Making Money

‘It is an attempt to achieve, by means of scale models, a view similar to that seen from the Oblong Office by Lord Vetinari,’ he explained. ‘It helps me think.’

‘That’s crazy. What kind of dog biscuit?’ said Pucci.

Information also travelled through Pucci’s apprehension at different speeds. It must be all that hair, thought Cosmo.

‘Tracklement’s Yums,’ he said. ‘The bone-shaped ones that come in five different colours. But he never leaves a yellow one because Wuffles didn’t like them.’

‘You know they say Vetinari is a vampire?’ said Pucci, going off at a tangent to a tangent.

‘Do you believe it?’ said Cosmo.

‘Because he’s tall and thin and wears black? I think it takes a bit more than that!’

‘And is secretive and calculating?’ said Cosmo.

‘You don’t believe it, do you?’

‘No, and it wouldn’t make any real difference if he was, would it? But there are other people with more … dangerous secrets. Dangerous to them, I mean.’

‘Mr Lipwig?’

‘He could be one, yes.’

Pucci’s eyes lit up. ‘You know something, don’t you?’

‘Not exactly, but I think I know where there is something to be known.’

‘Where?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Of course I do!’

‘Well, I have no intention of telling you,’ said Cosmo, smiling. ‘Don’t let me detain you!’ he added, as Pucci stormed out of the room.

Don’t let me detain you. What a wonderful phrase Vetinari had devised. The jangling double meaning set up undercurrents of uneasiness in the most innocent of minds. The man had found ways of bloodless tyranny that put the rack to shame.

What a genius! And there, but for an eyebrow, went Cosmo Lavish.

He would have to make good the failings of cruel nature. The mysterious Lipwig was the key to Vetinari, and the key to Lipwig—

It was time to talk to Mr Bent.

Chapter 5

Spending spree — Inadvisability of golem back-rubs — Giving away money — Some observations on the nature of trust — Mr Bent has a visitor — One of the Family

Where do you test a bankable idea? Not in a bank, that was certain. You needed to test it where people paid far more attention to money, and juggled their finances in a world of constant risk where a split-second decision meant the difference between triumphant profit or ignominious loss. Generically it was known as the real world, but one of its proprietary names was Tenth Egg Street.

The Boffo Novelty and Joke Shop, in Tenth Egg Street, prop. J. Proust, was a haven for everyone who thought that fart powder was the last word in humour, which in many respects it is. It had caught Moist’s eye, though, as a source of material for disguises and other useful things.

Moist had always been careful about disguises. A moustache that could come off at a tug had no place in his life. But since he had the world’s most forgettable face, a face that was still a face in the crowd even when it was by itself, it helped, sometimes, to give people something to tell the Watch about. Spectacles were an obvious choice, but Moist got very good results with his own design of nose and ear wigs. Show a man a pair of ears that small songbirds had apparently nested in, watch the polite horror in his eyes, and you could be certain that that would be all he remembered.

Now, of course, Moist was an honest man, but part of him felt it necessary that he keep his hand in, just in case.

Today he bought a pot of glue and a large jar of fine gold sprinkles, because he could see a use for them.

‘That will be thirty-five pence, Mr Lipwig,’ said Mr Proust. ‘Any new stamps coming along?’

‘One or two, Jack,’ said Moist. ‘How’s Ethel? And little Roger,’ he added, after only a moment’s shuffle through the files in his head.

‘Very well, thank you for asking. Can I get you anything else?’ Proust added hopefully, in case Moist might have a sudden recollection that life would be considerably improved by the purchase of a dozen false noses.

Moist glanced at the array of masks, scary rubber hands and joke noses, and considered his needs satisfied. ‘Only my change, Jack,’ he said, and carefully laid one of his new creations on the counter. ‘Just give me half a dollar.’

Proust stared at it as if it might explode or vent some mind-altering gas. ‘What’s this, sir?’

‘A note for a dollar. A dollar bill. It’s the latest thing.’

‘Do I have to sign it or anything?’

‘No. That’s the interesting bit. It’s a dollar. It can be anyone’s.’

‘I’d like it to be mine, thank you!’

‘It is, now,’ said Moist. ‘But you can use it to buy things.’

‘There’s no gold in it,’ said the shopkeeper, picking it up and holding it away from his body, just in case.

‘Well, if I paid in pennies and shillings there would be no gold in them either, right? As it is, you’re fifteen pence ahead, and that’s a good place to be, agreed? And that note is worth a dollar. If you take it along to my bank, they’ll give you a dollar for it.’