Making Money

Married.”
    Moist groaned. “Gladys, what did the counter girls give you to read this time?” he said.
    “It Is Lady Deirdre Waggon’s Prudent Advice For Young Women,” said Gladys. “It Is Most Interesting. It Is How Things Are Done.”
    She pulled a slim book out of the huge pocket in her dress. It had a chintzy look. Moist sighed. It was the kind of old-fashioned etiquette book that’d tell you Ten Things Not To Do With Your Parasol.
    “I see,” Moist said.
    He didn’t know how to explain. Even worse, he didn’t know what he’d be explaining. Golems were…golems. Big lumps of clay with the spark of life in them. Clothes? What for? Even the male golems in the Post Office just had a lick of blue and gold paint to make them look smart—hold on, he was getting it now! There were no male golems! Golems were golems, and had been happy to be just golems for thousands of years. And now they were in modern Ankh-Morpork, where all kinds of races and people and ideas were shaken up and it was amazing what dripped out of the bottle.
    Without a further word, Gladys clumped across the hallway, turned around, and stood still. The glow in her eyes settled down to a dull red. And that was it. She had decided to stay.
    In his in tray, Mr. Fusspot snored.
    Moist took out the half-note that Cosmo had given him.
    Desert island. Desert island. I know I think best when I’m under pressure, but what exactly did I mean?
    On a desert island gold is worthless. Food gets you through times of no gold much better than gold gets you through times of no food. If it comes to that, gold is worthless in a gold mine, too. The medium of exchange in a gold mine is the pickax.
    Hmm. Moist stared at the bill. What does it need to make it worth ten thousand dollars? The seal and signature of Cosmo, that’s what. Everyone knows he’s good for it. Good for nothing but money, the bastard.
    Banks use these all the time, he thought. Any bank in the Plains would give me the cash, withholding a commission, of course, because banks skim you top and bottom. Still, it’s much easier than lugging bags of coins around. Of course I’d have to sign it too, otherwise it wouldn’t be secure.
    I mean, if it was blank after “pay,” anyone could use it.
    Desert island, desert island…on a desert island a bag of vegetables is worth more than gold, in the city gold is more valuable than the bag of vegetables.
    This is a sort of equation, yes? Where’s the value?
    He stared.
    It’s in the city itself. The city says: In exchange for that gold, you will have all these things. The city is the magician, the alchemist in reverse. It turns worthless gold into…everything.
    How much is Ankh-Morpork worth? Add it all up! The buildings, the streets, the people, the skills, the art in the galleries, the guilds, the laws, the libraries…billions? No. No money would be enough.
    The city was one big gold bar. What did you need to back the currency? You just needed the city. The city says a dollar is worth a dollar.
    It was a dream, but Moist was good at selling dreams. And if you could sell the dream to enough people, no one dared to wake up.
    In a little rack on the desk was an ink pad and two rubber stamps, showing the city’s coat of arms and the seal of the bank. But in Moist’s eyes, there was a haze of gold around these simple things, too. They had value.
    “Mr. Fusspot?” said Moist. The dog sat up in his tray, looking expectant.
    Moist pushed his sleeves back and flexed his fingers.
    “Shall we make some money, Mr. Chairman?” he said.
    The chairman expressed unconditional agreement by means of going “Woof!”
    “Pay The Bearer The Sum Of One Dollar” Moist wrote on a piece of crisp bank paper.
    He stamped the paper with both stamps, and gave the result a long, critical look. It needed something more. You had to give people a show. The eye was everything.
    It needed…a touch of gravitas, like the bank itself. Who’d bank in a wooden hut?
    Hmm.
    Ah, yes. It was all about the city, right? Underneath, he wrote, in large ornate letters:
    Ad Urbem Pertinet
    And, in smaller letters, after some thought:

    Promitto fore ut possessori postulanti nummum unum solvem, an apte satisfaciam.
    Signed Moist von Lipwig pp The Chairman.

    “Excuse me, Mr. Chairman,” he said, and lifted the dog up. It was the work of a moment to press a front paw on the damp pad and leave a neat little footprint beside the signature.
    Moist went through this a dozen or more