Making Money

The sheep skull didn’t help Moist’s frame of mind at all. Peggy had arranged it as a centrepiece, with flowers around it, but the cool sunglasses were getting on his nerves.

‘How good is a golem’s hearing?’ he said.

‘Extremely,’ said Adora Belle. ‘Look, don’t worry, I have a plan.’

‘Oh, good.’

‘No, seriously. I’ll take her out tomorrow’.

‘Can’t you just—’ Moist hesitated, and then mouthed: ‘change the words in her head?’

‘She’s a free golem!’ said Adora Belle sharply. ‘How would you like it?’

Moist remembered Owlswick and the turnip. ‘Not much,’ he admitted.

‘With free golems you should change minds by persuasion. I think I can do that.’

‘Aren’t your golden golems due to arrive tomorrow?’

‘I hope so.’

‘It’s going to be a busy day. I’m going to launch paper money and you’re going to march gold through the streets.’

‘We couldn’t leave them underground. Anyway, they might not be golden. I’ll go and see Flead in the morning.’

‘We will go and see him. Together!’

She patted Moist’s arm. ‘Never mind. There could be worse things than golden golems.’

‘I can’t think what they are,’ said Moist, a phrase that he later regretted. ‘I’d like to take people’s minds off gold—’

He stopped, and stared at the sheep, which stared back in a calm, enigmatic way. For some reason Moist felt it should have a saxophone and a little black beret.

‘Surely they looked in the vault,’ he said aloud.

‘Who looked?’ said Adora Belle.

‘That’s where he’d go. The one thing you can depend on, right? The foundation of all that’s worthy?’

‘Who’d go?’

‘Mr Bent is in the gold vault!’ said Moist, standing up so quickly that his chair fell over. ‘He’s got all the keys!’

‘Sorry? Is this the man who went haywire after making a simple mistake?’

‘That’s him. He’s got a Past.’

‘One of those with a capital P?’

‘Exactly. Come on, let’s get down there!’

‘I thought we were going to have a romantic evening?’

‘We will! Right after we get him out!’

The only sound in the vaults was the tap-tap-tapping of Adora Belle’s foot. It was really annoying Moist as he paced up and down in front of the gold room, by the light of silver candlesticks that had been gracing the dining-room table.

‘I just hope Aimsbury is keeping the broth warm,’ said Adora Belle. Tap-tap tap-tap.

‘Look,’ said Moist. ‘Firstly, to open a safe like this you need to have a name like Fingers McGee, and secondly these little lockpicks aren’t up to the job.’

‘Well, let’s go and find Mr McGee. He’s probably got the right sort.’ Tap-tap tap-tap.

‘That won’t be any good because, thirdly, there’s probably no such person and, fourthly, the vault is locked from the inside and I think he’s left the key in the lock, which is why none of these work.’ He waved the key ring. ‘Fifthly, I’m trying to turn the key from this side with tweezers, an old trick which, it turns out, does not work!’

‘Good. So we can go back to the suite?’ Tap-tap tap-tap.

Moist peered again through the little spyhole in the door. A heavy plate had been slid across it on the inside, and he could just make out a glimmer of light around the edges. There was a lamp in there. What there was not, as far as he knew, was any kind of ventilation. It looked as though the vault had been built before the idea of breathing caught on. It was a man-made cave, built to contain something you never intended to take out. Gold didn’t choke.

‘I don’t think we have the option,’ he said, ‘because sixthly, he’s running out of air. He may even be dead!’

‘If he’s dead, can we leave him until tomorrow? It’s freezing down here.’ Tap-tap tap-tap.

Moist looked up at the ceiling. It was made of ancient oak beams, strapped together with iron bands. He knew what old oak could be like. It could be like steel, only nastier. It blunted axes and bounced hammers back in their owners’ faces.

‘Can’t the guards help?’ Adora Belle ventured.

‘I doubt it,’ said Moist. ‘Anyway, I don’t particularly want to encourage the idea that they can spend the night breaking into the vault.’

‘But they’re mostly City Watch, aren’t they?’

‘So? When a man is legging it for the horizon with as much gold as he can carry he doesn’t worry much about what his old job was. I’m a criminal. Trust me.’

He walked towards the stairs, counting under his breath.

‘And now what are you doing?’

‘Working out which part of the bank is directly over the gold,’ said Moist. ‘But you know what? I think I already know. The gold room is right under his desk.’

The lamp had burned low, and oily smoke swirled and settled on the sacks where Mr Bent lay curled up in a tight ball.

There was sound above, and voices muffled by the ancient ceiling. One of them said: ‘I can’t budge it. All right, Gladys, over to you.’

‘Is This Ladylike Behaviour?’ a second voice rumbled.

‘Oh yes, it counts as moving the furniture,’ said a voice that was clearly female.

‘Very Well. I Shall Lift It Up And Dust Underneath It.’

There was the thunder of wood being scraped on wood, and a little dust fell on to the piled bullion.

‘Very Dusty Indeed. I Shall Fetch A Broom.’