Making Money

‘His lordship is always touchy when it’s a case of treason against the city, as he describes it. I think Jenkins was badly served by his lawyer. After all, his work made our stamps look like the real forgeries. You know, I got the impression the poor chap didn’t really realize that what he was doing was wrong.’

Moist recalled the watery frightened eyes and the expression of helpless puzzlement. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You may be right.’

‘Could you perhaps use your influence with Vetinari t—’

‘No. It wouldn’t work.’

‘Ah. Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ said Moist flatly.

‘Well, you see, there’s only so much we can do. We can even number the bills automatically now. But the artwork must be of the finest kind. Oh dear. I’m sorry. I wish I could help. We owe you a great debt, Mr Lipwig. So much official work is coming in now that we’d need the space in the Mint. My word, we’re practically the government’s printer!’

‘Really?’ said Moist. ‘That’s very … interesting.’

It rained ungracefully. The gutters gargled, and tried to spit. Occasionally the wind caught the cascading overflow from the rooftops and slapped a sheet of water across the face of anyone who looked up. But this was not a night to look up. This was a night to scurry, bent double, for home.

Raindrops hit the windows of Mrs Cake’s boarding house, specifically the one in the rear room occupied by Mavolio Bent, at the rate of twenty-seven a second, plus or minus fifteen per cent.

Mr Bent liked counting. You could trust numbers, except perhaps for pi, but he was working on that in his spare time and it was bound to give in sooner or later.

He sat on his bed, watching the numbers dance in his head. They’d always danced for him, even in the bad times. And the bad times had been so very bad. Now, perhaps, there were more ahead.

Someone knocked at his door. He said, ‘Come in, Mrs Cake.’

The landlady pushed open the door.

‘You always know it’s me, don’t you, Mr Bent,’ said Mrs Cake, who was more than a trifle nervous of her best lodger. He paid his rent on time — exactly on time — and he kept his room scrupulously clean and, of course, he was a professional gentleman. All right, he had a haunted look about him and there was that odd business with his carefully adjusting the clock before he went to work every day, but she was prepared to put up with that. There was no shortage of lodgers in this crowded city, but clean ones who paid regularly and never complained about the food were thin enough on the ground to be worth cherishing, and if they put a strange padlock on their wardrobe, well, least said soonest mended.

‘Yes, Mrs Cake,’ said Bent. ‘I always know it’s you because there is a distinctive one point four seconds between the knocks.’

‘Really? Fancy!’ said Mrs Cake, who rather liked the sound of ‘distinctive’. ‘I always say you’re the man for the adding-up. Er, there is going to be three gentlemen downstairs asking after you …’

‘When?’

‘In about two minutes,’ said Mrs Cake.

Bent stood up in one unfolding movement, like a Jack-in-the-box. ‘Men? What will they be wearing?’

‘Well, er, just, you know, clothes?’ said Mrs Cake uncertainly. ‘Black clothes. One of them will hand me his card, but I won’t be able to read it because I’ll have my wrong spectacles on. Of course, I could go and put the right ones on, obviously, but I get such a headache if I don’t let a premonition go properly. Er … and now you’re going to say “Please let me know when they arrive, Mrs Cake”.’ She looked at him expectantly. ‘Sorry, but I had a premonition that I’d come up to tell you I had a premonition, so thought I’d better. It’s a bit silly, but none of us can change how we’re made, I always say.’

‘Please let me know when they arrive, Mrs Cake,’ said Bent. Mrs Cake gave him a grateful look before hurrying away.

Mr Bent sat down again. Life with Mrs Cake’s premonitions could get a little intricate at times, especially now they were becoming recursive, but it was part of the Elm Street ethos that you were charitable towards the foibles of others in the hope of a similar attitude to your own. He liked Mrs Cake, but she was wrong. You could change how you were made. If you couldn’t, there was no hope.

After a couple of minutes he heard the ring of the bell, the muted conversation, and went through the motions of surprise when she knocked on his door.

Bent inspected the visiting card.

‘Mr Cosmo? Oh. How strange. You had better send them up.’ He paused, and looked around. Subdivision was rife in the city now. The room was exactly twice the size of the bed, and it was a narrow bed. Three people in here would have to know one another well. Four would know one another well whether they wanted to or not. There was a small chair, but Bent kept it on top of the wardrobe, out of the way.

‘Perhaps just Mr Cosmo,’ he suggested.

The man was proudly escorted in a minute later.

‘Well, this is a wonderful little hideaway, Mr Bent,’ Cosmo began. ‘So handy for, um—’