Making Money (Discworld 36)

'There are so many bribes, sir. He will not be happy when he finds out, and I daren't risk the time it would take to make an exact replacement.'

'Yes. I see.'

Cosmo pulled off the black glove again and looked at his hand. There seemed to be a greenish tint to his finger now, and he wondered if there was some copper in the ring's alloy. But the pink, almost red streaks moving up his arm looked very healthy.

'Yes. Get the stick,' he murmured, turning his hand to catch the light from the lamps. Odd, though, he couldn't feel any heat on the finger, but that didn't matter.

He could see the future so clearly. The shoes, the cap, the ring, the stick... Surely, as he filled the occult space occupied by Vetinari, the wretched man would feel himself getting weaker and more confused, and he'd get things wrong and make mistakes... 'See to it, Drumknott,' he said.

Havelock, Lord Vetinari pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been a long day and was clearly going to be a long evening.

'I think I need a moment to relax. Let's get it over with,' he said.

Drumknott walked over to the long table, which at this time of day held copies of several editions of the Times, his lordship being keen on keeping track of what people thought was going on.

Vetinari sighed. People told him things all the time. Lots of people had been telling him things in the last hour. They told him things for all sorts of reasons: to gain some credit, to gain some money, for a favour quid pro quo, out of malice, mischief or, suspiciously, out of a professed regard for the public good. What it amounted to was not information, but a huge Argus-eyed ball of little, wiggling factoids, out of which some information could, with care, be teased.

His secretary laid before him the paper, carefully folded to the correct page and place, which was occupied by a square filled with a lot of smaller squares, some of them containing numbers.

'Today's "Jikan no Muda", sir,' he said. Vetinari glanced at it for a few seconds, and then handed it back to him.

The Patrician shut his eyes and drummed his fingers on the desktop for a moment.

'Hm... 9 6 3 1 7 4'  -  Drumknott scribbled hastily as the numbers streamed and eventually concluded  -  '8 4 2 3. And I'm sure they used that one last month. On a Monday, I believe.'

'Seventeen seconds, sir,' said Drumknott, his pencil still catching up.

'Well, it has been a tiring day,' said Vetinari. 'And what is the point? Numbers are easy to outwit. They can't think back. The people who devise the crosswords, now they are indeed devious. Who would know that "pysdxes" are ancient Ephebian carved-bone needle-holders?'

'Well, you, sir, of course,' said Drumknott, carefully stacking the files, 'and the Curator of Ephebian Antiquities at the Royal Art Museum, "Puzzler" of the Times and Miss Grace Speaker, who runs the pet shop in Pellicool Steps.'

'We should keep an eye on that pet shop, Drumknott. A woman with a mind like that content to dispense dog food? I think not.'

'Indeed, sir. I shall make a note.'

'I'm pleased to hear that your new boots have ceased squeaking, by the way.'

'Thank you, sir. They have broken in nicely.'

Vetinari stared pensively at the day's files. 'Mr Bent, Mr Bent, Mr Bent,' he said. 'The mysterious Mr Bent. Without him, the Royal Bank would be in far more trouble than it has been. And now that it is without him it will fall over. It revolves around him. It beats to his pulse. Old Lavish was frightened of him, I'm sure. He said he thought that Bent was a...' He paused.

'Sir?' said Drumknott.

'Let us just accept the fact that he has, in every way, proved to be a model citizen,' said Vetinari. 'The past is a dangerous country, is it not?'

'There is no file on him, sir.'

'He has never drawn attention to himself. All I know for sure is that he arrived here as a child, on a cart owned by some travelling accountants...'

'What, like tinkers and fortune-tellers?' said Moist, as the cab rocked its way through streets that grew narrower and darker.

'I suppose you could say so,' said Miss Drapes with a hint of disapproval. 'They do big, you know, circuits all the way up to the mountains, doing the books for little businesses, helping people with their taxes, that sort of thing.' She cleared her throat. 'Whole families of them. It must be a wonderful life.'

'Every day a new ledger,' said Moist, nodding gravely, 'and by night they drink beer and happy laughing accountants dance the Double Entry Polka to the sound of accordions...'

'Do they?' said Miss Drapes nervously.

'I don't know. It would be nice to think so,' said Moist. 'Well, that explains something, at least. He was obviously ambitious. All he could hope for on the road was being allowed to steer the horse, I suppose.'