Making Money

considerable accuracy. Perhaps my ancestor will be proud.”
    “How do you feel now?” said Moist.
    “Oh, quite well in myself,” said Bent, “whoever that is.”
    “Good. Then I want to see you at work tomorrow, Mr. Bent.”
    “You can’t ask him to go back so soon!” Miss Drapes protested.
    Moist turned to Whiteface and Vetinari. “Could you please leave us, gentlemen?”
    There was an affronted look on the chief clown’s face, which was made worse by the permanent happy smile, but the door shut behind them.
    “Listen, Mr. Bent,” said Moist urgently. “We’re in a mess—”
    “I believed in the gold, you know,” said Bent. “Didn’t know where it was, but I believed.”
    “Good. And it probably still exists in Pucci’s jewelry box,” said Moist. “But I want to open the bank again tomorrow, and Vetinari’s people have been through every piece of paper in the place, and you can guess what kind of mess they leave. And I want to launch the notes tomorrow, you know? The money that doesn’t need gold? And the bank doesn’t need gold. We know this. It worked for years with a vault full of junk! But the bank needs you, Mr. Bent. The Lavishes are in real trouble; Cosmo’s locked up somewhere; Mr. Fusspot’s in the palace; and tomorrow, Mr. Bent, the bank opens and you must be there. Please? Oh, and the chairman has graciously barked assent to putting you on a salary of sixty-five dollars a month. I know you are not a man to be influenced by money, but the raise might be worth considering by a man contemplating a, ah, change in his domestic arrangements?”
    It wasn’t a shot in the dark. It was a shot in the light—clear, blazing light. Miss Drapes was definitely a woman with a plan, and it had to be a better one than the rest of a life spent in a narrow room in Elm Street.
    “It’s your choice, of course,” he said, standing up. “Are they treating him all right, Miss Drapes?”
    “Only because I’m here,” she said smartly. “This morning three clowns came in with a big rope and a small elephant and wanted to pull one of his poor teeth! And then I’d hardly got them out when two more came in and started to whitewash the room, very inefficiently, in my opinion! I got them out of here in very short order, I can tell you!”
    “Well done, Miss Drapes!”
    Vetinari was waiting outside the Guild with the coach door open and, Moist noted with relief, Mr. Fusspot asleep on the cushions.
    “You will get in,” Vetinari said. “You too, Miss Dearheart.”
    “Actually it’s a very short walk to—”
    “Get in, Mr. Lipwig. We will go the pretty way.
    “I believe you think our relationship is a game,” said Vetinari, as the coach pulled away. “You believe that all sins will be forgiven. So let me give you this.”
    He took up a black walking stick with a silver skull on the handle, and tugged at the handle.
    “This curious thing was in the possession of Cosmo Lavish,” he said, as the blade slid out.
    “I know. Isn’t it a replica of yours?” said Moist.
    “Oh really,” said Vetinari. “Am I a sword-made-of-the-blood-of-a-thousand-men kind of ruler? It’ll be a crown of skulls next, I suppose. I believe Cosmo had it made.”
    “So it’s a replica of a rumor?” said Adora Belle. Outside the coach, some gates were swung open.
    “Indeed,” said Vetinari. “A copy of something that does not exist. One can only assume that it is authentic in every respect.”
    The coach door was opened, and Moist and Adora Belle stepped down into the palace gardens.
    They had the usual look of such places—neat, tidy, lots of gravel and pointy trees and no vegetables.
    “Why are we here?” said Adora Belle. “It’s about the golems, isn’t it?”
    “Miss Dearheart, what do our local golems think about this new army?”
    “They don’t like them. They think they will cause trouble. They have no chem that can be changed. They’re worse than zombies.”
    “Thank you. A further question: Will they kill?”
    “Historically, golem-makers have learned not to make golems that kill—”
    “Is that a no?”
    “I don’t know!”
    “We make progress. Is it possible to give them an order which cannot be countermanded by another person?”
    “Well, er…Yes. If they don’t know the wretched secret.”
    “Which is?” Vetinari turned back to Moist and drew the sword.
    “It must be the way I give the orders, sir,” said Moist, squinting downward at the blade for the second time. It