Making Money

‘Um, a small scruffy dog watching a man taking a piss in an alley,’ said Moist. ‘Sorry, but you chose the wrong time.’

‘Had I been taken less literally,’ said Lord Vetinari, giving him a Look, ‘you would have seen a large, bustling city, full of ingenious people spinning wealth out of the common clay of the world. They construct, build, carve, bake, cast, mould, forge and devise strange and inventive crimes. But they keep their money in old socks. They trust their socks more than they trust banks. Coinage is in artificially short supply, which is why your postage stamps are now a de facto currency. Our serious banking system is a mess. A joke, in fact.’

‘It’ll be a bigger joke if you put me in charge,’ said Moist.

Vetinari gave him a brief little smile. ‘Will it?’ he said. ‘Well, we all need a chuckle sometimes.’

The coachman opened the door, and they stepped out.

Why temples? thought Moist, as he gazed up at the façade of the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork. Why do they always build banks to look like temples, despite the fact that several major religions a) are canonically against what they do inside and b) bank there.

He’d looked at it before, of course, but had never really bothered to see it until now. As temples of money went, this one wasn’t bad. The architect at least knew how to design a decent column, and also knew when to stop. He had set his face like flint against any prospect of cherubs, although above the columns was a high-minded frieze showing something allegorical involving maidens and urns. Most of the urns, and, Moist noticed, some of the young women, had birds nesting in them. An angry pigeon looked down at Moist from a stony bosom.

Moist had walked past the place many times. It never looked very busy. And behind it was the Royal Mint, which never showed any signs of life at all.

It would be hard to imagine an uglier building that hadn’t won a major architectural award. The Mint was a gaunt brick and stone block, its windows high, small, many and barred, its doors protected by portcullises, its whole construction saying to the world: Don’t Even Think About It.

Up until now Moist hadn’t even thought about it. It was a mint. That sort of place held you upside down over a bucket and shook you hard before they let you out. They had guards, and doors with spikes.

And Vetinari wanted to make him the boss of it. There was going to have to be a huge razor blade in a stick of candyfloss this big.

‘Tell me, my lord,’ he said carefully. ‘What happened to the man who used to occupy the post?’

‘I thought you would ask, so I looked it up. He died aged ninety, of a schism of the heart.’

That didn’t sound too bad, but Moist knew enough to probe further. ‘Anyone else died lately?’

‘Sir Joshua Lavish, the chairman of the bank. He died six months ago in his own bed, aged eighty.’

‘A man can die in some very unpleasant ways in his own bed,’ Moist pointed out.

‘So I believe,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘In this case, however, it was in the arms of a young woman called Honey after a very large meal of devilled oysters. How unpleasant that was I suppose we shall never know.’

‘She was his wife? You said it was his own—’

‘He had an apartment in the bank,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘A traditional perk that was useful when he was’ — here Vetinari paused for a fraction of a second — ‘working late. Mrs Lavish was not present at the time.’

‘If he was a Sir, shouldn’t she be a Lady?’ said Moist.

‘It is rather characteristic of Mrs Lavish that she does not like being a Lady,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘And I bow to her wishes.’

‘Did he often “work” late?’ said Moist, carefully quoting.

‘With astonishing regularity for his age, I understand,’ said Vetinari.

‘Oh, really?’ said Moist. ‘You know, I think I recall the obituary in the Times. But I don’t remember any of that

sort of detail.’

‘Yes, what is the Press coming to, one wonders.’

Vetinari turned and surveyed the building. ‘Of the two, I prefer the honesty of the Mint,’ he said. ‘It growls at the world. What do you think, Mr Lipwig?’

‘What’s that round thing I always see poking out of the roof?’ said Moist. ‘It makes it look like a money box with a big coin stuck in the slot!’

‘Oddly enough, it did use to be known as the Bad Penny,’ said Vetinari. ‘It is a large treadmill to provide power for the coin stamping and so forth. Powered by prisoners once upon a time, when “community service” wasn’t just a word. Or even two. It was considered cruel and unusual punishment, however, which does rather suggest a lack of imagination. Shall we go in?’

‘Look, sir, what is it you would want me to do?’ said Moist, as they climbed the marble steps. ‘I know a bit about banking, but how do I run a mint?’

Vetinari shrugged. ‘I have no idea. People turn handles, I assume. Someone tells them how often, and when to stop.’

‘And why will anyone want to kill me?’