Making Money (25 page)

Mostly they looked…serviceable. Igors, with their obliviousness to pain, wonderful healing powers, and marvelous ability to carry out surgery on themselves with the aid of a hand mirror, could presumably not look like a stumpy butler who’d been left in the rain for a month. Igorinas always looked stunning, but there was always something—a beautifully curved scar under one eye, a ring of decorative stitching around a wrist—that was for the Look. That was always disconcerting, but an Igor always had his heart in the right place. Or a heart, at least.

“Well, er…well done, Igor,” Moist managed. “Ready to make a start on the ol’ dollar bill, then, Mr., er, Clamp?”

Mr. Clamp’s smile was full of sunbeams. “Done it!” he announced. “Did it this morning!”

“Surely not!”

“Indeed I have! Come and see!” The little man walked over to a table and lifted a sheet of paper.

The bank note gleamed, in purple and gold. It gave off money in rays. It seemed to float above the paper like a small magic carpet. It said wealth and mystery and tradition—

“We’re going to make so much money!” said Moist. We’d better, he added to himself. We’ll need to print at least six hundred thousand of these, unless I can come up with some bigger denominations.

But there it was, so beautiful you wanted to cry, and make lots more like it, and put them in your wallet.

“How did you do it so quickly?”

“Well, a lot of it is just geometry,” said Mr. Clamp. “Mr. Igor here was kind enough to make me a little device which was a great help there. It’s not finished, of course, and I haven’t even started on the other side yet. I think I’ll make a start on that now, in fact, while I’m still fresh.”

“You think you can do better?” said Moist, awed in the presence of genius.

“I feel so…full of energy!” said Clamp.

“That would be the elecktrical fluid, I expect,” said Moist.

“No, I mean I can see so clearly what needs to be done! Before, it was all like some horrible weight I had to lift, but now everything is clear and light!”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” said Moist, not entirely certain that he was. “Do excuse me, I have a bank to run.”

He hurried through the arches and entered the main hall via the unassuming door in time to very nearly collide with Bent.

“Ah, Mr. Lipwig, I wondered where you were—”

“Is this going to be important, Mr. Bent?”

The chief cashier looked offended, as if he’d ever trouble Moist about anything that was not important.

“There are lots of men outside the Mint,” he said. “With trolls and carts. They say you want them to install a—” Bent shuddered “—a printing engine!”

“That’s right,” said Moist. “They’re from Teemer and Spools. We must print the money here. It’ll look more official and we can control what goes out of the doors.”

“Mr. Lipwig. You are turning the bank into a…a circus!”

“Well, I’m the man with the top hat, Mr. Bent, so I suppose I’m the ringmaster!”

He said it with a laugh, to lighten the mood a little, but Bent’s face was a sudden thundercloud.

“Really, Mr. Lipwig? And whoever told you the ringmaster runs the circus? You are very much mistaken, sir! Why are you cutting off the other shareholders?”

“Because they don’t know what a bank is about. Come with me to the Mint, will you?”

He strode through the main hall, having to dodge and weave between the queues.

“And you know what a bank is about, do you, sir?” said Bent, following behind in his jerky flamingo step.

“I’m learning. Why do we have one queue in front of each clerk?” Moist demanded. “It means that if one customer takes up a lot of time, the whole queue has to wait. Then they’ll start hopping sideways from one queue to another and the next thing you know someone has a nasty head wound. Have one big queue and tell people to go to the next clerk free. People don’t mind a long queue if they can see that it’s moving—Sorry, sir!”

This was to a customer he’d collided with, who steadied him self, grinned at Moist, and spoke in a voice from a past that should have stayed buried. “Why, if it isn’t my old friend Albert. You’re doin’ well for yourself, ain’t you?” the stranger went on, spluttering the words through ill-fitting teeth. “You in your shuit o’ lightsh!”

M
OIST’S PAST LIFE
flashed before his eyes. He didn’t even need to go to the bother of dying, although he felt as though he was going to.

It was Cribbins! It could only be Cribbins!

Moist’s memory sandbagged him, one bag after another. The teeth! Those damn false teeth! They were that man’s pride and joy. He’d prized them out of the mouth of an old man he’d robbed, while the poor devil lay dying of fear! He’d joked that they had a mind of their own! And they spluttered and popped and slurped and fitted so badly that they once turned around in his mouth and bit him in the throat! He used to take them out and talk to them! And, aargh, they were so old, and the stained teeth had been carved from walrus ivory and the spring was so strong that sometimes it’d force the top of his head back so that you could see right up his nose!!

It all came back like a bad oyster.

He was just Cribbins. No one knew his first name. They’d teamed up oh, ten years ago, and they’d run the old legacy con in Überwald one winter. He was much older than Moist and still had the serious personal problem that made him smell of bananas.

And he was a nasty piece of work. Professionals had their pride. There had to be some people you wouldn’t rob, some things you didn’t steal. And you had to have style. If you didn’t have style, you’d never fly.

Cribbins didn’t have style. He wasn’t violent, unless there was absolutely no chance of retaliation, but there was some generalized, wretched, wheedling malice about the man that had got on Moist’s soul.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Lipwig?” said Bent, glaring at Cribbins.

“What? Oh…no…” said Moist.

It’s a shakedown, he thought. That bloody picture in the paper. But he can’t prove a thing, not a thing.

“You are mistaken, sir,” said Moist. He looked around. The queues were moving, and no one was paying them any attention.

Cribbins put his head on one side and gave Moist an amused look. “Mishtaken, shir? Could be. I could be mishtaken. Life on the road, making new chums every day, you know—well, you wouldn’t, would you, on account of not being Albert Shpangler. Funny, though, ’cos you have his smile, sir, hard to change a man’s smile, and your smile ish, like, in front of your face, like you is shlooking out from behind it slurp. Just like young Albert’s smile. Bright lad he wash, very quick, very quick, I taught him everything he knew.”

—And that took about ten minutes, Moist thought, and a year to forget some of it. You’re the sort that gives criminals a bad name—

“’Course, sir, you’re wonderin’, can the leopard change his shorts? Can that ol’ rascal I knew all them years ago have forsook the wide and wobbly for the straight an’ narrow?” He glanced at Moist, and amended: “Whoopsh! No, ’course you ain’t, on account of you never seein’ me before. But I was scrobbled in Pseudopolis, you see, thrown into the clink for malicious lingering, and that’s where I found Om.”

“Why? What had he done?” It was stupid, but Moist couldn’t resist it.

“Do not jest, sir, do not jest,” said Cribbins solemnly. “I am a changed man, a changed man. It is my task to pass on the good news, shir.” Here, with the speed of a snake’s tongue, Cribbins produced a battered tin from inside his greasy jacket. “My crimes weigh me down like chains of hot iron, shir, like chains, but I am a man anxious to unburden himshelf by means of good works and confession, the last bein’ mosht important. I have to get a lot off my chest before I can sleep easy, shir.” He rattled the box. “For the kiddies, shir?”

This would probably work better if I hadn’t seen you do this before, Moist thought. The penitent thief must be one of the oldest cons in the book.

He said: “Well, I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Cribbins. I’m sorry I’m not the old friend you are looking for. Let me give you a couple of dollars…for the kiddies.”

The coin clanked on the bottom of the tin. “Thank you kindly, Mishter Shpangler,” said Cribbins.

Moist flashed a little smile. “In fact I’m not Mr. Spangler, Mr.—”

I called him Cribbins! Just then! I called him Cribbins! Did he tell me his name? Did he notice? He must have noticed!

“—I beg your pardon, l mean Reverend,” he managed, and the average person would not have noticed the tiny pause and quite-adroit save. But Cribbins wasn’t average.

“Thank you, Mr. Lipwig,” he said, and Moist heard the drawn out mister and the explosively sardonic “Lipwig.” They meant “Gotcha!”

Cribbins winked at Moist and strolled off through the banking hall, shaking his tin, his teeth accompanying him with a medley of horrible dental noises.

“Woe and thrice woe szss! is the man who stealssh by words, for his tongue shall cleave to the roof of his mouth pock! spare a few coppersh for the poor orphans sweessh! Brothers and shisters! to those svhip! that hath shall be giventh, generally spheaking…”

“I shall call the guards,” said Mr. Bent firmly. “We don’t allow beggars in the bank.”

Moist grabbed his arm. “No,” he said urgently, “not with all these people in here. Manhandling a man of the cloth and all that. It won’t look good. I think he’ll be going soon.”

Now he’ll let me stew, thought Moist, as Cribbins headed nonchalantly toward the door. That’s his way. He’ll spin it out. Then he’ll hit me for money, again and again.

Okay, but what could Cribbins prove? But did there need to be proof? If he started talking about Albert Spangler, it could get bad. Would Vetinari throw him to the wolves? He might. He probably would. You could bet your hat that he wouldn’t play the resurrection game without lots of contingency plans.

Well, he had some time, at least. Cribbins wouldn’t go for a quick kill. He liked to watch people wriggle.

“Are you all right?” said Bent. Moist came back to reality.

“What? Oh, fine,” he said.

“You should not encourage that sort of person in here, you know.”

Moist shook himself.

“You are right about that, Mr. Bent. Let’s get to the Mint, shall we?”

“Yes, sir. But I warn you, Mr. Lipwig, these men will not be won over by fancy words!”

“I
NSPECTORS…”
said Mr. Shady, ten minutes later, turning the word over in his mouth like a candy.

“I need people who value the high traditions of the Mint,” said Moist, and did not add: Like making coins very, very slowly and taking your work home with you.

“Inspectors,” said Mr. Shady again. Behind him, the Men of the Sheds held their caps in their hands and watched Moist owlishly, except when Mr. Shady was speaking; then they stared at the back of the man’s neck.

They were all in Mr. Shady’s official shed, which was built high up on the wall, like a swallow’s nest. It creaked whenever anyone moved.

“And of course, some of you will still be needed to deal with the outworkers,” Moist went on, “but in the main it will be your job to see that Mr. Spools’s men arrive on time, comport themselves as they should, and observe proper security.”

“Security,” said Mr. Shady, as if tasting the word. Moist saw a flicker of evil light in the eyes of the Men. It said: These buggers will be taking over our Mint but they’ll have to go past us to get out of the door. Hoho!

“And of course you can keep the sheds,” said Moist. “I also have plans for commemorative coins and other items, so your skills will not be wasted. Fair enough?”

Mr. Shady looked at his fellows and then back to Moist.

“We’d like to talk about this,” he said.

Moist nodded at him, and at Bent, and led the way down the creaking, swaying staircase to the floor of the Mint, where the parts of the new press were already being stacked up. Bent gave a little shudder when he saw it.

“They won’t accept, you know,” he said with unconcealed hope in his voice. “They’ve been doing things the same way here for hundreds of years! And they are craftsmen!”

“So were the people who used to make knives out of flint,” said Moist. In truth, he’d been amazed at himself. It must have been the encounter with Cribbins. It had made his brain race. “Look, I don’t like to see skills unused,” he said, “but I’ll give them better wages and a decent job and use of the Sheds. They wouldn’t get an offer like that in a hundred years—”

Someone was coming down the swaying stairs. Moist recognized him as Young Alf, who, amazingly, had 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!”