Making Money

managed to be employed in the Mint while still too young to shave though definitely old enough to have spots.
    “Er, the men say, will there be badges?” said the boy.
    “Actually, I was thinking of uniforms,” said Moist. “Silver breastplate with the city’s coat of arms on it and lightweight silver chain mail, to look impressive when we have visitors.”
    The boy pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and consulted it.
    “What about clipboards?” he said.
    “Certainly,” said Moist. “And whistles, too.”
    “And, er, it’s def ’nite about the Sheds, right?”
    “I’m a man of my word,” said Moist.
    “You are a man of words, Mr. Lipwig,” said Bent as the boy scuttled back up the rocking steps, “but I fear they will lead us into ruin. The bank needs solidarity, reliability…everything that gold represents!”
    Moist spun around. It had not been a good day. It had not been a good night, either.
    “Mr. Bent, if you do not like what I am doing, feel free to leave. You’ll have a good reference and all the wages due to you!”
    Bent looked as though he’d been slapped.
    “Leave the bank? Leave the bank? How could I do that? How dare you!”
    A door slammed above them. They looked up. The Men of the Sheds were coming down the stairs in solemn procession.
    “Now we shall see,” hissed Bent. “These are men of solid worth. They’ll have nothing to do with your gaudy offer, Mr…. Ringmaster!”
    The Men reached the bottom of the steps. Without a word they all looked at Mr. Shady, except for Mr. Shady, who looked at Moist.
    “The sheds stay, right?” he said.
    “You’re giving in?” said Mr. Bent, aghast. “After hundreds of years?”
    “Well,” said Mr. Shady, “me and the boys had a bit of a talk and, well, at a time like this, a man’s got to think of his shed. And the outworkers will be all right, right?”
    “Mr. Shady, I’d go to the barricades for the elim,” said Moist.
    “And we talked to some of the lads from the Post Office last night and they said we could trust Mr. Lipwig’s word ’cos he’s as straight as a corkscrew.”
    “A corkscrew?” said Bent, shocked.
    “Yeah, we asked about that, too,” said Shady. “And they said he acts curly but that’s okay ’cos he damn well gets the corks out!”
    Mr. Bent’s expression went blank. “Oh,” he said. “This is clearly some kind of judgment-clouding joke, which I do not understand. If you will excuse me, I have a great deal of work to attend to.”
    His feet rising and falling, as though he was walking on an invisible staircase, Mr. Bent departed in jerky haste.
    “Very well, gentlemen, thank you for your helpful attitude,” said Moist, watching the retreating figure, “and for my part I will get those uniforms ordered this afternoon.”
    “You’re a fast mover, Master,” said Mr. Shady.
    “Stand still and your mistakes catch up with you!” said Moist. They laughed, because he’d said it, but the face of Cribbins rose up in his mind and, quite unconsciously, he put his hand in his pocket and touched the blackjack. He’d have to learn how to use it now, because a weapon you held and didn’t know how to use belonged to your enemy.
    He’d bought it—why? Because it was like the lock picks, a token to prove, if only to himself, that he hadn’t given in, not all the way, that a part of him was still free. It was like the other ready-made identities, the escape plans, the caches of money and clothes. They told him that any day he could leave all this, melt into the crowd, say good-bye to the paperwork and the timetable and the endless, endless wanting.
    They told him that he could give it up anytime he liked. Any hour, any minute, any second. And because he could, he didn’t…every hour, every minute, every second. There had to be a reason why.
    “Mr. Lipwig! Mr. Lipwig!”
    A young clerk dodged and weaved through the busyness of the Mint, and stopped in front of Moist, panting.
    “Mr. Lipwig, there’s a lady in the hall to see you and we’ve thanked her for not smoking three times and she’s still doing it!”
    The image of the wretched Cribbins vanished, and was replaced with a much better one.
    Ah, yes. That reason.

    MISS ADORA BELLE Dearheart, known to Moist as Spike, was standing in the middle of the banking hall. Moist just headed for the smoke.
    “Hello, you,” she said, and that was that. “Can you take me away from all this?” She gestured with her nonsmoking hand. Staff