Making Money (Discworld 36)

Moist slipped back up to bed without ever having to duck out of sight. No guard is at his best in the small hours. The place was locked up tight, wasn't it? Who could break in?

Down in the well-fornicated vault, the artist formerly known as Owlswick stared at Moist's sketches and felt his brain begin to fizz. It was true that he was not, in any proper sense, a madman. He was, by certain standards, very sane. Faced with a world too busy, complex and incomprehensible to deal with, he'd reduced it to a small bubble just big enough to hold him and his palette. It was nice and quiet in there. All the noises were far away, and They couldn't spy on him.

'Mr Igor?' he said.

Igor looked up from a crate in which he had been rummaging. He held what looked like a metal colander in his hands. 'How may I be of thurvithe, thur?'

'Can you get me some old books with pictures of gods and boats and maybe some views of the city too?'

'Indeed, thur. There ith an antiquarian booktheller in Lobbin Clout.' Igor put the metal device on one side, pulled a battered leather bag from under the table and, after a moment's thought, put a hammer in it.

Even in the world of the newly fledged Mr Clamp, it was still so late at night that it was too early in the morning. 'Er, I'm sure it can wait until daylight,' he volunteered.

'Oh, I alwayth ththop at night, thur,' said Igor. 'When I'm after... bargainth.'

Moist woke far too early, with Mr Fusspot standing on his chest and squeaking his rubber bone very loudly. As a result, Moist was being dribbled on in no small way.

Behind Mr Fusspot was Gladys. Behind her were two men in black suits.

'His lordship has agreed to see you, Mr Lipwig,' said one of them quite cheerfully.

Moist tried to wipe the slobber off his lapel, and only succeeded in shining the suit.

'Do I want to see him?'

One of the men smiled.

' Ooooh, yes!'

'A hanging always makes me hungry,' said Lord Vetinari, working carefully on a hard-boiled egg. 'Don't you find this so?'

'Um... I've only been hanged once,' said Moist. 'I didn't feel like eating much.'

'I think it's the chilly early-morning air,' said Vetinari, apparently not hearing this. 'It puts an edge on the appetite.'

He looked directly at Moist for the first time, and appeared concerned. 'Oh dear, you're not eating, Mr Lipwig? You must eat. You look a little peaky. I trust your job is not getting on top of you?'

Somewhere en route to the palace, Moist thought, he must have stepped into another world. It had to be something like that. It was the only explanation.

'Er, who was hanged?' he said.

'Owlswick Jenkins, the forger,' said Vetinari, devoting himself again to his surgical removal of the white from the yolk. 'Drumknott, perhaps Mr Lipwig would like some fruit? Or some of that bowel-lacerating grain and nut concoction you favour so much?'

'Indeed, sir,' said the secretary.

Vetinari leaned forward as if inviting Moist to join a conspiracy and added: 'I believe the cook does kippers for the guards. Very fortifying. You really do look quite pale. Don't you think he looks pale, Drumknott?'

'Verging on the wan, sir.'

It was like having acid dropped slowly into your ear. Moist thought frantically, but the best he could come up with was: 'Was it a well-attended hanging?'

'Not very. I don't think it was properly advertised,' said Vetinari, 'and of course, his crime was not associated with buckets of gore. That always makes the crowd cheer. But Owlswick Jenkins was there, oh yes. He never cut a throat but he bled the city, drop by drop.'

Vetinari had removed and eaten the whole of the white of the egg, leaving the yolk glowing and unsullied.

What would I have done if I was Vetinari and found my prison was about to be a laughing stock? There's nothing like laughter for undermining authority, Moist thought. More importantly, what would he have done if he was him, which of course he is...

You'd hang someone else, that's what you'd do. You'd find some wretch of the right general shape who was waiting in the slammer for the hemp fandango and cut him a deal. Oh, he'd hang right enough, but under the name of Owlswick Jenkins. News would get out that the stand-in had been pardoned but died accidentally or something, and his dear ol' mum or his wife and kids would get an anonymous bag of wonga and escape a little bit of shame.