Vetinari waved a hand dismissively. 'Know the man, know the method. I know Cosmo. In this sort of situation he will not resort to force if money will work. He can be very personable when he wants to be.'
'But I've heard about the rest of them. They sound a pretty poisonous bunch.'
'I couldn't possibly comment. However, Topsy has helped you there. The Assassins' Guild won't take out a second contract on you. Conflict of interests, you see. I suppose technically they could accept a contract on the chairman, but I doubt if they will.
Killing a lap-dog? It would not look good on anyone's resume.'
'I didn't sign up to deal with something like this!'
'No, Mr Lipwig, you signed up to die,' snapped Vetinari, his voice suddenly as cold and deadly as a falling icicle. 'You signed up to be justly hanged by the neck until dead for crimes against the city, against the public good, against the trust of man for man. And you were resurrected, because the city required you to be. This is about the city, Mr Lipwig. It is always about the city. You know, of course, that I have plans?'
'It was in the Times. The Undertaking. You want to build roads and drains and streets under the city. There's some dwarf machine we've got hold of, called a Device. And the dwarfs can make waterproof tunnels. The Artificers' Guild are very excited about it all.'
'I gather by your sombre tones that you are not?'
Moist gave a shrug. Engines of any sort had never interested him. 'I don't think much about it one way or the other.'
'Astonishing,' said Vetinari, taken aback. 'Well, Mr Lipwig, you can at least guess at what we will need in very large amounts for this project.'
'Shovels?'
'Finance, Mr Lipwig. And I would have it, if we had a banking system suitable for the times. I have every confidence in your ability to... shake things up a little.'
Moist tried one last throw. 'The Post Office needs me - ' he began.
'At the moment it does not, and you chafe at the thought,' said Vetinari. 'You are not a man for the humdrum. I hereby grant you leave of absence. Mr Groat has been your deputy, and while he may not have your... flair, let us say, he will I am sure keep things moving along.'
He stood up, indicating that the audience was at an end. 'The city bleeds, Mr Lipwig, and you are the clot I need. Go away and make money. Unlock the wealth of Ankh-Morpork. Mrs Lavish gave you the bank in trust. Run it well.'
'It's the dog that's got the bank, you know!'
'And what a trusting little face he has,' said Vetinari, ushering Moist to the door. 'Don't let me detain you, Mr Lipwig. Remember: it's all about the city.'
There was another protest march going on when Moist walked to the bank. There'd been more and more of them lately. It was a funny thing, but everyone seemed to want to live under the despotic rule of the tyrannical Lord Vetinari. They poured into the city whose streets were apparently paved with gold.
It wasn't gold. But the influx was having an effect, no doubt about it. Wages were falling, to start with.
This march was against the employment of golems, who uncomplainingly did the dirtiest jobs, worked around the clock, and were so honest they paid their taxes. But they weren't human and they had glowing eyes, and people could get touchy about that sort of thing.
Mr Bent must have been waiting behind a pillar. Moist was no sooner through the doors of the bank, Mr Fusspot tucked happily under his arm, than the chief cashier was by his side.
'The staff are very concerned, sir,' he said, piloting Moist towards the stairs. 'I took the liberty of telling them that you would speak to them later.'
Moist was aware of the worried stares. And of other things, too, now that he was looking with an almost proprietorial eye. Yes, the bank had been built well out of fine materials; get past that and you could see the neglect and the marks of time. It was like the now inconveniently large house of a poor old widow who just couldn't see the dust any more. The brass was rather tarnished, the red velvet curtains frayed and a little bald in places, the marble floor was only erratically shiny -
'What?' he said. 'Oh, yes. Good idea. Can you get this place cleaned up?'
'Sir?'
'The carpets are mucky, the plush ropes are unravelled, the curtains have seen better centuries and the brass needs a jolly good scrub. The bank should look smart, Mr Bent. You might give money to a beggar but you wouldn't lend it to him, eh?'
Bent's eyebrows rose. 'And that's the chairman's view, is it?' he said.
'The chairman? Oh, yes. Mr Fusspot's very keen on clean. Isn't that right, Mr Fusspot?'
Mr Fusspot stopped growling at Mr Bent long enough to bark a couple of times.
'See?' said Moist. 'When you don't know what to do, comb your hair and clean your shoes. Words of wisdom, Mr Bent. Jump to it.'