Making Money

‘Some of it is informed conjecture, but Miss Drapes has got a lot out of him in the last couple of days. She is a lady of some depth and determination.’

On the far side of the big tent there was another doorway, where the head of the guild was waiting for them.

He was white all over — white hat, white boots, white costume and white face — and on that face, delineated in thin lines of red greasepaint, a smile belying the real face, which was as cold and proud as that of a prince of Hell.

Dr Whiteface nodded at Vetinari. ‘My lord …’

‘Dr Whiteface,’ said the Patrician. ‘And how is the patient?’

‘Oh, if only he had come to us when he was young,’ said Whiteface, ‘what a clown he would have been! What timing! Oh, by the way, we do not normally allow women visitors into the guild building, but in these special circumstances we are waiving this rule.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ said Adora Belle, acid etching every syllable.

‘It is simply that, whatever the Jokes For Women group says, women are just not funny.’

‘It is a terrible affliction,’ Adora Belle agreed.

‘An interesting dichotomy, in fact, since neither are clowns,’ said Vetinari.

‘I’ve always thought so,’ said Adora Belle.

‘They are tragic,’ said Vetinari, ‘and we laugh at their tragedy as we laugh at our own. The painted grin leers out at us from the darkness, mocking our insane belief in order, logic, status, the reality of reality. The mask knows that we are born on the banana skin that leads only to the open manhole cover of doom, and all we can hope for are the cheers of the crowd.’

‘Where do the squeaky balloon animals fit in?’ said Moist.

‘I have no idea. But I understand that when the would-be murderers broke in Mr Bent strangled one with quite a lifelike humorous pink elephant made out of balloons.’

‘Just imagine the noise,’ said Adora Belle cheerfully.

‘Yes! What a turn! And without any training! And the business with the ladder? Pure battle-clowning! Superb!’ said Whiteface. ‘We know it all now, Havelock. After his mother died, his father came back and of course took him off to the circus. Any clown could see the boy had funny bones. Those feet! They should have sent him to us! A boy of that age, it can be very tricky! But no, he was bundled into his grandfather’s old gear and shoved out into the ring in some tiny little town, and, well, that’s where clowning lost a king.’

‘Why? What happened?’ said Moist.

‘Why do you think? They laughed at him.’

It was raining, and wet branches lashed at him as he bounded through the woods, whitewash still dribbling from his baggy trousers. The pants themselves bounced up and down on their elastic braces, occasionally hitting him under the chin.

The boots were good, though. They were amazing boots. They were the only ones he’d ever had that fitted.

But his mother had brought him up properly. Clothes should be a respectable grey, mirth was indecent, and make-up was a sin.

Well, punishment had come fast enough!

At dawn he found a barn. He scraped off the dried custard and caked greasepaint and washed himself in a puddle. Oh, that face! The fat nose, the huge mouth, the white tear painted on — he would remember it in nightmares, he knew it.

At least he still had his own shirt and drawers, which covered all the important bits. He was about to throw everything else away when an inner voice stopped him. His mother was dead and he hadn’t been able to stop the bailiffs taking everything, even the brass ring Mother polished every day. He’d never see his father again … he had to keep something, there had to be something, something so that he might remember who and why he was and where he’d come from and even why he’d left. The barn yielded a sack full of holes; that was good enough. The hated suit was stuffed inside.

Later that day he’d come across some caravans parked under the trees, but they were not the garish wagons of the circus. Probably they were religious, he thought, and Mother had approved of the quieter religions, provided the gods weren’t foreign.

They gave him rabbit stew. And when he looked over the shoulder of a man sitting quietly at a small folding table, he saw a book full of numbers, all written down. He liked numbers. They’d always made sense in a world that didn’t. And then he’d asked the man, very politely, what the number at the bottom was, and the answer had been: ‘It’s what we call the total’, and he’d replied: ‘No, that’s not the total, that’s three farthings short of the total.’ ‘How do you know?’ said the man, and he’d said: ‘I can see it is’, and the man had said: ‘But you only just glanced at it!’ And he’d said: ‘Well, yes, isn’t that how?’

And then more books were opened and the people gathered round and gave him sums to do, and they were all so, so easy …

It was all the fun the circus couldn’t be, and involved no custard, ever.

***

He opened his eyes, and made out the indistinct figures.

‘Am I going to be arrested?’

Moist glanced at Vetinari, who waved a hand vaguely.