Walking the Disc

Moist had always been careful about disguises. A mustache that could come off at a tug had no place in his life. But since he had the world’s most forgettable face, a face that was still a face in the crowd even when it was by itself, it helped, sometimes, to give people something to tell the Watch about. Spectacles were an obvious choice, but Moist achieved very good results with his own design of nose and ear wigs. Show a man a pair of ears that small songbirds had apparently nested in, watch the polite horror in his eyes, and you could be certain that would be all he would remember.

He saw her write that down. Then she tucked the notebook in her handbag. “This is going to be fun, isn’t it,” she said, and Moist thought: Never trust her when she’s put her notebook away, either. She’s got a good memory. “Seriously, I think this is an opportunity for me to do something big and important for my adopted city,” said Moist, in his sincere voice. “That’s your sincere voice,” she said. “Well, I’m being sincere,” said Moist. “But since you raise the subject, Moist, what were you doing with your life before the citizens of Ankh-Morpork greeted you with open palms?” “Surviving,” said Moist. “In Überwald the old empire was breaking up. It was not unusual for a government to change twice over lunch. I worked at anything I could to make a living. By the way, I think you meant ‘arms’ back there,” he added. “And when you got here you impressed the gods so much that they led you to a treasure trove so that you could rebuild our post office.” “I’m very humble about that,” said Moist, trying to look it. “Ye-ess. And the gods-given gold was all in used coinage from the plains cities...” “You know what, I’ve often lain awake wondering about that myself,” said Moist, “and I reached the conclusion that the gods, in their wisdom, decided that the gift could be instantly negotiable.” I can go on like this or as long as you like, he thought, and you’re trying to play poker with no cards. You can suspect all you like, but I gave that money back! Okay, I stole it in the first place, but giving it back counts for something, doesn’t it? The slate is clean, isn’t it? Well, acceptably grubby, yes?

“The world is full of things worth more than gold. But we dig the damn stuff up and then bury it in a different hole. Where’s the sense in that? What are we, magpies? Is it all about the gleam? Good heavens, potatoes are worth more than gold!” “Surely not!” “If you were shipwrecked on a desert island, what would you prefer, a bag of potatoes or a bag of gold?” “Yes, but a desert island isn’t Ankh-Morpork!” “And that proves gold is only valuable because we agree it is, right? It’s just a dream. But a potato is always worth a potato, anywhere. Add a knob of butter and a pinch of salt and you’ve got a meal, anywhere. Bury gold in the ground and you’ll be worrying about thieves forever. Bury a potato and in due season you could be looking at a dividend of a thousand percent.”

“No dashing around on mad stallions? Nothing to make us cheer? No wild dreams?” said Sacharissa. “Well, I’m already tidying the foyer.” Sacharissa’s eyes narrowed. “Tidying the foyer? Who are you, and what have you done with the real Moist von Lipwig?” “No, I’m serious. We have to clean up ourselves before we can clean up the economy,” said Moist, and felt his brain shift seductively into a higher gear. “I intend to throw out what we don’t need. For example, we have a room full of useless metal in the vault. That’ll have to go.” Sacharissa frowned. “Are you talking about the gold?” Where had that come from? Well, don’t try to back away, or she’ll go for the throat. Tough it out! Besides, it’s good to see her looking astonished. “Yes,” he said. “You can’t be serious!” The notebook was instantly flipped open, and Moist’s tongue began to gallop. He couldn’t stop it. It would have been nice if it had talked to him first.

But, he had to admit, Sacharissa Cripslock was fun. “Sacharissa! This is a should-have-been-expected surprise!” he declared, as he stepped into the room. “Mr. Lipwig! Always a pleasure!” said the woman. “So you are a dog’s body now?” That kind of fun. A bit like juggling knives. You were instantly on your toes. It was as good as a workout.

“You know, of course, that I have plans?” “It was in the Times. The Undertaking. You want to build roads and drains and streets under the city. There’s some dwarf machine we’ve got hold of, called a Device. And the dwarfs can make waterproof tunnels. The Artificer’s Guild is very excited about it all.”

Moist felt the winds grow colder. “How long does a dog live?” “An ordin’ry dog?” said Nobby Nobbs. “Or a dog who stands between a bunch of Lavishes and another fortune?” “Corporal Nobbs, that was a pertinent remark!” snapped Sergeant Angua. “Sorry, Sarge.”

“Yes, well, I suppose the little doggie needs feeding,” said Moist, “but I wouldn’t have thought that--” “The........problem, if such it be, is in fact his paperwork,” said Mr. Slant. “Wrong pedigree?” said Moist. “Not his pedigree,” said Mr. Slant, opening his briefcase. “You may be aware that the late Sir Joshua left one percent share in the bank to Mr. Fusspot?” A cold, black wind began to blow through Moist’s mind. “Yes,” he said. “I am.” “The late Mrs. Lavish has left him another fifty percent. That, by the customs of the bank, means that he is the new chairman, Mr. Lipwig. And you own him.”

Moist was sitting at his desk looking busy when Stanley came back, ushering in Mr. Slant, the city’s best-known and, at three hundred and fifty-one, probably also its oldest lawyer. He was accompanied by Sergeant Angua and Corporal Nobbs, widely rumored to be the Watch’s secret werewolf. Corporal Nobbs was accompanied by a large wicker hamper and Sergeant Angua, carrying a large bag and a squeaky rubber bone, which she occasionally, in an absentminded way, squeaked. Things were looking up but strange.

"It would appear that the leopard does change his shorts, sir,” mused Drumknott, as the evening mist drifted, waist-high, along the street. “It would appear so, indeed. But Moist von Lipwig is a man of appearances. I’m sure he believes everything he said, but one must look beyond the surface to the Lipwig beneath, an honest soul with a fine criminal mind.” “You have said something similar before, sir,” said the secretary, holding open the coach door, “but it seems that honesty has got the better of him.” Vetinari paused with his foot on the step. “Indeed, but I take some heart, Drumknott, from the fact that, once again, he has stolen your pencil.” “In fact he has not, sir, because I was most careful to put it in my pocket!” said Drumknott, in some triumph. “Yes,” said Vetinari happily, sinking into the creaking leather as Drumknott started to pat himself down with an increasing desperation, “I know.”

“The bank needs to be run by someone who understands banks.” “People who understand banks got it into the position it is in now,” said Vetinari. “And I did not become ruler of Ankh-Morpork by understanding the city. Like banking, the city is depressingly easy to understand. I have remained ruler by getting the city to understand me.”

When he got back to the Post Office, Moist looked up the Lavish family in Whom’s Whom. They were indeed what was known as “old money,” which meant that it had been made so long ago that the black deeds which had originally filled the coffers were now historically irrelevant. Funny, that: a brigand for a father was something you kept quiet about, but a slave-taking pirate for a great-great-great-grandfather was something to boast of over the port. Time turned the evil bastards into rogues, and rogue was a word with a twinkle in its eye and nothing to be ashamed of.

“I am Moist,” said Moist, stepping forward with his best smile and an extended hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. We should have hung the raincoats nearer the door,” said Hubert.

“Isn’t the fornication wonderful?” After quite a lengthy pause, Moist ventured: “Is it?” “Don’t you think so? There’s more here than anywhere else in the world, I’m told.” “Really?” said Moist, looking around nervously. “Er... do you have to come down here at some special time?” “Well, during banking hours usually, but we let groups in by appointment.” “You know,” said Moist, “I think this conversation has somehow got away from me...” Bent waved vaguely at the ceiling. “I refer to the wonderful vaulting,” he said. “The word derives from fornix, meaning ‘arch’.” “Ah! Yes? Right!” said Moist. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if not many people knew that.”

“No poor people, then?” “Not in banks. Mr. Lipwig. No one with an income under a hundred and fifty dollars a year. That is why socks and mattresses were invented. My late husband always said that the only way to make money out of poor people is by keeping them poor. He was not, in his business life, a very nice man.”

“Well, er, I may have a few ideas,” said Moist. “But it’s all still a bit of a shock. I don’t really understand how banks work.” “You’ve never put money in a bank?” “Not in, no.”