Making Money

new life, just as Moist had. He’d have woken up to be given the angel offer, which for Owlswick would have been a nice light room somewhere, three meals a day, his potty emptied on demand, and all the ink he wanted. From an Owlswick point of view, he’d be getting heaven. And Vetinari…would get the world’s best forger, working for the city.
    Oh, damn. I’m right in his way. I’m in Vetinari’s way.
    The orange-gold ball of the rejected yolk glowed on Vetinari’s plate.
    “Your wonderful plans for paper money are progressing?” said his lordship. “I’m hearing such a lot about them.”
    “What? Oh…yes. Er…I’d like to put your head on a dollar bill, please.”
    “But of course. A good place to put a head, considering all the places a head might be put.”
    Like a spike, yeah. He needs me, Moist thought, as the totally-not-a-threat sank in. But how much?
    “Look, I—”
    “Possibly your fertile mind can assist me with a little puzzle, Mr. Lipwig.” Vetinari dabbed at his lips and pushed back his chair. “Do follow me. Drumknott, please bring the ring. And the tongs, of course, just in case.”
    He led the way out onto the balcony, trailed by Moist, and leaned on the balustrade with his back to the foggy city.
    “Still a lot of cloud about, but I think the sun should break through at any time, don’t you think?” he said.
    Moist glanced up at the sky. There was a patch of pale gold among the billows, like the yolk of an egg. What was the man doing?
    “Pretty soon, yes,” he ventured.
    The secretary handed Vetinari a small box.
    “That’s the box for your signet ring,” said Moist.
    “Well done, Mr. Lipwig, observant as ever! Do take it.”
    Guardedly, Moist picked up the ring. It was black and had an odd, organic feel to it. The V seemed to stare at him.
    “Do you notice anything unusual about it?” said Vetinari, watching him carefully.
    “Feels warm,” said Moist.
    “Yes it does, doesn’t it,” said Vetinari. “That is because it is made of stygium. It’s called a metal, but I strongly believe that it is an alloy, and a magically constructed one at that. The dwarfs sometimes find it in the Loko Region, and it is extremely expensive. One day I shall write a monograph on its fascinating history, but for now, all I will say is that it is usually only of interest to those who, by inclination or lifestyle, move in darkness—and also, of course, to those who find a life without danger hardly worth living. It can kill, you see. In direct sunshine it heats within a few seconds to a temperature that will melt iron. No one knows why.”
    Moist glanced up at the hazy sky. The boiled-egg glow of the sun drifted into another bank of fog. The ring cooled.
    “Occasionally there is a fad among young assassins for stygium rings. Classically, they wear an ornate black glove over the ring during the day. It’s all about risk, Mr. Lipwig. It’s about living with Death in your pocket. I swear, there are people who will pull a tiger’s tail for mischief. Of course, people who are interested in coolth rather than danger just wear the glove. Be that as it may, less than two weeks ago the only man in the city who carries a stock of stygium and knows how to work it was murdered, late at night. The murderer dropped a peppermint bomb afterward. Who do you think did it?”
    I’m not going to look up, thought Moist. This is just a game. He wants me to sweat.
    “What was taken?” he said.
    “The Watch does not know, because, you see, what was taken was, de facto, not there.”
    “All right, what was left behind?” said Moist, and thought: He’s not looking at the sky, either…
    “Some gems and a few ounces of stygium in the safe,” said Vetinari. “You didn’t ask how the man was killed.”
    “How was—”
    “Crossbow shot to the head, while he was seated. Is this exciting, Mr. Lipwig?”
    “Hit man, then,” said Moist desperately. “It was planned, because he’d brought the bomb. Maybe the dead man didn’t pay a debt. Perhaps he was a fence and tried to pull a scam. There’s not enough information!”
    “There never is,” said Vetinari. “My cap comes back from the cleaners subtly changed, and a young man who works there dies in a brawl. A former gardener here comes in at the dead of night to buy a rather worn pair of Drumknott’s old boots. Why? Perhaps we shall never know. Why was a picture of myself stolen from the Royal Art Gallery last month? Who benefits?”
    “Uh,