Making Money

Cosmo’s forehead did that…eyebrow thing again. He gave it a slap, and said, “Mr. Lipwig, you misunderstand. This was the hard way. Good-bye. My regards to your young lady.”
    Moist spun on the cobbles, but the door had slammed shut and the coach was speeding away.
    “Why didn’t you add ‘We know where your children will go to school’?” he shouted after it.
    What now? Hell’s bells, he had been dropped right in it!
    A little way up the street, the palace beckoned.
    Vetinari had some questions to answer. How had the man arranged it? The Watch said she’d died of natural causes! But he’d been trained as an assassin, yes? A real one, specializing in poisons, maybe?
    He strode in through the open gates, but the guards stopped him at the building itself. Moist knew them of old. There was probably an entrance exam for them. If they answered the question “What is your name?” and got it wrong, they were hired. There were trolls that could outthink them.
    But you couldn’t fool them, or talk them round. They had a list of people who could walk right in, and another of people who needed an appointment. If you weren’t on either, you didn’t get in.
    However, one of their captains, bright enough to read large type, did recognize “Postmaster General” and “Chairman of the Royal Bank” and sent one of the lads knuckling off to see Drumknott, carrying a scribbled note. To Moist’s surprise, ten minutes later, he was being ushered into the Oblong Office.
    Seats around the big conference table at one end of the room were fully occupied. Moist recognized a few guild leaders, but quite a few were average-looking citizens, working men, men who looked ill at ease indoors. Maps of the city were strewn across the table. He’d interrupted something. Or, rather, Vetinari had interrupted something for him.
    Lord Vetinari got up as soon as Moist entered, and beckoned him forward.
    “Please excuse me, ladies, gentlemen, but I do need some time with the postmaster general. Drumknott, do take everyone through the figures again, will you? Mr. Lipwig, this way if you please.”
    Moist thought he heard muffled laughter behind them as he was ushered into what he at first thought was a high-ceilinged corridor, but which turned out to be a sort of an art gallery. Vetinari shut the door behind them. The click seemed, to Moist, to be very loud. His anger was draining fast, to be replaced by a very chilly feeling. Vetinari was a tyrant, after all. If Moist was never seen again, his lordship’s reputation would only be enhanced.
    “Do put down Mr. Fusspot,” said Vetinari. “It will do the little chap good to run about.”
    Moist lowered the dog to the ground. It was like dropping a shield. And now he could take in what it was this gallery exhibited.
    What he’d thought were carved stone busts were faces, made of wax. And Moist knew how and when they were made, too.
    They were death masks.
    “My predecessors,” said Vetinari, strolling down the gallery. “Not a complete collection, of course. In some cases the head could not be found or was, as you might say, in a rather untidy state.”
    There was a silence. Foolishly, Moist filled it.
    “It must be strange, having them look down on you every day,” he managed.
    “Oh, do you think so? I have to say I’d rather look down on them. Gross men, for the most part, greedy, venal, and clumsy. Cunning can do duty for thought up to a point, and then you die. Most of them died rich, fat, and terrified. They left the city the worse for their incumbency and the better for their death. But now the city works, Mr. Lipwig. We progress. We would not do so if the ruler was the kind of man who would kill elderly ladies, do you understand?”
    “I never said—”
    “I know exactly what you never said. You refrained from saying it very loudly.” Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “I am extremely angry, Mr. Lipwig.”
    “But I’ve been dropped right in it!”
    “Not by me,” said Vetinari. “I can assure you that if I had, as your ill-assumed street patois has it, ‘dropped you in it,’ you would fully understand all meanings of ‘drop’ and have an unenviable knowledge of ‘it.’”
    “You know what I mean!”
    “Dear me, is this the real Moist von Lipwig speaking, or is it just the man looking forward to his very nearly gold chain? Topsy Lavish knew she was going and simply changed her will. I salute her for it. The staff will accept you more easily, too. And she’s