Making Money Read Online Free PDF

The tax gatherers used to have the top two floors, which may help engender a certain worried feeling. What do you think, Mr. Lipwig?”
    “What’s that round thing I always see poking out of the roof?” said Moist. “It makes it look like a piggy bank with a big coin stuck in the slot!”
    “Oddly enough, it did used to be known as the Bad Penny,” said Vetinari. “It is a large treadmill that provides power for the coin stamping and so forth. Powered by prisoners once upon a time, when ‘community service’ wasn’t just a word. Or even two. It was considered cruel and unusual punishment, however, which does rather suggest a lack of imagination. Shall we go in?”
    “Look, sir, what is it you would want me to do?” said Moist, as they climbed the marble steps. “I know a bit about banking, but how do I run a mint?”
    Vetinari shrugged. “I have no idea. People turn handles, I assume. Someone tells them how often, and when to stop.”
    “And why will anyone want to kill me?”
    “I couldn’t say, Mr. Lipwig. But there was at least one attempt on your life when you were innocently delivering letters, so I expect your career in banking will be an exciting one.”
    They reached the top of the steps. An elderly man in what might have been the uniform of a general in one of the more unstable kinds of armies held open the door for them.
    Lord Vetinari gestured for Moist to enter first.
    “I’m just going to have a look around, all right?” said Moist, stumbling through the doorway. “I really haven’t had time to think about this.”
    “That is understood,” said Vetinari.
    “I’m committing myself to nothing by it, right?”
    “Nothing,” said Vetinari. He strolled to a leather sofa and sat down, beckoning Moist to sit beside him. Drumknott, ever attentive, hovered behind them.
    “The smell of banks is always pleasing, don’t you think?” said Vetinari. “A mix of polish and ink and wealth.”
    “And ursery,” said Moist.
    “That would be cruelty to bears. You mean usury, I suspect. The churches don’t seem to be so much against it these days. Incidentally, only the current chairman of the bank knows my intentions. To everyone else here today, you are merely carrying out a brief inspection on my behalf. It is just as well you are not wearing the famous gold suit.”
    There was a hush in the bank, mostly because the ceiling was so high that sounds were just lost, but partly because people lower their voices in the presence of large sums of money. Red velvet and brass were much in evidence. There were pictures everywhere, of serious men in frock coats. Sometimes footsteps echoed briefly on the white marble floor and were suddenly swallowed when their owner stepped onto an island of carpet. And the big desks were covered with sage-green leather. Ever since he was small, sage-green-leather-covered desks had been Wealth to Moist. Red leather? Pah! That was for parvenus and wannabes. Sage green meant that you’d got there, and that your ancestors got there too. It should be a little bit worn, for the best effect.
    On the wall above the counter a big clock, supported by cherubs, ticked away. Lord Vetinari was having an effect on the bank. Staff were nudging one another and pointing with their expressions.
    In truth, Moist realized, they were not a readily noticeable pair. Nature had blessed him with the ability to be a face in the background, even when he was standing only a few feet away. He wasn’t ugly, he wasn’t handsome, he was just so forgettable he sometimes surprised himself while shaving. And Vetinari wore black, not a forward color at all, but nevertheless his presence was like a lead weight on a rubber sheet. It distorted the space around it. People didn’t immediately see him, but they sensed his presence.
    Now people were whispering into speaking tubes. The Patrician was here and no one was formally greeting him! There would be trouble!
    “How is Miss Dearheart?” said Vetinari,