Chapter 12 - Bankers Hours

Myria was startled from her own musings by a knock on the door of the commander's office. She glanced at Sir Samuel long enough to see him hide his obvious amusement behind a carefully blank face, before clearing his voice.

"Come in."

Myria turned to see yet another watchman enter, a sergeant by the markings if she was not mistaken, and a dwarf by species. She also realized, with a slight shock, that the dwarf had apparently decorated his… no her, face with subtle pigments. It was similar to, though much less dramatic than, the treatment her own face had received a couple of weeks ago.

The dwarf regarded Myria with open curiosity, then addressed Vimes. "Sergeant Colon said you wanted to see me, commander?"

"Yes," he cast a deliberate glance at Myria before continuing, "I'd like your professional opinion on this." Myria watched as Vimes carefully extracted the gold disk from an inside pocket.[1] She also observed that the dwarf's eyes widened and noted that her hands began to tremble slightly as she took it from him.[2]

Taking a deep breath, the sergeant seemed to calm a little as she bent to her task. Eyes staring into space, she hefted it in one hand and chewed on her glossed lip. "Well, I can go weigh it if you like. But just as a rough guess I'd say-"

"It is 2.194 pounds, sergeant, rounded to the nearest thousandths of a pound." Seeing the sergeant frown, Myria continued, "or if you prefer, it is two pounds and 3.106 ounces, again rounding to the thousandths of an ounce."

Vimes sat with his mouth slightly open, eyes darting between Myria and the sergeant. "Cheery[3]?"

The sergeant took a moment to find her voice. "I was going to say just over two pounds, sir.

Vimes turned narrowed eyes to Myria. "Now I know damn well you never got the chance to hold that today. How did you do that, LeJean?"

Myria felt her face redden. She really did need to learn to control herself better in these situations, but it was so difficult. "It is a… skill that I have. I estimate well."

"I see. Well you are just full of surprises." He gestured to Cheery again. "And would you say that it is pure, sergeant?"

"It is pure, Sir Samuel."

Vimes growled slightly, "I asked the sergeant, LeJean."

"My apologies, Sir Samuel."

Cheery looked cautiously at them both. "Well, I'd have to run some tests to be sure. Measure weight versus density for example, but…" She brought the disk-shaped ingot up to her nose and sniffed it, and then to both their surprise, gnawed a tiny piece off an edge. Closing her eyes, Cheery chewed thoughtfully for a few moments and swished her mouth before swallowing. Opening her eyes, she continued, "I'd say it's pretty close to the pure thing."

Myria looked at her in horror. "Did you just… ingest some of that metal?"

Cheery reddened slightly, though it was hard to see through the beard. "Sorry, old habit."[4]

Vimes wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Enough of this nonsense. Fixing Myria with raised eyebrows, he groused "Do you want a receipt for that, too?"

Myria considered carefully, watching Vimes' face as well as the dwarf's expression, trying to determine whether there was some verbal trap here. The dwarf seemed to be having trouble breathing. Hmm. "I do not believe that was a legitimate offer, Sir Samuel." She folded her hands in her lap. "I believe you are attempting to use sarcasm with me."

Vimes blinked, and Cheery's breathing difficulties appeared to increase. He'd never actually had anyone call him on a comment like that. Usually they either just ignored it, or missed the point and walked into the trap with eyes wide open. He shook his head. "Never mind." He held out his hand, "Thank you, sergeant."

Reluctantly, Cheery started to hand the gold back over. "Sir," she hesitated, "do you realize how much this is worth?"

Vimes smiled grimly and held up his hands, "I have my suspicions. Why don't you tell me?"

She fidgeted and caressed the ingot with two forefingers, "Well, I'm not sure what the exact current market rate is, sir, but it's about $3,200 AM per ounce, so it would be about $100,000 worth of gold in your hands sir."

"Actually, sergeant, it would be $118,587 dollars, 38 pence, one halfpence, and 32/100 of a pence remaining." She cringed. Part of her brain appeared to be on autopilot, linked directly to her vocal facilities. "Of course, that is not including the approximately 3/100 of a pence which the sergeant has ingested."

Vimes covered his face with both hands. "LeJean, will you stop doing that?"

Myria examined her hands sadly, and swallowed. "Unfortunately, Sir Samuel, it appears that I cannot. I have tried, twice now."

Vimes lowered his hands just enough to see over them. She wasn't taking the piss with him. He could tell. And he didn't have the heart to beat her up over it. It would be like kicking a puppy. Granted, a puppy who could turn three very dangerous men and a gold bar to dust and then reverse part of the result to get that, but still. He sighed. "Sergeant, I have an errand for you to run."

"Yessir."

It turned out that Myria would not be taking yet another coach ride today, at least not immediately. Instead, Commander Vimes issued brief instructions to Cheery and, with Myria's agreement, gave the dwarf temporary custody of the gold ingot.[5]

Thus Myria found herself, for the first time that day, outside walking the streets of Ankh Morpork a free individual in the presence of only one watchman, who was in fact a man neither by gender nor species. One who was, in fact, not protecting everyone else from Myria but possibly the reverse. Of such situations are bonds forged.

"You are wearing makeup," Myria hazarded after they had gone a block or so.

Cheery snorted. "You're observant."

"You are a female then, I presume?"

Myria had to slow to match Cheery's pace for a moment. The dwarf looked away for a moment before answering slowly. "Yes… but it's not considered polite to point it out. Do I make comments about your…" Cheery looked Myria up and down[6] and huffed, "well, whatever I might comment about." She considered again. "Did you know, you have some sort of white powder all over your dress?"

Myria looked down, and felt a pang at the state of her dress. "Oh dear. I do. It is likely flour. Or possibly baking powder." She swatted at it, raising a small white cloud and improving it somewhat. "Am I insufficiently attired to appear in public?"

"I doubt anyone will notice once they see this." Cheery gestured to the small leather satchel under her arm. There had been some discussion about taking security measures. On the one hand, it was only about ten blocks. On the other, the sheer amount of gold involved would seem to make them a target. They even considered placing the gold in a locked metal case and handcuffing that to Cheery's wrist.

After a bit more discussion, they nixed that idea based on the fact that first off, doing so would just draw more attention to them and secondly, handcuffing over $100,000 AM worth of gold to your right wrist (on the assumption it would keep it from walking away in someone else's possession) was a great way to gain the nickname of "lefty" for the rest of your life.[7]

"I see," Myria responded. "But still I believe I shall have to purchase additional clothing, yet again." She paused. "I find that I suddenly remember, that my prior purchases were never delivered to my residence on Kings Way. I believe they attempted to do so, but finding the residence destroyed likely returned them to the clothier. I wonder what became of them."

"Who was it?"

"The establishment was entitled Bullworth's Exclusive Designes."

Cheery's gave a low whistle. Wow. Well, I guess I should have expected something more than a few steps above the local shonky shop. "Well," she thought for a second. "That should be easy enough." Stopping for a minute, she recognized a lean youth headed the other direction and whistled him over. Myria watched in surprise as Cheery gave him a brief message she wanted delivered to Bullworth's and paid him two pence with another two pence to be paid upon confirmation of message delivery. The youth hurried off, and Cheery mused, "That shouldn't take long. Wouldn't be surprised if they had them waiting for you at the bakery when you get back."

"I do not understand. How did you know he would deliver your message? And you paid for a message to be delivered on my behalf."

"Didn't you see the little button pinned to his collar? Not everyone has a servant to run messages for them; lately we've had more freelancers about. The Watch have even used them for official business a few times. And as for the cost, call it payment for items previously eaten."

"But the amount of," Myria almost said gold out loud, but at Cheery's frantic waving changed it to "material ingested was surely worth less than the cost of the message."

Cheery laughed. "I'm sure you're good for it."

"Thank you sergeant. You have been most kind."

"Call me Cheery."

The dwarf actually smiled, and Myria responded in kind. "I will do so. You may call me Myria.

That settled, they continued on another block in silence. Myria felt, somehow, more was expected. She took a wild guess at appropriate subject matter. "I… I find your shoes pleasing."

Cheery actually beamed. "Really? Thanks." She paused and lifted one, showing off more of the side. "I had them custom made here locally."

"Yes." Myria nodded. "Yes I can see how that would be required. I do not recall seeing iron-shod boots with three-inch heels during my shopping with Jessica."

Cheery started. "Jessica Knäcke?"

"The same, " Myria supplied hesitantly. Does Cheery know of what happened?

"How is she doing?"

"She is much improved. She was working in the bakery this morning."

"I'm glad to hear that." Cheery chewed on the edge of her beard for a moment. "She wasn't in good shape at all when we found her." Myria tried to hide her reaction, but apparently didn't succeed. "Sorry, I forgot for a second that you were involved, too." Another pause. "Not to pry but, what exactly did happen in that café?"

Myria felt all the warm feelings of camaraderie flee. "I would rather not discuss it. It is quite painful."

"Sorry. Forget I asked."

Humans keep saying that. And it makes me… angry. Forget forget forget. Forget I said this. Forget I asked that.

That put a stop to the conversation for another block, until Myria's anger faded and she thought about a question of her own. "Your name. Cherry. Are you named after the fruit? What is the significance of that?"

Cheery reddened slightly. "I'd rather not discuss it. It's spelled different. And no, it's nothing to do with the fruit."

"My apologies. Pray pretend I did not ask."

Cheery stopped and gave Myria a long look. "Are you making fun of me?"

"No! I am just… attempting to fit in."

"Oh. Ok." Foreigners are just plain odd, Cheery mused, then looked around. "Ah, well here we are."

Myria gazed at the building in front of her. Her Auditor-derived senses made note of the number of columns, the sheer volume of space that the building must occupy, and the estimated cubic feet of stone required to frame that space.

The more newly minted human senses admitted, grudgingly, that it looked quite impressive.[8]

"And here, we will place that," she nodded to the leather bag, "for safekeeping. And in return?"

"In return, they will give you Ankh Morpork coins and, as the commander mentioned, a letter of credit that you can draw on. I understand that you can also write IOUs against it."

"An IOU? What is that?"

"Um… it's like a promise. 'I Owe You'. Like what we did with the messenger fee but in writing, I guess."

"I see. And this will make me safer?"

"Trust me, it's a lot safer than what you've been doing. Just carrying this around gives me the shivers. It's like painting a target on my helmet."

Myria considered that, for several weeks, she had carried a slightly larger version of this around with her, and suddenly felt very unsteady. The most intelligent and most stupid creature in Ankh Morpork, both at once. The dichotomy made her want to curse and laugh at the same time. Shaking her head, she took a deep breath. "Very well, let us proceed."

A very old uniformed human opened the door for them as they reached the top of the steps. Once inside, Myria felt that there was… something… that seemed to change the very air. It was similar to the feeling that Susan and Jonathon had experienced in Small Gods Cemetery a few days earlier.

She halted, and had to force herself to speak even at a whisper. "Do you feel that?"

Cheery blinked, looked around the room, and then shrugged. "What?"

"There is something about this place. It feels different than outside the doors. It is like…" she struggled to find the words, "It is as if it is creating its own reality here."

Cheery frowned, gave the room another slow scan. Then she inhaled deeply. "Nooo… can't say that I feel anything like that," she responded in a low tone. "Smells like leather and old money to me. Feels like a museum."

The interior, like the exterior of the building, was designed to impress. Myria noted the obvious wealth implied in each aspect of the architecture. Large interior columns framed the walls, made out of what appeared to be an expensive white marble. The floor likewise was a pattern: islands of very thick and expensive looking carpet framed by equally expensive marble tiles.

Scattered along the sides of the room were heavy desks wrought from dark wood, the tops covered in pale green leather that was worn along the corners by years of use. Along the wall opposite the door was a long counter with windows. Closer to the door were several leather sofas where, she supposed, customers might wait if they wished.

This room spoke of time arrested. Of things that did not change. Of permanence and stability. It reminded her in many ways of the glass clock. It is no wonder, she shuddered, that a human was easily enticed into building that device. They seek permanence, but the only permanence is in the lack of change.

There were few customers. Most stood at the counter conducting transactions with the humans behind the window. One sat in front of one of the large desks, apparently conducting more complex business with the bank employee seated there.

Myria found herself unsure what to do next, and was relieved when Cheery took the lead.

"Wait here for a moment," the dwarf indicated the sofa as she made her way to one of the windows. There were a few awkward moments before the teller there realized that there was, in fact, a physical body below the counter level associated with the voice.[9] It was less than a minute before Cheery, slightly red-faced, returned and motioned Myria to follow to one of the desks off to the side with two chairs in front of it.

The rather early-middle-aged, Myria estimated, human raised his head from his desk as they approached. Myria could see that the desk was very neat, which met her approval. He had apparently been totaling up figures on a sheet of paper, for she could see where he had been performing sums. She found his technique curious, however.

"May I help you?"

It appears, to be more specific, that he is adding the figures in a stepwise fashion, starting with the column where the single cents would be.

*Cough Cough*

Following from there, he would add the next digit above the ten cents column.

"Um. Lady LeJean?"

Of course, that seemed very inefficient. Surely, being a professional who dealt with numbers on a daily basis, he could simply add the numbers using only internal methods?

"Myria!" someone hissed and poked her arm, startling her.

"One thousand two hundred fifty two dollars and twelve cents!" she gasped.

"What!? What was that supposed to mean?"

Myria stood with mouth open, looking from Cheery to the bank employee. Cheery looked completely bewildered, as did the man behind the desk, but only for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed and he looked down at the numbers on his desk.

"I… I am sorry. I…" sighing, Myria sat down and examined her hands. Cheery, shaking her head, sat as well.

"Sorry about that sir, Lady LeJean would like to-"

"One moment! My apologies, but give me one moment, if you please," was the terse response from the clerk as he furiously ran his finger down columns of numbers and began making notations. After an uncomfortably long number of seconds, during which his face began to redden slightly, he sat and peered suspiciously at Myria.

"One thousand two hundred fifty two dollars, and twelve cents." He gripped the pen tightly in his hand. "The cents I can understand. You could have read them upside down, as I had already added them. But the rest? You added those sums, in your head, upside down?"

Cheery, now realizing what had happened, seemed to sink down in her seat slightly, with a death grip on the leather case. Hooboy.

"I… I am sorry. Would I be correct in guessing that I have violated some protocol?"

"No my lady, but I must admit I am amazed. I must assume, based on your bearing and your escort, that you have not come to apply for a career at the Royal Bank." He smiled with little humor and shifted his glasses further up his nose. "But I confess a feat such as you just displayed would ensure you a bright future here."

"Oh! I thank you, Mister…" her eyes fell on the engraved nameplate on the desk, "I should say, Junior Clerk Mortimer Combs, but I am at this time interested in opening an account with your institution and making a sizeable deposit."

"I see." The clerk shifted gears as he smoothly swept the current paperwork from his desk into a waiting folder and placed it out of sight, before equally smoothly pulling a series of blank forms from another drawer. "Then let me be the first to welcome you to the Royal Bank of Ankh Morpork."

"Thank you, Junior Clerk Combs."

Pen poised over the form, Mr. Combs began what was, to him, a very routine series of basic questions. Unfortunately for Myria, it turned into a very extensive series of mental gymnastics. When you are an Auditor-become-human, your age is either months or millennia, and neither value would work in this instance. She did everything she could to provide reasonable answers, sticking to at least an interpretation of the truth at every opportunity.

Finally that portion of the process was complete. Myria realized, to her shock, that there was a light sheen of moisture on her forehead. Interesting. Cheery, for her part, looked slightly bored and was still mumbling from time to time about "heightist bank tellers".

"So you see, Lady LeJean, this will be your account reference number. But of course, were you to forget it, you need only provide your name. And we will have your signature to verify identity.

"My signature. How can my signature confirm my identity?"

To his credit, he did not even blink.[10] "Every person's signature is distinct, my lady. If I were, for instance, to attempt to write your name, it would still differ stylistically from the manner in which you write it." He rotated the form around to face her, and offered an ornate quill pen.

Myria hesitated. She had not realized the importance of this, and she suspected that each of the three times she had previously signed her name, there had been slight variations in the sizes of various letters, the radii of many of the loops, and the lengths of almost every line.

Which one should she use as the permanent basis for her signature?

She heard a coughing sound from her left, and turning her head she beheld Cheery, who rolled her eyes and mumbled "Sometime this week, Myria."

Steeling herself, Myria settled on her first signature as the standard, and repeated it.

Loop for loop, line for line, an exact duplicate.

There. That should be sufficient, she thought, trying without success to ignore the suffering sigh of Cheery next to her.

"Marvelous, my lady. Now. Do you have a letter of credit from your bank in Genua, or should we send word by Clacks, or will we be depositing a note from a local merchant with whom you have done business?"

Cheery jumped into the gap at this moment, tired of the endless questions, answers, and writing. The novelty had long since worn off. "Oh none of those, Mr. Combs. Lady LeJean wishes to use this as her initial deposit," she volunteered, opening the leather satchel enough that its contents gleamed in the otherwise dim light of the bank.

In the reflected golden glow that washed over Mr. Combs's glasses, she could see from his reaction that maybe, just maybe, she should have warned him first.

[1] gollum! gollum! Err…. (author hangs head in shame)

[2] The relationship between dwarves and gold is very different from the relationship between humans and gold. Most humans see gold as, usually, a means to an end. Most dwarves on the other hand see gold as something you cut people off at the knees to obtain, then take home and cuddle up with on a cold evening.

[3] Note that the Commander pronounced this like "Cherry" not like "Cheery". There's a long story here, but it's one that Pratchett tells better than I could.

[4] Worth noting is the fact that swallowing a bit of gold does no harm to the swallower nor the swallowee and, if you have no other way, is one alternative method for transporting it without notice by nosy humans. Of course, later recovery can be a bit messy. Oh, and it makes the demand of "your money or your life" a bit redundant, too.

[5] We will continue to use the word ingot, though it is not really appropriate, because blob doesn't really do it justice, it's not a nugget, and miniature galactic disk seems a little excessive.

[6] More up than down. Sorry! Sorry! It was a joke! *muffled sounds of author being assaulted at groin level*

[7] See for clear examples every single stupid spy or gangster movie you've ever watched where some poor moron agrees to this and later regrets it with extreme prejudice.

[8] The Royal Bank of Ankh Morpork looked, as Mr. Moist Von Lipwig would later suggest, very much like a temple. See Making Money by Sir Terry Pratchett.

[9] Dwarves are unsurprisingly not known for opening bank accounts. When you have the ability to dig your own vault hundreds of feet below the surface and have a reputation for running at people with an axe screaming, the idea that a bank would be somehow a safer place for your wealth becomes a bit laughable. As a result, AM banks have been slow to alter facilities to accommodate their, um, stature.

[10] As anyone in any 'customer-facing' service industry will tell you, the range of oddness in customers is, for all intents and purposes, infinite. And the longer you have worked in that business, the more likely you are to have met all of them.