Making Money (Discworld 36)

'I say, that's a bit on the harsh side,' said Moist as the men swept through. 'I happen to think I dress rather snappily!'

Now he was alone on the steps, facing the crowd. They weren't a mob yet, but it could only be a matter of time.

'Can I help anyone else?' he said.

'What about our money?' someone said.

'What about it?' said Moist.

'Says in the paper you've got no gold,' said the enquirer.

He pushed a damp copy of the Times towards Moist. The newspaper had, on the whole, been quite restrained. He had expected bad headlines, but the story was a single column on the front page and it was full of 'we understand that' and 'we believe that' and 'the Times has been informed that' and all the phrases that journalists use when they are dealing with facts about large sums of money they don't fully understand and are not quite certain that what they have been told is true.

He looked up into the face of Sacharissa Cripslock.

'Sorry,' she said, 'but there were watchmen and guards all round the place last night and we didn't have much time. And frankly, Mr Bent's... attack was enough of a story in its own right. Everyone knows he runs the bank.'

'The chairman runs the bank,' said Moist stiffly.

'No, Moist, the chairman goes woof,' said Sacharissa. 'Look, didn't you sign anything when you took over the job? A receipt or something?'

'Well, maybe. There was a mass of paperwork. I just signed where I was told. So did Mr Fusspot.'

'Ye gods, the lawyers would have fun with that,' said Sacharissa, her notebook magically appearing in her hand. 'And it's no joke, either.[8] He could end up in debtor's prison!'

'Kennel,' said Moist. 'He goes woof, remember? And that's not going to happen.'

Sacharissa bent down to pat Mr Fusspot on his little head, and froze in mid-bend. 'What has he got in his - ?' she began.

'Sacharissa, can we go into this later? I really have not got time for it right now. I swear by any three gods you believe in, even though you are a journalist, that when this is over I will give you a story that will tax even the Times's ability to avoid inelegant and suggestive subjects. Trust me.'

'Yes, but it looks like a - ' she began.

'Ah, so you do know what it is and I don't need to explain,' said Moist briskly.

He handed the newspaper back to its worried owner. 'You are Mr Cusper, aren't you?' he said. 'You have a balance of AM$7 with us, I believe?' For a moment the man looked impressed. Moist was really good at faces. 'I told you we aren't bothered about gold here,' said Moist.

'Yeah, but...' the man began. 'Well, it's not much of a bank if people can take the gold out of it, is it?' he said.

'But it doesn't make any difference,' said Moist. 'I did tell you all.'

They looked uncertain. In theory, they should be stampeding up the steps. Moist knew what was holding them back. It was hope. It was the little voice inside that said: this isn't really happening. It was the voice that drove people to turn out the same pocket three times in a fruitless search for lost keys. It was the mad belief that the world is bound to start working properly again if I truly believe, and there will be keys. It was the voice that said 'This can't be happening' very loudly, in order to drown out the creeping dread that it was.

He had about thirty seconds, while hope lasted.

And then the crowd parted. Pucci Lavish did not know how to make an entrance. Harry King, on the other hand, did. The milling, uncertain throng opened up like the sea in front of a hydrophobic prophet, leaving a channel that was suddenly lined on either side by large, weathered-looking men with broken noses and a useful cross-section of scars. Along this recent avenue strode Harry King trailing cigar smoke. Moist managed to stand his ground until Mr King was a foot away, and made sure to look him in the eye.

'How much money did I put in your bank, Mr Lipwig?' asked Harry.

'Er, I believe it was fifty thousand dollars, Mr King,' said Moist.

'Yes, I believe it was something like that,' said Mr King. 'Can yer guess what I am going to do now, Mr Lipwig?'

Moist did not guess. The Splot was still circulating in his system and in his brain the answer clanged like a funeral bell. 'You're going to put some more in, aren't you, Mr King?'

Harry King beamed, as if Moist was a dog that had just done a new trick. 'That's right, Mr Lipwig! I thought to myself: Harry, I thought.

Fifty thousand dollars seems a bit on the lonely side, so I've come along to round it up to sixty thousand.'