He'd also been instructed to use the hours before sleep to count his blessings.
Lying here now, in the darkness of the bank, rather cold and significantly alone, he sought for some.
His teeth were good and he wasn't suffering from premature hair loss. There! That wasn't so hard, was it?
And the Watch hadn't actually arrested him, as such. But there was a troll guarding the vault, which had ominous black and yellow ropes strung around it.
No gold in the vault. Well, even that wasn't entirely true. There was five pounds of it, at least, coating the lead ingots. Someone had done a pretty good job there. That was a silver lining, right? At least it was some gold. It wasn't as if there was no gold at all, right?
He was alone because Adora Belle was spending a night in the cells for assaulting an officer of the Watch. Moist considered that this was unfair. Of course, depending on what kind of day a copper has had there is no action, short of being physically somewhere else, that may not be construed as assault, but Adora Belle hadn't actually assaulted Sergeant Detritus, she'd merely attempted to stab his huge foot with her shoe, resulting in a broken heel and a twisted ankle. Captain Carrot said this had been taken into consideration.
The clocks of the city chimed four, and Moist considered his future, specifically in terms of length.
Look on the bright side. He might just be hanged.
He should have gone down to the vaults on Day 1, with an alchemist and a lawyer in tow. Didn't they ever audit the vaults? Was it done by a bunch of jolly decent chaps who'd poke their heads into some other chaps' vault and sign it off quickly so's not to miss lunch? Can't go doubting a chap's word, eh? Especially when you didn't want him to doubt yours.
Maybe the late Sir Joshua had blown it all on exotic leather goods and young ladies. How many nights in the arms of beautiful women were worth a sack of gold? The price of a good woman was proverbially above rubies, so a skilfully bad one was presumably worth a lot more.
He sat up and lit the candle, and his eye fell on Sir Joshua's journal, on the bedside table.
Thirty-nine years ago… well, it was the right year, and since at the moment he had nothing else to do…
The luck that had been draining from his boots all day came back to him. Even though he wasn't certain what he was looking for, he found it on the sixth random page:
A pair of funny-looking people came to the bank today, asking for the boy Bent. I bade the staff send them away. He is doing exceedingly well. One wonders what he must have suffered.
Quite a lot of the journal seemed to be in some sort of code, but the nature of the secret symbols suggested that Sir Joshua painstakingly recorded every amorous affair. You had to admire his directness, at least. He'd worked out what he wanted to get from life, and had set out to get as much of it as he could. Moist had to take his hat off to the man.
And what had he wanted? He'd never sat down to think about it. But mostly, he wanted tomorrow to be different from today.
He looked at his watch. Four-fifteen, and no one about but the guards. There were watchmen on the main doors. He was indeed not under arrest, but this was one of those civilized little arrangements: he was not under arrest provided that he didn't try to act like a man who was not under arrest.
Ah, he thought, as he pulled on his trousers, there was another small blessing: he had been there when Mr Fusspot proposed to the werewolf —
— which was, by then, balancing on one of the huge ornamental urns that grew like toadstools in the bank's corridors. It was rocking. So was Corporal Nobbs, who was laughing himself sick at —
— Mr Fusspot, who was bouncing up and down with wonderfully optimistic enthusiasm. But he was holding in his mouth his new toy, which appeared to have been mysteriously wound up, and beneficent fate had decreed that at the top of each jump its unbalancing action would cause the little dog to do one slow cartwheel in the air.
And Moist thought: so the werewolf is female and has a Watch badge on her collar, and I've seen that hair colour before. Ha!
But his gaze had gone straight back to Mr Fusspot, who was jumping and spinning with a look of total bliss on his little face —
— and then Captain Carrot had plucked him out of the air, the werewolf fled, and the show was over. But Moist would always have the memory. Next time he walked past Sergeant Angua he'd growl under his breath, although that would probably constitute assault.
Now, fully dressed, he went for a walk along endless corridors.
The Watch had put a lot of new guards in the bank for the night. Captain Carrot was clever, you had to give him that. They were trolls. Trolls were very hard to talk round to your point of view.
He could sense them watching him everywhere he went. There wasn't one at the door into the undercroft, but Moist's heart sank when he neared the pool of brilliant light around the Glooper and saw one standing by the door to freedom.
Owlswick was lying on a mattress and snoring, with his paintbrush in his hand. Moist envied him.
Hubert and Igor were working on the tangle of glassware which, Moist could swear, looked bigger every time he came down here.
'What's wrong?'
'Wrong? Nothing. Nothing's wrong!' said Hubert. 'It's all fine! Is something wrong? Why do you think something is wrong? What would make you think there's something wrong?'
Moist yawned. 'Any coffee? Tea?' he suggested.
'For you, Mr Lipwig,' said Igor, 'I will make Thplot.'
'Splot? Real Splot?'
'Indeed, thur,' said Igor smugly.
'You can't buy it here, you know.'
'I am aware of that, thur. It hath now been outlawed in motht of the old country, too,' said Igor, rummaging in a sack.
'Outlawed? It's been outlawed? But it's just a herbal drink! My granny used to make it!'
'Indeed, it wath very traditional,' Igor agreed. 'It put hairth on your chetht.'
'Yes, she used to complain about that.'
'This is an alcoholic beverage?' said Hubert nervously.
'Absolutely not,' said Moist. 'My granny never touched alcohol.' He thought for a moment and then added: 'Except maybe aftershave. Splot's made from tree bark.'
'Oh? Well, that sounds nice,' said Hubert.
Igor retired to his jungle of equipment, and there was the clinking of glassware. Moist sat down at the cluttered bench.
'How's it going in your world, Hubert?' he said. 'The water gurgling around okay, is it?'
'It's fine! Fine! It's all fine! Nothing is wrong at all!' Hubert went blank, fished out his notebook, glanced at a page, and put it back. 'How are you?'
'Me? Oh, great. Except that there should be ten tons of gold in the gold vaults and there isn't.'
It sounded as though a glass had broken in the direction of Igor, and Hubert stared in horror at Moist.
'Ha? Hahahaha?' he said. 'Ha ha ha ha a HAHAHA!! HA HA HA!!! HA HA—'
There was a blur as Igor leapt to the table and grabbed Hubert. 'Thorry, Mr Lipwig,' he said over his shoulder, 'thith can go on for hourth—'
He slapped Hubert twice across the face and pulled a jar out of his pocket.
'Mr Hubert? How many fingerth am I holding up?'
Hubert slowly focused. 'Thirteen?' he quavered.
Igor relaxed and dropped the jar back into his pocket. 'Jutht in time. Well done, thur!'
'I am so sorry—' Hubert began.
'Don't worry about it. I'm feeling a bit that way myself,' said Moist.
'So… this gold… have you any idea who took it?'
'No, but it must have been an inside job,' said Moist. 'And now the Watch are going to pin it on me, I suspect.'
'Will that mean you won't be in charge?' said Hubert.
'I doubt I'll be allowed to run the bank from inside the Tanty.'
'Oh dear,' said Hubert, looking at Igor. 'Um… what would happen if it was put back?'
Igor coughed loudly.
'I think that's unlikely, don't you?' said Moist.
> 'Yes, but Igor told me that when the Post Office burned down last year the gods themselves gave you the money to rebuild it!'
'Harrumph,' said Igor.
'I doubt if that's likely twice,' said Moist. 'And I don't think there's a god of banking.'
'One might take it on for the publicity,' said Hubert desperately. 'It could be worth a prayer.'
'Harrumph!' said Igor, louder this time.
Moist looked from one to the other. Okay, he thought, something's going on, and I'm not going to be told what it is.
Pray to the gods to get a big heap of gold? When had that ever worked? Well, last year it worked, true, but that was because I already knew where a big heap of gold was buried. The gods help those who help themselves, and my word, didn't I help myself.
'You think it's really worth it?' said Moist.
A small steaming mug was placed in front of him. 'Your Thplot,' said Igor. The words 'Now please drink it up and go' accompanied it in every respect but the vocal.
'Do you think I should pray, Igor?' said Moist, watching his face.
'I couldn't thay. The Igor position on prayer is that it is nothing more than hope with a beat to it.'
Moist leaned closer and whispered: 'Igor, as one Uberwald lad to another, your lisp just departed.'
Igor's frown grew. 'Thorry, thur, I have a lot on my mind,' he said, rolling his eyes to indicate the nervous Hubert.
'My fault, I'm disturbing you good people,' said Moist, emptying the cup in one go. 'Any minute now the dhdldlkp;kvyv vbdf[ ;jvjvf;llljvmmk;wbvlm bnxgcgbnme—'
Ah yes, Splot, thought Moist. It contained herbs and all natural ingredients. But belladonna was a herb, and arsenic was natural. There was no alcohol in it, people said, because alcohol couldn't survive. But a cup of hot Splot got men out of bed and off to work when there was six feet of snow outside and the well was frozen. It left you clear-headed and quick-thinking. It was only a shame that the human tongue couldn't keep up.
Moist blinked once or twice and said: 'Ughx…'
He said his goodbyes, even if they were his 'gnyrxs', and headed back up the length of the undercroft, the light from the Glooper pushing his shadow in front of him. Trolls watched him suspiciously as he climbed the steps, trying to keep his feet from flying away from him. His brain buzzed, but it had nothing to do. There was nothing to grab hold of, to worry a solution from. And in an hour or so the country edition of the Times would be out and, very shortly after, so would he. There would be a run on the bank, which is a horrifying thing at best, and the other banks wouldn't help him out, would they, because he wasn't a chap. Disgrace and Ignominy and Mr Fusspot were staring him in the face, but only one of them was licking it.
He'd made it to his office, then. Splot certainly took your mind off all your little problems by rolling them into the big one of keeping all of yourself on one planet. He accepted the little dog's ritual slobbering kiss, got off his knees, and made it as far as the chair.
Okay… sitting down, he could do that. But his mind raced.
People would be here soon. There were too many unanswered questions. What to do, what to do? Pray? Moist wasn't too keen on prayer, not because he thought the gods didn't exist but because he was afraid they might. All right, Anoia had got a good deal out of him and he'd noticed her shiny new temple the other day, its frontage already hung with votive egg-slicers, fondant whisks, ladles, parsnip butterers and many other useless appliances donated by grateful worshippers who had faced the prospect of a life with their drawers stuck. Anoia delivered, because she specialized. She didn't even pretend to offer a paradise, eternal verities or any kind of salvation. She just left you with a smooth pulling action and access to the forks. And practically no one had believed in her before he'd picked her, at random, as one of the gods to thank for the miraculous windfall. Would she remember?
If he had some gold stuck in a drawer, then maybe. Turning dross into gold, probably not. Still, you turned to the gods when all you had left was a prayer.
He wandered into the little kitchen and took a ladle off the hook. Then he went back to the office and rammed it into a desk drawer, where it stuck, this being the chief function of ladles in the world. Rattle your drawers, that was it. She was attracted to the noise, apparently.
'O Anoia,' he said, tugging at the drawer handle, 'this is me, Moist von Lipwig, penitent sinner. I don't know if you remember? We are, all of us, mere utensils, stuck in drawers of our own making, and none more than I. If you could find time in your busy schedule to unstick me in my hour of need you will not find me wanting in gratitude, yea indeed, when we put the statues of the gods on the roof of the new Post Office. I never liked the urns on the old one. Covered in gold leaf too, by the way. Thanking you in anticipation. Amen.'
He gave the drawer one last tug. The ladle sprang out, twanging through the air like a leaping salmon, and smashed a vase in the corner.
Moist decided to take that as a hopeful sign. You were supposed to smell cigarette smoke if Anoia was present, but since Adora Belle had spent more than ten minutes in this room there was no point in sniffing.
What next? Well, the gods helped those who helped themselves, and there was always one last Lipwig-friendly option. It floated up in his mind: wing it.
Chapter 10
Doing it in style — 'The chairman goes woof — Harry King puts something by — The screaming starts — One kiss, no tongue — Council of wars — Moist takes charge — A little magic, with stamps — Arousing the professor's interest — A vision of Paradise
WING IT! THERE'S NOTHING LEFT. Remember the gold-ish chain? This is the other end of the rainbow. Talk yourself out of a situation you can't talk your way out of. Make your own luck. Put on a show. If you fall, let them remember how you turned it into a dive. Sometimes the finest hour is the last one.
He went to the wardrobe and took out the best golden suit, the one he wore on special occasions. Then he went and found Gladys, who was staring out of the window.
He had to speak her name quite loudly before she turned to face him, very slowly.
'They Are Coming,' she said.
'Yes, they are,' said Moist, 'and I'd better look my best. Could you press these trousers, please?'
Wordlessly, Gladys took the trousers from him, held them against the wall, and ran a huge palm down them before handing them back. Moist could have shaved with the crease. Then she turned back to the window.
Moist joined her. There was already a crowd in front of the bank, and coaches were pulling up as he watched. There were a fair number of guards around, too. A brief flash indicated that Otto Chriek of the Times was already taking pictures. Ah, yes, a deputation was now forming. People wanted to be in at the death. Sooner or later, someone would hammer at the door. Blow that. He couldn't let that happen.
Wash, shave, trim errant nose hairs, clean teeth. Comb hair, shine boots. Don hat, walk down stairs, unlock door very slowly so that the click is unlikely to be heard outside, wait until you hear a tread getting louder—
Moist opened the door, sharply.
'Well, gentlemen?'
Cosmo Lavish wobbled as the knock failed to connect, but recovered and thrust a sheet of paper at him.
'Emergency audit,' he said. 'These gentlemen' — and here he indicated a number of worthy-looking men behind him — 'are representatives of the major guilds and some of the other banks. This is standard procedure and you can't stand in their way. You will note that we have brought Commander Vimes of the Watch. When we have established that there is indeed no gold in the vault, I shall instruct him to arrest you on suspicion of theft.'
Moist glanced at the commander. He did not like the man much, and was certain that Vimes did not like him at all. He was even more certain, though, that Vimes did not readily take orders from the likes of Cosmo Lavish.
'I'm sure that the commander will do as he sees fit,' said Moist meekly. 'You know the way to the vault. I am sorry it's a bit of a mess at the moment.'
Co
smo half-turned to make certain the crowd heard everything he said. 'You are a thief, Mr Lipwig. A cheat and a liar, an embezzler and you have no dress sense whatsoever.'
'I say, that's a bit on the harsh side,' said Moist as the men swept through. 'I happen to think I dress rather snappily!'
Now he was alone on the steps, facing the crowd. They weren't a mob yet, but it could only be a matter of time.
'Can I help anyone else?' he said.
'What about our money?' someone said.
'What about it?' said Moist.
'Says in the paper you've got no gold,' said the enquirer.
He pushed a damp copy of the Times towards Moist. The newspaper had, on the whole, been quite restrained. He had expected bad headlines, but the story was a single column on the front page and it was full of 'we understand that' and 'we believe that' and 'the Times has been informed that' and all the phrases that journalists use when they are dealing with facts about large sums of money they don't fully understand and are not quite certain that what they have been told is true.
He looked up into the face of Sacharissa Cripslock.
'Sorry,' she said, 'but there were watchmen and guards all round the place last night and we didn't have much time. And frankly, Mr Bent's… attack was enough of a story in its own right. Everyone knows he runs the bank.'
'The chairman runs the bank,' said Moist stiffly.
'No, Moist, the chairman goes woof,' said Sacharissa. 'Look, didn't you sign anything when you took over the job? A receipt or something?'
'Well, maybe. There was a mass of paperwork. I just signed where I was told. So did Mr Fusspot.'
'Ye gods, the lawyers would have fun with that,' said Sacharissa, her notebook magically appearing in her hand. 'And it's no joke, either.[8] He could end up in debtor's prison!'
'Kennel,' said Moist. 'He goes woof, remember? And that's not going to happen.'
Sacharissa bent down to pat Mr Fusspot on his little head, and froze in mid-bend. 'What has he got in his—?' she began.
'Sacharissa, can we go into this later? I really have not got time for it right now. I swear by any three gods you believe in, even though you are a journalist, that when this is over I will give you a story that will tax even the Times's ability to avoid inelegant and suggestive subjects. Trust me.'
Making Money d-36 Page 27
