Making Money

Vetinari inspected the captured custard. He dipped a finger into it and tasted the blob thereon. He cast his eyes upwards, thoughtfully, while the room held its communal breath, and then said, pensively: ‘I do believe it is pineapple.’

There was a thunder of applause. There had to be; even if you hated Vetinari, you had to admire the timing.

And now he was coming down the steps, advancing on a frozen and fearful clown.

‘The clowns do not run my circus, sir,’ he said, grabbing the man by his big red nose and pulling it to the full extent of the elastic. ‘Is that understood?’

The clown produced a bulbous horn and gave a mournful honk.

‘Good. I’m glad you agree. And now I want to talk to Mr Bent, please.’

There were two honks this time.

‘Oh yes he is,’ said Vetinari. ‘Shall we get him out for the boys and girls? What is 15.3 per cent of 59.66?’

‘You leave him alone! Just you leave him alone!’

The battered crowd parted yet again, this time for a dishevelled Miss Drapes, as outraged and indignant as a mother hen. She was clasping something heavy to her sparse bosom, and Moist realized that it was a stack of ledgers.

‘This is what it’s all about!’ she announced triumphantly, flinging her arms wide. ‘It’s not his fault! They took advantage of him!’

She pointed an accusatory finger at the dripping ranks of the Lavishes. If a battle goddess were allowed to have a respectable blouse and hair escaping rapidly from a tight bun, then Miss Drapes could have been deified. ‘It was them! They sold the gold years ago!’ This caused a general and enthusiastic uproar on all sides not containing a Lavish.

‘There will be silence!’ shouted Vetinari.

The lawyers rose. Mr Slant glared. The lawyers sank.

And Moist wiped pineapple custard from his eyes just in time.

‘Look out! He’s got a daisy!’ he shouted, and then thought: I just shouted ‘Look out! He’s got a daisy!’, and I think I’m going to remember, for ever, just how embarrassing this is.

Lord Vetinari looked down at the improbably large flower in the clown’s buttonhole. A tiny drop of water glistened in the almost well-concealed nozzle.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know. Now, sir, I do indeed believe you are Mr Bent. I recognize the walk, you see. If you are not, then all you have to do is squeeze. And all I have to do is let go. I repeat: I’d like to hear from Mr Bent.’

Sometimes the gods don’t have the right sense of occasion, Moist thought. There should be thunder, a plangent tone, a chord of tension, some kind of celestial acknowledgement that here was the moment of tru—

‘9.12798,’ said the clown.

Vetinari smiled and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Welcome back,’ he said, and looked around until he found Dr Whiteface of the Fools’ Guild.

‘Doctor, would you take care of Mr Bent, please? I think he needs to be among his own.’

‘It would be an honour, my lord. Seven pies in the air at once and a four-man ladder tie? Exemplary! Whoever you are, brother, I offer you the joke handshake of welcome …’

‘He’s not going anywhere without me,’ said Miss Drapes grimly, as the white-faced clown stepped forward.

‘Indeed, who could imagine how he would,’ said Vetinari. ‘And please extend the courtesy of your guild to Mr Bent’s young lady, doctor,’ he added, to the surprise and delight of Miss Drapes, who clung on daily to the ‘lady’ but had reluctantly said goodbye to the ‘young’ years ago.

‘And will somebody please release those people from that ladder? I think a saw will be required,’ Vetinari went on. ‘Drumknott, collect up these intriguing new ledgers that Mr Bent’s young lady has so kindly supplied. And I think Mr Lavish needs medical attention—’

‘I … do … not!’ Cosmo, dripping custard, was trying to remain upright. It was painful to watch. He managed to point a furious but wavering finger at the tumbled books. ‘Those,’ he declared, ‘are the property of the bank!’

‘Mr Lavish, it is clear to us all that you are ill—’ Vetinari began.

‘Yes, you’d like everyone to believe that, wouldn’t you — impostor!’ Cosmo said, visibly swaying. In his head the crowd cheered.

‘The Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork,’ said Vetinari, without taking his eyes off Cosmo, ‘prides itself on its red-leather ledgers, which without fail are embossed with the seal of the city in gold leaf. Drumknott?’

‘These are cheap card-bound ones, sir. You can buy them anywhere. The writing within, however, is the unmistakable fine copperplate hand of Mr Bent.’

‘You are sure?’

‘Oh, yes. He does a wonderful cursive script.’

‘Fake,’ said Cosmo, as if his tongue was an inch thick, ‘all fake. Stolen!’

Moist looked at the watching people, and saw the shared expression. Whatever you thought of him, it was not good to see a man fall to bits where he stood. A couple of watchmen were sidling carefully towards him.