Making Money (Discworld 36)

'Sorry, why is it me that's holding this sword?' said Moist.

' - and you tell us the secret and, best of all, you live,' Vetinari finished, 'and who is going to give you a better offer?'

'Oh, all right,' said Moist, 'I knew this would have to happen. The golems obey me be - '

' - because you wear a golden suit and therefore in their eyes must be an Umnian priest,' said Vetinari. 'Because for an order to be fully realized the right person must say the right words to the right recipient. And I used to be quite a scholar. It's a matter of reasoning. Do not continue to stand there with your mouth open.'

'You already knew?'

'It wasn't exactly dragon magic'

'And why did you give me this horrible sword?'

'It is tasteless, isn't it,' said Vetinari, taking it from him. 'One might imagine it belonging to someone with a name like Krax the Mighty. I was just interested to see that you were more fearful when you were holding it. You really are not a violent man, are you...'

'That wasn't necessary!' said Moist. Adora Belle was grinning.

'Mr Lipwig, Mr Lipwig, Mr Lipwig, will you never learn?' said Vetinari, sheathing the sword. 'One of my predecessors used to have people torn apart by wild tortoises. It was not a quick death. He thought it was a hoot. Forgive me if my pleasures are a little more cerebal, will you? Let me see, now, what was the other thing? Oh yes, I regret to tell you that a man called Owlswick Clamp has died.'

There was something about the way he said it...

'Did an angel call him?'

'Very likely, Mr Lipwig. But should you find yourself in need of more designs, I'm sure I can find someone in the palace to assist.'

'It was meant to be, I'm sure,' said Moist. 'I'm glad he's gone to a better place.'

'Less damp, certainly. Go now. My coach is at your disposal. You have a bank to open! The world spins on, and this morning it is spinning on my desk. Come, Mr Fusspot.'

'Can I make a suggestion that might help?' said Moist, as Vetinari turned away.

'What is it?'

'Well, why don't you tell all the other Plains governments about the golden secret? That would mean no one could use them as soldiers. That would take the pressure off.'

'Hmm, interesting. And would you agree with that, Miss Dearheart?'

'Yes! We don't want golem armies! It's a very good idea!'

Vetinari reached down and gave Mr Fusspot a dog biscuit. When he straightened up there was an almost imperceptible change in his expression.

'Last night,' he said, 'some traitor sent the golden secret to the rulers of every major city in the Plains via a clacks message, the origin of which appears to be untraceable. It wasn't you, was it, Mr Lipwig?'

'Me? No!'

'But you just suggested it, did you not? Some would call it treason, incidentally.'

'I only just mentioned it,' said Moist. 'You can't pin it on me! Anyway it was a good idea,' he added, trying not to catch Adora Belle's eye. 'If you don't think of not using fifty-foot-high killer golems first, someone else will!

He heard her giggle, for the first time ever.

'You have found forty-foot killer golems now, Miss Dearheart?' said Vetinari, looking stern, as though he might add, 'Well, I hope you brought enough for everybody!'

'No, sir. There aren't any,' said Adora Belle, trying to look serious and not succeeding.

'Well, never mind. I'm sure some ingenious person will devise one for you eventually. When they do, don't hesitate to refrain from bringing it home. In the meantime, we have this wretched fait accompli.' Vetinari shook his head in what Moist was sure was genuinely contrived annoyance and went on: 'An army that will obey anyone with a shiny jacket, a megaphone and the Umnian words for "Dig a hole and bury yourselves" would turn war into nothing but a rather entertaining farce. You may be assured, I'm putting together a committee of inquiry. It will not rest, apart from statutory tea and biscuit breaks, until it has found the culprit. I shall take a personal interest, of course.'

Of course you will, Moist thought. And I know that lots of people heard me shout Umnian commands, but I'm betting on a man who thinks war is a wicked waste of customers. A man who's a better con artist than I'll ever be, who thinks committees are a kind of wastepaper basket, who can turn sizzle into sausage every day...