The figure in the chair did not have long hair, or an eyepatch. It didn’t have a beard or, rather, it wasn’t intending to have a beard. It hadn’t shaved for several days.

It groaned.

‘Ah, Mr Gilt,’ said Lord Vetinari, looking up from his playing board. ‘You are awake, I see. I’m sorry for the manner in which you were brought here, but some quite expensive people wish to see you dead and I thought it would be a good idea if we had this little meeting before they did.’

‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ said the figure. ‘My name is Randolph Stippler, and I have papers to prove it—’

‘And wonderful papers they are, Mr Gilt. But enough of that. No, it is about angels that I wish to talk to you now.’

Reacher Gilt, wincing occasionally as the aches from three days of being carried by a golem made themselves felt, listened in mounting puzzlement to the angelic theories of Lord Vetinari.

‘. . . brings me on to my point, Mr Gilt. The Royal Mint needs an entirely new approach. Frankly, it’s moribund and not at all what we need in the Century of the Anchovy. Yet there is a way forward. In recent months Mr Lipwig’s celebrated stamps have become a second currency in this city. So light, so easy to carry, you can even send them through the post! Fascinating, Mr Gilt. At last people are loosening their grip on the idea that money should be shiny. Do you know that a typical one penny stamp may change hands up to twelve times before being affixed to an envelope and redeemed? What the Mint needs to see it through is a man who understands the dream of currency. There will be a salary and, I believe, a hat.’

&l............