Making Money

before scribbling again with frantic activity.
    Eyes watering with shame and rage, Mr. Bent tried to unscrew the top from his patent fountain pen. In the muted silence of the banking hall, the sound of the green pen being deployed had the same effect as the sound of the axman sharpening his blade. Every clerk bent low to his desk. Mr. Bent Had Found A Mistake. All anyone could do was keep their eyes on the paper in front of them and hope against hope that it was not theirs.
    Someone, and please gods it would not be them, would have to go and stand in front of the high desk. They knew that Mr. Bent did not like mistakes: Mr. Bent believed that mistakes were the result of a deformity of the soul.
    At the sound of the Pen of Doom, one of the senior clerks hurried to Mr. Bent’s side. Those workers who risked being turned to water by the ferocity of Mr. Bent’s stare essayed a quick glance and saw her being shown the offending document. There was a distant tut-tut sound. Her tread as she came down the steps and crossed the floor echoed in deadly, praying silence. She did not know, as she scurried, button-boots flashing, to the desk of one of the youngest and newest clerks, that she was about to meet a young man who was destined to go down in history as one of the great heroes of banking.

    THE DARK ORGAN music filled the Department of Postmortem Communications. Moist assumed it was all part of the ambience, although the mood would have been more precisely obtained if the tune it was playing did not appear to be “Cantata and Fugue for Someone Who Has Trouble with the Pedals.”
    As the last note died, after a long illness, Dr. Hicks spun around on the stool and raised the mask.
    “Sorry about that, I have two left feet sometimes. Could you both just chant a bit while I do the mystic waving, please? Don’t worry about words. Anything seems to work if it sounds sepulchral enough.”
    As he walked around the circle, chanting variants on oo! and raah!, Moist wondered how many bankers raised the dead during the course of an afternoon. Probably not a high number. He shouldn’t be doing this, surely. He should be out there making money. Owls—Clamp must have finished the design by now. He could be holding his first note in his hands by tomorrow! And then there was damn Cribbins, who could be talking to anyone. True, the man had a rap sheet as long as a roller towel, but the city worked by alliances and if he met up with the Lavishes then Moist’s life would unravel all the way back to the gallows—
    “In my day we at least hired a decent mask,” growled an elderly voice. “I say, is that a woman over there?”
    A figure had appeared in the circle, without any bother or fuss, apart from the grumbling. It was in every respect the picture of a wizard—robed, pointy-hatted, bearded, and elderly, with the addition of a silvery monochrome effect overall and some slight transparency.
    “Ah, Professor Flead,” said Hicks, “it’s kind of you to join us…”
    “You know you brought me here and it’s not as if I had anything else to do,” said Flead. He turned back to Adora Belle and his voice became pure syrup. “What is your name, my dear?”
    “Adora Belle Dearheart.”
    The warning tone of voice was lost on Flead.
    “How delightful,” he said, giving her a gummy smile. Regrettably, this made little strings of saliva vibrate in his mouth like the web of a very old spider. “And would you believe me if I told you that you bear a striking resemblance to my beloved concubine Fenti, who died more than three hundred years ago? The likeness is astounding!”
    “I’d say that was a pickup line,” said Adora Belle.
    “Oh dear, such cynicism,” sighed the late Flead, turning to the Head of Postmortem Communications.
    “Apart from this young lady’s wonderful chanting, it was frankly a mess, Hicks,” he said sharply. He tried to pat Adora Belle’s hand, but his fingers passed right through.
    “I’m sorry, professor, we just don’t get the funding these days,” said Hicks.
    “I know, I know. It was ever thus, Doctor. Even in my day, if you needed a corpse you had to go out and find your own! And if you couldn’t find one, you jolly well had to make one! It’s all so nice now, so damn correct. So a fresh egg technically does the trick, but whatever happened to style? They tell me they’ve made an engine that can think now, but of course the Fine Arts are always last in the queue! And so I’m brought to