Making Money

was staring at her in horror. The rest of the clan, those who weren’t still engrossed in decustarding themselves, were contriving to give the impression that they had never seen Pucci before. Who is this mad woman? said their faces. Who let her in? What is she talking about?
    “I think your brother is very ill, miss,” he said.
    Pucci tossed her admittedly fine locks dismissively. “Don’t worry about him, he’s just being silly,” she said. “He’s only doing it to attract attention. Silly boyish stuff about wanting to be Vetinari, as if anyone in their right mind would—”
    “He’s dribbling green,” said Moist, but nothing cut through the barrage of chatter. He stared at Cosmo’s ravaged face, and everything made sense. Beard. Cap. Sword stick, yes, with someone’s tacky idea of what a blade made from the iron in the blood of a thousand men should look like. And what about the murder of a man who made rings? And under that stinking glove…
    This is my world. I know how to do this.
    “I beg your pardon! You are Lord Vetinari, aren’t you?” he said.
    For a moment, Cosmo drew himself up and a spark of imperiousness shone through.
    “Indeed! Yes indeed,” he said, raising one eyebrow. Then it sagged, and his puffy face sagged with it.
    “Got ring. Vetin’ry ring,” he mumbled. “’S mine really. Good pain…”
    The sword dropped, too.
    Moist grabbed the man’s left hand and tore the glove off. It came away with a sucking sound and a smell that was unimaginably, nose-cakingly bad. The nearest guard threw up. So many colors, thought Moist. So many…wiggling things…
    And there, still visible in the suppurating mass, was the unmistakable sullen gleam of stygium.
    Moist grabbed Cosmo’s other hand.
    “I think you ought to come outside, my lord, now you are the Patrician,” he said loudly. “You must meet the people…”
    Once again, some inner Cosmo got a slippery grip, enough to cause the dribbling mouth to utter “Yes, this is very important…” before reverting to “Feel ill. Finger looks funny…”
    “The sunshine will do it good,” said Moist, taking him gently in tow. “Trust me.”

CHAPTER 13

    Gladys Is Doing It For Herself To the House of Mirth The history of Mr. Bent Usefulness of clowns as nurses is questioned Owlswick gets an angel The golden secret (not exactly dragon magic) The return of the teeth Vetinari looks ahead The bank triumphant The Glooper’s little gift How to spoil a perfect day

    ON THE FIRST day of the rest of his life Moist von Lipwig woke up, which was nice, given that on any particular day a number of people do not, but woke up alone, which was less pleasing.
    It was six a.m., and the fog seemed glued to the windows, so thick that it should have contained croutons. But he liked these moments, before the fragments of yesterday reassembled themselves.
    Hold on, this wasn’t the suite, was it? This was his room in the Post Office, which had all the luxury and comfort that you would normally associate with the term “civil-service issue.”
    A piece of yesterday fell into place. Oh yes, Vetinari had ordered the bank shut while his clerks looked at everything this time. Moist wished them luck with the late Sir Joshua’s special cupboard…
    There was no Mr. Fusspot, which was a shame. You don’t appreciate an early-morning slobber until it’s gone. And there was no Gladys, either, which was worrying.
    She didn’t turn up while he was getting dressed, either, and there was no copy of the Times on his desk. His suit needed pressing, too.
    He eventually found her pushing a trolley of mail in the sorting room. The blue dress was gone, to be replaced by a gray one which, by the nascent standards of golem dressmaking, looked quite smart.
    “Good morning, Gladys,” Moist ventured, “any chance of some pressed trouser?”
    “There Is Always A Warm Iron In The Postmen’s Locker Room, Mr. Lipwig.”
    “Oh? Ah. Right. And, er…the Times?”
    “Four Copies Are Delivered To Mr. Groat’s Office Every Morning, Mr. Lipwig.”
    “I suppose a sandwich is totally out of—”
    “I Really Must Get On With My Duties, Mr. Lipwig,” said the golem reproachfully.
    “You know, Gladys, I can’t help thinking that there’s something different about you,” said Moist.
    “Yes! I Am Doing It For Myself,” said Gladys, her eyes glowing.
    “Doing what, exactly?”
    “I Have Not Ascertained This Yet, But I Am Only Ten Pages Into The Book.”
    “Ah. You