Making Money

‘Ah, I see your point. Yes, if she was really sane she’d have hired a couple of trolls with big, big clubs.’

Cosmo gave Moist a long, appraising look, or what he clearly thought was one, but Moist knew that tactic. It was supposed to make the lookee think they were being weighed up for a serious kicking, but it could just as easily mean ‘I’ll give him the ol’ hard eyeball while I’m wondering what to do next’. Cosmo might be a ruthless man, but he wasn’t a stupid one. A man in a gold suit gets noticed, and someone would remember whose coach he got into.

‘I fear that my stepmother has landed you in a lot of trouble,’ said Cosmo.

‘I’ve been in trouble before,’ said Moist.

‘Oh? When was that?’ And this came sharp and sudden.

Ah. The past. Not a good place to go. Moist tried to avoid it.

‘Very little is known about you, Mr Lipwig,’ Cosmo went on. ‘You were born in Uberwald, and you became our Postmaster General. In between …’

‘I’ve managed to survive,’ said Moist.

‘An enviable achievement indeed,’ said Cosmo. He tapped on the side of the coach and it began to slow. ‘I trust it will continue. In the meantime, let me at least give you this …’

He tore the bill in half and dropped the half that very emphatically did not carry his seal or signature on to Moist’s lap.

‘What’s this for?’ said Moist, picking it up while trying to restrain the frantic Mr Fusspot with the other hand.

‘Oh, just a declaration of good faith,’ said Cosmo, as the coach stopped. ‘One day you might feel inclined to ask me for the other half. But understand me, Mr Lipwig, I don’t usually take the trouble to do things the hard way.’

‘Don’t bother to do so on my account, please,’ said Moist, wrenching the door open. Sator Square was outside, full of carts and people and embarrassingly potential witnesses.

For a moment Cosmo’s forehead did that … eyebrow thing again. He gave it a slap, and said: ‘Mr Lipwig, you misunderstand. This was the hard way. Goodbye. My regards to your young lady.’

Moist spun on the cobbles, but the door had slammed shut and the coach was speeding away.

‘Why didn’t you add “We know where your children will go to school”?’ he shouted after it.

What now? Hell’s bells, he had been dropped right in it!

A little way up the street, the palace beckoned. Vetinari had some questions to answer. How had the man arranged it? The Watch said she’d died of natural causes! But he’d been trained as an assassin, yes? A real one, specializing in poisons, maybe.

He strode in through the open gates, but the guards stopped him at the building itself. Moist knew them of old. There was probably an entrance exam for them. If they answered the question ‘What is your name?’ and got it wrong, they were hired. There were trolls that could out-think them. But you couldn’t fool them, or talk them round. They had a list of people who could walk right in, and another of people who needed an appointment. If you weren’t on either, you didn’t get in.

However, their captain, bright enough to read large type, did recognize ‘Postmaster General’ and ‘Chairman of the Royal Bank’ and sent one of the lads knuckling off to see Drumknott, carrying a scribbled note. To Moist’s surprise, ten minutes later he was being ushered into the Oblong Office.

Seats around the big conference table at one end of the room were fully occupied. Moist recognized a few guild leaders, but quite a few were average-looking citizens, working men, men who looked ill at ease indoors. Maps of the city were strewn across the table. He’d interrupted something. Or rather, Vetinari had interrupted something for him.

Lord Vetinari got up as soon as Moist entered, and beckoned him forward.

‘Please excuse me, ladies, gentlemen, but I do need some time with the Postmaster General. Drumknott, do take everyone through the figures again, will you? Mr Lipwig, this way, if you please.’

Moist thought he heard muffled laughter behind them as he was ushered into what he at first thought was a high-ceilinged corridor but which turned out to be a sort of art gallery. Vetinari shut the door behind them. The click seemed, to Moist, to be very loud. His anger was draining fast, to be replaced by a very chilly feeling. Vetinari was a tyrant, after all. If Moist was never seen again his lordship’s reputation would only be enhanced

‘Do put Mr Fusspot down,’ said Vetinari. ‘It will do the little chap good to run about.’

Moist lowered the dog to the ground. It was like dropping a shield. And now he could take in what it was this gallery exhibited.

What he’d thought were carved stone busts were faces, made of wax. And Moist knew how and when they were made, too.

They were death masks.

‘My predecessors,’ said Vetinari, strolling down the line. ‘Not a complete collection, of course. In some cases the head could not be found or was, as you might say, in a rather untidy state.’

There was a silence. Foolishly, Moist filled it.

‘It must be strange, having them look down on you every day,’ he managed.