Making Money (Discworld 36)

'Mr Hubert? How many fingerth am I holding up?'

Hubert slowly focused. 'Thirteen?' he quavered.

Igor relaxed and dropped the jar back into his pocket. 'Jutht in time. Well done, thur!'

'I am so sorry - ' Hubert began.

'Don't worry about it. I'm feeling a bit that way myself,' said Moist.

'So... this gold... have you any idea who took it?'

'No, but it must have been an inside job,' said Moist. 'And now the Watch are going to pin it on me, I suspect.'

'Will that mean you won't be in charge?' said Hubert.

'I doubt I'll be allowed to run the bank from inside the Tanty.'

'Oh dear,' said Hubert, looking at Igor. 'Um... what would happen if it was put back?'

Igor coughed loudly.

'I think that's unlikely, don't you?' said Moist.

'Yes, but Igor told me that when the Post Office burned down last year the gods themselves gave you the money to rebuild it!'

'Harrumph,' said Igor.

'I doubt if that's likely twice,' said Moist. 'And I don't think there's a god of banking.'

'One might take it on for the publicity,' said Hubert desperately. 'It could be worth a prayer.'

'Harrumph!' said Igor, louder this time.

Moist looked from one to the other. Okay, he thought, something's going on, and I'm not going to be told what it is.

Pray to the gods to get a big heap of gold? When had that ever worked? Well, last year it worked, true, but that was because I already knew where a big heap of gold was buried. The gods help those who help themselves, and my word, didn't I help myself.

'You think it's really worth it?' said Moist.

A small steaming mug was placed in front of him. 'Your Thplot,' said Igor. The words 'Now please drink it up and go' accompanied it in every respect but the vocal.

'Do you think I should pray, Igor?' said Moist, watching his face.

'I couldn't thay. The Igor position on prayer is that it is nothing more than hope with a beat to it.'

Moist leaned closer and whispered: 'Igor, as one Uberwald lad to another, your lisp just departed.'

Igor's frown grew. 'Thorry, thur, I have a lot on my mind,' he said, rolling his eyes to indicate the nervous Hubert.

'My fault, I'm disturbing you good people,' said Moist, emptying the cup in one go. 'Any minute now the dhdldlkp;kvyv vbdf[ ;jvjvf;llljvmmk;wbvlm bnxgcgbnme - '

Ah yes, Splot, thought Moist. It contained herbs and all natural ingredients. But belladonna was a herb, and arsenic was natural. There was no alcohol in it, people said, because alcohol couldn't survive. But a cup of hot Splot got men out of bed and off to work when there was six feet of snow outside and the well was frozen. It left you clear-headed and quick-thinking. It was only a shame that the human tongue couldn't keep up.

Moist blinked once or twice and said: 'Ughx...'

He said his goodbyes, even if they were his 'gnyrxs', and headed back up the length of the undercroft, the light from the Glooper pushing his shadow in front of him. Trolls watched him suspiciously as he climbed the steps, trying to keep his feet from flying away from him. His brain buzzed, but it had nothing to do. There was nothing to grab hold of, to worry a solution from. And in an hour or so the country edition of the Times would be out and, very shortly after, so would he. There would be a run on the bank, which is a horrifying thing at best, and the other banks wouldn't help him out, would they, because he wasn't a chap. Disgrace and Ignominy and Mr Fusspot were staring him in the face, but only one of them was licking it.

He'd made it to his office, then. Splot certainly took your mind off all your little problems by rolling them into the big one of keeping all of yourself on one planet. He accepted the little dog's ritual slobbering kiss, got off his knees, and made it as far as the chair.