Making Money - Terry Pratchett [60]
“Well, sir, you do rather invite it. Perhaps you’d agree that the golden hat was a mistake?”
“I like the hat! There’s no other hat like it!”
Bent nodded. “Fortunately, this is true, sir. Oh, dear. Paper money. A practice used only by the heathen Agateans…”
“Heathen? They’ve got far more gods than us! And over there gold is worth less than iron!”
Moist relented. Bent’s face, usually so controlled and aloof, had crumpled like a piece of paper. “Look, I’ve been reading. The banks issue coins to four times the amount of the gold they hold. That’s a nonsense we could do without. It’s a dream world. This city is rich enough to be its own gold bar!”
“They’re trusting you for no good reason,” said Bent. “They trust you because you make them laugh. I do not make people laugh, and this is not my world. I don’t know how to smile like you do and talk like you do. Don’t you understand? There must be something which has a worth that goes beyond fashion and politics, a worth that endures. Are you putting Vetinari in charge of my bank? What guarantees the savings that those people are thrusting over our counter?”
“Not what, who. It’s me. I am personally going to see that this bank does not fail.”
“You?”
Yes.”
“Oh yes, the man in the gold suit,” said Bent sourly. “And if all else fails, will you pray?”
“It worked last time,” said Moist calmly.
Bent’s eye twitched. For the first time since Moist had met him, he seemed…lost.
“I don’t know what you want me to do!”
It was almost a wail. Moist patted him on the shoulder.
“Run the bank, like you always have. I think we should set up some loans, with all this cash coming in. Are you a good judge of character?”
“I thought I was,” said Bent. “Now? I have no idea. Sir Joshua, I am sorry to say, was not. Mrs. Lavish was very, very good, in my opinion…”
“Better than you could possibly know,” said Moist. “Good. I shall take the chairman for his walkies, and then…we’ll spread some money around. How about that?”
Mr. Bent shuddered.
THE TIMES DID an early afternoon edition with a big picture on the front page, of the queue of customers winding out of the bank. Most of them wanted to get in on the act, whatever the act turned out to be, and the rest were queuing on the basis that there might be something interesting at the other end. There was a boy selling the paper, and people were buying it to read the story entitled “Huge Queue Swamps Bank,” which seemed a bit odd to Moist. They were in the queue, weren’t they? Was it only real if they read about it?
“There are already some…people wishing to inquire about loans, sir,” said Bent, behind him. “I suggest you let me deal with them.”
“No, we both will, Mr. Bent,” said Moist, turning away from the window. “Show them into the downstairs office, please.”
“I really think you should leave this to me, sir. Some of them are rather new to the idea of banking,” Bent persisted. “In fact, I don’t think some of them have ever been in a bank before, except perhaps during the hours of darkness.”
“I would like you to be present, of course, but I will make the final decision,” said Moist, as loftily as he could manage. “Aided by the chairman, naturally.”
“Mr. Fusspot?”
“Oh yes.”
“He is an expert judge, is he?”
“Oh yes!”
Moist picked up the dog and headed for the office. He could feel the chief cashier glaring at his back.
But Bent had been right. Some of the people waiting hopefully to see him about a loan were thinking in terms of a couple of dollars until Friday. They were easy enough to deal with. And then there were others…
“Mr. Dibbler, isn’t it?” said Moist. He knew it was, but you had to speak like that when you sat behind a desk.
“That’s right, sir, man and boy,” said Mr. Dibbler, who had a permanently eager, rodent-like cast to his countenance. “I could be someone else if you like.”
“And you sell pork pies, sausages, rat-on-a-stick…”
“Er, I pervay them, sir,” Dibbler corrected him, “on account of being a perveyor.”
Moist looked at him over the paperwork. Claude Maximillian Overton