Making Money

'Oh yes, I expect you just would like me to shut up, and I'm not going to!' said Pucci gleefully. Like Moist confronted by an open notebook, she triumphantly plunged on without a care: 'We can't steal what already belongs to us, can we? So what if Father put the wretched gold to better use? It was just sitting there! Honestly, why are you all so dense? Everybody does it. It's not stealing. I mean, the gold still exists, yes? In rings and things. It's not as though anyone's going to throw it away. Who cares where it is?'

Moist resisted the impulse to look at the other bankers in the room. Everyone does it, eh? Pucci was not going to get many Hogswatch cards this year. And her brother was staring at her in horror. The rest of the clan, those who weren't still engrossed in decustarding themselves, were contriving to give the impression that they had never seen Pucci before. Who is this mad woman? said their faces. Who let her in? What is she talking about?

'I think your brother is very ill, miss,' Moist said.

Pucci tossed her admittedly fine locks dismissively. 'Don't worry about him, he's just being silly,' she said. 'He's only doing it to attract attention. Silly boyish stuff about wanting to be Vetinari, as if anyone in their right mind would—'

'He's dribbling green,' said Moist, but nothing cut through the barrage of chatter. He stared at Cosmo's ravaged face, and everything made sense. Beard. Cap. Swordstick, yes, with someone's tacky idea of what a blade made from the iron in the blood of a thousand men should look like. And what about the murder of a man who made rings? What was in that stinking glove…

This is my world. I know how to do this.

'I beg your pardon! You are Lord Vetinari, aren't you?' he said.

For a moment Cosmo drew himself up and a spark of imperiousness shone through. 'Indeed! Yes indeed,' he said, raising one eyebrow. Then it sagged, and his puffy face sagged with it.

'Got ring. Vetin'ri ring,' he mumbled. ''s mine really. Good pain…'

The sword dropped, too.

Moist grabbed the man's left hand and tore the glove off. It came away with a sucking sound and a smell that was unimaginably, nose-cakingly bad. The nearest guard threw up. So many colours, thought Moist. So many… wiggling things…

And there, still visible in the suppurating mass, the unmistakable sullen gleam of stygium.

Moist grabbed Cosmo's other hand.

'I think you ought to come outside, my lord, now you are the Patrician,' he said loudly. 'You must meet the people…'

Once again some inner Cosmo got a slippery grip, enough to cause the dribbling mouth to utter: 'Yes, this is very important…' before reverting to: 'Feel ill. Finger looks funny…'

'The sunshine will do it good,' said Moist, taking him gently in tow. 'Trust me.'

Chapter 13

Gladys Does It For Herself — To the House of Mirth — The history of Mr Bent — Usefulness of clowns as nurses is questioned — Owlswick gets an angel — The golden secret (not exactly dragon magic) — The return of the teeth — Vetinari looks ahead — The Bank Triumphant — The Glooper's little gift — How to spoil a perfect day

ON THE FIRST DAY of the rest of his life Moist von Lipwig woke up, which was nice given that on any particular day a number of people do not, but woke up alone, which was less pleasing.

It was 6 a.m., and the fog seemed glued to the windows, so thick that it should have contained croutons. But he liked these moments, before the fragments of yesterday reassembled themselves.

Hold on, this wasn't the suite, was it? This was his room in the Post Office, which had all the luxury and comfort that you would normally associate with the term 'civil service issue'.

A piece of yesterday fell into place. Oh yes, Vetinari had ordered the bank shut while his clerks looked at everything this time. Moist wished them luck with the late Sir Joshua's special cupboard…

There was no Mr Fusspot, which was a shame. You don't appreciate an early-morning slobber until it's gone. And there was no Gladys, either, which was worrying.

She didn't turn up while he was getting dressed, either, and there was no copy of the Times on his desk. His suit needed pressing, too.

He eventually found her pushing a trolley of mail in the sorting room. The blue dress had gone, to be replaced by a grey one which, by the nascent standard of golem dressmaking, looked quite smart.

'Good morning, Gladys,' Moist ventured. 'Any chance of some pressed trouser?'

'There Is Always A Warm Iron In The Postmen's Locker Room, Mr Lipwig.'

'Oh? Ah. Right. And, er… the Times?

'Four Copies Are Delivered To Mr Groat's Office Every Morning, Mr Lipwig,' said Gladys reproachfully.

'I suppose a sandwich is totally out of—'