Making Money

problem.”
    “Well, yes, that would make sense. But a press is a big thing to move, you know. It’ll take days to shift it. Are you in a hurry? Of course you are.”
    “Hire some golems. Four golems will lift anything. Print me dollars by the day after tomorrow and the first thousand you print are a bonus.”
    “Why are you always in such a hurry, Mr. Lipwig?”
    “Because people don’t like change. But make the change happen fast enough and you go from one type of normal to another.”
    “Well, we could hire some golems, I suppose,” said the printer. “But I fear there are other difficulties less easy to overcome. Do you realize that if you start printing money then you will get forgeries? It’s not worth the trouble, maybe, for a 20p stamp, but if you want, say, a ten-dollar note…?” He raised his eyebrows.
    “Probably, yes. Problems?”
    “Big ones, my friend. Oh, we can help. Decent linen paper with a pattern of raised threads, watermarks, a good spirit ink, change the plates often to keep it sharp, little tricks with the design…and make it complex, too. That’s important. Yes, we could do it for you. They will be expensive. I strongly suggest you find an engraver as good as this…”
    Mr. Spools unlocked one of the lower drawers of his desk and tossed a sheet of 50p green “Tower of Art” stamps onto the blotter. Then he handed Moist a large magnifying glass.
    “That’s top-quality paper, of course,” the printer said as Moist stared.
    “You’re getting very good. I can see every detail,” Moist breathed, poring over the sheet.
    “No,” said Spools, with some satisfaction. “In fact, you cannot. You might, though, with this.” He unlocked a cupboard and handed Moist a heavy brass microscope.
    “He’s put in more detail than we did,” he said, as Moist focused. “It’s at the very limit of what metal and paper can be persuaded to do. It is, I declare, a work of genius. He would be your salvation.”
    “Amazing,” said Moist. “Well, we’ve got to have him! Who does he work for now?”
    “No one, Mr. Lipwig. He is in prison, awaiting the noose.”
    “Owlswick Jenkins?”
    “You testified against him, Mr. Lipwig,” said Spools mildly.
    “Well…yes, but only to confirm that they were our stamps he was copying, and how much we might be losing! I didn’t expect he’d be hanged!”
    “His lordship is always touchy when it’s a case of treason against the city, as he describes it. I think Jenkins was badly served by his lawyer. After all, his work made our stamps look like the real forgeries. You know, I got the impression the poor chap didn’t really realize what he was doing was wrong.”
    Moist recalled the watery, frightened eyes and the expression of helpless puzzlement.
    “Yes,” he said. “You may be right.”
    “Could you perhaps use your influence with Vetinari to—”
    “No. It wouldn’t work.”
    “Ah? Are you sure?”
    “Yes,” said Moist flatly.
    “Well, you see, there’s only so much we can do. We can even number the bills automatically now. But the artwork must be of the finest kind. Oh dear. I’m sorry. I wish I could help. We owe you a great debt, Mr. Lipwig. So much official work is coming in now that we’d need the space in the Mint. My word, we’re practically the government’s printer!”
    “Really?” said Moist. “That’s very…interesting.”

    IT RAINED UNGRACEFULLY. The gutters gargled and tried to spit. Occasionally the wind caught the cascading overflow from the rooftops and slapped a sheet of water across the face of anyone who looked up. But this was not a night to look up. This was a night to scurry, bent double, for home.
    Raindrops hit the windows of Mrs. Cake’s boardinghouse, specifically the one in the rear room occupied by Mavolio Bent, at the rate of twenty-seven a second, plus or minus fifteen percent.
    Mr. Bent liked counting. You could trust numbers, except perhaps for pi, but he was working on that in his spare time and it was bound to give in sooner or later.
    He sat on his bed, watching the numbers dance in his head. They’d always danced for him, even in the bad times. And the bad times had been so very bad. Now, perhaps, there were more ahead.
    Someone knocked at his door. He said, “Come in, Mrs. Cake.”
    The landlady pushed open the door.
    “You always know it’s me, don’t you, Mr. Bent,” said Mrs. Cake, who was more than a trifle nervous about her best lodger. He paid his rent on