Making Money

‘Occasionally there is a fad among young assassins for stygium rings. Classically, they wear an ornate black glove over the ring during the day. It’s all about risk, Mr Lipwig. It’s about living with Death in your pocket. I swear, there are people who will pull a tiger’s tail for mischief. Of course, people who are interested in coolth rather than danger just wear the glove. Be that as it may, less than two weeks ago the only man in the city who carries a stock of stygium and knows how to work it was murdered, late at night. The murderer dropped a peppermint bomb afterwards. Who do you think did it?’

I’m not going to look up, thought Moist. This is just a game. He wants me to sweat. ‘What was taken?’ he said.

‘The Watch does not know because, you see, what was taken was, de facto, not there.’

‘All right, what was left behind?’ said Moist, and thought: he’s not looking at the sky, either …

‘Some gems and a few ounces of stygium in the safe,’ said Vetinari. ‘You didn’t ask how the man was killed.’

‘How was—’

‘Crossbow shot to the head, while he was seated. Is this exciting, Mr Lipwig?’

‘Hit man, then,’ said Moist desperately. ‘It was planned. He didn’t pay a debt. Perhaps he was a fence and tried to pull a scam. There’s not enough information!’

‘There never is,’ said Vetinari. ‘My cap comes back from the cleaners subtly changed, and a young man who works there dies in a brawl. A former gardener here comes in at dead of night to buy a rather worn pair of Drumknott’s old boots. Why? Perhaps we shall never know. Why was a picture of myself stolen from the Royal Art Gallery last month? Who benefits?’

‘Uh, why was this stygium left in the safe?’

‘Good question. The key was in the man’s pocket. So what is our motive?’

‘Not enough information! Revenge? Silence? Maybe he’s made something he shouldn’t? Can you make a dagger out of this stuff?’

‘Ah, I think you are getting warm, Mr Lipwig. Not about a weapon, because accretions of stygium much bigger than a ring tend to explode without warning. But he was a rather greedy man, that is true.’

‘An argument over something?’ said Moist. Yes, I am getting warm, thank you! And what are the tongs for? To pick it up after it’s dropped through my hand?

The light was growing; he could see faint shadows on the wall, he felt the sweat trickle down his spine—

‘An interesting thought. Do give me that ring back,’ said Vetinari, proffering the box.

Hah! So it was just a show to scare me, after all, Moist thought, flicking the wretched ring into the box. I’ve never even heard of stygium before! He must have made it up—

He sensed the heat and saw the ring blaze white-hot as it fell into the box. The lid snapped shut, leaving a purple hole in Moist’s vision.

‘Remarkable, isn’t it?’ said Vetinari. ‘Incidentally, I think you were needlessly silly to hold it all that time. I’m not a monster, you know.’

No, monsters don’t play tricks with your brain, thought Moist. At least, while it’s still inside your head …

‘Look, about Owlswick, I didn’t mean—’ he began, but Vetinari held up a hand.

‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Mr Lipwig. In fact, I invited you here in your capacity as de facto deputy chairman of the Royal Bank. I want you to loan me — that is to say, the city — half a million dollars at two per cent. You are, of course, at liberty to refuse.’

So many thoughts scrambled for the emergency exit in Moist’s brain that only one remained.

We’re going to need some bigger notes …

Moist ran back to the bank, and straight to the little door under the stairs. He liked it down in the undercroft. It was cool and peaceful, apart from the gurgling of the Glooper and the screams.

That last bit was wrong, wasn’t it?

The pink poisons of involuntary insomnia slopped around in his head as he broke once more into a run.

The former Owlswick was sitting in a chair, apparently clean shaven except for a pointy little beard. Some kind of metal helmet had been attached to his head, and from it wires ran down into a glowing, clicking device that only an Igor would want to understand. The air smelled of thunderstorms.

‘What are you doing to this poor man?’ Moist yelled.

‘Changing hith mind, thur,’ said Igor, pulling a huge knife switch.

The helmet buzzed. Clamp blinked. ‘It tickles,’ he said. ‘And for some reason it tastes of strawberries.’

‘You’re putting lightning right into his head!’ said Moist. ‘That’s barbaric!’

‘No, thur. Barbarianth don’t have the capability,’ said Igor smoothly. ‘All I’m doing, thur, ith taking out all the bad memorieth and thtoring them’ — here he pulled a cloth aside to reveal a big jar full of green liquid, in which was something rounded and studded with still more wires — ‘in thith!’

‘You’re putting his brain into a … parsnip?’

‘It’th a turnip,’ said Igor.

‘It’s amazing what they can do, isn’t it?’ said a voice by Moist’s elbow. He looked down.

Mr Clamp, now helmetless, beamed up at him. He looked shiny and alert, like a better class of shoe salesman. Igor had even managed a suit transplant.