Going Postal (21 page)

He stood up, to indicate that a wizard’s time is valuable.

“Well, I’d quite like to know where the chandeliers went,” said Moist. “It’ll be nice to get them back. Symbolic, you could say.”

“I can’t help you, but I’m sure Professor Goitre can. He’s the
Post
humous Professor of Morbid Bibliomancy. We could drop in and see him on the way out, if you like. He’s in the Wizards’ Pantry.”

“Why’s he ‘posthumous’?” Moist asked, as they stepped out into the corridor.

“He’s dead,” said Pelc.

“Ah…I was kind of hoping that it was going to be a little more metaphorical than that,” said Moist.

“Don’t worry, he decided to take Early Death. It was a very good package.”

“Oh,” said Moist. The important thing at a time like this was to spot the right moment to run, but they’d got here through a maze of dark passages and this was not a place you’d want to get lost in. Something might find you.

They stopped outside a door, through which came the muffled sound of voices and the occasional clink of glassware. This stopped as soon as the professor pushed open a door and it was hard to see where it could have come from. This was, indeed, a pantry, quite empty of people, its walls lined with shelves, the shelves filled with little jars. There was a wizard in each one.

Now
would be the right time to run
, Moist’s hindbrain thought, as Pelc reached for a jar, unscrewed the lid, and rummaged around in it for the tiny wizard.

“Oh, this isn’t him,” said the professor cheerfully, seeing Moist’s expression. “The housekeeper puts these little knitted wizard dolls in just to remind the kitchen staff that the jars shouldn’t be used for anything else. There was an incident with some peanut butter, I believe. I just have to take it out so that he doesn’t sound muffled.”

“So…er, where is the professor, in fact?”

“Oh, in the jar, for a certain value of ‘in,’” said Professor Pelc. “It’s very hard to explain to the layman. He’s only dead for—”

“—a given value of dead?” said Moist.

“Exactly! And he can come back at a week’s notice. A lot of the older wizards are opting for it now. Very refreshing, they say, just like a sabbatical. Only longer.”

“Where do they go?”

“No one’s sure, exactly, but you can hear the sounds of cutlery,” said Pelc, and raised the jar to his mouth.

“Excuse me, Professor Goitre? Can you by any chance recall what happened to the chandeliers in the Post Office?”

Moist was expecting a tinny little voice to reply, but a sprightly if elderly voice a few inches away from his ear said: “What? Oh! Yes indeed! One ended up in the Opera House and the other was acquired by the Assassins’ Guild. Here comes the pudding trolley! Good-bye!”

“Thank you, Professor,” said Pelc solemnly. “All is well here—”

“Fat lot I care!” said the disembodied voice. “Be off, please, we’re eating!”

“There you have it, then,” said Pelc, putting the wizard doll back in the jar and screwing the lid on. “The Opera House and the Assassins’ Guild. Might be quite hard to get them back, I fancy.”

“Yes, I think I shall put that off for a day or two,” said Moist, stepping out of the door. “Dangerous people to tangle with.”

“Indeed,” said the professor, shutting the door behind them, which was the signal for the buzz of conversation to start up again. “I understand some of those sopranos can kick like a mule.”

M
OIST DREAMED
of bottled wizards, all shouting his name.

In the best traditions of awaking from a nightmare, the voices gradually became one voice, which turned out to be the voice of Mr. Pump, who was shaking him.

“Some of them were covered in jam!” Moist shouted, and then focused. “What?”

“Mr. Lipvig, You Have An Appointment With Lord Vetinari.”

This sunk in and sounded worse than wizards in jars. “I don’t have any appointment with Vetinari! Er…do I?”

“He Says You Do, Mr. Lipvig,” said the golem. “Therefore, You Do. We’ll Leave By The Coach Yard. There Is A Big Crowd Outside The Front Doors.”

Moist stopped with his trousers halfway on. “Are they angry? Are any of them carrying buckets of tar? Feathers of any kind?”

“I Do Not Know. I Have Been Given Instructions. I Am Carrying Them Out. I Advise You To Do The Same.”

Moist was hustled out into the back streets, where some shreds of mist were still floating.

“What time is this, for heaven’s sake?” he complained.

“A Quarter To Seven, Mr. Lipvig.”

“That’s still nighttime! Doesn’t the man ever sleep? What’s so important that I’ve got to be dragged out of my nice warm pile of letters?”

T
HE CLOCK
in Lord Vetinari’s anteroom didn’t tick right. Sometimes the tick was just a fraction late, sometimes the tock was early. Occasionally, one or the other didn’t happen at all. This wasn’t really noticeable until you’d been in there for five minutes, by which time small but significant parts of the brain were going crazy.

Moist was not good at early mornings in any case. That was one of the advantages of a life of crime; you didn’t have to get up until other people had got the streets aired.

The clerk Drumknott glided in on hushed feet, so soundlessly that he came as a shock. He was one of the most silent people Moist had ever encountered.

“Would you like some coffee, Postmaster?” he said quietly.

“Am I in trouble, Mr. Drumknott?”

“I wouldn’t care to say, sir. Have you read the
Times
this morning?”

“The paper? No. Oh…” Moist’s mind ran back furiously over yesterday’s interview. He hadn’t said anything wrong, had he? It had all been good, positive stuff, hadn’t it? Vetinari wanted people to use the post, didn’t he?

“We always get a few copies straight off the press,” said Drumknott. “I shall fetch you one.”

He returned with the paper. Moist unfolded it, took in the front page in one moment of agony, read a few sentences, put his hand over his eyes, and said, “Oh, gods.”

“Did you notice the cartoon, Postmaster?” said Drumknott innocently. “It may be thought quite droll.”

Moist risked another glance at the terrible page. Perhaps in unconscious self-defense his gaze had skipped over the cartoon, which showed two ragged street urchins. One of them was holding a strip of penny stamps. The text below read:

First Urchin (having acquired some of the newly minted “stampings”): “’Ere, ’ave you seen Lord Vetinari’s backside?”

Second Urchin: “Nah, and I wouldn’t lick it for a penny, neiver!”

Moist’s face went waxen.

“He’s seen this?” he croaked.

“Oh,
yes
, sir.”

Moist stood up quickly. “It’s still early,” he said. “Mr. Trooper is probably still on duty. If I run he can probably fit me in. I’ll go right away. That will be okay, won’t it? I’ll cut out the paperwork. I don’t want to be a burden to anyone, I’ll even—”

“Now, now, Postmaster,” said Drumknott, pushing him gently back into his chair, “don’t distress yourself unduly. In my experience, his lordship is a…
complex
man. It is not wise to anticipate his reactions.”

“You mean you think I’m going to
live
?”

Drumknott screwed up his face in thought, and stared at the ceiling for a moment.

“Hmm, yes. Yes, I think you might,” he said.

“I mean, in the fresh air? With everything attached?”

“Quite probably, sir. You may go in now, sir.”

Moist tiptoed into the Patrician’s office.

Only Lord Vetinari’s hands were visible on either side of the
Times
. Moist reread the headlines with dull horror.

We Don’t Break Down, Postmaster Vows
Amazing Attack on Clacks
Pledges: We’ll Deliver Anywhere
Using Remarkable New “Stamps”

That was the main story. It was alongside a smaller story, which nevertheless drew the eye. The headline was:

Grand Trunk
Down Again:
Continent
Cut Off

…and at the bottom, in a heavier typeface to show it was meant to be lighthearted, under the headline

“History Cannot Be Denied”

…were a dozen stories about the things that had happened when the ancient post turned up. There was the rumpus that had turned into a fracas; Mr. Parker and his bride-to-be; and others, too. The post had changed unremarkable lives in small ways. It was like cutting a window into history and seeing what might have been.

That seemed to be the entirety of the front page, except for a story about the Watch hunting for the “mystery killer” who had mauled some banker to death in his house. They were baffled, it said. That cheered Moist up a little; if their infamous werewolf officer couldn’t sniff out a bloody murderer, then maybe they wouldn’t find Moist when the time came. A brain could surely beat a nose.

Lord Vetinari seemed oblivious to Moist’s presence, and Moist wondered what effect a polite cough might have.

At which point, the newspaper rustled.

“It says here in the Letters column,” said the voice of the Patrician, “that the phrase ‘stick it up your jumper’ is based on an ancient Ephebian saying that is at least two thousand years old, thus clearly predating jumpers but not, presumably, the act of sticking.” He lowered the paper and looked at Moist over the top of it. “I don’t know if you happen to be following this interesting little etymological debate?”

“No, sir,” said Moist. “If you remember, I spent the past six weeks in a condemned cell.”

His Lordship put down the paper, steepled his fingers, and looked at Moist over the top of them.

“Ah, yes. So you did, Mr. Lipwig. Well, well, well.”

“Look, I’m really sor—” Moist began.

“Anywhere in the world? Even to the gods? Our postmen don’t break down so easily? History is not to be denied? Very impressive, Mr. Lipwig. You have made quite a splash,” said Vetinari, smiling, “as the fish said to the man with the lead weight tied to his feet.”

“I didn’t exactly say—”

“In my experience, Miss Cripslock tends to write down
exactly
what one says,” Vetinari observed. “It’s a terrible thing when journalists do that. It spoils the fun. One feels instinctively that it’s cheating, somehow. And I gather you are selling promissory notes, too?”

“What?”

“The
stamps
, Mr. Moist. A promise to carry a penny’s worth of mail. A promise that must be kept. Do come and look at this.” He stood up and walked across to the window, where he beckoned. “Do come, Mr. Lipwig.”

Fearing that he might be hurled down onto the cobbles, Moist nevertheless did so.

“See the big clacks tower over there on the Tump?” said Vetinari, gesturing. “Not much activity on the Grand Trunk this morning. Problems on a tower out on the plains, I gather. Nothing is getting to Sto Lat and beyond. But now, if you look down.”

It took Moist a moment to understand what he was seeing, and then—

“That’s a
queue
outside the Post Office?” he said.

“
Yes
, Mr. Lipwig,” said Vetinari, with dark glee. “For stamps, as advertised. Ankh-Morpork citizens have an instinct for, you might say, joining in the fun. Go to it, Mr. Lipwig. I’m sure you’re full of ideas. Don’t let me detain you.”

Lord Vetinari returned to his desk and picked up the paper.

It’s right there on the front page
, Moist thought,
he can’t have not seen it…

“Er…about the other thing…” he ventured, staring at the cartoon.

“What other thing would that be?” said Lord Vetinari.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Er…nothing, really,” said Moist. “I’ll be off, then.”

“Indeed you will, Postmaster. The mail must get through, must it not?”

Vetinari listened to distant doors shut, and then went and stood at the window until he saw a golden figure hurry across the courtyard.

Drumknott came and tidied up the “Out” tray.

“Well done, sir,” he said quietly.

“Thank you, Drumknott.”

“I see Mr. Horsefry has passed away, sir.”

“So I understand, Drumknott.”

T
HERE WAS A STIR
in the crowd as Moist crossed the street. To his unspeakable relief he saw Mr. Spools, standing with one of the serious men from his printery. Spools hurried over to him.

“I, er, have several thousand of both of the, er, items,” he whispered, pulling out a package from under his coat. “Pennies and two-pennies. They’re not the best we can do but I thought you might be in want of them. We heard the clacks was down again.”

“You’re a life saver, Mr. Spools. If you could just take them inside. By the way, how much is a clacks message to Sto Lat?”

“Even a very short message would be at least thirty pence, I think,” said the engraver.

“Thank you.” Moist stood back and cupped his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. “The Post Office will be open in five minutes for the sale of penny and two-penny stamps! In addition, we will be taking mail for Sto Lat! First express delivery to Sto Lat leaves on the hour, ladies and gentlemen, to arrive
this morning
. The cost will be ten pence per standard envelope! I repeat, ten pence! The Mail, ladies and gentlemen! Accept no substitutes! Thank you!”

There was a stir from the crowd, and several people hurried away.

Moist led Mr. Spools into the building, politely closing the door in the face of the crowd. He felt the tingle he always felt when the game was afoot. Life should be made of moments like this, he decided. With his heart singing, he erupted orders.

“Stanley!”

“Yes, Mr. Lipwig?” said the boy, behind him.

“Run along to Hobson’s Livery Stable and ask for the fastest horse they’ve got. Tell them I want a good, fast horse, right? Something with a bit of fizz in its blood! Not some feagued-up old screw, and I know the difference! I want it here in half an hour! Off you go! Mr. Groat?”

“Yessir!” Groat actually saluted.