Making Money d-36

by Terry Pratchett

  Moist went to follow her, but she held up her huge hands in horror.

  'No, Sir! Let Me Come Out First!'

  She clumped past him into the hallway. 'That Was Nearly Very Bad,' she said.

  Moist waited to see if anything more was forthcoming, and then prompted: 'Why, exactly?'

  'A Man And A Young Woman Should Not Be In The Same Bedroom,' said the golem with solemn certitude.

  'Er, how old are you, Gladys?' said Moist carefully.

  'One Thousand And Fifty-Four Years, Mr Lipwig.'

  'Er, right. And you are made of clay. I mean, everyone's made of clay, in a manner of speaking, but, as a golem, you are, as it were, er… very made of clay…'

  'Yes, Mr Lipwig, But I Am Not Married.'

  Moist groaned. 'Gladys, what did the counter girls give you to read this time?' he said.

  'It Is Lady Deirdre Waggon's Prudent Advice For Young Women,' said Gladys. 'It Is Most Interesting. It Is How Things Are Done.' She pulled a slim book out of the huge pocket in her dress. It had a chintzy look.

  Moist sighed. It was the kind of old-fashioned etiquette book that'd tell you Ten Things Not To Do With Your Parasol. 'I see,' he said.

  He didn't know how to explain. Even worse, he didn't know what he'd be explaining. Golems were… golems. Big lumps of clay with the spark of life in them. Clothes? What for? Even the male golems in the Post Office just had a lick of blue and gold paint to make them look smart— Hold on, he was catching it now! There were no male golems! Golems were golems, and had been happy to be just golems for thousands of years! And now they were in modern Ankh-Morpork, where all kinds of races and people and ideas were shaken up and it was amazing what dripped out of the bottle.

  Without a further word Gladys clumped across the hallway, turned round and stood still. The glow in her eyes settled down to a dull red. And that was it. She had decided to stay.

  In his in-tray, Mr Fusspot snored.

  Moist took out the half-bill that Cosmo had given him.

  Desert island. Desert island. I know I think best when I'm under pressure, but what exactly did I mean?

  On a desert island gold is worthless. Food gets you through times of no gold much better than gold gets you through times of no food. If it comes to that, gold is worthless in a goldmine, too. The medium of exchange in a goldmine is the pickaxe.

  Hmm. Moist stared at the bill. What does it need to make it worth ten thousand dollars? The seal and signature of Cosmo, that's what. Everyone knows he's good for it. Good for nothing but money, the bastard.

  Banks use these all the time, he thought. Any bank in the Plains would give me the cash, withholding a commission, of course, because banks skim you top and bottom. Still, it's much easier than lugging bags of coins around. Of course, I'd have to sign it too, otherwise it wouldn't be secure.

  I mean, if it was blank after 'pay', anyone could use it.

  Desert island, desert island… On a desert island a bag of vegetables is worth more than gold, in the city gold is more valuable than the bag of vegetables.

  This is a sort of equation, yes? Where's the value?

  He stared.

  It's in the city itself. The city says: in exchange for that gold, you will have all these things. The city is the magician, the alchemist in reverse. It turns worthless gold into… everything.

  How much is Ankh-Morpork worth? Add it all up! The buildings, the streets, the people, the skills, the art in the galleries, the guilds, the laws, the libraries… Billions? No. No money would be enough.

  The city was one big gold bar. What did you need to back the currency? You just needed the city. The city says a dollar is worth a dollar.

  It was a dream, but Moist was good at selling dreams. And if you could sell the dream to enough people, no one dared wake up.

  In a little rack on the desk are an ink pad and two rubber stamps, showing the city's coat of arms and the seal of the bank. But in Moist's eyes, there is a haze of gold around these simple things, too. They have value.

  'Mr Fusspot?' said Moist. The dog sat up in his tray, looking expectant.

  Moist pushed his sleeves back and flexed his fingers.

  'Shall we make some money, Mr Chairman?' he said.

  The chairman expressed unconditional agreement by means of going 'woof!'

  'Pay The Bearer The Sum Of One Dollar,' Moist wrote on a piece of crisp bank paper.

  He stamped the paper with both the stamps, and gave the result a long critical look. It needed something more. You had to give people a show. The eye was everything.

  It needed… a touch of gravitas, like the bank itself. Who'd bank in a wooden hut?

  Hmm.

  Ah, yes. It was all about the city, right? Underneath he wrote, in large ornate letters:

  AD URBEM PERTINET

  And, in smaller letters, after some thought:

  'Promitto fore ut possessori postulanti nummum unum solvent, an apte satisfaciam.

  Signed Moist von Lipwig pp The Chairman.

  'Excuse me, Mr Chairman,' he said, and lifted the dog up. It was the work of a moment to press a front paw on the damp pad and leave a neat little footprint beside the signature.

  Moist went through this a dozen or more times, tucked five of the resulting bills under the blotter and took the rest of the new money, and the chairman, for walkies.

  Cosmo Lavish glared at his reflection in the mirror. Often he got it right in the glass three or four times in a row, and then — oh, the shame — he'd try it in public and people, if they were foolish enough to mention it, would say: 'Have you got something in your eye?'

  He'd even had a device constructed that pulled at one eyebrow repeatedly, by means of clockwork. He'd poisoned the man who made it, there and then as he took delivery, chatting with him in his smelly little workshop while the stuff took hold. He'd been nearly eighty and Cosmo had been very careful, so it never came to the attention of the Watch. Anyway, at that age it shouldn't really count as murder, should it? It was more like a favour, really. And obviously he couldn't risk the old fool blabbing happily to someone after Cosmo had become Patrician.

  On reflection, he thought, he should have waited until he was certain that the eyebrow-training machine was working properly. It had given him a black eye before he'd made a few hesitant adjustments.

  How did Vetinari do it? It was what had got him the Patricianship, Cosmo was sure. Well, a couple of mysterious murders had helped, admittedly, but it was the way the man could raise an eyebrow that kept him there.

  Cosmo had studied Vetinari for a long time. It was easy enough, at social gatherings. He'd cut out every picture that appeared in the Times, too. What was the secret that kept the man so powerful and unscathed? How might he be understood?

  And then one day he'd read in some book or other: 'If you want to understand a man, walk a mile in his shoes'.

  And he'd had a great and glorious idea…

  He sighed happily and tugged at the black glove.

  He'd been sent to the Assassins' school as a matter of course. It was the natural destination for young men of a certain class and accent. He'd survived, and had made a study of poisons because he'd heard that was Vetinari's speciality, but the place had bored him. It was so stylized now. They'd got so wrapped up in some ridiculous concepts of honour and elegance that they seemed to forget what it was an assassin was supposed to do…

  The glove came free, and there it was.

  Oh yes…

  Heretofore had done magnificently.

  Cosmo stared at the wondrous thing, moving his hand so that it caught the light. Light did strange things to stygium: sometimes it reflected silver, sometimes an oily yellow, sometimes it remained resolutely black. And it was warm, even here. In direct sunlight it would burst into flame. It was a metal that might have been intended for those who move in shadow…

  The ring of Vetinari. Vetinari's signet ring. Such a small thing, and yet so powerful. It was entirely without ornamentation unless you counted t
he tiny border to the cartouche which surrounded, sharply incised and serifed, the single letter:

  V

  He could only guess at all the things his secretary had had to do to get it. He'd had a replica made, 'reversed-devised', whatever that was, from the wax seals it had so impressively stamped. And there had been bribes (expensive ones) and hints of hasty meetings and cautious exchanges and last-minute changes to get the replica exactly right—

  And here the real one was, on his finger. Very much on his finger in fact. From Cosmo's point of view Vetinari had very slender fingers for a man, and getting the ring over the knuckle had been a real effort. Heretofore had fretted about getting it enlarged, foolishly not realizing that this would completely ruin it. The magic, and surely Vetinari had a magic all his own, would leak out. It wouldn't be totally the real thing any more.

  Yes, it had hurt like hell for a few days, but now he was floating above the pain, in a clear blue sky.

  He prided himself he was no fool. He'd have known at once if his secretary had tried to palm him off with a mere copy. The shock that went up his arm when he slid the ring, all right forced the ring over the knuckle was enough to tell him that he had got the real thing. Already he could feel his thoughts getting sharper and faster.

  He brushed a forefinger across the deeply cut V and looked up at Drumk— at Heretofore.

  'You seem concerned, Heretofore,' he said kindly.

  'The finger has gone very white, sir. Almost pale blue. Are you sure it doesn't hurt?'

  'Not a bit. I feel… utterly in control. You seem very… worried lately, Heretofore. Are you well?'

  'Um… fine, sir,' said Heretofore.

  'You must understand I sent Mr Cranberry with you for the best of reasons,' said Cosmo. 'Morpeth would have told someone, sooner or later, however much you paid him.'

  'But the boy in the hat shop—'

  'Exactly the same situation. And it was a fair fight. Was that not so, Cranberry?'

  Cranberry's shiny bald head looked up from his book. 'Yes, sir. He was armed.'

  'Bu—' Heretofore began.

  'Yes?' said Cosmo calmly.

  'Er… nothing, sir. You are right, of course.' In possession of a small knife and very drunk. Heretofore wondered how much that counted against a professional killer.

  'I am, aren't I?' said Cosmo in a kindly voice, 'and you are excellent at what you do. As is Cranberry. I shall have another little quest for you soon, I feel it. Now do go and get your supper.

  As Heretofore opened the door Cranberry glanced up at Cosmo, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. Unfortunately for Heretofore, he had excellent peripheral vision.

  He's going to find out, he's going to find out, he's going to find oouuuttt!!! he moaned to himself as he scurried along the corridors.

  It's the damn ring, that's what it is! It's not my fault Vetinari has thin fingers! He would have smelled a rat if the bloody thing had fitted! Why didn't he let me have it made bigger? Hah, and if I had he'd have sent Cranberry along later to murder the jeweller! I know he'll send him after me, I know it!

  Cranberry frightened Heretofore. The man was quietly spoken and modestly dressed. And when Cosmo did not require his services he sat and read books all day. That upset Heretofore. If the man were an illiterate thug things would, in some strange way, have been better, more… understandable. The man apparently had no body hair, too, and the gleam from his head could blind you in sunlight.

  And it had all begun with a lie. Why had Cosmo believed him? Because he was mad, but regrettably not all the time; he was a sort of hobby madman. He had this… thing about Lord Vetinari.

  Heretofore hadn't spotted that at first, he'd just wondered why Cosmo had fussed about his height at the job interview. And when Heretofore had told him he'd worked at the palace he'd been hired on the spot.

  And that was the lie, right there, although Heretofore preferred to think of it as an unfortunate conjunction of two truths.

  Heretofore had indeed been employed for a while at the palace, and thus far Cosmo had not found out that this was as a gardener. He had been a minor secretary at the Armourers' Guild before that, which was why he'd felt confident in saying 'I was a minor secretary and I was employed at the palace', a phrase that he felt Lord Vetinari would have examined with more care than the delighted Cosmo had done. And now here he was, advising a very important and clever man on the basis of as much rumour as he could remember or, in desperation, make up. And he was getting away with it. In his everyday business dealings Cosmo was cunning, ruthless and sharp as a tack, but when it came to anything to do with Vetinari he was as credulous as a child.

  Heretofore noticed that his boss occasionally called him by the name of the Patrician's secretary, but he was being paid fifty dollars a month, food and own bed thrown in, and for that kind of money he'd answer to 'Daisy'. Well, perhaps not Daisy, but certainly Clive.

  And then the nightmare had begun, and in the way of nightmares, everyday objects took on a sinister importance.

  Cosmo had asked for an old pair of Vetinari's boots.

  That had been a poser; Heretofore had never been inside the actual palace, but he'd got into the grounds that night by scaling the fence next to the old green garden gate, met one of his old mates who had to stay up all night to keep the hothouse boilers going, had a little chat, and the following night returned for a pair of old but serviceable black boots, size eight, and information from the boot boy that his lordship wore down the left heel slightly more than the right.

  Heretofore couldn't see any difference in the boots presented, and no one was actually claiming as a fact that these were the fabled Boots Of Vetinari, but well-worn yet still useful boots floated down from the upper floors to the servants' quarters on a tide of noblesse oblige, and if these weren't the boots of the man himself then they had almost certainly, at the very least, sometimes been in the same room as his feet.

  Heretofore handed over ten dollars for them and spent an evening wearing down the left heel enough to be noticeable. Cosmo paid him fifty dollars without flinching, although he did wince when he tried them on.

  'If you want to understand a man, walk a mile in his shoes,' he'd said, hobbling the length of his office. What insight he'd glean if they were the man's under-butler's shoes, Heretofore couldn't guess at, but after half an hour Cosmo rang for a basin of cold water and some soothing herbs, and the shoes had not made an appearance since.

  And then there had been the black skullcap. That had been the one stroke of luck in this whole business. It was even genuine. It was a safe bet that Vetinari bought them from Bolters in the Maul, and Heretofore had cased the place, entered when the senior partners were at lunch, spoke to the impecunious youth who worked the steamy cleaning and stretching machines in the back room — and found that one had been sent in for cleaning. Heretofore walked out with it, uncleaned, leaving the young man extremely pecunious and with instructions to wash a new cap for return to the palace.

  Cosmo was beside himself and wanted to know all the details.

  Next evening, it turned out that the pecunious youth spent the evening in a bar and died outside in a drunken brawl around midnight, short of money and even shorter of breath. Heretofore's room was next to Cranberry's. On reflection, he'd heard the man come in late that night.

  And now there was the signet ring. Heretofore had told Cosmo that he could get a replica made and use his contacts — his very expensive contacts — at the palace to get it swapped for the real thing. He'd been paid five thousand dollars!

  Five thousand dollars!

  And the boss was overjoyed. Overjoyed and mad. He'd got a fake ring but he swore it had the spirit of Vetinari flowing in it. Perhaps it did, because Cranberry became part of the arrangement. If you got drawn into Cosmo's little hobby, Heretofore realized too late, you died.

  He reached his room, darted inside and shut the door. Then he leaned on it. He ought to run, right now. His savings would buy a lot of distance. But the
fear subsided a little as he collected his thoughts.

  They told him: relax, relax. The Watch hadn't come knocking yet, had they? Cranberry was a professional, and the boss was full of gratitude.

  So… why not one last trick? Make some real money! What could he 'obtain' that the boss would pay him another five thousand for?

  Something simple but impressive, that would be the trick, and by the time he found out — if he ever did — Heretofore would be on the other side of the continent, with a new name and suntanned beyond recognition.

  Yes… the very thing…

  The sun was hot, and so were the dwarfs. They were mountain dwarfs and were not at home under open skies.

  And what were they here for? The King wanted to know if anything valuable was taken out of the hole that the golems were digging for the mad smoking woman, but they weren't allowed to set foot in it, because that would be trespass. So they sat in the shade and sweated while, about once a day, the mad smoking woman who smoked all the time came and laid… things on a crude trestle table in front of them. The things had this in common: they were dull.

  Theere was nothing to mine here, everyone knew. It was barren silt and sand all the way down. There was no fresh water. Such plants as survived here stored winter rain in swollen, hollow roots, or lived off the moisture in the sea mist. The place contained nothing of interest, and what came out of the long sloping tunnel bore this out to the point of boredom.

  There were bones of old ships, and occasionally the bones of old sailors. There were a couple of coins, one silver, one gold, which were not dull enough and were duly confiscated. There were broken pots and pieces of statue, which were puzzled over, part of an iron cauldron, an anchor with a few links of chain.

  It was clear, the dwarfs considered as they sat in the shade, that nothing came here except by boat. But remember: in matters of commerce and gold, never trust anyone who could see over your helmet.