The whole business was unreal, and unreal was Moist's world. Back when he'd been a naughty boy he'd sold dreams, and the big seller in that world was the one where you got very rich by a stroke of luck. He'd sold glass as diamond because greed clouded men's eyes. Sensible, upright people, who worked hard every day, nevertheless believed, against all experience, in money for nothing. But the stamp collectors… they believed in small perfections. It was possible to get one small part of the world right. And even if you couldn't get it right, you at least knew what bit was missing. It might be, f'r instance, the flawed 50p Triangular Blue, but there were still six of them out there, and who knew what piece of luck might attend the dedicated searcher?

Rather a large piece would be needed, Moist had to admit, because four of them were safely tucked away for a rainy day in a little lead box under the floorboards in Moist's office. Even so, two were out there somewhere, perhaps destroyed, lost, eaten by snails or — and here hope lay thick as winter snow — still in some unregarded bundle of letters at the back of a drawer.

—and Miss Pucci simply didn't know how to work a crowd. She stamped and demanded attention and bullied and insulted and it didn't help that she'd called them 'good people', because no one likes an outright liar. And now she was losing her temper, because the bidding had reached thirty-four dollars. And now-

-she'd torn it up!

'That's what I think of this silly money!' she announced, throwing the pieces in the air. Then she stood there panting and looking triumphant, as if she'd done something clever.

A kick in the teeth to everyone there. It made you want to cry, it really did. Oh, well…

Moist pulled one of the new notes out of his pocket and held it up.

'Ladies and gentlemen!' he announced. 'I have here one of the increasingly rare first-generation One Dollar notes' — he had to pause for the laughter — 'signed by myself and the chairman. Bids over forty dollars, please! All proceeds to the little kiddies!'

He ran it up to fifty, bouncing a couple of bids off the wall. Pucci stood ignored and steaming with rage for a while and then flounced out. It was a good flounce, too. She had no idea how to handle people and she tried to make self-esteem do the work of self-respect, but the girl could flounce better than a fat turkey on a trampoline.

The lucky winner was already surrounded by his unlucky fellow bidders by the time he reached the bank's doors. The rest of the crowd surged towards the counters, not sure what was going on but determined to have a piece of it.

Moist cupped his hands and shouted: 'And this afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, Mr Bent and myself will be available to discuss bank loans!' This caused a further stir.

'Smoke and mirrors, Mr Lipwig,' said Bent, turning away from the balustrade. 'Nothing but smoke and mirrors…'

'But done without smoke and in a total absence of mirror, Mr Bent!' said Moist cheerfully.

'And the "kiddies"?' said Bent.

'Find some. There's bound to be an orphanage that needs fifty dollars. It'll be an anonymous donation, of course.'

Bent looked surprised. 'Really, Mr Lipwig? I'll make no bones about saying that you seem to me to be the sort of man who makes a great Razz Arm Ma Tazz about giving money to charity.' He made razzmatazz sound like some esoteric perversion.

'Well, I'm not. Do good by stealth, that is my watchword.' It'll get found out soon enough, he added to himself, and then I'm not only a jolly good chap but a decently modest one, too.

I wonder… Am I really a bastard or am I just really good at thinking like one?

Something nudged at his mind. Tiny hairs on the back of his neck were twitching. Something was wrong, out of place… dangerous.

He turned and looked down again at the hall. People were milling around, forming into lines, talking in groups—

In a world of movement, the eye is drawn to stillness. In the middle of the banking hall, unheeded by the throng, a man was standing as if frozen in time. He was all in black, with one of those flat wide hats often worn by the more sombre Omnian sects. He just… stood. And watched.

Just another gawper along to see the show, Moist told himself, and knew at once that he was lying. The man was causing a weight in his world.

I have lodged affidavits…

Him? About what? Moist had no past. Oh, a dozen aliases had managed a pretty busy and eventful past between them, but they had evaporated along with Albert Spangler, hanged by the neck until not-quite-dead and awoken by Lord Vetinari, who'd offered Moist von Lipwig a life all shiny and new—

Ye gods, he was getting jumpy, just because some old guy was looking at him with a funny little smile! No one knew him! He was Mr Forgettable! If he walked around the town without the gold suit on, he was just another face.

'Are you all right, Mr Lipwig?'

Moist turned and looked into the face of the chief cashier. 'What? Oh… no. I mean yes. Er… have you ever seen that man before?'

'What man would that be?'

Moist turned back to point out the man in black, but he had gone.

'Looked like a preacher,' he mumbled. 'He was… well, he was looking at me.'

'Well, you do rather invite it. Perhaps you'd agree that the golden hat was a mistake?'

'I like the hat! There's no hat like it!'

Bent nodded. 'Fortunately, this is true, sir. Oh, dear. Paper money. A practice used only by the heathen Agateans…'

'Heathen? They've got far more gods than us! And over there gold is worth less than iron!'

Moist relented. Bent's face, usually so controlled and aloof, had crumpled like a piece of paper. 'Look, I've been reading. The banks issue coins to four times the amount of the gold they hold. That's a nonsense we could do without. It's a dream world. This city is rich enough to be its own gold bar!'

'They're trusting you for no good reason,' said Bent. 'They trust you because you make them laugh. I do not make people laugh, and this is not my world. I don't know how to smile like you do and talk like you do. Don't you understand? There must be something which has a worth that goes beyond fashion and politics, a worth that endures. Are you putting Vetinari in charge of my bank? What guarantees the savings that those people are thrusting over our counter?'

'Not what, who. It's me. I am personally going to see that this bank does not fail.'

'You?'

'Yes.'

'Oh yes, the man in the gold suit,' said Bent sourly. 'And if all else fails, will you pray?'

'It worked last time,' said Moist calmly.

Bent's eye twitched. For the first time since Moist had met him he seemed… lost.

'I don't know what you want me to do!'

It was almost a wail. Moist patted him on the shoulder.

'Run the bank, like you always have. I think we should set up some loans, with all this cash coming in. Are you a good judge of character?'

'I thought I was,' said Bent. 'Now? I have no idea. Sir Joshua, I am sorry to say, was not. Mrs Lavish was very, very good, in my opinion.'

'Better than you could possibly know,' said Moist. 'Good. I shall take the chairman for his walkies, and then… we'll spread some money around. How about that?'

Mr Bent shuddered.

The Times did an early-afternoon edition with a big picture on the front page of the queue winding out of the bank. Most of the queue wanted to get in on the act, whatever the act turned out to be, and the rest were queueing on the basis that there might be something interesting at the other end. There was a boy selling the paper, and people were buying it to read the story entitled 'Huge Queue Swamps Bank', which seemed a bit odd to Moist. They were in the queue, weren't they? Was it only real if they read about it?