Making Money

times, tucked five of the resulting bills under the blotter, and took the new money, and the chairman, for walkies.

    COSMO LAVISH GLARED at his reflection in the mirror.
    Often he got it right in the glass three or four times in a row, and then—oh, the shame—he’d try it in public and people, if they were foolish enough to mention it, would say, “Have you got something in your eye?”
    He’d even had a device constructed that pulled at one eyebrow repeatedly, by means of clockwork. He’d poisoned the man who made it, there and then, as he took delivery, chatting with him in his smelly little workshop while the stuff took hold. He’d been nearly eighty and Cosmo had been very careful, so it never came to the attention of the Watch. Anyway, at that age it shouldn’t really count as murder, should it? It was more like a favor, really. And obviously he couldn’t risk the old fool blabbing happily to someone after Cosmo had become Patrician.
    On reflection, he thought, he should have waited until he was certain that the eyebrow-training machine was working properly. It had given him a black eye before he’d made a few hesitant adjustments.
    How did Vetinari do it? It was what had got him the Patricianship, Cosmo was sure. Well, a couple mysterious murders had helped, admittedly, but it was the way the man could raise an eyebrow that kept him there.
    Cosmo had studied Vetinari for a long time. It was easy enough, at social gatherings. He’d cut out every picture that appeared in the Times, too. What was the secret that kept the man so powerful and unscathed? How might he be understood?
    And then one day he’d read in some book or other: “If you want to understand a man, walk a mile in his shoes.”
    And he’d had a great and glorious idea…
    He sighed happily, and tugged at the black glove.
    He’d been sent to the Assassins’ school as a matter of course. It was the natural destination for young men of a certain class and accent. He’d survived, and had made study of poisons, because he believed that was Vetinari’s specialty, but the place had bored him. It was so stylized now. They’d got so wrapped up in some ridiculous concepts of honor and elegance that they seemed to forget what it was an assassin was supposed to do…
    The glove came free, and there it was.
    Oh yes…
    Heretofore had done magnificently.
    Cosmo stared at the wondrous thing, moving his hand so that it caught the light. Light did strange things to stygium: sometimes it reflected silver, sometimes an oily yellow, sometimes it remained resolutely black. And it was warm, even here. In direct sunlight it would burst into flame. It was a metal that might have been intended for those who move in shadow…
    The ring of Vetinari. Vetinari’s signet ring. Such a small thing, and yet so powerful.
    It was entirely without ornamentation, unless you counted the tiny border to the cartouche that surrounded the sharply incised and serifed single letter:

    V

    He could only guess at all the things his secretary had to do to get it. He’d had a replica made, “reverse-devised,” whatever that was, from the wax seals it had so impressively stamped. And there had been bribes (expensive ones) and hints of hasty meetings and cautious exchanges and last-minute changes to get the replica exactly right—
    And here the real one was, on his finger. Very much on his finger, in fact. From Cosmo’s point of view, Vetinari also had very small fingers for a man, and getting the ring over the knuckle had been a real effort. Heretofore had fretted about getting it enlarged, foolishly not realizing that this would completely ruin it. The magic—and surely Vetinari had a magic all his own—would leak out. It wouldn’t be totally the real thing anymore.
    Yes, it had hurt like hell for a few days, but now he was floating above the pain, in a clear blue sky.
    He prided himself on being no fool. He’d have known at once if his secretary had tried to palm off a mere copy on him. The shock that went up his arm when he slid the ring—all right, forced the ring over the knuckle—was enough to tell him that he had got the real thing. Already he could feel his thoughts getting sharper and faster.
    He brushed a forefinger across the deeply cut V and looked up at Drumk—at Heretofore.
    “You seem concerned, Heretofore,” he said kindly.
    “The finger has gone very white, sir. Almost pale blue. Are you sure it doesn’t hurt?”
    “Not a bit. I