Terry Pratchett: Making Money

'Shall I have a word with the editor, sir?'

'Don't. It will be more entertaining to let things take their course.'

Vetinari leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes with a sigh. 'Very well, Drumknott, I feel strong enough now to hear what the political cartoon looks like.'

There was a crackle of paper as Drumknott found the right page.

'Well, there is a very good likeness of Mr Fusspot.' Under Vetinari's chair the dog opened his eyes at the sound of his name. So did his new master, with more urgency.

'Surely he has nothing in his mouth?'

'No, sir,' said Drumknott calmly. 'This is the Times of Ankh-Morpork, sir.'

Vetinari relaxed again. 'Continue.'

'He is on a leash, sir, and looking unaccustomedly ferocious. You are holding the leash, sir. In front of him, and backing nervously into a corner, are a group of very fat cats. They are wearing top hats, sir.'

'As cats do, yes.'

'And they have the words "The Banks" on them,' Drumknott added.

'Subtle indeed!'

'Whilst you, sir, are waving a handful of paper money at them and the speech bubble says—'

'Don't tell me. "THIS does NOT taste of pineapple"?'

'Well done, sir. Incidentally, it does so happen that the chairmen of the rest of the city banks wish to see you, at your convenience.'

'Good. This afternoon, then.'

Vetinari got up and walked over to the window. The fog was thinning, but its drifting cloud still obscured the city.

'Mr Lipwig is a very… popular young man, is he not, Drumknott?' said Vetinari, staring into the gloom.

'Oh yes, sir,' said the secretary, folding up the newspaper. 'Extremely so.'

'And very confident in himself, I think.'

'I would say so.'

And loyal?'

'He took a pie for you, sir.'

A tactical thinker at speed, then.'

'Oh yes.'

'Bearing in mind his own future was riding on the pie as well.'

'He is certainly sensitive to political currents, no doubt about it,' said Drumknott, picking up his bundle of files.

And, as you say, popular,' said Vetinari, still a gaunt outline against the fog.

Drumknott waited. Moist was not the only one sensitive to political currents.

An asset to the city, indeed,' said Vetinari, after a while. And we should not waste him. Obviously, though, he should be at the Royal Bank long enough to bend it to his satisfaction,' he mused.

Drumknott said nothing, but arranged some of the files into a more pleasing order. A name struck him, and he shifted a file to the top.

'Of course, then he will get restless again and a danger to others as well as himself…'

Drumknott smiled at his files. His hand hovered…

'Apropos of nothing, how old is Mr Creaser?'

'The Taxmaster? In his seventies, sir,' said Drumknott, opening the file he had just selected. 'Yes, seventy-four, it says here.'

'We have recently pondered his methods, have we not?'

'Indeed we have, sir. Last week.'

'Not a man with a flexible cast of mind, I feel. A little at sea in the modern world. Holding someone upside down over a bucket and giving them a good shaking is not the way forward. I won't blame him when he decides to take an honourable and well-earned retirement.'

'Yes, sir. When would you like him to decide that, sir?' said Drumknott.

'No rush,' said Vetinari. 'No rush.'

'Have you given any thought to his successor? It's not a job that creates friends,' said Drumknott. 'It would need a special sort of person.'

'I shall ponder it,' said Vetinari. 'No doubt a name will present itself.'

The bank staff were at work early, pushing through the crowds who were filling the street because a) this was another act in the wonderful street theatre that was Ankh-Morpork and b) there was going to be big trouble if their money had gone missing. There was, however, no sign of Mr Bent or Miss Drapes.

Moist was in the Mint. Mr Spools's men had, well, they'd done their best. It's an apologetic phrase, commonly used to mean that the result is just one step above mediocre, but their best was one leap above superb.

'I'm sure we can improve them,' said Mr Spools, as Moist gloated.

'They arc perfect, Mr Spools!'

'Anything but. But it's kind of you to say so. We've done seventy thousand so far.'

'Nothing like enough!'

'With respect, we are not printing a newspaper here. But we're getting better. You have talked about other denominations… ?'

'Oh, yes. Two, five and ten dollars to start with. And the fives and tens will talk.'

Nothing like enough, he thought, as the colours of money flowed through his fingers. People will queue up for this. They won't want the grubby, heavy coins, not when they see this! Backed by golems! What is a coin compared to the hand that holds it? That's worth! That's value! Hm, yes, that'd look good on the two-dollar note, too, I'd better remember that.

'The money… will talk?' said Mr Spools carefully.

'Imps,' said Moist. 'They're only a sort of intelligent spell. They don't even have to have a shape. We'll print them on the higher denominations.'

'Do you think the university will agree to that?' said Spools.

'Yes, because I'm going to put Ridcully's head on the five-dollar note. I'll go and talk to Ponder Stibbons. This looks like a job for inadvisably applied magic if ever I saw one.'

'And what would the money say?'

'Anything we want it to. "Is your purchase really necessary?" perhaps, or "Why not save me for a rainy day?" The possibilities are endless!'

'It usually says goodbye to me,' said a printer, to ritual amusement.

'Well, maybe we can make it blow you a kiss as well,' said Moist. He turned to the Men of the Sheds, who were beaming and gleaming with new-found importance. 'Now, if some of you gentlemen will help me carry this lot into the bank…'

The hands of the clock were chasing one another to the top of the hour when Moist arrived, and there was still no sign of Mr Bent.

'Is that clock right?' said Moist, as the hands began the relaxing stroll to the half-hour.

'Oh yes, sir,' said a counter clerk. 'Mr Bent sets it twice a day.'

'Maybe, but he hasn't been here for more than—'

The doors swung open, and there he was. Moist had for some reason expected the clown outfit, but this was the smooth and shiny, ironed-in-his-clothes Bent with the smart jacket and pinstripe trousers and-

-the red nose. And he was arm in arm with Miss Drapes.

The staff stared at it all, too shocked for a reaction.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' said Bent, his voice echoing in the sudden silence, 'I owe so many apologies. I have made many mistakes. Indeed, my whole life has been a mistake. I believed that true worth lodged in lumps of metal. Much of what I believed is worthless, in fact, but Mr Lipwig believed in me and so I am here today. Let us make money based not on a trick of geology but on the ingenuity of hand and brain. And now—' He paused, because Miss Drapes had squeezed his arm.

'Oh, yes, how could I forget?' Bent went on. 'What I do now believe with all my heart is that Miss Drapes will marry me in the Chapel of Fun in the Fools' Guild on Saturday, the ceremony to be conducted by the Reverend Brother "Whacko" Whopply. You are all of course invited—'

'—but be careful what you wear because it's a whitewash wedding,' said Miss Drapes coyly, or what she probably thought was coyly.

'And with that it only remains for me to—' Bent tried to continue, but the staff had realized what their ears had heard, and closed in on the couple, the women drawn to the soon-not-to-be-Miss Drapes by the legendarily high gravity of an engagement ring, while the men went from slapping Mr Bent on the back to the unthinkable, which involved picking him up and carrying him around the room on their shoulders.