Going Postal
Going Postal
A Novel of Discworld
®
Terry Pratchett
The Nine-Thousand-Year
Prologue
T
HE FLOTILLAS OF THE DEAD
sailed around the world on underwater rivers.
Very nearly nobody knew about them. But the theory is easy to understand. It runs: the sea is, after all, in many respects, only a wetter form of air. And it is known that air is heavier the lower you go and lighter the higher you fly. As a storm-tossed ship founders and sinks, therefore, it must reach a depth where the water below it is just viscous enough to stop its fall.
In short, it stops sinking and ends up floating on an underwater surface, beyond the reach of the storms but far above the ocean floor.
It’s calm there. Dead calm.
Some stricken ships have rigging; some even have sails. Many still have crew, tangled in the rigging or lashed to the wheel.
But the voyages still continue, aimlessly, with no harbor in sight, because there are currents under the ocean, and so the dead ships with their skeleton crews sail on around the world, over sunken cities and between drowned mountains, until rot and shipworms eat them away and they disintegrate.
Sometimes an anchor drops, all the way to the dark, cold calmness of the abyssal plain, and disturbs the stillness of centuries by throwing up a cloud of silt.
One nearly hit Anghammarad, where he sat watching the ships drift by, far overhead.
He remembered it, because it was the only really interesting thing to happen in the last nine thousand years.
T
HERE WAS THIS
…disease that the clacksmen got.
It was like the illness known as “calenture,” which sailors experienced when, after having been becalmed for weeks under a pitiless sun, they suddenly believed that the ship was surrounded by green fields—and stepped overboard.
Sometimes the clacksmen thought they could fly.
There was about eight miles between the big semaphore towers, and when you were at the top you were maybe a hundred and fifty feet above the plains. Work up there too long without a hat on, they said, and the tower you were on got taller, and the nearest tower got closer, and maybe you thought you could jump from one to another, or ride on the invisible messages sleeting between the towers, or perhaps you thought that
you
were a message. Perhaps, as some said, all this was nothing more than a disturbance in the brain caused by the wind in the rigging. No one knew for sure. People who step onto the air one hundred and fifty feet above the ground seldom have much to discuss afterwards.
The tower shifted gently in the wind, but that was okay. There were lots of new designs in
this
tower. It stored the wind to power its mechanisms, it bent rather than broke, it acted more like a tree than a fortress. You could build most of it on the ground and raise it into place in an hour. It was a thing of grace and beauty. And it could send messages up to four times faster than the old towers, thanks to the new shutter system and the colored lights.
At least, it would be able to, once they sorted out a few lingering problems…
The young man climbed swiftly to the very top of the tower. For most of the way he was in clinging, gray morning mist, and then he was rising through glorious sunlight, the mist spreading below him, all the way to the horizon, like a sea.
He paid the view no attention. He’d never dreamed of flying. He dreamed of mechanisms, of making things work better than they’d ever done before.
Right now he wanted to find out what was making the new shutter array stick
again
. He oiled the sliders, checked the tension on the wires, and then swung himself out over fresh air to check the shutters themselves. It wasn’t what you were supposed to do, but every linesman knew it was the only way to get things done. Anyway, it was perfectly safe if you—
There was a clink. He looked back and saw the snap-hook of his safety rope lying on the walkway, saw the shadow, felt the terrible pain in his fingers, heard the scream and dropped…
…like an anchor.
In which our hero experiences Hope,
the greatest gift * The bacon sandwich of regret
* Somber reflections on capital punishment
from the hangman * Famous last words * Our hero dies
* Angels, conversations about * Inadvisability of
misplaced offers regarding broomsticks * An unexpected ride
* A world free of honest men * A man on the hop
* There is always a choice
T
HEY SAY THAT
the prospect of being hanged in the morning concentrates a man’s mind wonderfully; unfortunately, what the mind inevitably concentrates on is that, in the morning, it will be in a body that is going to be hanged.
The man going to be hanged had been named Moist von Lipwig by doting if unwise parents, but he was not going to embarrass the name, insofar as that was still possible, by being hung under it. To the world in general, and particularly on that bit of it known as the death warrant, he was Alfred Spangler.
And he took a more positive approach to the situation and had concentrated his mind on the prospect of
not
being hanged in the morning, and, most particularly, on the prospect of removing all the crumbling mortar from around a stone in his cell wall with a spoon. So far the work had taken him five weeks and reduced the spoon to something like a nail file. Fortunately, no one ever came to change the bedding here, or else they would have discovered the world’s heaviest mattress.
It was a large and heavy stone that was currently the object of his attentions, and, at some point, a huge staple had been hammered into it as an anchor for manacles.
Moist sat down facing the wall, gripped the iron ring in both hands, braced his legs against the stones on either side, and heaved.
His shoulders caught fire, and a red mist filled his vision, but the block slid out with a faint and inappropriate tinkling noise. Moist managed to ease it away from the hole and peered inside.
At the far end was another block, and the mortar around it looked suspiciously strong and fresh.
Just in front of it was a new spoon. It was shiny.
As he studied it, he heard the clapping behind him. He turned his head, tendons twanging a little riff of agony, and saw several of the wardens watching him through the bars.
“Well
done
, Mr. Spangler!” said one of them. “Ron here owes me five dollars! I
told
him you were a sticker! ‘He’s a sticker,’ I said!”
“You set this up, did you, Mr. Wilkinson?” said Moist weakly, watching the glint of light on the spoon.
“Oh, not us, sir. Lord Vetinari’s orders. He insists that all condemned prisoners should be offered the prospect of freedom.”
“Freedom? But there’s a damn great stone through there!”
“Yes, there is that, sir, yes, there is that,” said the warden. “It’s only the
prospect
, you see. Not actual free freedom as such. Hah, that’d be a bit daft, eh?”
“I suppose so, yes,” said Moist. He didn’t say “you bastards.” The wardens had treated him quite civilly these past six weeks, and he made a point of getting on with people. He was very, very good at it. People skills were part of his stock-in-trade; they were nearly the whole of it.
Besides, these people had big sticks. So, speaking carefully, he added: “Some people might consider this cruel, Mr. Wilkinson.”
“Yes, sir, we asked him about that, sir, but he said no, it wasn’t. He said it provided”—his forehead wrinkled—“occ-you-pay-shun-all ther-rap-py, healthy exercise, prevented moping, and offered that greatest of all treasures, which is Hope, sir.”
“Hope,” muttered Moist glumly.
“Not upset, are you, sir?”
“Upset? Why should I be upset, Mr. Wilkinson?”
“Only the last bloke we had in this cell, he managed to get down that drain, sir. Very small man. Very agile.”
Moist looked at the little grid in the floor. He’d dismissed it out of hand.
“Does it lead to the river?” he said.
The warden grinned. “You’d
think
so, wouldn’t you? He was really
upset
when we fished him out. Nice to see you’ve entered into the spirit of the thing, sir. You’ve been an example to all of us, sir, the way you kept going. Stuffing all the dust in your mattress? Very clever, very tidy. Very
neat
. It’s really cheered us up, having you in here. By the way, Mrs. Wilkinson says thanks very much for the fruit basket. Very posh, it is. It’s got kumquats, even!”
“Don’t mention it, Mr. Wilkinson.”
“The warden was a bit green about the kumquats, ’cos he only got dates in his, but I told him, sir, that fruit baskets is like life—until you’ve got the pineapple off of the top you never know what’s underneath. He says thank you, too.”
“Glad he liked it, Mr. Wilkinson,” said Moist absent-mindedly. Several of his former landladies had brought in presents for “the poor, confused boy,” and Moist always invested in generosity. A career like his was all about style, after all.
“On that general subject, sir,” said Mr. Wilkinson, “me and the lads were wondering if you might like to unburden yourself, at this point in time, on the subject of the whereabouts of the place where the location of the spot is where, not to beat about the bush, you hid all that money you stole…?”
The jail went silent. Even the cockroaches were listening.
“No, I couldn’t do that, Mr. Wilkinson,” said Moist loudly, after a decent pause for dramatic effect. He tapped his jacket pocket, held up a finger, and winked.
The warders grinned back.
“We understand totally, sir. Now I’d get some rest if I was you, sir, ’cos we’re hanging you in half an hour,” said Mr. Wilkinson.
“Hey, don’t I get breakfast?”
“Breakfast isn’t until seven o’clock, sir,” said the warder reproachfully. “But, tell you what, I’ll do you a bacon sandwich. ’Cos it’s
you
, Mr. Spangler.”
A
ND NOW IT WAS A FEW MINUTES
before dawn and it was
him
being led down the short corridor and out into the little room under the scaffold. Moist realized he was looking at himself from a distance, as if part of himself was floating outside his body like a child’s balloon, ready, as it were, for him to let go of the string.
The room was lit by light coming through cracks in the scaffold floor above, and, significantly, from around the edges of the large trapdoor. The hinges of said door were being carefully oiled by a man in a hood.
He stopped when he saw the party had arrived and said, “Good morning, Mr. Spangler.” He raised the hood helpfully. “It’s me, sir, Daniel ‘One Drop’ Trooper. I am your executioner for today, sir. Don’t you worry, sir. I’ve hanged dozens of people. We’ll soon have you out of here.”
“Is it true that if a man isn’t hanged after three attempts he’s reprieved, Dan?” said Moist, as the executioner carefully wiped his hands on a rag.
“So I’ve heard, sir, so I’ve heard. But they don’t call me ‘One Drop’ for nothing, sir. And will sir be having the black bag today?”
“Will it help?”
“Some people think it makes them look more dashing, sir. And it stops that pop-eyed look. It’s more a crowd thing, really. Quite a big one out there this morning. Nice piece about you in the
Times
yesterday, I thought. All them people saying what a nice young man you were, and everything. Er…would you mind signing the rope beforehand, sir? I mean, I won’t have a chance to ask you afterwards, eh?”
“
Signing
the
rope
?” said Moist.
“Yessir,” said the hangman. “It’s sort of traditional. There’s a lot of people out there who buy old rope. Specialist collectors, you could say. A bit strange, but it takes all sorts, eh? Worth more signed, of course.” He flourished a length of stout rope. “I’ve got a special pen that signs on rope. One signature every couple of inches? Straightforward signature, no dedication needed. Worth money to me, sir. I’d be very grateful.”
“So grateful that you won’t hang me, then?” said Moist, taking the pen.
This got an appreciative laugh. Mr. Trooper watched him sign along the length, nodding happily.
“Well done, sir, that’s my pension plan you’re signing there. Now…are we ready, everyone?”
“Not me!” said Moist quickly, to another round of general amusement.
“You’re a card, Mr. Spangler,” said Mr. Wilkinson. “It won’t be the same without you around, and that’s the truth.”
“Not for me, at any rate,” said Moist. This was, once again, treated like rapier wit. Moist sighed.
“Do you really think all this deters crime, Mr. Trooper?” he said.
“Well, in the generality of things I’d say it’s hard to tell, given that it’s hard to find evidence of crimes not committed,” said the hangman, giving the trapdoor a final rattle. “But in the
specificality
, sir, I’d say it’s very efficacious.”
“Meaning what?” said Moist.
“Meaning I’ve never seen someone up here more’n once, sir. Shall we go?”
There was a stir when they climbed up into the chilly morning air, followed by a few boos and even some applause. People were strange like that. Steal five dollars and you were a petty thief. Steal thousands of dollars and you were either a government or a hero.
Moist stared ahead while the roll call of his crimes was read out. He couldn’t help feeling that it was so
unfair
. He’d never so much as tapped someone on the head. He’d never even broken down a door. He
had
picked locks on occasion, but he’d always locked them again behind him. Apart from all those repossessions, bankruptcies, and sudden insolvencies, what had he actually done that was
bad
, as such? He’d only been moving numbers around.
“Nice crowd turned out today,” said Mr. Trooper, tossing the end of the rope over the beam and busying himself with knots. “Lot of press, too.
What Gallows?
covers ’em all, o’course, and there’s the
Times
and the
Pseudopolis Herald
, prob’ly because of that bank what collapsed there, and I heard there’s a man from the
Sto Plains Dealer
, too. Very good financial section, I always keep an eye on used-rope prices. Looks like a lot of people want to see you dead, sir.”
Moist was aware that a black coach had drawn up at the rear of the crowd. There was no coat of arms on the door, unless you were in on the secret, which was that Lord Vetinari’s coat of arms featured a sable shield. Black on black. You had to admit, the bastard had style—
“Huh? What?” he said, in response to a nudge.
“I asked if you have any last words, Mr. Spangler?” said the hangman. “It’s customary. I wonder if you might have thought of any?”
“I wasn’t actually expecting to die,” said Moist. And that was it. He really hadn’t, until now. He’d been certain that
something
would turn up.
“Good one, sir,” said Mr. Wilkinson. “We’ll go with that, shall we?”
Moist narrowed his eyes. The curtain on a coach window had twitched. The coach door had opened. Hope, that greatest of all treasures, ventured a little glitter.
“No, they’re not my
actual
last words,” he said. “Er…let me think…”
A slight, clerklike figure was descending from the coach.
“Er…it’s not as bad a thing I do now…er…”
Aha, it all made some kind of sense now. Vetinari was out to scare him, that was it. That would be just like the man, from what Moist had heard. There was going to be a reprieve!
“I…er…I…”
Down below, the clerk was having difficulty getting through the press of people.
“Do you mind speeding up a bit, Mr. Spangler?” said the hangman. “Fair’s fair, eh?”
“I want to get it right,” said Moist haughtily, watching the clerk negotiate his way around a large troll.
“Yes, but there’s a limit, sir,” said the hangman, annoyed at this breach of etiquette. “Otherwise you could go ah, er, um for
days
! Short and sweet, sir, that’s the style.”
“Right, right,” said Moist. “Er…oh,
look
, see that man there? Waving at you?”
The hangman glanced down at the clerk, who’d struggled to the front of the crowd.
“I bring a message from Lord Vetinari!” the man shouted.
“Right!” said Moist.
“He says to get on with it, it’s long past dawn!” said the clerk.
“Oh,” said Moist, staring at the black coach. That damn Vetinari had a warder’s sense of humor, too.
“Come
on
, Mr. Spangler, you don’t want me to get into trouble, do you?” said the hangman, patting him on the shoulder. “Just a few words, and then we can all get on with our lives. Present company excepted, obviously.”
So this
was
it. It was, in some strange way, rather liberating. You didn’t have to fear the worst that could happen anymore, because this was it, and it was nearly over. The warder had been right. What you had to do in this life was get past the pineapple, Moist told himself. It was big and sharp and knobbly, but there might be peaches underneath. It was a myth to live by and so, right now, totally useless.
“In that case,” said Moist von Lipwig, “I commend my soul to any god that can find it.”
“Nice,” said the hangman, and pulled the lever.
Alfred Spangler died.
It was generally agreed that they had been good last words.
“A
H
, M
R
. L
IPWIG
,” said a distant voice, getting closer. “I see you are awake. And still alive, at the present time.”
There was a slight inflection to that last phrase, which told Moist that the length of the present time was entirely in the gift of the speaker.
He opened his eyes. He was sitting in a comfortable chair. At a desk opposite him, sitting with his hands steepled reflectively in front of his pursed lips, was Lord Havelock Vetinari, under whose idiosyncratically despotic rule Ankh-Morpork had become the city where, for some reason, everyone wanted to live.
