Making Money - Terry Pratchett [9]
It had been a poky little shop in a poky alley, and there had been no one in there but the little old lady who’d sold him the picks. He still didn’t know exactly why he’d bought them. They were only geographically illegal, but it gave him a little thrill to know they were in his jacket. It was sad, like those businessmen who came to work in serious clothes but wore colorful ties in a mad, desperate attempt to show there was a free spirit in there somewhere.
Oh gods, I’ve become one of them. But at least he doesn’t seem to know about the blackjack.
“I’m not too bad,” he said.
“And the blackjack? You, who have never struck another man? You clamber on rooftops and pick the locks on your own desks. You’re like a caged animal, dreaming of the jungle! I’d like to give you what you long for. I’d like to throw you to the lions.”
Moist began to protest, but Vetinari held up a hand.
“You took our joke of a post office, Mr. Lipwig, and made it a solemn undertaking. But the banks of Ankh-Morpork, sir, are very serious indeed. They are serious donkeys, Mr. Lipwig. There have been too many failures. They’re stuck in the mud, they live in the past, they are hypnotized by class and wealth, they think gold is important.”
“Er…isn’t it?”
“No. And thief and swindler that you are—pardon me, once were—you know it, deep down. For you, it was just a way of keeping score,” said Vetinari. “What does gold know of true worth? Look out of the window and tell me what you see.”
“Um…a small, scruffy dog watching a man taking a piss in an alley,” said Moist. “Sorry, but you chose the wrong time.”
“Had I been taken less literally,” said Lord Vetinari, giving him a Look, “you would have seen a large, bustling city, full of ingenious people spinning wealth out of the common clay of the world. They construct, build, carve, bake, cast, mold, forge, and devise strange and inventive crimes. But they keep their money in old socks. They trust their socks better than they trust banks. Coinage is in artificially short supply, which is why your postage stamps are now a de facto currency. Our serious banking system is a mess. A joke, in fact.”
“It’ll be a bigger joke if you put me in charge,” said Moist.
Vetinari gave him a brief little smile. “Will it?” he said. “Well, we all need a chuckle sometimes.”
The coachman opened the door, and they stepped out.
Why temples? thought Moist, as he looked up at the facade of the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork. Why do they always build banks to look like temples, despite the fact that several major religions (a) are canonically against what they do inside and (b) bank there?
He’d looked at it before, of course, but had never really bothered to see it until now. As temples of money went, this one wasn’t bad. The architect at least knew how to design a decent column, and also knew when to stop. He had set his face like flint against any prospect of cherubs, although above the columns was a high-minded frieze showing something allegorical involving maidens and urns. Most of the urns and, Moist noticed, some of the young women, had birds nesting in them. An angry pigeon looked down at Moist from a stony bosom.
Moist had walked past the place many times. It never looked very busy. And behind it was the Royal Mint, which never showed any signs of life at all.
It would be hard to imagine an uglier building that hadn’t won a major architectural award. The Mint was a gaunt brick-and-stone block, its windows high, small, many, and barred, its doors protected by portcullises, its whole construction saying to the world: Don’t Even Think About It.
Up until now Moist hadn’t even thought about it. It was a mint. That sort of place held you upside down over a bucket and shook you hard before they let you out. They had