Making Money

‘Richness,’ he told himself, aloud, ‘richness and solidity, like the front of the bank. Lots of ornate scrolling, which is hard to copy. A … panorama, a cityscape … Yes! Ankh-Morpork, it’s all about the city! Vetinari’s head, because they’ll expect that, and a great big One so they get the message. Oh, the coat of arms, we must have that. And down here’ — the pencil scribbled fast — ‘a space for the chairman’s signature, pardon me, I mean paw print. On the back … well, we are talking fine detail, Owlswick. Some god would give us a bit of gravitas. One of the jollier ones. What’s the name of that god with the three-pronged fork? One like him, anyway. Fine lines, Owlswick, that’s what we want. Oh, and a boat. I like boats. Tell ’em it’s worth a dollar again, too. Um … oh yes, mystic stuff doesn’t hurt, people’ll believe in any damn thing if it sounds old and mysterious. “Doth not a penny to the widow outshine the unconquered sun?”’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I haven’t the foggiest idea,’ said Moist. ‘I just made it up.’ He sketched away for a while and then pushed the paper across to Owlswick. ‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘Have a go. Think you can make something of it?’

‘I’ll try,’ Owlswick promised.

‘Good. I’ll see you tomo— later on. Igor here will look after you.’

Owlswick was already staring at nothing. Moist pulled Igor aside.

‘Just a shave and a haircut, okay?’

‘Ath you withth, thur. Am I right in thinking that the gentleman doeth not want any entanglementth with the Watch?’

‘Correct.’

‘No problem there, thur. Could I thuggetht a change of name?’

‘Good idea. Any suggestions?’

‘I like the name Clamp, thur. And for a firtht name, Exorbit thpringth to mind.’

‘Really? Where did it spring from? No, don’t answer that. Exorbit Clamp …’ Moist hesitated, but at this time of the night, why argue? Especially when it was this time of the morning. ‘Exorbit Clamp it is, then. Make certain he forgets even the name of Jenkins,’ Moist added, with what, he later realized, was in the circumstances a definite lack of foresight.

Moist slipped back up to bed without ever having to duck out of sight. No guard is at his best in the small hours. The place was locked up tight, wasn’t it? Who could break in?

Down in the well-fornicated vault, the artist formerly known as Owlswick stared at Moist’s sketches and felt his brain begin to fizz. It was true that he was not, in any proper sense, a madman. He was

, by certain standards, very sane. Faced with a world too busy, complex and incomprehensible to deal with, he’d reduced it to a small bubble just big enough to hold him and his palette. It was nice and quiet in there. All the noises were far away, and They couldn’t spy on him.

‘Mr Igor?’ he said.

Igor looked up from a crate in which he had been rummaging. He held what looked like a metal colander in his hands. ‘How may I be of thurvithe, thur?’

‘Can you get me some old books with pictures of gods and boats and maybe some views of the city too?’

‘Indeed, thur. There ith an antiquarian book-theller in Lobbin Clout.’ Igor put the metal device on one side, pulled a battered leather bag from under the table and, after a moment’s thought, put a hammer in it.

Even in the world of the newly fledged Mr Clamp, it was still so late at night that it was too early in the morning. ‘Er, I’m sure it can wait until daylight,’ he volunteered.

‘Oh, I alwayth ththop at night, thur,’ said Igor. ‘When I’m after … bargainth.’

Moist woke far too early, with Mr Fusspot standing on his chest and squeaking his rubber bone very loudly. As a result, Moist was being dribbled on in no small way.

Behind Mr Fusspot was Gladys. Behind her were two men in black suits.

‘His lordship has agreed to see you, Mr Lipwig,’ said one of them quite cheerfully.

Moist tried to wipe the slobber off his lapel, and only succeeded in shining the suit.

‘Do I want to see him?’

One of the men smiled.

‘Ooooh, yes!’

‘A hanging always makes me hungry,’ said Lord Vetinari, working carefully on a hard-boiled egg. ‘Don’t you find this so?’

‘Um … I’ve only been hanged once,’ said Moist. ‘I didn’t feel like eating much.’

‘I think it’s the chilly early-morning air,’ said Vetinari, apparently not hearing this. ‘It puts an edge on the appetite.’

He looked directly at Moist for the first time, and appeared concerned. ‘Oh dear, you’re not eating, Mr Lipwig? You must eat. You look a little peaky. I trust your job is not getting on top of you?’

Somewhere en route to the palace, Moist thought, he must have stepped into another world. It had to be something like that. It was the only explanation.

‘Er, who was hanged?’ he said.

‘Owlswick Jenkins, the forger,’ said Vetinari, devoting himself again to his surgical removal of the white from the yolk. ‘Drumknott, perhaps Mr Lipwig would like some fruit? Or some of that bowel-lacerating grain and nut concoction you favour so much?’

‘Indeed, sir,’ said the secretary.