Making Money - Terry Pratchett [147]
“The watch in Quirm are searching for him, sir,” said Drumknott, putting the city edition of the Times in front of him.
“Why?”
“He bought a ticket for Quirm.”
“But he will have bought another one from the coachman for Genua. He will run as far as he can. Send a short clacks to our man there, will you?”
“I hope you are right, sir.”
“Do you? I hope I am wrong. It will be good for me. Ah. Ahaha.”
“Sir?”
“I see the Times has put color on the front page again. The front and back of the one-dollar note.”
“Yes, sir. Very nice.”
“Actual size, too,” said Vetinari, still smiling. “I see here that this is to familiarize people with the look of the things. Even now, Drumknott, even now, honest citizens are carefully cutting out both sides of this note and gluing them together.”
“Shall I have a word with the editor, sir?”
“Don’t. It will be more entertaining to let things take their course.”
Vetinari leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes with a sigh. “Very well, Drumknott, I feel strong enough now to hear what the political cartoon looks like.”
There was a crackle of paper as Drumknott found the right page.
“Well, there is a very good likeness of Mr. Fusspot.” Under Vetinari’s chair the dog opened his eyes at the sound of his name. So did his new master, with more urgency.
“Surely he has nothing in his mouth?”
“No, sir, it is empty,” said Drumknott calmly. “This is the Times of Ankh-Morpork, sir.”
Vetinari relaxed again. “Continue.”
“He is on a leash, sir, and looking unaccustomedly ferocious. You are holding the leash, sir. In front of him, and backing nervously into a corner, are a group of very fat cats. They are wearing top hats, sir.”
“As cats do, yes.” Vetinari nodded.
“And they have the words THE BANKS on them,” Drumknott added.
“Subtle indeed!”
“While you, sir, are waving a handful of paper money at them and the speech bubble says—”
“Don’t tell me. ‘THIS does NOT taste of pineapple’?”
“Well done, sir. Incidentally, it does so happen that the chairmen of the rest of the city banks wish to see you, at your convenience.”
“Good. This afternoon, then.”
Vetinari got up and walked over to the window. The fog was thinning, but its drifting cloud still obscured the city.
“Mr. Lipwig is a very…popular young man, is he not, Drumknott?” said Vetinari, staring into the gloom.
“Oh yes, sir,” said the secretary, folding up the newspaper. “Extremely so. The Times likes him. The people seem to like him. He is an entertainer, and much is forgiven of such people.”
“And very confident in himself, I think.”
“I would say so.”
“And loyal?”
“He took a pie for you, sir.”
“A tactical thinker at speed, then.”
“Oh yes.”
“Bearing in mind his own future was riding on the pie as well.”
“He is certainly sensitive to political currents, no doubt about it,” said Drumknott, picking up his bundle of files.
“And, as you say, popular,” said Vetinari, still a gaunt outline against the fog.
Drumknott waited. Moist was not the only one sensitive to political currents.
“An asset to the city, indeed,” said Vetinari, after a while. “And we should not waste him. Obviously, though, he should be at the Royal Bank long enough to bend it to his satisfaction,” Vetinari mused. Drumknott said nothing, but arranged some of the files into a more pleasing order. A name struck him, and he shifted a file to the top.
“Of course, then he will get restless again and become a danger to others as well as himself…”
Drumknott smiled at his files. His hand hovered…
“Apropos of nothing, how old is Mr. Creaser?”
“The taxmaster? In his seventies, sir,” said Drumknott, opening the file he had just selected. “Yes, seventy-four, it says here.”
“We have recently pondered his methods, have we not?”
“Indeed we have, sir. Last week.”
“Not a man with a flexible cast of mind, I feel. A little at sea in the modern world. Holding someone upside down over a bucket and giving them a good shaking is not the way forward. I won’t blame him when he decides