Making Money

time!”
    “You are smirking at me, Moist!”
    No, I’ve frozen because I’ve just heard what my mouth said, Moist thought. I don’t have a clue, I’ve just got some random thoughts. It’s…
    “It’s about desert islands,” he said. “And why this city isn’t one.”
    “And that’s it?”
    Moist rubbed his forehead. “Miss Cripslock, Miss Cripslock…this morning I got up with nothing in mind but to seriously make headway with the paperwork and maybe lick the problem of that special 25p Cabbage Green stamp. You know, the one that’ll grow into a cabbage if you plant it? How can you expect me to come up with a new fiscal initiative by teatime?”
    “All right, but—”
    “It’ll take me at least until breakfast.”
    He saw her write that down. Then she tucked the notebook in her handbag.
    “This is going to be fun, isn’t it,” she said, and Moist thought: Never trust her when she’s put her notebook away, either. She’s got a good memory.
    “Seriously, I think this is an opportunity for me to do something big and important for my adopted city,” said Moist, in his sincere voice.
    “That’s your sincere voice,” she said.
    “Well, I’m being sincere,” said Moist.
    “But since you raise the subject, Moist, what were you doing with your life before the citizens of Ankh-Morpork greeted you with open palms?”
    “Surviving,” said Moist. “In Überwald the old empire was breaking up. It was not unusual for a government to change twice over lunch. I worked at anything I could to make a living. By the way, I think you meant ‘arms’ back there,” he added.
    “And when you got here you impressed the gods so much that they led you to a treasure trove so that you could rebuild our post office.”
    “I’m very humble about that,” said Moist, trying to look it.
    “Ye-ess. And the gods-given gold was all in used coinage from the plains cities…”
    “You know what, I’ve often lain awake wondering about that myself,” said Moist, “and I reached the conclusion that the gods, in their wisdom, decided that the gift should be instantly negotiable.” I can go on like this for as long as you like, he thought, and you’re trying to play poker with no cards. You can suspect all you like, but I gave that money back! Okay, I stole it in the first place, but giving it back counts for something, doesn’t it? The slate is clean, isn’t it? Well, acceptably grubby, yes?
    The door opened slowly, and a young and nervous woman crept in, holding a plate of cold, boned chicken. Mr. Fusspot brightened up as she placed it in front of him.
    “Sorry, can we get you a coffee or something?” said Moist, as the girl headed back toward the door.
    Sacharissa stood up. “Thank you, but no. I’m on a deadline, Mr. Lipwig. I’m sure we’ll be talking again very soon.”
    “I’m certain of it, Miss Cripslock,” said Moist.
    She took a step toward him and lowered her voice.
    “Do you know who that girl was?”
    “No, I hardly know anyone yet.”
    “So you don’t know if you can trust her?”
    “Trust her?”
    Sacharissa sighed. “This is not like you, Moist. She’s just given a plate of food to the most valuable dog in the world. A dog that some people might like to see dead.”
    “Why shouldn’t—” Moist began. They both turned to Mr. Fusspot, who was already licking the empty plate up the length of the table with an appreciative gronf-gronf noise.
    “Er…can you see yourself out?” said Moist, hurrying toward the sliding plate.
    “If you’re in any doubt, stick your fingers down his throat!” said Sacharissa from the door with what Moist considered an inappropriate amount of amusement.
    He grabbed the dog and hurried through the far door, after the girl. It led to a narrow and not particularly well-decorated corridor with a green door at the end, from which came the sound of voices.
    Moist barged through it.
    In the small, neat kitchen beyond, a tableau greeted him. The young woman was backed against a table, and a bearded man in a white suit was wielding a big knife. They looked shocked.
    “What’s going on!” Moist yelled.
    “Er, er…you just ran through the door and shouted?” said the girl. “Was something wrong? I always give Mr. Fusspot his appetizer about now.”
    “And I’m doing his entrée,” said the man, bringing the knife down on a tray of offal. “It’s chicken necks stuffed with giblets, with his special toffee pudding for afters. And who’s