Making Money

Adora Belle.
    “We’d better hurry, then?”
    “Exactly.”

    “REMARKABLY LIKE a gibbet,” said Lord Vetinari, while behind him coaches rumbled in and out of the fog. “It will allow a fast coach to pick up mailbags without slowing,” said Moist. “That means letters going from small country offices can travel express without slowing the coach. It could save a few minutes on a long run.”
    “And, of course, if I let you have some of the golem horses the coaches might travel at a hundred miles an hour, I’m told, and I wonder if those glowing eyes could see even through this murk.”
    “Possibly, sir. But, in fact, I already have all the golem horses,” said Moist.
    Vetinari gave him a cool look, and then said, “Hah! And you also have all your ears. What exchange rate are we discussing?”
    “Look, it’s not that I want to be Lord of the Golems—” Moist began.
    “On the way, please. Do join me in my coach,” said Vetinari.
    “Where are we going?”
    “Hardly any distance. We’re going to see Mr. Bent.”

    THE CLOWN WHO opened the little sliding door in the Fools’ Guild’s forbidding gates looked from Vetinari to Moist to Adora Belle, and wasn’t very happy about any of them.
    “We are here to see Dr. Whiteface,” said Vetinari. “I require you to let us in with the minimum of mirth.”
    The door snapped back. There was some hurried whispering and a clanking noise, and one half of the double doors opened a little way, just enough for people to walk through in single file. Moist stepped forward, but Vetinari put a restraining hand on his shoulder and pointed up with his stick.
    “This is the Fools’ Guild,” he said. “Expect…fun.”
    There was a bucket balanced on the door. He sighed, and gave it a push with his stick. There was a thud and a splash from the other side.
    “I don’t know why they persist in this, I really don’t,” he said, sweeping through. “It’s not funny and it could hurt someone. Mind the custard.” There was a groan from the dark behind the door.
    “Mr. Bent was born Charlie Benito, according to Dr. Whiteface,” said Vetinari, pushing his way through the tent that occupied the Guild’s quadrangle. “And he was born a clown.”
    Dozens of clowns paused in their daily training to watch them pass. Pies remained unflung, trousers did not fill with whitewash, invisible dogs paused in mid-widdle.
    “Born a clown?” said Moist.
    “Indeed, Mr. Lipwig. A great clown, from a family of clowns, who have worn the Charlie Benito makeup for centuries. You saw him last night.”
    “I thought he’d gone mad!”
    “Dr. Whiteface, on the other hand, thinks he has come to his senses. Young Bent had a terrible childhood, I gather. No one told him he was a clown until he was thirteen. And his mother, for reasons of her own, discouraged all clownishness in him.”
    “She must have liked clowns once,” said Adora Belle. She looked around them. All the clowns hurriedly looked away.
    “She loved clowns,” said Vetinari. “Or should I say, one clown. And for one night.”
    “Oh. I see,” said Moist. “And then the circus moved on?”
    “As circuses do, alas. After which I suspect she rather went off men with red noses.”
    “How do you know all this?” said Moist.
    “Some of it is informed conjecture, but Miss Drapes has got a lot out of him in the last couple of days. She is a lady of some depth and determination.”
    On the far side of the big tent there was another doorway, where the head of the Guild was waiting for them.
    He was white all over—white hat, white boots, white costume, and white face—and on that face, delineated in thin lines of red greasepaint, was a smile belying the real face, which was as cold and proud as that of a prince of Hell.
    Dr. Whiteface nodded at Vetinari.
    “My lord…”
    “Dr. Whiteface,” said the Patrician. “And how is the patient?”
    “Oh, if only he had come to us when he was young,” said Whiteface, “what a clown he would have been! What timing! Oh, by the way, we do not normally allow women visitors into the Guild, but in these special circumstances we are waiving this rule.”
    “Oh, I’m so glad,” said Adora Belle, acid etching every syllable.
    “It is simply that, whatever the Jokes For Women group says, women are just not funny.”
    “It is a terrible affliction,” Adora Belle agreed.
    “An interesting dichotomy, in fact, since neither are clowns,” said Vetinari.
    “I’ve always thought