Making Money

they’d printed his picture. His actual picture! Him and Vetinari and various notables last night, all looking up at the new chandelier! He’d managed to move slightly so that the picture blurred a little, but it was still the face that looked out at him from the shaving mirror every morning. All the way to Genua there were people who’d been duped, fooled, swindled, and cheated by that face. The only thing he hadn’t done was hornswoggle, and that was only because he hadn’t found out how to.
    Okay, he did have the kind of all-purpose face that reminded you of lots of other faces, but it was a terrible thing to see it nailed down in print. Some people thought that pictures could steal your soul, but it was liberty that was on Moist’s mind.
    Moist von Lipwig, pillar of the community. Hah…
    Something made him look closer. Who was that man behind him? He seemed to be staring over Moist’s shoulder. Fat face, small beard which looked like Lord Vetinari’s, but whereas the Patrician’s was a goatee, the same style on that other man looked like the result of haphazard shaving. Someone from the bank, right? There’d been so many faces, so many hands to shake, and everyone wanted to get into the picture. The man looked hypnotized, but having your picture taken often did that to people. Just another guest at just another function…
    And they’d only used the picture on page one because someone had decided that the main story, which was about another bank going bust and a mob of angry customers trying to hang the manager in the street, did not merit illustration. Did the editor have the common decency to print a picture of that and put a sparkle in everyone’s day? Oh no, it had to be a picture of Moist von bloody Lipwig!
    And the gods, once they’ve got a man against the ropes, can’t resist one more thunderbolt. There, lower down the front page, was the headline “STAMP FORGER WILL HANG.” They were going to execute Owlswick Jenkins. And for what? For murder? For being a notorious banker? No, just for knocking out a few hundred sheets of stamps. Quality work, too; the Watch would never have had a case if they hadn’t burst into his attic and found half a dozen sheets of halfpenny reds hanging up to dry.
    And Moist had testified, right there in the court. He’d had to. It was his civic duty. Forging stamps was held to be as bad as forging coins, and he couldn’t dodge. He was the postmaster general, after all, a respected figure in the community. He’d have felt a tiny bit better if the man had sworn or glared at him, but he’d just stood in the dock, a little figure with a wispy beard, looking lost and bewildered.
    He’d forged halfpenny stamps, he really had. It broke your heart, it really did. Oh, he’d done higher values too, but what kind of person takes all that trouble for half a penny? Owlswick Jenkins was, and now he was in one of the condemned cells down in the Tanty, with a few days to ponder on the nature of cruel fate before he was taken out to dance on air.
    Been there, done that, Moist thought. It all went black—and then I got a whole new life. But I never thought being an upstanding citizen was going to be this bad.
    “Er…thank you, Gladys,” he said to the figure looming genteelly over him.
    “You Have An Appointment Now With Lord Vetinari,” said the golem.
    “I’m sure I don’t.”
    “There Are Two Guards Outside Who Are Sure You Do, Mr. Lipwig,” Gladys rumbled.
    Oh, Moist thought. One of those appointments.
    “And the time of this appointment would be right now, would it?”
    “Yes, Mr. Lipwig.”
    Moist grabbed his trousers, and some relic of his decent upbringing made him hesitate. He looked at the mountain of blue cotton in front of him.
    “Do you mind?” he said.
    Gladys turned away.
    She’s half a ton of clay, Moist thought glumly, as he struggled into his clothes. And insanity is catching.
    He finished dressing and hurried down the back stairs and out into the coach yard that had so recently threatened to be his penultimate resting place. The Quirm Shuttle was pulling out, but he leaped up beside the coachman, gave the man a nod, and rode in splendor down Widdershins Broadway until he could jump down outside the palace’s main entrance.
    It would be nice, he reflected as he ran up the steps, if his lordship would entertain the idea that an appointment was something made by more than one person. But he was a tyrant, after all. They had to have some