Making Money

O-kay, thought Moist, looking at Vetinari, I’ve worked it out. If I’m good and say the right things, I might live. At a price. Well, no thanks. All I wanted to do was make some money.

‘Your job, Mr Lipwig?’ Slant repeated.

Moist looked along the rows of watchers, and saw the face of Cribbins. The man winked.

‘Hmm?’ he said.

‘I asked you what your job was before you arrived in this city!’

It was at this point that Moist became aware of a regrettably familiar whirring sound, and from his raised position he was the first to see the chairman of the Royal Bank appear from behind the curtains at the far end of the hall with his wonderful new toy clamped firmly in his mouth. Some trick of the vibrations was propelling Mr Fusspot backwards across the shiny marble.

People in the audience craned their necks as, with tail wagging, the little dog passed behind Vetinari’s chair and disappeared behind the curtains on the opposite side.

I’m in a world where that just happened, Moist thought. Nothing matters. It was an insight of incredible liberation.

‘Mr Lipwig, I asked you a question,’ Slant growled.

‘Oh, sorry. I was a crook’ … and he flew! This was it! This was better than hanging off some old building! Look at the expression on Cosmo’s face! Look at Cribbins! They had it all planned out, and now it had got away from them. He had them all in his hand, and he was flying!

Slant hesitated. ‘By crook you mean—’

‘Confidence trickster. Occasional forgery. I’d like to think I was more of a scallywag, to be frank.’

Moist saw the looks that passed between Cosmo and Cribbins, and exulted within. No, this wasn’t supposed to happen, was it? And now you’re going to have to run to keep up …

Mr Slant was certainly having trouble in that area. ‘Can I be clear here? You broke the law for a living?’

‘Mostly I took advantage of other people’s greed, Mr Slant. I think there was an element of education, too.’

Mr Slant shook his head in amazement, causing an earwig to fall, with a keen sense of the appropriate, out of his ear.

‘Education?’ he said.

‘Yes. A lot of people learned that no one sells a real diamond ring for one tenth of its value.’

‘And then you stepped into one of the highest public offices in the city?’ said Mr Slant, above the laughter. It was a release. People had been holding their breath for too long.

‘I had to. It was that or be hanged,’ said Moist, and added: ‘again.’

Mr Slant looked flustered, and turned his eyes to Vetinari.

‘Are you sure you wish me to continue, my lord?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Vetinari. ‘To the death, Mr Slant.’

‘Er … you have been hanged before?’ Slant said to Moist.

‘Oh, yes. I did not wish it to become a habit.’

That got another laugh.

Mr Slant turned again to Vetinari, who was smiling faintly. ‘Is this true, my lord?’

‘Indeed,’ said Vetinari calmly. ‘Mr Lipwig was hanged last year under the name of Albert Spangler, but it turned out that he had a very tough neck, as was found when he was being placed in his coffin. You may be aware, Mr Slant, of the ancient principle Quia Ego Sic Dico? A man who survives being hanged may have been selected by the gods for a different destiny, as yet unfulfilled? And since fortune had favoured him, I resolved, therefore, to put him on parole and charge him with resurrecting the Post Office, a task which had already taken the lives of four of my clerks. If he succeeded, well and good. If he failed, the city would have been spared the cost of another hanging. It was a cruel joke which, I am happy to say, rebounded to the general good. I don’t think that anyone here would argue that the Post Office is now a veritable jewel of the city? Indeed, the leopard can change his shorts!’

Mr Slant nodded automatically, remembered himself, sat down and fumbled with his notes. He had lost his place. ‘And now we come to, er, the matter of the bank—’

‘Mrs Lavish, a lady many of us were privileged to know, recently confided in me that she was dying,’ said Lord Vetinari briskly. ‘She asked me for advice on the future of the bank, given that her obvious heirs were, in her words, “as nasty a bunch of weasels as you could hope not to meet”—’

All thirty-one of the Lavish lawyers stood up and spoke at once, incurring a total cost to their clients of AM$119.28.

Mr Slant glared up at them.

Mr Slant did not, despite what had been said, have the respect of Ankh-Morpork’s legal profession. He commanded its fear. Death had not diminished his encyclopedic memory, his guile, his talent for corkscrew reasoning and the vitriol of his stare. Do not cross me this day, it advised the lawyers. Do not cross me, for if you do I will have the flesh from your very bones and the marrow therein. You know those leather-bound tomes you have on the wall behind your desk to impress your clients? I have read them all, and I wrote half of them. Do not try me. I am not in a good mood.

One by one, they sat down.[16]