Making Money - Terry Pratchett [8]
Moist went down the main stairs like a maddened tap dancer and ran out through the big double doors. In one crowded moment, as he hurried toward the coach, the meal, table, cloth, and chair were stowed in some unnoticeable compartment, and the man was standing by the invitingly open door.
“Look, what is this about?” Moist demanded, panting for breath. “I don’t have all—”
“Ah, Mr. Lipwig,” said Lord Vetinari’s voice from within, “do step inside. Thank you, Houseman, Mrs. Lavish will be waiting. Hurry up, Mr. Lipwig, I am not going to eat you. I have just had an acceptable cheese sandwich.”
What harm can it do to find out? It’s a question that left bruises down the centuries, even more than “It can’t hurt if I only take one” and “It’s all right if you only do it standing up.”
Moist climbed into the shadows. The door clicked behind him, and he turned suddenly.
“Oh, really,” said Lord Vetinari. “It’s just shut, it isn’t locked, Mr. Lipwig. Do compose yourself!” Beside him, Drumknott sat primly with a large leather satchel on his lap.
“What is it you want?” said Moist.
Lord Vetinari raised that eyebrow. “I? Nothing. What do you want?”
“What?”
“Well, you got into my coach, Mr. Lipwig.”
“Yes, but I was told it was outside!”
“And if you had been told it was black, would you have found it necessary to do anything about it? There is the door, Mr. Lipwig.”
“But you’ve been parked out here all morning!”
“It is a public street, sir,” said Lord Vetinari. “Now sit down. Good.”
The coach jerked into motion.
“You are restless, Mr. Lipwig,” said Vetinari. “You are careless of your safety. Life has lost its flavor, has it not?”
Moist didn’t reply.
“Let us talk about angels,” said Lord Vetinari.
“Oh yes, I know that one,” said Moist bitterly. “I’ve heard that one. That’s the one you got me with after I was hanged—”
Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “Only mostly hanged, I think you’ll find. To within an inch of your life.”
“Whatever! I was hanged! And the worst part of that was finding out I only got two paragraphs in the Tanty Bugle! Two paragraphs, may I say, for a life of ingenious, inventive, and strictly nonviolent crime? I could have been an example to youngsters! Page one got hogged by the Dyslectic Alphabet Killer, and he only managed A and W!”
“I confess the editor does appear to believe that it is not a proper crime unless someone is found in three alleys at once, but that is the price of a free press. And it suits us both, does it not, that Albert Spangler’s passage from this world was…unmemorable?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t expecting an afterlife like this! I have to do what I’m told for the rest of my life?”
“Correction, your new life. That is a crude summary, yes,” said Vetinari. “Let me rephrase things, however. Ahead of you, Mr. Lipwig, is a life of respectable quiet contentment, of civic dignity, and, of course, in the fullness of time, a pension. Not to mention, of course, the proud goldish chain.”
Moist winced at this. “And if I don’t do what you say?”
“Hmm? Oh, you misunderstand me, Mr. Lipwig. That is what will happen to you if you decline my offer. If you accept it, you will survive on your wits against powerful and dangerous enemies, with every day presenting fresh challenges. Someone may even try to kill you.”
“What? Why?”
“You annoy people. A hat goes with the job, incidentally.”
“And this job makes real money?”
“Nothing but money, Mr. Lipwig. It is, in fact, that of master of the Royal Mint.”
“What? Banging out pennies all day?”
“In short, yes. But it is traditionally attached to a senior post at the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork, which will occupy most of your attention. You can make money, as it were, in your spare time.”
“A banker? Me?”
“Yes, Mr. Lipwig.”
“But I don’t know anything about running a bank!”
“Good. No preconceived ideas.”
“I’ve robbed banks!”
“Capital! Just reverse your thinking,” said Lord Vetinari, beaming. “The money should be on the inside.”
The coach slowed to a stop.
“What is this about?” said Moist. “Actually about?”
“When you took