Making Money

pool of brilliant light around the Glooper and saw one standing by the door to freedom.
    Owlswick was lying on a mattress and snoring, 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 an 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 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 leaped 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 Überwald lad to another, your lisp just departed.”
    Igor’s frown grew. “Thorry, thur, I have a lot on my mind,” he said, rolling