Making Money - Terry Pratchett [80]
They were all in Mr. Shady’s official shed, which was built high up on the wall, like a swallow’s nest. It creaked whenever anyone moved.
“And of course, some of you will still be needed to deal with the outworkers,” Moist went on, “but in the main it will be your job to see that Mr. Spools’s men arrive on time, comport themselves as they should, and observe proper security.”
“Security,” said Mr. Shady, as if tasting the word. Moist saw a flicker of evil light in the eyes of the Men. It said: These buggers will be taking over our Mint but they’ll have to go past us to get out of the door. Hoho!
“And of course you can keep the sheds,” said Moist. “I also have plans for commemorative coins and other items, so your skills will not be wasted. Fair enough?”
Mr. Shady looked at his fellows and then back to Moist.
“We’d like to talk about this,” he said.
Moist nodded at him, and at Bent, and led the way down the creaking, swaying staircase to the floor of the Mint, where the parts of the new press were already being stacked up. Bent gave a little shudder when he saw it.
“They won’t accept, you know,” he said with unconcealed hope in his voice. “They’ve been doing things the same way here for hundreds of years! And they are craftsmen!”
“So were the people who used to make knives out of flint,” said Moist. In truth, he’d been amazed at himself. It must have been the encounter with Cribbins. It had made his brain race. “Look, I don’t like to see skills unused,” he said, “but I’ll give them better wages and a decent job and use of the Sheds. They wouldn’t get an offer like that in a hundred years—”
Someone was coming down the swaying stairs. Moist recognized him as Young Alf, who, amazingly, had managed to be employed in the Mint while still too young to shave though definitely old enough to have spots.
“Er, the men say, will there be badges?” said the boy.
“Actually, I was thinking of uniforms,” said Moist. “Silver breastplate with the city’s coat of arms on it and lightweight silver chain mail, to look impressive when we have visitors.”
The boy pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and consulted it.
“What about clipboards?” he said.
“Certainly,” said Moist. “And whistles, too.”
“And, er, it’s def ’nite about the Sheds, right?”
“I’m a man of my word,” said Moist.
“You are a man of words, Mr. Lipwig,” said Bent as the boy scuttled back up the rocking steps, “but I fear they will lead us into ruin. The bank needs solidarity, reliability…everything that gold represents!”
Moist spun around. It had not been a good day. It had not been a good night, either.
“Mr. Bent, if you do not like what I am doing, feel free to leave. You’ll have a good reference and all the wages due to you!”
Bent looked as though he’d been slapped.
“Leave the bank? Leave the bank? How could I do that? How dare you!”
A door slammed above them. They looked up. The Men of the Sheds were coming down the stairs in solemn procession.
“Now we shall see,” hissed Bent. “These are men of solid worth. They’ll have nothing to do with your gaudy offer, Mr…. Ringmaster!”
The Men reached the bottom of the steps. Without a word they all looked at Mr. Shady, except for Mr. Shady, who looked at Moist.
“The sheds stay, right?” he said.
“You’re giving in?” said Mr. Bent, aghast. “After hundreds of years?”
“Well,” said Mr. Shady, “me and the boys had a bit of a talk and, well, at a time like this, a man’s got to think of his shed. And the outworkers will be all right, right?”
“Mr. Shady, I’d go to the barricades for the elim,” said Moist.
“And we talked to some of the lads from the Post Office last night and they said we could trust Mr. Lipwig’s word ’cos he’s as straight as a corkscrew.”
“A corkscrew?” said Bent, shocked.
“Yeah, we asked about that, too,” said Shady. “And they said he acts curly but that’s okay ’cos he damn well gets the corks out!”
Mr. Bent’s expression went blank.