Making Money - Terry Pratchett [39]
It wasn’t gold. But the influx was having an effect, no doubt about it. Wages were falling, to start with.
This march was against the employment of golems, who uncomplainingly did the dirtiest jobs, worked around the clock, and were so honest they paid their taxes. But they weren’t human and they had glowing eyes, and people could get touchy about that sort of thing.
Mr. Bent must have been waiting behind a pillar. Moist was no sooner through the doors of the bank, Mr. Fusspot tucked happily under his arm, when the chief cashier was by his side.
“The staff are very concerned sir,” he said, piloting Moist toward the stairs. “I took the liberty of telling them that you would speak to them later.”
Moist was aware of the worried stares. And of other things, too, now that he was looking with an almost proprietorial eye. Yes, the bank had been built well, out of fine materials, but get past that and you could see the neglect and the marks of time. It was like the now-inconveniently-large house of a poor old widow who just couldn’t see the dust anymore. The brass was rather tarnished, the red velvet curtains frayed and a little bald in places, the marble floor was only erratically shiny—
“What?” he said. “Oh, yes. Good idea. Can you get this place cleaned up?”
“Sir?”
“The carpets are mucky, the plush ropes are unraveled, the curtains have seen better centuries, and the brass needs a jolly good scrub. The bank should look smart, Mr. Bent. You might give money to a beggar but you wouldn’t lend it to him, eh?”
Bent’s eyebrows rose. “And that’s the chairman’s view, is it?” he said.
“The chairman? Oh, yes. Mr. Fusspot’s very keen on clean. Isn’t that right, Mr. Fusspot?”
Mr. Fusspot stopped growling at Mr. Bent long enough to bark a couple of times.
“See?” said Moist. “When you don’t know what to do, comb your hair and clean your shoes. Words of wisdom, Mr. Bent. Jump to it.”
“I shall elevate myself to the best of my ability, sir,” said Bent. “Meanwhile, a young lady has called, sir. She seemed reluctant to give her name but said you would be pleased to see her. I have ushered her into the small boardroom.”
“Did you have to open a window?” said Moist hopefully.
“No, sir.”
That ruled out Adora Belle, then, to replace her with a horrifying thought. “She’s not one of the Lavish family, is she?”
“No, sir. And it’s time for Mr…. it’s time for the chairman’s lunch, sir. He has cold, boned chicken because of his stomach. I’ll have it sent along to the small boardroom, shall I?”
“Yes, please. Could you rustle up something for me?”
“Rustle, sir?” Bent looked puzzled. “You mean steal?”
Ah, that kind of man, Moist thought.
“I meant find me something to eat,” he translated.
“Certainly, sir. There is a small kitchen in the suite and we have a chef on call. Mrs. Lavish has lived here for some time. It will be interesting to have a master of the Royal Mint again.”
“I like the sound of master of the Royal Mint,” Moist said. “How about that, Mr. Fusspot?”
On cue, the chairman barked.
“Hmm,” said Bent. “One final thing, sir. Could you please sign these?” He indicated a pile of paperwork.
“What are they? They’re not minutes, are they? I don’t do minutes.”
“They are various formalities, sir. Basically, they add up to you signing a receipt for the bank on the chairman’s behalf, but I am advised that Mr. Fusspot’s paw mark should appear in the places ticked.”
“Does he have to read all this?” said Moist.
“No, sir.”
“Then I won’t. It’s a bank. You’ve given me the big tour. It’s not as though it’s got a wheel missing. Just show me where to sign.”
“Just here, sir. And here. And here. And here. And here. And here.
And here…”
THE LADY IN the conference room was certainly an attractive woman, but since she worked for the Times, Moist felt unable to award her total ladylike status. Ladies didn’t fiendishly quote exactly what you said but didn’t exactly mean, or hit you around the ear with unexpectedly difficult questions. Well,