Making Money

Dearheart? No. Knowing her, the king of the dwarfs might be. She’s a very…composed young lady, I’ve noticed.”
    “Hah! You don’t know the half of it.”
    Moist made a mental note to send Adora Belle a message as soon as this was over. The whole situation with golems was heating up once more, what with the guilds complaining about them taking jobs. She was needed in the city—by the golems, obviously.
    He became aware of a subtle noise. It came from below, and sounded very much like air bubbling through liquid, or maybe water being poured out of a bottle with the familiar blomp-blomp sound.
    “Can you hear that?” he said.
    “Yes.”
    “Do you know what it is?”
    “The future of economical planning, I understand.” Lord Vetinari looked if not worried then at least unaccustomedly puzzled.
    “Something must have happened,” he said. “Mr. Bent is normally oiling his way across the floor within seconds of my entrance. I hope nothing unamusing has happened to him.”
    A pair of big elevator doors opened at the far end of the hall, and a man stepped through. For just a moment, probably unnoticed by anyone who had never had to read faces for a living, he was anxious and upset, but it passed with speed as he adjusted his cuffs and set his face in the warm, benevolent smile of someone who is about to take some money off you.
    Mr. Bent was in every way smooth and uncreased. Moist had been expecting a traditional banker’s frock coat, but instead there was a very well-cut black jacket above pinstripe trousers. Mr. Bent was also silent. His feet, soundless even on the marble, were unusually large for such a dapper man, but the shoes, black and polished, mirror-shiny, were very well made. Perhaps he wanted to show them off, because he walked like a dressage horse, lifting each foot very deliberately off the ground before setting it on the ground again. Apart from that incongruity, Mr. Bent had the air about him of one who stands quietly in a cupboard when not in use.
    “Lord Vetinari, I am so sorry!” he began. “I’m afraid there was unfinished business—”
    Lord Vetinari got to his feet. “Mr. Mavolio Bent, allow me to present Mr. Moist von Lipwig,” he said. “Mr. Bent is the chief cashier here.”
    “Ah, the inventor of the revolutionary unsecured one-penny note?” said Bent, extending a thin hand. “Such audacity! I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Lipwig.”
    “One-penny note?” said Moist, mystified. Mr. Bent, despite his protestation, did not look pleased at all.
    “Did you not listen to what I was saying?” said Vetinari. “Your stamps, Mr. Lipwig.”
    “A de facto currency,” said Bent, and light dawned on Moist. Well, it was true, he knew it. He’d meant stamps to be stuck to letters, but people had decided, in their untutored way, that a penny stamp was nothing more than a very light, government guaranteed penny and, moreover, one that you could put on an envelope. The advertising pages were full of businesses that had sprouted on the back of the beguilingly transferable postage stamps: “Learn The Uttermost Secrets Of The Cosmos! Send 8 penny stamps for booklet!” A lot of stamps wore out as currency without ever seeing the inside of a posting box.
    Something in Bent’s smile annoyed Moist, though. It was not quite as kind when seen close.
    “What do you mean by ‘unsecured’?” he said.
    “How do you validate its claim to be worth a penny?”
    “Er, if you stick it on a letter you get a penny’s worth of travel?” said Moist. “I don’t see what you’re getting at—”
    “Mr. Bent is one of those who believe in the preeminence of gold, Mr. Lipwig,” said Vetinari. “I’m sure you’ll get along exactly like a house on fire. I shall leave you now, and await your decision with, ah, compound interest. Come, Drumknott. Perhaps you will drop in to see me tomorrow, Mr. Lipwig?”
    Moist and Bent watched them go. Then Bent glared at Moist. “I suppose I must show you around…sir,” he said.
    “I have a feeling that we haven’t quite hit it off, Mr. Bent,” said Moist.
    Bent shrugged, an impressive maneuver on that gaunt frame. It was like watching an ironing board threatening to unfold.
    “I know nothing to your discredit, Mr. Lipwig. But I believe the chairman and Lord Vetinari have a dangerous scheme in mind, and you are their cat’s-paw, Mr. Lipwig, you are their implement.”
    “This would be the new chairman?”
    “That is correct.”
    “I