Making Money

Miss Drapes was silent. All she knew was that she was going to follow this to the end. After all, she’d spent the night in a man’s bedroom, and Lady Deirdre Waggon had a lot to say about that. She was technically a Ruined Woman, which seemed unfair given that, even more technically, she wasn’t.

She watched as Mr Bent … changed. He had the decency to do so with his back turned, but she closed her eyes anyway. Then she remembered that she was Ruined, and so there wasn’t much point, was there?

She opened them again.

‘Miss Drapes?’ said Mr Bent dreamily.

‘Yes, Mr Bent?’ she said, through chattering teeth.

‘We need to find … a bakery.’

Cranberry and his associate stepped into the room, and stopped dead. This was not according to the plan.

‘And possibly a ladder,’ said Mr Bent. He pulled a strip of pink rubber from his pocket, and bowed.

Chapter 12

No help from on high — Drumknott reports — A possible jape — Mr Fusspot takes the stage — Strange things in the air — The return of Mr Bent — ‘Look out, he’s got a daisy!’ — Pucci’s big moment — Cosmo needs a hand

There was clean straw in Moist’s cell and he was pretty certain no one had gobbed in the stirabout, which contained what, if you were forced to name it, you would have to concede was meat. News had somehow got around that Moist was the reason that Bellyster was no longer on the staff. Even his fellow screws had hated the bullying bastard, so Moist also got a second helping without asking, his shoes cleaned and a complimentary copy of the Times in the morning.

The marching golems had forced the bank’s troubles on to page 5. The golems were all over the front page, and a lot of the inner pages were full of Vox Pops — which meant people in the street who didn’t know anything told other people what they knew — and lengthy articles by people who also didn’t know anything but could say it very elegantly in 250 words.

He was just staring at the crossword puzzle[15] when someone knocked very politely on the cell door. It was the warden, who hoped Mr Lipwig had enjoyed his brief stay with them, would like to show him to his carriage, and looked forward to the pleasure of his custom again should there be any further temporary doubts about his honesty. In the meantime, he would be grateful if Mr Lipwig would be kind enough to wear these lightweight manacles, for the look of the thing, and when they were taken off him, as they surely would be when his character was proved to be spotless, would he please remind the officer in charge that they were prison property, thank you very much.

There was a crowd outside the prison, though they were standing back from the large golem which, down on one knee and with a fist thrust into the air, was waiting outside the gate. It had turned up last night and if Mr Lipwig could see his way clear to getting it to move, said the warden, everyone would be most appreciative. Moist tried to look as though he’d expected it. He had told Black Moustache to await further orders. He hadn’t expected this.

In fact it stamped after the coach all the way to the palace. There were a lot of watchmen lining the route and there seemed to be a black-clad figure on every rooftop. It looked as though Vetinari was not taking any chances on him escaping. There were more guards waiting in the back courtyard — more than was efficient, Moist could tell, since it can be easier for a swift-thinking man to get away from twenty men than from five. But somebody was Making a Statement. It didn’t matter what it was, so long as it looked impressive.

He was led by dark passages into the sudden light of the Great Hall, which was packed. There was a smattering of applause, one or two cheers, and a ringing series of boos from Pucci, who was sitting next to her brother in the front row of the big block of seats. Moist was led to a small podium which was going to do duty as a dock, where he could look around at the guild leaders, senior wizards, important priests and members of the Great and the Good, or at least the Big and the Noisy. There was Harry King, grinning at him, and the cloud of smoke that indicated the presence of Adora Belle and — oh yes, the new High Priestess of Anoia, her crown of bent spoons all shiny, her ceremonial ladle held stiffly, her face rigid with nerves and importance. You owe me, girl, Moist thought, ’cos a year ago you had to work in a bar in the evenings to make a living and Anoia was just one of half a dozen semi-goddesses who shared an altar which, let’s face it, was your kitchen table with a cloth on it. What’s one little miracle compared to that?

There was a whisking of cloth and suddenly Lord Vetinari was in his seat, with Drumknott by his side. The buzz of conversation ceased, as the Patrician looked around the hall.