Making Money

good pal Mr. Lipwig!” shouted the clown. “You think the ringmaster runs the circus, do you? Only by the consent of the clowns, Mr. Lipwig! Only by the consent of the clowns!”
    Bent drew back his arm and hurled a pie at Lord Vetinari, but Moist was already in full leap before the pie started its journey. His brain came a poor third, and delivered its thoughts all in one go, telling him what his legs had apparently worked out for themselves: that the dignity of the great could rarely survive a faceful of custard, that a picture of an encustarded Patrician on the front page of the Times would rock the power politics of the city, and most of all, that in a post-Vetinari world he, Moist, would not see tomorrow, which was one of his lifelong ambitions.
    As in a silent dream, he sailed toward the oncoming nemesis, reaching out with snail-pace fingers while the pie spun on to its date with history.
    It hit him in the face.
    The Patrician had not moved. Custard flew up and four hundred fascinated eyes watched as a glob of the stuff was thrown up by the collision and headed on toward Vetinari, who caught it in an upraised hand.
    The little smack as it landed in his palm was the only sound in the room.
    Vetinari inspected the captured custard.
    He dipped a finger into it, and tasted the blob thereon. He cast his eyes upward thoughtfully, while the room held its collective breath, and then said: “I do believe it is pineapple.”
    There was a thunder of applause. There had to be; even if you hated Vetinari, you had to admire the timing.
    And now he was coming down the steps, advancing on a frozen and fearful clown.
    “The clowns do not run my circus, sir,” he said, grabbing the man by his big red nose and pulling it to the full extent of the elastic. “Is that understood?”
    The clown produced a bulbous horn and gave a mournful honk.
    “Good. I’m glad you agree. And now I want to talk to Mr. Bent, please.”
    There were two honks this time.
    “Oh yes he is,” said Vetinari. “Shall we get him out for the boys and girls? What is 15.3 percent of 59.66?”
    “You leave him alone! Just you leave him alone!”
    The battered crowd parted yet again, this time for a disheveled Miss Drapes, as outraged and indignant as a mother hen. She was clasping something heavy to her sparse bosom, and Moist realized that it was a stack of ledgers.
    “This is what it’s all about!” she announced triumphantly, flinging her arms wide. “It’s not his fault! They took advantage of him!”
    She pointed an accusatory finger at the dripping ranks of the Lavishes. If a battle goddess was allowed to have a respectable blouse and hair escaping rapidly from a tight bun, then Miss Drapes could have been deified. “It was them! They sold the gold years ago!” This caused a general and enthusiastic uproar on all sides not containing a Lavish.
    “There will be silence!” shouted Vetinari.
    The lawyers rose. Mr. Slant glared. The lawyers sank.
    And Moist wiped pineapple custard from his eyes just in time.
    “Look out! He’s got a daisy!” he shouted, and then thought: I just shouted “Look out! He’s got a daisy,” and I think I’m going to remember forever just how embarrassing this was.
    Lord Vetinari looked down at the improbably large flower in the clown’s buttonhole. A tiny drop of water glistened in the almost-well-concealed nozzle.
    “Yes,” he said, “I know. Now, sir, I do indeed believe you are Mr. Bent. I recognize the walk, you see. If you are not, then all you have to do is squeeze, and all I have to do is let go. I repeat: I’d like to hear from Mr. Bent.”
    Sometimes the gods don’t have the right sense of occasion, Moist thought. There should be thunder, a plangent tone, a chord of tension, some kind of celestial acknowledgment that here was the moment of tru—
    “9.12798,” said the clown.
    Vetinari smiled and patted him on the shoulder.
    “Welcome back,” he said, and looked around the room until his gaze found Dr. Whiteface of the Fools’ Guild.
    “Doctor, would you take care of Mr. Bent, please? I think he needs to be among his own.”
    “It would be an honor, my lord. Seven pies in the air at once and a four-man ladder tie? Exemplary! Whoever you are brother, I offer you the joke handshake of welcome…”
    “He’s not going anywhere without me,” said Miss Drapes grimly, as the white-faced clown stepped forward.
    “Indeed, who could imagine how he would,” said Vetinari. “And please