Making Money (Discworld 36)

'Yes, in the shape of the bank and the Mint. To teach the kiddies the habits of thrift. The money could go in the slot where the Bad Penny is - '

'Are you really thinking about money boxes?'

'Er, no. I'm flirting with risk again.'

'That's better!'

'Although you must admit that it's a pretty clev - '

Adora Belle grabbed Moist by the shoulders. 'Moist von Lipwig, if you don't give me a big wet kiss right now -  Ow! Are there fleas down here?'

It felt like a hailstorm. The air in the vault had become a golden mist. It would have been pretty, if it wasn't so heavy. It stung where it touched.

Moist grabbed her hand and dragged her out as the teeming particles became a torrent. Outside, he took off his hat, which was already so heavy that it was endangering his ears, and tipped a small fortune in gold on to the floor. The vault was already half full.

'Oh no,' he moaned, 'Just when it was going so well...' s Does It For Herself  -  To the House of Mirth  -  The history of Mr Bent  -  Usefulness of clowns as nurses is questioned  -  Owlswick gets an angel  -  The golden secret (not exactly dragon magic)  -  The return of the teeth  -  Vetinari looks ahead  -  The Bank Triumphant  -  The Glooper's little gift  -  How to spoil a perfect day

ON THE FIRST DAY of the rest of his life Moist von Lipwig woke up, which was nice given that on any particular day a number of people do not, but woke up alone, which was less pleasing.

It was 6 a.m., and the fog seemed glued to the windows, so thick that it should have contained croutons. But he liked these moments, before the fragments of yesterday reassembled themselves.

Hold on, this wasn't the suite, was it? This was his room in the Post Office, which had all the luxury and comfort that you would normally associate with the term 'civil service issue'.

A piece of yesterday fell into place. Oh yes, Vetinari had ordered the bank shut while his clerks looked at everything this time. Moist wished them luck with the late Sir Joshua's special cupboard...

There was no Mr Fusspot, which was a shame. You don't appreciate an early-morning slobber until it's gone. And there was no Gladys, either, which was worrying.

She didn't turn up while he was getting dressed, either, and there was no copy of the Times on his desk. His suit needed pressing, too.

He eventually found her pushing a trolley of mail in the sorting room. The blue dress had gone, to be replaced by a grey one which, by the nascent standard of golem dressmaking, looked quite smart.

'Good morning, Gladys,' Moist ventured. 'Any chance of some pressed trouser?'

'There Is Always A Warm Iron In The Postmen's Locker Room, Mr Lipwig.'

'Oh? Ah. Right. And, er... the Times?

'Four Copies Are Delivered To Mr Groat's Office Every Morning, Mr Lipwig,' said Gladys reproachfully.

'I suppose a sandwich is totally out of - '

'I Really Must Get On With My Duties, Mr Lipwig,' said the golem reproachfully.

'You know, Gladys, I can't help thinking that there's something different about you,' said Moist.

'Yes! I Am Doing It For Myself,' said Gladys, her eyes glowing.

'Doing what, exactly?'

'I Have Not Ascertained This Yet, But I Am Only Ten Pages Into The Book.'

'Ah. You've been reading a new book? But not one by Lady Deirdre Waggon, I'll wager.'

'No, Because She Is Out Of Touch With Modern Thought. I Laugh With Scorn.'

'Yes, I imagine she would be,' said Moist thoughtfully. 'And I expect Miss Dearheart gave you said book?'

'Yes. It Is Entitled Why Men Get Under Your Feet By Releventia Flout,' said Gladys earnestly.