Making Money

‘Look, shall we get started?’ said Hicks, rummaging in a black velvet sack. ‘There are some hooded black robes on the hook behind the door. They’re just for show, of course, but nec— Post-Mortem Communications is all about theatre, really. Most of the people we … communicate with are wizards, and frankly they don’t like change.’

‘We’re not going to do anything … ghoulish, are we?’ said Adora Belle, looking at a robe doubtfully.

‘Apart from talk to someone who’s been dead for three hundred years,’ said Moist. He was not naturally at ease in the presence of skulls. Humans have been genetically programmed not to be ever since monkey times, because a) whatever turned that skull into a skull might still be around and you should head for a tree now, and b) skulls look like they’re having a laugh at one’s expense.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Hicks, taking a small ornamental jar out of the black bag and polishing it on his sleeve. ‘Professor Flead willed his soul to the university. He’s a bit crabby, I have to say, but he can be cooperative if we put on a decent show.’ He stood back. ‘Let’s see … grisly candles, Circle of Namareth, Glass of Silent Time, the Mask, of course, the Curtains of, er, Curtains and’ — here he put a small box down beside the jar — ‘the vital ingredients.’

‘Sorry? You mean all those expensive-sounding things aren’t vital?’ said Moist.

‘They’re more like … scenery,’ said Hicks, adjusting the hood. ‘I mean, we could all sit round reading the script out loud, but without the costumes and scenery who’d want to turn up? Are you interested in the theatre at all?’ he added, in a hopeful voice.

‘I go when I can,’ said Moist guardedly, because he recognized the hope.

‘You didn’t by any chance see ’Tis Pity She’s an Instructor in Unarmed Combat at the Little Theatre recently? It was put on by the Dolly Sisters Players?’

‘Uh, no, I’m afraid not.’

‘I played Sir Andrew Fartswell,’ said Dr Hicks, in case Moist was due a sudden attack of recollection.

‘Oh, that was you, was it?’ said Moist, who’d met actors before. ‘Everyone at work was talking about it!’

I’m okay just so long as he doesn’t ask which night they talked about, he thought. There’s always one night in every play when something hilariously dreadful happens. But he was fortunate; an experienced actor knows when not to push his luck.

Instead Hicks said: ‘Do you know ancient languages?’

‘I can do Basic Droning,’ said Moist.

‘[7]. Is this ancient enough for you?’ said Adora Belle, and made Moist’s spine tingle. The private language of the golems was usually hell on the human tongue, but it sounded unbearably sexy when Adora Belle uttered it. It was like silver in the air.

‘What was that?’ said Hicks.

‘The common language of golems for the last twenty thousand years,’ said Adora Belle.

‘Really? Most, er, moving … er … We’ll begin …’

In the counting house no one dared to look up as the desk of the chief cashier rumbled around on its turntable like some ancient tumbril. Papers flew under Mavolio Bent’s hands while his brain drowned in poisons and his feet treadled continually to release the dark energies choking his soul.

He didn’t calculate, not as other men saw it. Calculation was for people who couldn’t see the answer turning gently in their head. To see was to know. It always had been.

The mound of accumulated paperwork dwindled as the fury of his thinking racked him.

There were new accounts being opened all the time. And why? Was it because of trust? Probity? An urge towards thrift? Was it because of anything that could be called worth?

No! It was because of Lipwig! People whom Mr Bent had never seen before and hoped never to see again were pouring into the bank, their money in boxes, their money in piggy banks and quite often their money in socks. Sometimes they were actually wearing the socks!

And they were doing this because of words! The bank’s coffers were filling up because the wretched Mr Lipwig made people laugh and made people hope. People liked him. No one had ever liked Mr Bent, as far as he was aware. Oh, there had been a mother’s love and a father’s arms, the one chilly, the other too late, but where had they got him? In the end he’d been left alone. So he’d run away and found the grey caravan and entered a new life based on numbers and on worth and solid respect, and he had worked his way up and, yes, he was a man of worth and, yes, he had respect. Yes, respect. Even Mr Cosmo respected him.

And from nowhere there was Lipwig, and who was he? No one seemed to know except for the suspicious man with the unstable teeth. One day there was no Lipwig, next day he was the Postmaster General! And now he was in the bank, a man whose worth was in his mouth and who showed no respect for anyone! And he made people laugh — and the bank filled up with money!