Making Money

done you a great favor.”
    “Favor? I was shot at!”
    “That was just the Assassins’ Guild dropping you a note to say they are watching you.”
    “There were two shots!”
    “Possibly for emphasis?” said Vetinari, sitting down on a velvet-covered chair.
    “Look, banking is supposed to be dull! Numbers, pensions, a job for life!”
    “For life possibly, but apparently not for long,” said Vetinari, clearly enjoying this.
    “Can’t you do something?”
    “About Cosmo Lavish? Why should I? Offering to buy a dog is not illegal.”
    “But the whole family is—how did you know that? I didn’t tell you!”
    Vetinari waved a hand dismissively. “Know the man, know the method. I know Cosmo. In this sort of situation he will not resort to force if money will work. He can be very personable when he wants to be.”
    “But I’ve heard about the rest of them. They sound a pretty poisonous bunch.”
    “I couldn’t possibly comment. However, Topsy has helped you there. The Assassins’ Guild won’t take out a second contract on you. Conflict of interests, you see. I suppose technically they could accept a contract on the chairman, but I doubt if they will. Killing a lapdog? It would not look good on anyone’s résumé.”
    “I didn’t sign up to deal with something like this!”
    “No, Mr. Lipwig, you signed up to die,” snapped Vetinari, his voice suddenly as cold and deadly as a falling icicle. “You signed up to be justly hanged by the neck until dead for crimes against the city, against the public good, against the trust of man for man. And you were resurrected, because the city required you to be. This is about the city, Mr. Lipwig. It is always about the city. You know, of course, that I have plans?”
    “It was in the Times. The Undertaking. You want to build roads and drains and streets under the city. There’s some dwarf machine we’ve got hold of, called a Device. And the dwarfs can make waterproof tunnels. The Artificers’ Guild is very excited about it all.”
    “I gather by your somber tones that you are not?”
    Moist shrugged. Engines of any sort had never interested him. “I don’t think much about it one way or another.”
    “Astonishing,” said Vetinari, taken aback. “Well, Mr. Lipwig, you can at least guess at what we will need in very large amounts for this project.”
    “Shovels?”
    “Finance, Mr. Lipwig. And I would have it, if we had a banking system suitable for the times. I have every confidence in your ability to…shake things up a little.”
    Moist tried one last throw. “The Post Office needs me—” he began.
    “At the moment it does not, and you chafe at the thought,” said Vetinari. “You are not a man for the humdrum. I hereby grant you leave of absence. Mr. Groat has been your deputy, and while he may not have your…flair, let us say, he will, I am sure, keep things moving along.”
    He stood up, indicating that the audience was at an end. “The city bleeds, Mr. Lipwig, and you are the clot I need. Go away and make money. Unlock the wealth of Ankh-Morpork. Mrs. Lavish gave you the bank in trust. Run it well.”
    “It’s the dog that’s got the bank, you know!”
    “And what a trusting little face he has,” said Vetinari, ushering Moist to the door. “Don’t let me detain you, Mr. Lipwig. Remember—it’s all about the city.”

    THERE WAS ANOTHER protest march going on when Moist walked to the bank. You got more and more of them lately. It was a funny thing, but everyone seemed to want to live under the despotic rule of the tyrannical Lord Vetinari. They poured into the city whose streets were apparently paved with gold.
    It wasn’t gold. But the influx was having an effect, no doubt about it. Wages were falling, to start with.
    This march was against the employment of golems, who uncomplainingly did the dirtiest jobs, worked around the clock, and were so honest they paid their taxes. But they weren’t human and they had glowing eyes, and people could get touchy about that sort of thing.
    Mr. Bent must have been waiting behind a pillar. Moist was no sooner through the doors of the bank, Mr. Fusspot tucked happily under his arm, when the chief cashier was by his side.
    “The staff are very concerned sir,” he said, piloting Moist toward the stairs. “I took the liberty of telling them that you would speak to them later.”
    Moist was aware of the worried stares. And of other things, too, now that he was looking with an almost