Making Money

'Smoke and mirrors, Mr Lipwig,' said Bent, turning away from the balustrade. 'Nothing but smoke and mirrors…'

'But done without smoke and in a total absence of mirror, Mr Bent!' said Moist cheerfully.

'And the "kiddies"?' said Bent.

'Find some. There's bound to be an orphanage that needs fifty dollars. It'll be an anonymous donation, of course.'

Bent looked surprised. 'Really, Mr Lipwig? I'll make no bones about saying that you seem to me to be the sort of man who makes a great Razz Arm Ma Tazz about giving money to charity.' He made razzmatazz sound like some esoteric perversion.

'Well, I'm not. Do good by stealth, that is my watchword.' It'll get found out soon enough, he added to himself, and then I'm not only a jolly good chap but a decently modest one, too.

I wonder… Am I really a bastard or am I just really good at thinking like one?

Something nudged at his mind. Tiny hairs on the back of his neck were twitching. Something was wrong, out of place… dangerous.

He turned and looked down again at the hall. People were milling around, forming into lines, talking in groups—

In a world of movement, the eye is drawn to stillness. In the middle of the banking hall, unheeded by the throng, a man was standing as if frozen in time. He was all in black, with one of those flat wide hats often worn by the more sombre Omnian sects. He just… stood. And watched.

Just another gawper along to see the show, Moist told himself, and knew at once that he was lying. The man was causing a weight in his world.

I have lodged affidavits…

Him? About what? Moist had no past. Oh, a dozen aliases had managed a pretty busy and eventful past between them, but they had evaporated along with Albert Spangler, hanged by the neck until not-quite-dead and awoken by Lord Vetinari, who'd offered Moist von Lipwig a life all shiny and new—

Ye gods, he was getting jumpy, just because some old guy was looking at him with a funny little smile! No one knew him! He was Mr Forgettable! If he walked around the town without the gold suit on, he was just another face.

'Are you all right, Mr Lipwig?'

Moist turned and looked into the face of the chief cashier. 'What? Oh… no. I mean yes. Er… have you ever seen that man before?'

'What man would that be?'

Moist turned back to point out the man in black, but he had gone.

'Looked like a preacher,' he mumbled. 'He was… well, he was looking at me.'

'Well, you do rather invite it. Perhaps you'd agree that the golden hat was a mistake?'

'I like the hat! There's no hat like it!'

Bent nodded. 'Fortunately, this is true, sir. Oh, dear. Paper money. A practice used only by the heathen Agateans…'

'Heathen? They've got far more gods than us! And over there gold is worth less than iron!'

Moist relented. Bent's face, usually so controlled and aloof, had crumpled like a piece of paper. 'Look, I've been reading. The banks issue coins to four times the amount of the gold they hold. That's a nonsense we could do without. It's a dream world. This city is rich enough to be its own gold bar!'

'They're trusting you for no good reason,' said Bent. 'They trust you because you make them laugh. I do not make people laugh, and this is not my world. I don't know how to smile like you do and talk like you do. Don't you understand? There must be something which has a worth that goes beyond fashion and politics, a worth that endures. Are you putting Vetinari in charge of my bank? What guarantees the savings that those people are thrusting over our counter?'

'Not what, who. It's me. I am personally going to see that this bank does not fail.'

'You?'

'Yes.'

'Oh yes, the man in the gold suit,' said Bent sourly. 'And if all else fails, will you pray?'

'It worked last time,' said Moist calmly.

Bent's eye twitched. For the first time since Moist had met him he seemed… lost.

'I don't know what you want me to do!'

It was almost a wail. Moist patted him on the shoulder.

'Run the bank, like you always have. I think we should set up some loans, with all this cash coming in. Are you a good judge of character?'

'I thought I was,' said Bent. 'Now? I have no idea. Sir Joshua, I am sorry to say, was not. Mrs Lavish was very, very good, in my opinion.'

'Better than you could possibly know,' said Moist. 'Good. I shall take the chairman for his walkies, and then… we'll spread some money around. How about that?'

Mr Bent shuddered.

The Times did an early-afternoon edition with a big picture on the front page of the queue winding out of the bank. Most of the queue wanted to get in on the act, whatever the act turned out to be, and the rest were queueing on the basis that there might be something interesting at the other end. There was a boy selling the paper, and people were buying it to read the story entitled 'Huge Queue Swamps Bank', which seemed a bit odd to Moist. They were in the queue, weren't they? Was it only real if they read about it?