Making Money

favor quid pro quo; out of malice, mischief, or, suspiciously, out of a professed regard for the public good. What it amounted to was no information but a huge, Argus-eyed ball of little, wiggling factoids, out of which some information could, with care, be teased.
    His secretary laid before him the paper, carefully folded to the correct page and place, which was occupied by a square filled with a lot of smaller squares, some of them containing numbers.
    “Today’s ‘Jikan no Muda’ sir,” he said. Vetinari glanced at it for a few seconds, and then handed it back to him.
    The Patrician shut his eyes, drummed his fingers on the desktop for a moment. “Hmm…nine six three one seven four—” Drumknott scribbled hastily as the numbers streamed, and Vetinari eventually concluded: “—eight four seven three. And I’m sure they used that one last month. On a Monday, I believe.”
    “Seventeen seconds, sir,” said Drumknott, his pencil still catching up.
    “Well, it has been a tiring day,” said Vetinari. “And what is the point? Numbers are easy to outwit. They can’t think back. The people who devise the crosswords, now they are indeed devious. Who would know that ‘pysdxes’ are ancient Ephebian carved-bone needle holders?”
    “Well, you, sir, of course,” said Drumknott, carefully stacking the files, “and the curator of Ephebian antiquities at the Royal Art Museum, ‘Puzzler’ of the Times, and Miss Grace Speaker, who runs the pet shop in Pellicool Steps.”
    “We should keep an eye on that pet shop, Drumknott. A woman with a mind like that content to dispense dog food? I think not.”
    “Indeed, sir. I shall make a note.”
    “I’m pleased to hear that your new boots have ceased squeaking, by the way.”
    “Thank you, sir. They have broken in nicely.”
    Vetinari stared pensively at the day’s files.
    “Mr. Bent, Mr. Bent, Mr. Bent,” he said. “The mysterious Mr. Bent. Without him, the Royal Bank would be in far more trouble than it has been. And now that it is without him, it will fall over. It revolves around him. It beats to his pulse. Old Lavish was frightened of him, I’m sure. He said he thought that Bent was a…” he paused.
    “Sir?” said Drumknott.
    “Let us just accept the fact that he has, in every way, proved to be a model citizen,” said Vetinari. “The past is a dangerous country, is it not?”
    “There is no file on him, sir.”
    “He has never drawn attention to himself. All I know for sure is that he arrived here as a child, on a cart owned by some traveling accountants…”

    “WHAT, LIKE TINKERS and fortune-tellers?” said Moist, as the cab rocked its way through streets that grew narrower and darker.
    “I suppose you could say so,” said Miss Drapes with a hint of disapproval. “They do big, you know, circuits all the way up to the mountains, doing the books for little businesses, helping people with their taxes, that sort of thing.” She cleared her throat. “Whole families of them. It must be a wonderful life.”
    “Every day a new ledger,” said Moist, nodding gravely, “and by night they drink beer, and happy, laughing accountants dance the Double-Entry Polka to the sound of accordions…”
    “Do they?” said Miss Drapes nervously.
    “I don’t know. It would be nice to think so,” said Moist. “Well, that explains something, at least. He was obviously ambitious. All he could hope for on the road was being allowed to steer the horse, I suppose.”
    “He was thirteen,” said Miss Drapes, and she blew her nose loudly. “It’s so sad.” She turned a tearful face toward Moist.
    “There’s something dreadful in his past, Mr. Lipstick. They say one day some men came to the bank and asked—”
    “This is it, Mrs. Cake’s,” said the cabman, pulling up sharply, “an’ that’ll be eleven pence and don’t ask me to hang about ’cos they’ll have the ’orse up on bricks and its shoes off in a wink.”
    The door of the boardinghouse was opened by the hairiest woman Moist had ever seen, but in the area of Elm Street you learned to discount this sort of thing. Mrs. Cake was famously accommodating to the city’s newly arrived undead, giving them a safe and understanding haven until they could get on their feet, however many they had.
    “Mrs. Cake?” he said.
    “Mother’s at church,” said the woman. “She said to expect you, Mr. Lipwig.”
    “You have a Mr. Bent staying here, I believe?”
    “The banker? Room seven on the