Making Money

Vetinari. He turned to Drumknott. “Now I’ve finished this I’d better deal with the overnights from Genua,” he said, and carefully folded the letter into an envelope.
    “Yes, my lord,” said Drumknott.
    The tyrant of Ankh-Morpork bent to his work. Moist watched blankly as Vetinari took a small but heavy-looking box from a desk drawer, removed a stick of black sealing wax from it, and melted a small puddle of the wax onto the envelope with an air of absorption that Moist found infuriating.
    “Is that all?” he said.
    Vetinari looked up and appeared surprised to see him still there.
    “Why, yes, Mr. Lipwig. You may go.” He laid aside the stick of wax and took a black signet ring out of the box.
    “I mean, there’s not some kind of problem, is there?”
    “No, not at all. You have become an exemplary citizen, Mr. Lipwig,” said Vetinari, carefully stamping a V into the cooling wax. “You rise each morning at eight, you are at your desk at thirty minutes past. You have turned the Post Office from a calamity into a smoothly running machine. You pay your taxes and a little bird tells me that you are tipped to be next year’s chairman of the Merchants’ Guild. Well done, Mr. Lipwig!”
    Moist stood up to leave, but hesitated.
    “What’s wrong with being chairman of the Merchants’ Guild, then?” he said.
    With slow and ostentatious patience, Lord Vetinari slipped the ring back into its box and the box back into the drawer. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Lipwig?”
    “It’s just that you said it as though there was something wrong with it,” said Moist.
    “I don’t believe I did,” said Vetinari, looking up at his secretary. “Did I use a derogatory inflection, Drumknott?”
    “No, my lord. You have often remarked that the traders and shopkeepers of the guild are the backbone of the city,” said Drumknott, handing him a thick file.
    “I shall get a very nearly gold chain,” said Moist.
    “He will get a very nearly gold chain, Drumknott,” observed Vetinari, paying attention to a new letter.
    “And what’s so bad about that?” Moist demanded.
    Vetinari looked up again with an expression of genuinely contrived puzzlement.
    “Are you quite well, Mr. Lipwig? You appear to have something wrong with your hearing. Now run along, do. The Central Post Office opens in ten minutes and I’m sure you would wish, as ever, to set a good example to your staff.”
    When Moist had departed, the secretary quietly laid a folder in front of Vetinari.
    It was labeled: ALBERT SPANGLER MOIST VON LIPWIG.
    “Thank you, Drumknott, but why?” he said.
    “The death warrant on Albert Spangler is still extant, my lord,” Drumknott murmured.
    “Ah. I understand,” said Lord Vetinari. “You think that I will point out to Mr. Lipwig that under his nomme de felonie of Albert Spangler he could still be hanged? You think that I might suggest to him that all I would need to do is inform the newspapers of my shock at finding that our honorable Mr. Lipwig is none other than the master thief, forger, and confidence trickster who over the years has stolen many hundreds of thousands of dollars, breaking banks and forcing honest businesses into penury? You think I will threaten to send in some of my most trusted clerks to audit the Post Office’s accounts and, I am certain, uncover evidence of the most flagrant embezzlement? Do you think that they will find, for example, that the entirety of the Post Office pension fund has gone missing? You think I will express to the world my horror at how the wretch Lipwig escaped the hangman’s noose with the aid of persons unknown? Do you think, in short, that I will explain to him how easily I can bring a man so low that his former friends will have to kneel down to spit on him? Is that what you assumed, Drumknott?”
    The secretary stared up at the ceiling. His lips moved for twenty seconds or so, while Lord Vetinari got on with the paperwork. Then he looked down and said: “Yes, my lord. That about covers it, I believe.”
    “Ah, but there is more than one way of racking a man, Drumknott.”
    “Face up or face down, my lord?”
    “Thank you, Drumknott. I value your cultivated lack of imagination, as you know.”
    “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
    “In fact, Drumknott, you get him to build his own rack, and let him turn the screw all by himself.”
    “I’m not sure I’m with you there, my lord.”
    Lord Vetinari laid his pen aside. “You have to consider the psychology of