Making Money - Terry Pratchett [10]
And Vetinari wanted to make him the boss of it. There was going to have to be a huge razor blade in a stick of cotton candy this big.
“Tell me, my lord,” Moist said carefully, “what happened to the man who used to occupy the post?”
“I thought you would ask, so I looked it up. He died aged ninety, of a schism of the heart.”
That didn’t sound too bad, but Moist knew enough to probe further. “Anyone else died lately?”
“Sir Joshua Lavish, the chairman of the bank. He died six months ago in his own bed, aged eighty.”
“A man can die in some very unpleasant ways in his own bed,” Moist pointed out.
“So I believe,” said Lord Vetinari. “In this case, however, it was in the arms of a young woman called Honey after a very large meal of deviled oysters. How unpleasant that was I suppose we shall never know.”
“She was his wife? You said it was his own—”
“He had an apartment in the bank,” said Lord Vetinari. “A traditional perk that was useful when he was—” here Vetinari paused for a fraction of a second “—working late. Mrs. Lavish was not present at the time.”
“If he was a Sir, shouldn’t she be a Lady?” said Moist.
“It is rather characteristic of Mrs. Lavish that she does not like being a Lady,” said Lord Vetinari smoothly. “And I bow to her wishes.”
“Did he often ‘work’ late?” said Moist, carefully quoting. No lady, eh? he thought.
“With astonishing regularity for his age, I understand,” said Vetinari.
“Oh, really?” said Moist. “You know, I think I recall the obituary in the Times. But I don’t remember any of that sort of detail.”
“Yes, what is the press coming to, one wonders.”
Vetinari turned and surveyed the building.
“Of the two, I prefer the honesty of the Mint,” he said. “It growls at the world. The tax gatherers used to have the top two floors, which may help engender a certain worried feeling. What do you think, Mr. Lipwig?”
“What’s that round thing I always see poking out of the roof?” said Moist. “It makes it look like a piggy bank with a big coin stuck in the slot!”
“Oddly enough, it did used to be known as the Bad Penny,” said Vetinari. “It is a large treadmill that provides power for the coin stamping and so forth. Powered by prisoners once upon a time, when ‘community service’ wasn’t just a word. Or even two. It was considered cruel and unusual punishment, however, which does rather suggest a lack of imagination. Shall we go in?”
“Look, sir, what is it you would want me to do?” said Moist, as they climbed the marble steps. “I know a bit about banking, but how do I run a mint?”
Vetinari shrugged. “I have no idea. People turn handles, I assume. Someone tells them how often, and when to stop.”
“And why will anyone want to kill me?”
“I couldn’t say, Mr. Lipwig. But there was at least one attempt on your life when you were innocently delivering letters, so I expect your career in banking will be an exciting one.”
They reached the top of the steps. An elderly man in what might have been the uniform of a general in one of the more unstable kinds of armies held open the door for them.
Lord Vetinari gestured for Moist to enter first.
“I’m just going to have a look around, all right?” said Moist, stumbling through the doorway. “I really haven’t had time to think about this.”
“That is understood,” said Vetinari.
“I’m committing myself to nothing by it, right?”
“Nothing,” said Vetinari. He strolled to a leather sofa and sat down, beckoning Moist to sit beside him. Drumknott, ever attentive, hovered behind them.
“The smell of banks is always pleasing, don’t you think?” said Vetinari. “A mix of polish and ink and wealth.”
“And ursery,” said Moist.
“That would be cruelty to bears. You mean usury, I suspect. The churches don’t seem to be so much against it these days. Incidentally, only the current chairman of the bank knows my intentions. To everyone else here today, you are merely carrying out a brief inspection on my behalf. It is just as well you are not wearing the famous gold suit.”
There was a hush in the bank, mostly because the ceiling was so high that sounds were