Making Money

should be at the Royal Bank long enough to bend it to his satisfaction,” Vetinari mused. Drumknott said nothing, but arranged some of the files into a more pleasing order. A name struck him, and he shifted a file to the top.
    “Of course, then he will get restless again and become a danger to others as well as himself…”
    Drumknott smiled at his files. His hand hovered…
    “Apropos of nothing, how old is Mr. Creaser?”
    “The taxmaster? In his seventies, sir,” said Drumknott, opening the file he had just selected. “Yes, seventy-four, it says here.”
    “We have recently pondered his methods, have we not?”
    “Indeed we have, sir. Last week.”
    “Not a man with a flexible cast of mind, I feel. A little at sea in the modern world. Holding someone upside down over a bucket and giving them a good shaking is not the way forward. I won’t blame him when he decides to take an honorable and well-earned retirement.”
    “Yes sir. When would you like him to decide that, sir?” said Drumknott.
    “No rush,” said Vetinari. “No rush.”
    “Have you given any thought to his successor? It’s not a job that creates friends,” said Drumknott. “It would need a special sort of person.”
    “I shall ponder it,” said Vetinari. “No doubt a name will present itself.”

    THE BANK STAFF were at work early, pushing through the crowds who were filling the street because (a) this was another act in the wonderful street theater that was Ankh-Morpork and (b) there was going to be big trouble if their money had gone missing. There was, however, no sign of Mr. Bent or Miss Drapes.
    Moist was in the Mint. Mr. Spools’s men had, well, they’d done their best. It’s an apologetic phrase, commonly used to mean that the result is just one step above mediocre, but their best was one leap above superb.
    “I’m sure we can improve them,” said Mr. Spools, as Moist gloated.
    “They are perfect, Mr. Spools!”
    “Anything but. But it’s kind of you to say so. We’ve done seventy thousand so far.”
    “Nothing like enough!”
    “With respect, we are not printing a newspaper here. But we’re getting better. You have talked about other denominations…?”
    “Oh, yes. Two, five, and ten dollars to start with. And the fives and tens will talk.”
    Nothing like enough, he thought, as the colors of money flowed through his fingers. People will queue up for this. They won’t want the grubby, heavy coins, not when they see this! Backed by golems! What is a coin compared to the hand that holds it? That’s worth! That’s value! Hm, yes, that’d look good on the two-dollar note, too, I’d better remember that.
    “The money…will talk?” said Mr. Spools carefully.
    “Imps,” said Moist. “They’re only a sort of intelligent spell. They don’t even have to have a shape. We’ll print them on the higher denominations.”
    “Do you think the university will agree to that?” said Spools.
    “Yes, because I’m going to put Ridcully’s head on the five-dollar note. I’ll go and talk to Ponder Stibbons. This looks like a job for inadvisably applied magic if ever I saw one.”
    “And what would the money say?”
    “Anything we want it to. ‘Is your purchase really necessary?’ perhaps, or ‘Why not save me for a rainy day?’ The possibilities are endless!”
    “It usually says good-bye to me,” said a printer, to ritual amusement.
    “Well, maybe we can make it blow you a kiss as well,” said Moist. He turned to the Men of the Sheds, who were beaming and gleaming with newfound importance. “Now, if some of you gentlemen will help me carry this lot into the bank…”
    The hands of the clock were chasing one another to the top of the hour when Moist arrived at the head of the procession, and there was still no sign of Mr. Bent.
    “Is that clock right?” said Moist, as the hands began the relaxing stroll to the half hour.
    “Oh yes, sir,” said a counter clerk. “Mr. Bent sets it twice a day.”
    “Maybe, but he hasn’t been here for more than—”
    The doors swung open, and there he was. Moist had, for some reason, expected the clown outfit, but this was the smooth and shiny, ironed-in-his-clothes Bent with the smart jacket and pinstripe trousers and—
    —the red nose. And he was arm-in-arm with Miss Drapes.
    The staff stared at it all, too shocked for a reaction.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Bent, his voice echoing in the silence. “I owe so many apologies. I have made many mistakes.