Making Money

fool?” said Flead.
    “Not much fun?”
    “Young man, the word fun is not applicable to existence beyond the grave,” said Flead.
    “And is that why you hang around the department?”
    “Yes! It may be run by amateurs these days, but there’s always something going on.”
    “Certainly,” said Moist. “However, I’m wondering if someone of your…interests would not find them better served somewhere where there is always something coming off.”
    “I do not understand your meaning.”
    “Tell me, Professor, have you heard of the Pink PussyCat Club?”
    “No, I have not. Cats are not normally pink in these times, are they?”
    “Really? Well, let me tell you about the Pink PussyCat Club,” said Moist. “Excuse us, Dr. Hicks.” He waved away Hicks, who winked and led his students back to the crowd. Moist put his arm around the ghostly shoulders. It was uncomfortable to hold it there with no actual shoulder to take the weight, but style was everything in these matters.
    The watchers heard some urgent whispering pass to and fro, and then Flead said, “You mean it’s…smutty?”
    Smut, thought Moist. He really is old.
    “Oh, yes. Even, I might go so far as to say, suggestive.”
    “Do they show their…ankles?” said Flead, his eyes gleaming.
    “Ankles,” said Moist. “Ye—yes, I rather think they do.” Ye gods, he wondered, is he that old?
    “All the time?”
    “Twenty-four hours a day. They never clothe,” said Moist. “And sometimes they spin around a pole upside down. Take it from me, Professor, for you, eternity might not be long enough.”
    “And you just want a few words translated?”
    “A small glossary of instructions.”
    “And then I can go?”
    “Yes!”
    “I have your word?”
    “Trust me. I’ll just explain this to Dr. Hicks. He may take some persuading.”
    Moist strolled over to the huddles of people who weren’t necromancers at all. The postmortem communicator’s response was other than he expected. Second thoughts were arising.
    “I wonder if we’d be doing the right thing, setting him loose in a pole-dancing establishment?” said Hicks doubtfully.
    “No one will see him. And he can’t touch. They are very big on not touching in that place. I’m told.”
    “Yes, I suppose all he can do is ogle the young ladies.” There was some sniggering from the students.
    “So? They’re paid to be ogled at,” said Moist. “They are professional oglees. It’s an ogling establishment. For oglers. And you heard what’s going on in the palace. We could be at war in a day. Do you trust that lot? Trust me.”
    “You use that phrase an awful lot, Mr. Lipwig,” said Hicks.
    “Well, I’m very trustworthy. Ready, then? Hold back until I summon you, and then you can take him to his last resting place.”

    THERE WERE PEOPLE in the crowd, with sledgehammers. You’d have a job to crack a golem if it didn’t want you to, but he ought to get them out of here as soon as possible.
    This probably wouldn’t work. It was too simple. But Adora Belle had missed it, and so had Flead. The corporal now so bravely holding back the crowds wouldn’t have, because it was all about orders, but nobody had asked him. You just had to think a little.
    “Come on, young man,” said Flead, still where his bearers had left him and backed away. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
    Moist took a deep breath.
    “Tell me how to say: ‘Trust me, and only me. Form ranks of four and march ten miles hubward of the city. Walk slowly,’” he said.
    “Hee, hee. You are a sharp one, Mr. Lipstick!” said Flead, his mind full of ankles. “But it won’t work, you know. We tried things like that.”
    “I can be very persuasive.”
    “It won’t work, I tell you. I have found not one single word that they will react to.”
    “Well, Professor, it’s not what you say, it’s the way that you say it, isn’t it? Sooner or later it’s all about style.”
    “Hah! You are a fool, man.”
    “I thought we had a deal, Professor? And I shall want a number of other phrases.” He looked around at the golem horses, as still as statues. “And the one phrase I shall need is the equivalent of ‘giddyup’ and while I think of it I shall need ‘whoa,’ too. Or do you want to go back to the place where they’ve never heard of pole-dancing?”

CHAPTER 11

    The golems go True worth At work: servants of a higher truth Back in trouble again The beautiful butterfly The insanity of Vetinari Mr. Bent wakes