Fusspot under his arm, and went on: ‘I have the chairman with me, you see. Commander Vimes, conduct Mr Lipwig into my coach, please. See that Miss Dearheart is escorted safely home, will you? We shall sort things out in the morning.’

Vetinari looked at the tower of dust that now enveloped the industrious golems, and added: ‘We’ve all had a very busy day.’

Out in the back alley behind the Pink PussyCat Club the insistent, pumping music was muffled but still pervasive.

Dark figures lurked …

‘Dr Hicks, sir?’

The head of the Department of Post-Mortem Communications paused in the act of drawing a complicated rune amongst the rather less complex everyday graffiti and looked up at the concerned face of his student.

‘Yes, Barnsforth?’

‘Is this exactly legal under college rules, sir?’

‘Of course not! Think of what might happen if this sort of thing fell into the wrong hands! Hold the lantern higher, Goatly, we’re losing the light.’

‘And whose hands would that be, sir?’

‘Well, technically ours, as a matter of fact. But it’s perfectly all right if the Council don’t find out. And they won’t, of course. They know better than to go around finding things out.’

‘So it is illegal, technically?’

‘Well now,’ said Hicks, drawing a glyph which flamed blue for a moment, ‘who among us, when you get right down to it, can say what is right and what is wrong?’

‘The College Council, sir?’ said Barnsforth.

Hicks threw down the chalk and straightened up.

‘Now listen to me, you four! We are going to insorcize Flead, understand? To his eternal satisfaction and the not inconsiderable good of the department, believe me! This is a difficult ritual but if you assist me you’ll be Doctors of Post-Mortem Communications by the end of term, understand? Straight As for the lot of you and, of course, the skull ring! Since you so far have managed to turn in one-third of an essay between you all, I would say that is a bargain, wouldn’t you, Barnsforth?’

The student blinked in the force of the question, but natural talent came to his aid. He coughed in a curiously academic way, and said: ‘I think I understand you, sir. What we are doing here goes beyond mundane definitions of right and wrong, does it not? We serve a higher truth.’

‘Well done, Barnsforth, you will go a long way. Everyone got that? Higher truth. Good! Now let’s decant the old bugger and get out of here before anyone catches us!’

A troll officer in a coach is hard to ignore. He just looms. That was Vimes’s little joke, perhaps. Sergeant Detritus sat beside Moist, effectively clamping him into his seat. Lord Vetinari and Drumknott sat opposite, his lordship with his hands crossed on the silver-topped cane and his chin resting on his hands. He watched Moist intently.

There was a rumour that the sword in the stick had been made with the iron taken from the blood of a thousand men. It seemed a waste, thought Moist, when for a bit of extra work you could get enough to make a ploughshare. Who made up these things, anyway?