'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.'

The coachman opened the door, and they stepped out.

Why temples? thought Moist, as he gazed up at the façade of the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork. Why do they always build banks to look like temples, despite the fact that several major religions a) are canonically against what they do inside and b) bank there.

He'd looked at it before, of course, but had never really bothered to see it until now. As temples of money went, this one wasn't bad. The architect at least knew how to design a decent column, and also knew when to stop. He had set his face like flint against any prospect of cherubs, although above the columns was a high-minded frieze showing something allegorical involving maidens and urns. Most of the urns, and, Moist noticed, some of the young women, had birds nesting in them. An angry pigeon looked down at Moist from a stony bosom.