'Mad?' said the next man. He pointed a finger at Moist. 'If I'd bought a pocketful of the black penny stamps when that feller brought them out last year I'd be a rich man!'
'Anyone remember the Triangular Blue?' said another bidder. 'Fifty pence, it cost. I put one on a letter to my aunt; by the time it got there it was worth fifty dollars! And the ol' baggage wouldn't give it back!'
'It's worth a hundred and sixty now,' said someone behind him.
'Auctioned at Dave's Stamp and Pin Emporium last week. Ten dollars is my bid, miss!'
'Fifteen here!'
Moist had a good view from the stairs. A small consortium had formed at the back of the hall, working on the basis that it was better to have small shares than none at all.
Stamp collecting! It had started on day one, and then ballooned like some huge... thing, running on strange, mad rules. Was there any other field where flaws made things worth more? Would you buy a suit just because one arm was shorter than the other? Or because a bit of spare cloth was still attached? Of course, when Moist had spotted this he'd put in flaws on purpose, as a matter of public entertainment, but he certainly hadn't planned for Lord Vetinari's head to appear upside down just once on every sheet of Blues. One of the printers had been about to destroy them when Moist brought him down with a flying tackle.
The whole business was unreal, and unreal was Moist's world. Back when he'd been a naughty boy he'd sold dreams, and the big seller in that world was the one where you got very rich by a stroke of luck. He'd sold glass as diamond because greed clouded men's eyes. Sensible, upright people, who worked hard every day, nevertheless believed, against all experience, in money for nothing. But the stamp collectors... they believed in small perfections. It was possible to get one small part of the world right. And even if you couldn't get it right, you at least knew what bit was missing. It might be, f'r instance, the flawed 50p Triangular Blue, but there were still six of them out there, and who knew what piece of luck might attend the dedicated searcher?
Rather a large piece would be needed, Moist had to admit, because four of them were safely tucked away for a rainy day in a little lead box under the floorboards in Moist's office. Even so, two were out there somewhere, perhaps destroyed, lost, eaten by snails or - and here hope lay thick as winter snow - still in some unregarded bundle of letters at the back of a drawer.
- and Miss Pucci simply didn't know how to work a crowd. She stamped and demanded attention and bullied and insulted and it didn't help that she'd called them 'good people', because no one likes an outright liar. And now she was losing her temper, because the bidding had reached thirty-four dollars. And now-
-she'd torn it up!
'That's what I think of this silly money!' she announced, throwing the pieces in the air. Then she stood there panting and looking triumphant, as if she'd done something clever.
A kick in the teeth to everyone there. It made you want to cry, it really did. Oh, well...
Moist pulled one of the new notes out of his pocket and held it up.
'Ladies and gentlemen!' he announced. 'I have here one of the increasingly rare first-generation One Dollar notes' - he had to pause for the laughter - 'signed by myself and the chairman. Bids over forty dollars, please! All proceeds to the little kiddies!'
He ran it up to fifty, bouncing a couple of bids off the wall. Pucci stood ignored and steaming with rage for a while and then flounced out. It was a good flounce, too. She had no idea how to handle people and she tried to make self-esteem do the work of self-respect, but the girl could flounce better than a fat turkey on a trampoline.
The lucky winner was already surrounded by his unlucky fellow bidders by the time he reached the bank's doors. The rest of the crowd surged towards the counters, not sure what was going on but determined to have a piece of it.
Moist cupped his hands and shouted: 'And this afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, Mr Bent and myself will be available to discuss bank loans!' This caused a further stir.
'Smoke and mirrors, Mr Lipwig,' said Bent, turning away from the balustrade. 'Nothing but smoke and mirrors...'
'But done without smoke and in a total absence of mirror, Mr Bent!' said Moist cheerfully.
'And the "kiddies"?' said Bent.
'Find some. There's bound to be an orphanage that needs fifty dollars. It'll be an anonymous donation, of course.'
Bent looked surprised. 'Really, Mr Lipwig? I'll make no bones about saying that you seem to me to be the sort of man who makes a great Razz Arm Ma Tazz about giving money to charity.' He made razzmatazz sound like some esoteric perversion.
'Well, I'm not. Do good by stealth, that is my watchword.' It'll get found out soon enough, he added to himself, and then I'm not only a jolly good chap but a decently modest one, too.
I wonder... Am I really a bastard or am I just really good at thinking like one?
Something nudged at his mind. Tiny hairs on the back of his neck were twitching. Something was wrong, out of place... dangerous.
He turned and looked down again at the hall. People were milling around, forming into lines, talking in groups -
In a world of movement, the eye is drawn to stillness. In the middle of the banking hall, unheeded by the throng, a man was standing as if frozen in time. He was all in black, with one of those flat wide hats often worn by the more sombre Omnian sects. He just... stood. And watched.
Just another gawper along to see the show, Moist told himself, and knew at once that he was lying. The man was causing a weight in his world.
I have lodged affidavits...