Moist had walked past the place many times. It never looked very busy. And behind it was the Royal Mint, which never showed any signs of life at all.

It would be hard to imagine an uglier building that hadn't won a major architectural award. The Mint was a gaunt brick and stone block, its windows high, small, many and barred, its doors protected by portcullises, its whole construction saying to the world: Don't Even Think About It.

Up until now Moist hadn't even thought about it. It was a mint. That sort of place held you upside down over a bucket and shook you hard before they let you out. They had guards, and doors with spikes.

And Vetinari wanted to make him the boss of it. There was going to have to be a huge razor blade in a stick of candyfloss this big.

'Tell me, my lord,' he said carefully. 'What happened to the man who used to occupy the post?'

'I thought you would ask, so I looked it up. He died aged ninety, of a schism of the heart.'

That didn't sound too bad, but Moist knew enough to probe further. 'Anyone else died lately?'

'Sir Joshua Lavish, the chairman of the bank. He died six months ago in his own bed, aged eighty.'

'A man can die in some very unpleasant ways in his own bed,' Moist pointed out.

'So I believe,' said Lord Vetinari. 'In this case, however, it was in the arms of a young woman called Honey after a very large meal of devilled oysters. How unpleasant that was I suppose we shall never know.'

'She was his wife? You said it was his own—'

'He had an apartment in the bank,' said Lord Vetinari. 'A traditional perk that was useful when he was' — here Vetinari paused lor a fraction of a second — 'working late. Mrs Lavish was not present at the time.'