Making Money d-36

by Terry Pratchett

  The kale ale was generally pretty good, and there's no such thing as too much flattery where mothers are concerned and, all right, the man had rather strange teeth, which seemed determined to make a break from his mouth, but none of us is perfect and what was there to lose?

  What there was to lose was a dollar, and they add up. Whoever said you can't fool an honest man wasn't one.

  Round about the seventh family, a watchman started taking a distant interest, so the man in dusty black made a show of taking the last name and address and strolled into an alley. He tossed the broken iconograph back on the pile of junk where he had found it — it was a cheap one and the imps had long since evaporated — and was about to set off across the fields when he saw the newspaper being bowled along by the wind.

  To a man travelling on his wits, a newspaper was a useful treasure. Stuck down your shirt, it kept the wind off your chest. You could use it to light fires. For the fastidious, it saved a daily resort to dockweed, burdock or other broad-leaved plants. And, as a last resort, you could read it.

  This evening, the breeze was getting up. He gave the front page of the paper a cursory glance and tucked it under his vest.

  His teeth tried to tell him something, but he never listened to them. A man could go mad, listening to his teeth.

  When he got back to the Post Office, Moist looked up the Lavish family in Whom's Whom. They were indeed what was known as 'old money', which meant that it had been made so long ago that the black deeds which had originally filled the coffers were now historically irrelevant. Funny, that: a brigand for a father was something you kept quiet about, but a slave-taking pirate for a great-great-great-grandfather was something to boast of over the port. Time turned the evil bastards into rogues, and rogue was a word with a twinkle in its eye and nothing to be ashamed of.

  They'd been rich for centuries. The key players in the current crop of Lavishes, apart from Topsy, were first her brother-in-law Marko Lavish and his wife Capricia Lavish, daughter of a famous trust fund. They lived in Genua, as far away from other Lavishes as possible, which was a very Lavish thing to do. Then there were Topsy's stepchildren, the twins Cosmo and Pucci, who had, the story ran, been born with their little hands around one another's throat, like true Lavishes. There were also plenty more cousins, aunts and genetic hangers-on, all watching one another like cats. From what he'd heard, the family business was traditionally banking, but the recent generations, buoyed by a complex network of long-term investments and ancient trust funds, had diversified into disinheriting and suing one another, apparently with great enthusiasm and a commendable lack of mercy. He recalled pictures of them in the Times's society pages, getting in or out of sleek black coaches and not smiling very much, in case the money escaped.

  There was no mention of Topsy's side of the family. They were Turvys, apparently not grand enough to be Whoms. Topsy Turvy… there was a music-hall sound to it, and probably Moist could believe that.

  Moist's in-tray had been topped up in his absence. It was all unimportant stuff, and really didn't need anything from him, but it was this newfangled carbon paper that was the trouble. He got copies of everything, and they took up time.

  It wasn't that he wasn't good at delegating. He was extremely good at delegating. But the talent requires people on the other end of the chain to be good at being delegated on to. They weren't. Something about the Post Office discouraged original thinking. The letters went in the slots, okay? There was no room for people who wanted to experiment with sticking them in their ear, up the chimney or down the privy. It'd do them good to—

  He spotted the pink flimsy clacks amongst the other stuff and tugged it out quickly.

  It was from Spike!

  He read:

  Success. Returning day after tomorrow.

  All will be revealed. S.

  Moist put it down carefully. Obviously she'd missed him terribly and was desperate to see him again, but she was stingy about spending Golem Trust money. Also, she'd probably run out of cigarettes.

  Moist drummed his fingers on the desk. A year ago he'd asked Adora Belle Dearheart to be his wife, and she'd explained that in fact he was going to be her husband.

  It was going to be… well, it was going to be some time in the near future, when Mrs Dearheart finally lost patience with her daughter's busy schedule and arranged the wedding herself.

  But he was a nearly married man, however you looked at it. And nearly married men didn't get mixed up with the Lavish family. A nearly married man was steadfast and dependable and always ready to hand his nearly wife an ashtray. He had to be there for his oneday children, and make sure they slept in a well-ventilated nursery.

  He smoothed out the message.

  And he would stop the night climbing, too. Was it grown up? Was it sensible? Was he a tool of Vetinari? No!

  But a memory stirred. Moist got up and went over to his filing cabinet, which he normally avoided at all costs.

  Under 'Stamps' he found the little report he'd had two months ago from Stanley Howler, the Head of Stamps. It noted in passing the continued high sales of one- and two-dollar stamps, which was higher than even Stanley had expected. Maybe 'stamp money' was more prevalent than he'd thought. After all, the government backed it, right? It was even easy to carry. He'd have to check on exactly how much they—

  There was a dainty knock at the door, and Gladys entered. She bore with extreme care a plate of ham sandwiches, made very, very thin the way only Gladys could make them, which was to put one ham between two loaves and bring her shovel-sized hand down on it very hard.

  'I Anticipated That You Would Have Had No Lunch, Postmaster,' she rumbled.

  'Thank you, Gladys,' said Moist, mentally shaking himself.

  'And Lord Vetinari Is Downstairs,' Gladys went on. 'He Says There Is No Rush.'

  The sandwich stopped an inch from Moist's lips. 'He's in the building?'

  'Yes, Mr Lipwig.'

  'Wandering about by himself?' said Moist, horror mounting.

  'Currently He Is In The Blind Letter Office, Mr Lipwig.'

  'What's he doing there?'

  'Reading The Letters, Mr Lipwig.'

  No rush, thought Moist grimly. Oh, yes. Well, I'm going to finish my sandwiches that the nice lady golem has made for me.

  'Thank you, Gladys,' he said.

  When she had gone Moist took a pair of tweezers out of his desk drawer, opened the sandwich and began to disembowel it of the bone fragments caused by Gladys's drop-hammer technique.

  It was a little over three minutes later when the golem reappeared and stood patiently in front of the desk.

  'Yes, Gladys?' said Moist.

  'His Lordship Desired Me To Inform You That There Is Still No Rush.'

  Moist ran downstairs and Lord Vetinari was indeed sitting in the Blind Letter Office[2] with his boots on a desk, a sheaf of letters in his hand and a smile on his face.

  'Ah, Lipwig,' he said, waving the grubby envelopes. 'Wonderful stuff! Better than the crossword! I like this one: "Duzbuns Hopsit pfarmerrsc". I've put the correct address underneath.' He passed the letter over to Moist.

  He had written: K. Whistler, Baker, 3 Pigsty Hill.

  'There are three bakeries in the city that could be said to be opposite a pharmacy,' said Vetinari, 'but Whistler does those rather good curly buns that regrettably look as though a dog has just done his business on your plate and somehow managed to add a blob of icing.'

  'Well done, sir,' said Moist weakly.

  At the other end of the room Frank and Dave, who spent their time deciphering the illegible, misspelled, misdirected or simply insane mail that sleeted through the Blind Letter Office every day, were watching Vetinari in shock and awe. In the corner, Drumknott appeared to be brewing tea.

  'I think it is just a matter of getting into the mind of the writer,' Vetinari went on, looking at a letter covered with grubby fingerprints and what looked like the remains of someone's breakfast. He added: 'In some cases, I imagine, there is a
lot of room.'

  'Frank and Dave manage to sort out five out of every six,' said Moist.

  'They are veritable magicians,' said Vetinari. He turned to the men, who smiled nervously and backed away, leaving the smiles hanging awkwardly in the air, as protection. He added: 'But I think it is time for their tea break?'

  The two looked at Drumknott, who was pouring tea into two cups.

  'Somewhere else?' Vetinari suggested.

  No express delivery had ever moved faster than Frank and Dave. When the door had shut behind them, Vetinari went on: 'You have looked round the bank? Your conclusions?'

  'I think I'd rather stick my thumb in a mincing machine than get involved with the Lavish family,' said Moist. 'Oh, I could probably do things with it, and the Mint needs a good shaking. But the bank needs to be run by someone who understands banks.'

  'People who understand banks got it into the position it is in now,' said Vetinari. 'And I did not become ruler of Ankh-Morpork by understanding the city. Like banking, the city is depressingly easy to understand. I have remained ruler by getting the city to understand me.'

  'I understood you, sir, when you said something about angels, remember? Well, it worked. I am a reformed character and I will act like one.'

  'Even as far as the gold-ish chain?' said Vetinari, as Drumknott handed him a cup of tea.

  'Damn right!'

  'Mrs Lavish was very impressed with you.'

  'She said I was an out-and-out crook!'

  'High praise indeed, coming from Topsy,' said Vetinari. He sighed. 'Well, I can't force such a reformed person as you to—' He paused as Drumknott leaned down to whisper in his ear, and then continued: '—well, clearly I can force you, but on this occasion I don't think I will. Drumknott, take this down, please. "I, Moist von Lipwig, wish to make it clear that I have no desire or intention to run or be involved in the running of any bank in Ankh-Morpork, preferring instead to devote my energies to the further improvement of the Post Office and the clacks system." Leave a space for Mr Lipwig's signature and the date. And then—'

  'Look, why is this necessary—' Moist began.

  '—continue: "I, Havelock Vetinari, etc., confirm that I have indeed discussed the future of the Ankh-Morpork banking system with Mr Lipwig and fully accept his express wish to continue his fine work at the Post Office, freely and without hindrance or penalty." Space for signature, etc. Thank you, Drumknott.'

  'What is all that about?' said Moist, bewildered.

  'The Times seems to think I intend to nationalize the Royal Bank,' said Vetinari.

  'Nationalize?' said Moist.

  'Steal,' Vetinari translated. 'I don't know how these rumours get about.'

  'I suppose even tyrants have enemies?' said Moist.

  'Well put as usual, Mr Lipwig,' said Vetinari, giving him a sharp look. 'Give him the memorandum to sign, Drumknott.'

  Drumknott did so, taking care to retrieve the pencil afterwards with a rather smug look. Then Vetinari stood up and brushed off his robe.

  'I well recall our interesting conversation about angels, Mr Lipwig, and I recall telling you that you only get one,' he said, a little stiffly. 'Do bear that in mind.'

  'It would appear that the leopard does change his shorts, sir,' mused Drumknott, as the evening mist drifted, waist high, along the street.

  'It would appear so, indeed. But Moist von Lipwig is a man of appearances. I'm sure he believes everything he said, but one must look beyond the surface to the Lipwig beneath, an honest soul with a fine criminal mind.'

  'You have said something similar before, sir,' said the secretary, holding open the coach door, 'but it seems that honesty has got the better of him.'

  Vetinari paused with his foot on the step. 'Indeed, but I take some heart, Drumknott, from the fact that, once again, he has stolen your pencil.'

  'In fact he has not, sir, because I was most careful to put it in my pocket!' said Drumknott, in some triumph.

  'Yes,' said Vetinari, happily, sinking into the creaking leather as Drumknott started to pat himself down with an increasing desperation, 'I know.'

  There were guards in the bank at night. They patrolled the corridors in a leisurely way, whistling under their breath, safe in the knowledge that the very best locks kept miscreants out and all the ground floor was paved with marble which, in the long silent watches of the night, rang like a bell at every step. Some dozed, standing upright with their eyes half open.

  But someone ignored the locks of iron, passed through the bars of brass, trod soundlessly on the ringing tiles, moved under the very noses of the slumbering men. Nevertheless, when the figure walked through the big doors to the chairman's office, two crossbow bolts passed through it and splintered the fine woodwork.

  'Well, you can't blame a body for trying,' said Mrs Lavish.

  I AM NOT CONCERNED WITH YOUR BODY, MRS TOPSY LAVISH, said Death.

  'It's been quite a while since anyone was,' sighed Topsy.

  THIS IS THE RECKONING, MRS LAVISH. THE FINAL ACCOUNTING.

  'Do you always use banking allusions at a time like this?' said Topsy, standing up. Something remained slumped in the chair, but it wasn't Mrs Lavish any more.

  I TRY TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE AMBIENCE, MRS LAVISH.

  'The "Closing of the Ledger" would have the right ring, too.'

  THANK YOU. I SHALL MAKE A NOTE. AND NOW, YOU MUST COME WITH ME.

  'I made my will just in time, it seems,' said Topsy, letting her white hair down.

  ONE SHOULD ALWAYS TAKE CARE OF ONE'S POSTERITY, MRS LAVISH.

  'My posterity? The Lavishes can kiss my bum, sir! I've fixed 'em for good. Oh yes! Now what, Mr Death?'

  NOW? said Death. NOW, YOU COULD SAY, COMES... THE AUDIT.

  'Oh. There is one, is there? Well, I'm not ashamed.'

  THAT COUNTS.

  'Good. It should,' said Topsy.

  She took Death's arm and followed him through the doors and on to the black desert under the endless night.

  After a while Mr Fusspot sat up and started to whine.

  There was a small article about the banking business in the Times next morning. It used the word crisis quite a lot.

  Ah, here we are, thought Moist, when he got to paragraph four. Or, rather, here I am.

  'Lord Vetinari told the Times:

  "It is true that, with the permission of the bank's chairman, I discussed with the Postmaster General the possibility of his offering his services to the Royal Bank in these difficult times. He has declined, and the matter ends there. It is not the business of the government to run banks. The future of the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork is in the hands of its directors and shareholders."'

  And gods help it, thought Moist.

  He tackled the in-tray with vigour. He threw himself at the paperwork, checking figures, correcting spelling, and humming to himself to drown out the inner voice of temptation.

  Lunchtime arrived, and with it a plate of one-foot-wide cheese sandwiches delivered by Gladys, along with the midday copy of the Times.

  Mrs Lavish had died in the night. Moist stared at the news. It said she had passed away quietly in her sleep, after a long illness.

  He dropped the paper and stared at the wall. She'd seemed like someone hanging together by sheer grit and gin. Even so, that vitality, that spark… well, she couldn't hold on for ever. So what would happen now? Ye gods, he was well out of it!

  And it was probably not a good day to be Mr Fusspot. He'd looked a waddly sort of dog, so he'd better learn to run really quickly.

  The latest post that Gladys had brought up contained a long and thoroughly second-hand envelope addressed to him 'personly' in thick black letters. He slit it open with the paperknife and shook it out into the waste bin, just in case.

  There was a folded newspaper inside. It was, it turned out, yesterday's Times, and there was Moist von Lipwig on the front page. Circled.

  Moist turned it over. On the other side, in tiny neat handwriting, were the words:

  Dear Sir, I
have took the small precawtion of loging certain affedavids with trusted associates. You will here from me gain.

  A friend

  Take it slowly, take it slowly… It can't be from a friend. Everyone I think of as a friend can spell. This must be some kind of con, yes? But there were no skeletons in his closet…

  Oh, all right, if you were going for the fine detail, there were in fact enough skeletons in his closet to fill a big crypt, with enough left over to equip a funfair House of Horrors and maybe also make a macabre but mildly amusing ashtray. But they'd never been associated with the name Lipwig. He'd been careful about that. His crimes had died with Albert Spangler. A good hangman knows exactly how much rope to give a man, and had dropped him out of one life and into another.

  Could anyone have recognized him? But he was the least recognizable person in the world when he wasn't wearing his golden suit! When he was young his mother had sometimes gone home from school with the wrong child!

  And when he wore the suit, people recognized the suit. He hid by being conspicuous…

  It had to be a scam of some kind. Yes, that was it. The old 'guilty secret' job. Probably no one got to a position like this without accumulating some things they'd rather not see made public. But it was a nice touch to include the bit about affidavits. It was there to set a nervous man to wondering. It suggested that the sender knew something so dangerous that you, the recipient, might try to silence him, and he was in a position to set the lawyers on you.

  Hah! And he was being given some time in which, presumably, to stew. Him! Moist von Lipwig! Well, they might just find out how hot a stew could get. For now, he shoved the paper in a bottom drawer. Hah!