'I like the sound of Master of the Royal Mint,' Moist said. 'How about that, Mr Fusspot?'

On cue, the chairman barked.

'Hmm,' said Bent. 'One final thing, sir. Could you please sign these?' He indicated a pile of paperwork.

'What are they? They're not minutes, are they? I don't do minutes.'

'They are various formalities, sir. Basically, they add up to your signing a receipt for the bank on the chairman's behalf, but I am advised that Mr Fusspot's paw mark should appear in the places ticked.'

'Does he have to read all this?' said Moist.

'No, sir.'

'Then I won't. It's a bank. You've given me the big tour. It's not as though it's got a wheel missing. Just show me where to sign.'

'Just here, sir. And here. And here. And here. And here. And here. And here…

The lady in the boardroom was certainly an attractive woman, but since she worked for the Times Moist felt unable to award her total ladylike status. Ladies didn't fiendishly quote exactly what you said but didn't exactly mean, or hit you around the ear with unexpectedly difficult questions. Well, come to think of it, they did, quite often, but she got paid for it.

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 constantly on your toes. It was as good as a workout.

'Writing the headlines already, Sacharissa?' he said. 'I am merely carrying out the terms of Mrs Lavish's will.' He put Mr Fusspot on the polished tabletop and sat down.

'So you're now chairman of the bank?'

'No, Mr Fusspot here is the chairman,' said Moist. 'Bark circumspectly at the nice lady with the busy pencil, Mr Fusspot!'

'Woof,' said Mr Fusspot.

'Mr Fusspot is the chairman,' said Sacharissa, rolling her eyes. 'Of course. And you take orders from him, do you?'

'Yes. I am Master of the Royal Mint, by the way.'

'A dog and his master,' said Sacharissa. 'How nice. And I expect you can read his thoughts because of some mystic bond between dog and man?'

'Sacharissa, I could not have put it better.'

They smiled at each other. This was only round one. Both knew they were barely warming up.

'So, I take it that you would not agree with those who say that this is one last ruse by the late Mrs Lavish to keep the bank out of the hands of the rest of her family, believed by some to be totally incapable of running it anywhere but further into the ground? Or would you confirm the opinion of many that the Patrician has every intention of bringing the city's uncooperative banking industry to heel, and finds in this situation the perfect opportunity?'

'Some who believe, those who say… Who are these mysterious people?' said Moist, trying to raise an eyebrow as good as Vetinari's. And how is it that you know so many of them?'

Sacharissa sighed. 'And you wouldn't describe Mr Fusspot as really little more than a convenient sock puppet?'

'Woof?' said the dog at the mention of his name.

'I find the very question offensive!' said Moist. 'And so does he!'

'Moist, you are just no fun any more.' Sacharissa closed her notebook. 'You're talking like… well, like a banker.'

'I'm glad you think so.' Remember, just because she's shut the notebook doesn't mean you can relax!

'No dashing around on mad stallions? Nothing to make us cheer? No wild dreams?' said Sacharissa.

'Well, I'm already tidying up 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. Taking over his brain, it said: 'Deadly serious! I am recommending to Lord Vetinari that we sell it all to the dwarfs. We do not need it. It's a commodity and nothing more.'

'But what's worth more than gold?'

'Practically everything. You, for example. Gold is heavy. Your weight in gold is not very much gold at all. Aren't you worth more than that?'

Sacharissa looked momentarily flustered, to Moist's glee. 'Well, in a manner of speaking—'

'The only manner of speaking worth talking about,' said Moist flatly. '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. 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 for ever. Bury a potato and in due season you could be looking at a dividend of a thousand per cent.'

'Can I assume for a moment that you don't intend to put us on the potato standard?' said Sacharissa sharply.

Moist smiled. 'No, it won't be that. But in a few days I shall be giving away money. It doesn't like to stand still, you know. It likes to get out and make new friends.' The bit of Moist's brain that was trying to keep up with his mouth thought: I wish I could make notes about this, I'm not sure I can remember it all. But the conversations of the last day were banging together in his memory and making a kind of music. He wasn't sure he had all the notes yet, but there were bits he could hum. He just had to listen to himself for long enough to find out what he was talking about.

'By give away you mean—' said Sacharissa.

'Hand over. Make a gift of. Seriously.'

'How? Why?'

'All in good time!'

'You are smirking at me, Moist!'

No, I've frozen because I've just heard what my mouth said, Moist thought. I don't have a clue, I've just got some random thoughts. It's…

'It's about desert islands,' he said. 'And why this city isn't one.'

'And that's it?'

Moist rubbed his forehead. 'Miss Cripslock, Miss Cripslock… this morning I got up with nothing in mind but to seriously make headway with the Post Office paperwork and maybe lick the problem of that Special 25p Cabbage Green Special stamp. You know, the one that'll grow into a cabbage if you plant it? How can you expect me to come up with a new fiscal initiative by teatime?'

'All right, but—'

'It'll take me at least until breakfast.'

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.