Making Money

have been reading a new book? But not one by Lady Deirdre Waggon, I’ll wager.”
    “No, Because She Is Out Of Touch With Modern Thought. I Laugh With Scorn.”
    “Yes, I imagine you would do,” said Moist thoughtfully. “And I expect Miss Dearheart gave you said book?”
    “Yes. It Is Entitled Why Men Get Under Your Feet, By Releventia Flout,” said Gladys earnestly.
    And we start out with the best of intentions, thought Moist, find ’em out, dig ’em up, make ’em free. But we don’t know what we’re doing, or what we’re doing it to.
    “Gladys, the thing about books…well, the thing…I mean just because it’s written down, you don’t have to…that is to say, it doesn’t mean it’s…what I’m getting at is that every book is—”
    He stopped. They believe in words. Words give them life. I can’t tell her that we just throw them around like jugglers, we change their meaning to suit ourselves—
    He patted Gladys on the shoulder. “Well, read them all and make up your own mind, eh?”
    “That Was Very Nearly Inappropriate Touching, Mr. Lipwig.”
    Moist started to laugh, and stopped at the sight of her grave expression.
    “Er, only for Ms. Flout, I expect,” he said, and went to grab a Times before they were all stolen.
    It must have been another bittersweet day for the editor. After all, there can only be one front page. In the end he’d stuffed in everything—the “I do believe it is pineapple” line, with a picture showing the dripping Lavishes in the background and, oh yes, here was Pucci’s speech, in detail. It was wonderful. And she’d gone on and on. It was all perfectly clear, from her point of view: she was right and everyone was silly. She was so in love with her own voice that the watchmen had to write down their official caution on a piece of paper and hold it up in front of her before they towed her away, still talking…
    And someone had got a picture of Cosmo’s ring catching the sunlight. It was near perfect surgery, they said down at the hospital, and had probably saved his life, they said, and how had Moist known what to do, they said, when the entirety of Moist’s relevant medical knowledge was that a finger shouldn’t have green mushrooms growing on it—
    The paper was twitched out of his hands.
    “What have you done with Professor Flead?” Adora Belle demanded. “I know you’ve done something! Don’t lie.”
    “I haven’t done anything!” Moist protested, and checked the wording. Yes, technically true.
    “I’ve been to the Department of Postmortem Communications, you know!”
    “And what did they say?”
    “I don’t know! There was a squid blocking the door! But you’ve done something, I know it! He told you the secret of getting through to the golems, didn’t he!”
    “No.” Absolutely true.
    “He didn’t?”
    “No. I got some extra vocabulary, but that’s no secret.”
    “Will it work for me?”
    “No.” Currently true.
    “They’d only take orders from a man? I bet that’s it.”
    “I don’t think so.” True enough.
    “So there is a secret?”
    “It’s not really a secret. Flead told us. He just didn’t know it was a secret.” True.
    “It’s a word?”
    “No.” True.
    “Look, why won’t you tell me? You know you can trust me!”
    “Well, yes. Of course. But can I trust you if someone holds a knife to your throat?”
    “Why should they do that?”
    Moist sighed. “Because you’ll know how to command the biggest army there has ever been! Didn’t you look around outside? Didn’t you see all the coppers? They turned up right after the hearing!”
    “What coppers?”
    “Those trolls re-laying the cobbles? How often do you see that happening? The line of cabs that aren’t interested in passengers? The battalion of beggars? And the coach yard around the back is full of hangers-on, lounging about and watching the windows. Those coppers. It’s called a stakeout, and I’m the meat—”
    There was a knock at the door. Moist recognized it; it sought to alert without disturbing.
    “Come in, Stanley,” he said. The door opened.
    “It’s me, sir,” said Stanley, who went through life with the care of a man reading a manual translated from a foreign language.
    “Yes, Stanley.”
    “Head of stamps, sir,” said Stanley.
    “Yes, Stanley?”
    “Lord Vetinari is in the coach yard, sir, inspecting the new automatic pick-up mechanism. He says there is no rush, sir.”
    “He says there is no rush,” said Moist to