Spools held up the note and let it go. It wafted gently from side to side until it landed on the desk. 'So light, too,' he went on. 'A few thousand dollars would be no problem to carry.'

'But kind of hard to melt down. Look, build the new press in the Mint. There's a lot of space. End of problem,' said Moist.

'Well, yes, that would make sense. But a press is a big thing to move, you know. It'll take days to shift it. Are you in a hurry? Of course you are.'

'Hire some golems. Four golems will lift anything. Print me dollars by the day after tomorrow and the first thousand you print are a bonus.'

'Why are you always in such a hurry, Mr Lipwig?'

'Because people don't like change. But make the change happen fast enough and you go from one type of normal to another.'

'Well, we could hire some golems, I suppose,' said the printer. 'But I fear there are other difficulties less easy to overcome. Do you realize that if you start printing money then you will get forgeries. It's not worth the trouble, maybe, for a twenty-pence stamp, but if you want, say, a ten-dollar note… ?' He raised his eyebrows.

'Probably, yes. Problems?'

'Big ones, my friend. Oh, we can help. Decent linen paper with a pattern of raised threads, watermarks, a good spirit ink, change the plates often to keep it sharp, little tricks with the design… and make it complex, too. That's important. Yes, we could do it for you. They will be expensive. I strongly suggest you find an engraver as good as this…' Mr Spools unlocked one of the lower drawers of his desk and tossed a sheet of 50p Green 'Tower of Art' stamps on to the blotter. Then he handed Moist a large magnifying glass.

'That's top-quality paper, of course,' the printer said as Moist stared.

'You're getting very good. I can see every detail,' Moist breathed, poring over the sheet.

'No,' said Spools, with some satisfaction. 'In fact, you cannot. You might, though, with this.' He unlocked a cupboard and handed Moist a heavy brass microscope.

'He's put in more detail than we did,' he said, as Moist focused. 'It's at the very limit of what metal and paper can be persuaded to do. It is, I declare, a work of genius. He would be your salvation.'

'Amazing,' said Moist. 'Well, we've got to have him! Who does he work for now?'

'No one, Mr Lipwig. He is in prison, awaiting the noose.'

' Owlswick Jenkins?'

'You testified against him, Mr Lipwig,' said Spools mildly.

'Well, yes, but only to confirm that they were our stamps he was copying, and how much we might be losing! I didn't expect he'd be hanged!'

'His lordship is always touchy when it's a case of treason against the city, as he describes it. I think Jenkins was badly served by his lawyer. After all, his work made our stamps look like the real forgeries. You know, I got the impression the poor chap didn't really realize that what he was doing was wrong.'

Moist recalled the watery frightened eyes and the expression of helpless puzzlement. 'Yes,' he said. 'You may be right.'

'Could you perhaps use your influence with Vetinari't—'

'No. It wouldn't work.'

'Ah. Are you sure?'

'Yes,' said Moist flatly.

'Well, you see, there's only so much we can do. We can even number the bills automatically now. But the artwork must be of the finest kind. Oh dear. I'm sorry. I wish I could help. We owe you a great debt, Mr Lipwig. So much official work is coming in now that we'd need the space in the Mint. My word, we're practically the government's printer!'

'Really?' said Moist. 'That's very… interesting.'

It rained ungracefully. The gutters gargled, and tried to spit. Occasionally the wind caught the cascading overflow from the rooftops and slapped a sheet of water across the face of anyone who looked up. But this was not a night to look up. This was a night to scurry, bent double, for home.

Raindrops hit the windows of Mrs Cake's boarding house, specifically the one in the rear room occupied by Mavolio Bent, at the rate of twenty-seven a second, plus or minus fifteen per cent.

Mr Bent liked counting. You could trust numbers, except perhaps for pi, but he was working on that in his spare time and it was bound to give in sooner or later.

He sat on his bed, watching the numbers dance in his head. They'd always danced for him, even in the bad times. And the bad times had been so very bad. Now, perhaps, there were more ahead.

Someone knocked at his door. He said, 'Come in, Mrs Cake.'

The landlady pushed open the door.

'You always know it's me, don't you, Mr Bent,' said Mrs Cake, who was more than a trifle nervous of her best lodger. He paid his rent on time — exactly on time — and he kept his room scrupulously clean and, of course, he was a professional gentleman. All right, he had a haunted look about him and there was that odd business with his carefully adjusting the clock before he went to work every day, but she was prepared to put up with that. There was no shortage of lodgers in this crowded city, but clean ones who paid regularly and never complained about the food were thin enough on the ground to be worth cherishing, and if they put a strange padlock on their wardrobe, well, least said soonest mended.

'Yes, Mrs Cake,' said Bent. 'I always know it's you because there is a distinctive one point four seconds between the knocks.'

'Really? Fancy!' said Mrs Cake, who rather liked the sound of 'distinctive'. 'I always say you're the man for the adding-up. Er, there is going to be three gentlemen downstairs asking after you…'

'When?'

'In about two minutes,' said Mrs Cake.

Bent stood up in one unfolding movement, like a Jack-in-the-box. 'Men? What will they be wearing?'

'Well, er, just, you know, clothes?' said Mrs Cake uncertainly. 'Black clothes. One of them will hand me his card, but I won't be able to read it because I'll have my wrong spectacles on. Of course, I could go and put the right ones on, obviously, but I get such a headache if I don't let a premonition go properly. Er… and now you're going to say "Please let me know when they arrive, Mrs Cake".' She looked at him expectantly. 'Sorry, but I had a premonition that I'd come up to tell you I had a premonition, so thought I'd better. It's a bit silly, but none of us can change how we're made, I always say.'

'Please let me know when they arrive, Mrs Cake,' said Bent. Mrs Cake gave him a grateful look before hurrying away.

Mr Bent sat down again. Life with Mrs Cake's premonitions could get a little intricate at times, especially now they were becoming recursive, but it was part of the Elm Street ethos that you were charitable towards the foibles of others in the hope of a similar attitude to your own. He liked Mrs Cake, but she was wrong. You could change how you were made. If you couldn't, there was no hope.

After a couple of minutes he heard the ring of the bell, the muted conversation, and went through the motions of surprise when she knocked on his door.

Bent inspected the visiting card.

'Mr Cosmo? Oh. How strange. You had better send them up.' He paused, and looked around. Subdivision was rife in the city now. The room was exactly twice the size of the bed, and it was a narrow bed. Three people in here would have to know one another well. Four would know one another well whether they wanted to or not. There was a small chair, but Bent kept it on top of the wardrobe, out of the way.

'Perhaps just Mr Cosmo,' he suggested.

The man was proudly escorted in a minute later.

'Well, this is a wonderful little hideaway, Mr Bent,' Cosmo began. 'So handy for, um—'

'Nearby places,' said Bent, lifting the chair off the wardrobe. 'There you are, sir. I don't often have visitors.'

'I'll come straight to the point, Mr Bent,' said Cosmo, sitting down. 'The directors do not like the, ha, direction things are going. I'm sure you don't, either.'