Making Money

'Yes! What a turn! And without any training! And the business with the ladder? Pure battle-clowning! Superb!' said Whiteface. 'We know it all now, Havelock. After his mother died, his father came back and of course took him off to the circus. Any clown could see the boy had funny bones. Those feet! They should have sent him to us! A boy of that age, it can be very tricky! But no, he was bundled into his grandfather's old gear and shoved out into the ring in some tiny little town, and, well, that's where clowning lost a king.'

'Why? What happened?' said Moist.

'Why do you think? They laughed at him.'

It was raining, and wet branches lashed at him as he bounded through the woods, whitewash still dribbling from his baggy trousers. The pants themselves bounced up and down on their elastic braces, occasionally hitting him under the chin.

The boots were good, though. They were amazing boots. They were the only ones he'd ever had that fitted.

But his mother had brought him up properly. Clothes should be a respectable grey, mirth was indecent, and make-up was a sin.

Well, punishment had come fast enough!

At dawn he found a barn. He scraped off the dried custard and caked greasepaint and washed himself in a puddle. Oh, that face! The fat nose, the huge mouth, the white tear painted on — he would remember it in nightmares, he knew it.

At least he still had his own shirt and drawers, which covered all the important bits. He was about to throw everything else away when an inner voice stopped him. His mother was dead and he hadn't been able to stop the bailiffs taking everything, even the brass ring Mother polished every day. He'd never see his father again… he had to keep something, there had to be something, something so that he might remember who and why he was and where he'd come from and even why he'd left. The barn yielded a sack full of holes; that was good enough. The hated suit was stuffed inside.

Later that day he'd come across some caravans parked under the trees, but they were not the garish wagons of the circus. Probably they were religious, he thought, and Mother had approved of the quieter religions, provided the gods weren't foreign.

They gave him rabbit stew. And when he looked over the shoulder of a man sitting quietly at a small folding table, he saw a book full of numbers, all written down. He liked numbers. They'd always made sense in a world that didn't. And then he'd asked the man, very politely, what the number at the bottom was, and the answer had been: 'It's what we call the total', and he'd replied: 'No, that's not the total, that's three farthings short of the total.' 'How do you know?'

said the man, and he'd said: 'I can see it is', and the man had said: 'But you only just glanced at it!' And he'd said: 'Well, yes, isn't that how?'

And then more books were opened and the people gathered round and gave him sums to do, and they were all so, so easy…

It was all the fun the circus couldn't be, and involved no custard, ever.

He opened his eyes, and made out the indistinct figures.

'Am I going to be arrested?'

Moist glanced at Vetinari, who waved a hand vaguely.

'Not necessarily,' said Moist carefully. 'We know about the gold.'

'Sir Joshua said he would let it be known about my… family.'

'Yes, we know.'

'People would laugh. I couldn't stand that. And then I think I… you know, I think I convinced myself that the gold was all a dream? That provided I never looked for it, it would still be there.' He paused, as if random thoughts were queueing for the use of the mouth. 'Dr Whiteface has been kind enough to show me the history of the Charlie Benito face…' Another pause. 'I hear I threw custard pies with considerable accuracy. Perhaps my ancestors will be proud.'

'How do you feel now?' said Moist.

'Oh, quite well in myself,' said Bent. 'Whoever that is.'

'Good. Then I want to see you at work tomorrow, Mr Bent.'

'You can't ask him to go back so soon!' Miss Drapes protested.

Moist turned to Whiteface and Vetinari. 'Could you please leave us, gentlemen?'

There was an affronted look on the chief clown's face, which was made worse by the permanent happy smile, but the door shut behind them.

'Listen, Mr Bent,' said Moist urgently. 'We're in a mess—'

'I believed in the gold, you know,' said Bent. 'Didn't know where it was, but I believed.'