'Correction, your new life. That is a crude summary, yes,' said Vetinari. 'Let me rephrase things, however. Ahead of you, Mr Lipwig, is a life of respectable quiet contentment, of civic dignity and, of course, in the fullness of time a pension. Not to mention the proud gold-ish chain.'
Moist winced at this. 'And if I don't do what you say?'
'Hmm? Oh, you misunderstand me, Mr Lipwig. That is what will happen to you if you decline my offer. If you accept it, you will survive on your wits against powerful and dangerous enemies, with every day presenting fresh challenges. Someone may even try to kill you.'
'What? Why?'
'You annoy people. A hat goes with the job, incidentally.'
'And this job makes real money?'
'Nothing but money, Mr Lipwig. It is in fact that of Master of the Royal Mint.'
'What? Banging out pennies all day?'
'In short, yes. But it is traditionally attached to a senior post at the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork, which will occupy most of your attention. You can make money, as it were, in your spare time.'
'A banker! Me?'
'Yes, Mr Lipwig.'
'But I don't know anything about running a bank!'
'Good. No preconceived ideas.'
'I've robbed banks!'
'Capital! Just reverse your thinking,' said Lord Vetinari, beaming. 'The money should be on the inside!
The coach slowed to a stop.
'What is this about?' said Moist. 'Actually about?'
'When you took over the Post Office, Mr Lipwig, it was a disgrace. Now it works quite efficiently. Efficiently enough to be boring, in fact. Why, a young man might find himself climbing by night, perhaps, or picking locks for the thrill of it, or even flirting with Extreme Sneezing. How are you finding the lockpicks, by the way?'
It had been a poky little shop in a poky alley, and there had been no one in there but the little old lady who'd sold him the picks. He still didn't know exactly why he'd bought them. They were only geographically illegal, but it gave him a little thrill to know they were in his jacket. It was sad, like those businessmen who come to work in serious clothes but wear colourful ties in a mad despairing attempt to show there is a free spirit in there somewhere.
Oh gods, I've become one of them. But at least he doesn't seem to know about the blackjack.
'I'm not too bad,' he said.
'And the blackjack? You, who have never struck another man? You clamber on rooftops and pick the locks on your own desks. You're like a caged animal, dreaming of the jungle! I'd like to give you what you long for. I'd like to throw you to the lions.'
Moist began to protest, but Vetinari held up a hand.
'You took our joke of a Post Office, Mr Lipwig, and made it a solemn undertaking. But the banks of Ankh-Morpork, sir, are very serious indeed. They are serious donkeys, Mr Lipwig. There have been too many failures. They're stuck in the mud, they live in the past, they are hypnotized by class and wealth, they think gold is important.'
'Er...isn't it?'
'No. And thief and swindler that you are, pardon me, once were, you know it, deep down. For you, it was just a way of keeping score,' said Vetinari. 'What does gold know of true worth? Look out of the window and tell me what you see.'
'Um, a small scruffy dog watching a man taking a piss in an alley,' said Moist. 'Sorry, but you chose the wrong time.'
'Had I been taken less literally,' said Lord Vetinari, giving him a look, 'you would have seen a large, bustling city, full of ingenious people spinning wealth out of the common clay of the world. They construct, build, carve, bake, cast, mould, forge and devise strange and inventive crimes. But they keep their money in old socks. They trust their socks more than they trust banks. Coinage is in artificially short supply, which is why your postage stamps are now a de facto currency. Our serious banking system is a mess. A joke, in fact.'
'It'll be a bigger joke if you put me in charge,' said Moist.
Vetinari gave him a brief little smile. 'Will it?' he said. 'Well, we all need a chuckle sometimes.'