Going Postal (27 page)
One was watching the door, one was watching the room, and without a shadow of a doubt there was at least one in the kitchen.
—and, yes, the maître d’ was earning his tip by assuring the great man that his friends had been duly looked after—
—the big head, with its leonine mane, turned to stare at Moist’s table—
—Miss Dearheart murmured, “Oh gods, he’s coming over!”—
—and Moist stood up. The hired fists had shifted position. They wouldn’t actually do anything in here, but nor would anyone else be worried if he was escorted out with speed and firmness for a little discussion in some alley somewhere. Gilt was advancing between the tables, leaving his puzzled guests behind.
This was a job for people skills, or diving through the window. But Gilt would have to be at least marginally polite. People were listening.
“Mr. Reacher Gilt?” said Moist.
“Indeed, sir,” said Gilt, grinning without a trace of humor. “But you appear to have me at a disadvantage.”
“I do hope not, sir,” said Moist.
“It appears that I asked the restaurant to retain a table for you, Mr.…Lipwig?”
“Did you, Mr. Gilt?” said Moist, with what he knew was remarkably persuasive innocence. “We arrived in the hope that there might be a spare table and were astonished to find there was!”
“Then at least one of us has been made a fool of, Mr. Lipwig,” said Gilt. “But tell me…are you truly Mr. Moist von Lipwig, the postmaster?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Without your hat?”
Moist coughed. “It’s not actually compulsory,” he said.
The big face observed him in silence, and then a hand like a steelworker’s glove was thrust forward.
“I am very pleased to meet you at last, Mr. Lipwig. I trust your good luck will continue.”
Moist took the hand and, instead of the bone-crushing grip he was expecting, felt the firm handshake of an honorable man and looked into the steady, honest, one-eyed gaze of Reacher Gilt.
Moist had worked hard at his profession and considered himself pretty good at it, but if he had been wearing his hat, he would have taken it off right now. He was in the presence of a master. He could feel it in the hand, see it in that one commanding eye. Were things otherwise, he would have humbly begged to be taken on as an apprentice, scrub the man’s floors, cook his food, just to sit at the feet of greatness and learn how to do the three-card trick using whole banks. If Moist was any judge, any judge at all, the man in front of him was the biggest fraud he’d ever met. And he
advertised
it. That was…style. The pirate curls, the eyepatch, even the damn parrot. Twelve and a half percent, for heaven’s sake, didn’t anyone spot that? He told them what he was, and they laughed and loved him for it. It was breathtaking. If Moist von Lipwig had been a career killer, it would have been like meeting a man who’d devised a way to destroy civilizations.
All this came in an instant, in one bolt of understanding, in the glint of an eye. But something ran in front of it as fast as a little fish ahead of a shark.
Gilt was
shocked
, not surprised. That tiny moment was barely measurable on any clock, but just for an instant the world had gone wrong for Reacher Gilt. That moment had been wiped out so competently that all that remained of it was Moist’s certainty that it had happened, but the certainty was rigid.
He was loath to let go of the hand in case there was a flash that might broil him alive. After all, he had recognized the nature of Gilt, so the man must certainly have spotted him.
“Thank you, Mr. Gilt,” he said.
“I gather you were kind enough to carry some of our messages today,” Gilt rumbled.
“It was a pleasure, sir. If ever you need our help, you only have to ask.”
“Hmm,” said Gilt. “But the least I can do is buy you dinner, Postmaster. The bill will come to my table. Choose whatever you wish. And now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to my…
other
guests.”
He bowed to the simmering Miss Dearheart and walked back.
“The management would like to thank you for not killing the guests,” said Moist, sitting down. “Now we should—”
He stopped and stared.
Miss Dearheart, who had been saving up to hiss at him, took one look at his face and hesitated.
“Are you ill?” she said.
“They’re…burning,” said Moist, his eyes widening.
“Ye gods, you’ve gone white!”
“The writing…they’re screaming…I can smell burning!”
“Someone over there is having crepes,” said Miss Dearheart. “It’s just—” She stopped, and sniffed. “It smells like
paper
, though…”
People looked around as Moist’s chair crashed backwards.
“The Post Office is on fire! I
know
it is!” he shouted, and turned and ran.
Miss Dearheart caught up just as he was in the hall, where one of Gilt’s bodyguards had grabbed him. She tapped the man on the shoulder and, as he turned to push her away, stamped down heavily. As he screamed, she dragged the bewildered Moist away.
“Water…we’ve got to get water…” He groaned. “They’re burning! They’re all burning!”
In which Stanley remains calm • Moist the hero
• Searching for a cat, never a good idea • Something in
the dark • Mr. Gryle is encountered • Fire and water
• Mr. Lipwig helps the Watch • Dancing on the edge
• Mr. Lipwig gets religion • Opportunity time
• Miss Maccalariat’s hair-grip • The miracle
T
HE LETTERS BURNED
Part of the ceiling fell down, showering more letters onto the flames. The fire was already reaching for the upper floors. As Stanley dragged Mr. Groat across the floor, another slab of plaster smashed on the tiles, and the old mail that poured down after it was already burning. Smoke, thick as soup, rolled across the distant ceiling.
Stanley pulled the old man into the locker room and laid him on his bed. He rescued the golden hat, too, because Mr. Lipwig would be bound to be angry if he didn’t. Then he shut the door and took down, from the shelf over Groat’s desk, the Book of Regulations. He turned the pages methodically until he came to the page What to Do in Case of Fire.
Stanley always followed the rules. All sorts of things could go wrong if you didn’t.
So far he’d done 1. Upon Discovery of the Fire, Remain Calm.
Now he came to 2. Shout “Fire!” in a Loud, Clear Voice.
“Fire!” he shouted, and then ticked off 2. with his pencil.
Next was 3. Endeavor to Extinguish Fire If Possible.
Stanley went to the door and opened it. Flames and smoke billowed in. He stared at them for a moment, shook his head, and shut the door.
Paragraph 4 said: If Trapped by Fire, Endeavor to Escape. Do Not Open Doors If Warm. Do Not Use Stairs If Burning. If No Exit Presents Itself, Remain Calm and Await (a) Rescue or (b) Death.
This seemed to cover it. The world of pins was simple, and Stanley knew his way around it like a goldfish knows its tank, but everything else was very complicated and only worked if you followed the rules.
He glanced up at the grubby little windows. They were far too small to climb through and had been welded shut by many applications of official paint, so he broke one pane as neatly as possible to allow some fresh air in. He made a note of this in the breakages book.
Mr. Groat was still breathing, although with an unpleasant bubbling sound. There
was
a first-aid kit in the locker room, because Regulations demanded it, but it contained only a small length of bandage, a bottle of something black and sticky, and Mr. Groat’s spare teeth. Mr. Groat had told him never to touch his homemade medicines, and since it was not unusual for bottles to explode during the night, Stanley had always observed this rule very carefully.
It did
not
say in the Regulations: If Attacked by Huge Swooping Screaming Creature Hit Hard in the Mouth With Sack of Pins, and Stanley wondered if he should pencil this in. But that would be Defacing Post Office Property, and he could get into trouble for that.
All avenues of further activity being therefore closed, Stanley remained calm.
I
T WAS A GENTLE SNOW
of letters. Some landed still burning, fountaining out of the column of crackling fire that had already broken through the Post Office roof. Some were blackened ashes on which sparks traveled in mockery of the dying ink. Some, many, had sailed up and over the city unscathed, zig-zagging down gently like communications from an excessively formal sort of god.
Moist tore off his jacket as he pushed through the crowd.
“The people probably got out,” said Miss Dearheart, clattering along beside him.
“Do you
really
think so?” said Moist.
“Really? No. Not if Gilt set this up. Sorry, I’m not very good at being comforting anymore.”
Moist paused, and tried to think. The flames were coming out of the roof at one end of the building. The main door and the whole left side looked untouched. But fire was sneaky stuff, he knew. It sat there and smoldered until you opened the door to see how it was getting on, and then the fire caught its breath and your eyeballs got soldered to your skull.
“I’d better go in,” he said. “Er…you wouldn’t care to say, ‘No, no, don’t do it, you’re being far too brave!’ would you?” he added. Some people were organizing a bucket chain from a nearby fountain; it would be as effective as spitting at the sun.
Miss Dearheart caught a burning letter, lit a cigarette with it, and took a drag. “No, no, don’t do it, you’re being far too brave!” she said. “How was that for you? But if you do, the left side looks pretty clear. Watch out, though. There are rumors Gilt employs a vampire. One of the wild ones.”
“Ah. Fire kills them, doesn’t it?” said Moist, desperate to look on the bright side.
“It kills everybody, Mr. Lipwig,” said Miss Dearheart. “It kills everybody.” She grabbed him by the ears and gave him a big kiss on the mouth. It was like being kissed by an ashtray, but in a good way.
“On the whole, I’d like you to come out of there,” she said quietly. “Are you sure you won’t wait? The boys will be here in a minute—”
“The golems? It’s their day off!”
“They have to obey their chem, though. A fire means humans are in danger. They’ll smell it and be here in minutes, believe me.”
Moist hesitated, looking at her face. And people were watching him. He couldn’t
not
go in there, it wouldn’t fit in with the persona. Gods damn Vetinari!
He shook his head, turned, and ran toward the doors. Best not to think about it. Best not to think about being so
dumb
. Just feel the front door…quite cool. Open it gently…a rush of air, but no explosion. The big hall, lit with flame…but it was all above him, and if he weaved and dodged he could make it to the door that led down to the locker room.
He kicked it open.
Stanley looked up from his stamps.
“Hello, Mr. Lipwig,” he said. “I kept calm. But I think Mr. Groat is ill.”
The old man was lying on the bed, and ill was too jolly a word.
“What happened to him?” said Moist, lifting him gently. Mr. Groat was no weight at all.
“It was like a big bird, but I frightened it off,” said Stanley. “I hit it in the mouth with a sack of pins. I…had a Little Moment, sir.”
“Well, that ought to do it,” said Moist. “Now, can you follow me?”
“I’ve got all the stamps,” said Stanley. “And the cashbox. Mr. Groat keeps them under his bed for safety.” The boy beamed. “And your hat, too. I kept calm.”
“Well done, well done,” said Moist. “Now, stick right behind me, okay?”
“What about Tiddles, Mr. Lipwig?” said Stanley, suddenly looking worried. Somewhere outside in the hall there was a crash, and the crackle of the fire grew distinctly louder.
“Who? Tidd—the cat? To hell with—” Moist stopped, and readjusted his mouth. “He’ll be outside, you can bet on it, eating a toasted rat and grinning. Come on, will you?”
“But he’s the Post Office cat!” said Stanley. “He’s never been outside!”
I’ll bet he has now
, thought Moist. But there was that edge in the boy’s voice again.
“Let’s get Mr. Groat out of here, okay?” he said, easing his way through the door with the old man in his arms, “and then I’ll came back for Tidd—”
A burning beam dropped onto the floor halfway across the hall, and sent sparks and burning envelopes spiraling upwards into the main blaze.
It roared, a wall of flame, a fiery waterfall in reverse, up through the other floors and out through the roof. It thundered. It was fire let loose and making the most of it.
Part of Moist von Lipwig was happy to let it happen. But a new and troublesome part was thinking:
I was making it work. It was all moving forward. The stamps were really working. It was as good as being a criminal without the crime. It had been fun
.
“Come
on
, Stanley!” Moist snapped, turning away from the horrible sight and the fascinating thought. The boy followed reluctantly, calling for the damn cat all the way to the door.
The air outside struck like a knife, but there was a round of applause from the crowd and then a flash of light that Moist had come to associate with eventual trouble.
“Good eefning, Mr. Lipvig!” said the cheery voice of Otto Chriek. “My vord, if ve vant news, all ve have to do is follow you!”
Moist ignored him and shouldered his way to Miss Dearheart, who, he noticed, was not beside herself with worry.
“Is there a hospice in this city?” he said. “A decent doctor, even?”
“There’s the Lady Sibyl Free Hospital,” said Miss Dearheart.
“Is it any good?”
“Some people don’t die.”
“That good, eh? Get him there right now! I’ve got to go back in for the cat!”
“
You
are going to go back in
there
for a
cat
?”
“It’s Tiddles,” said Stanley primly. “He was born in the Post Office.”
“Best not to argue,” said Moist, turning to go. “See to Mr. Groat, will you?”
Miss Dearheart looked down at the old man’s bloodstained shirt.
“But it looks as though some creature tried to—” she began.
“Something fell on him,” said Moist shortly.
“That couldn’t cause—”
“
Something fell on him
,” said Moist. “That’s what happened.”
She looked at his face.
“All right,” she agreed. “Something fell on him. Something with big claws.”
“No, a joist with lots of nails in it, something like that. Anyone can see that.”
“That’s what happened, was it?” said Miss Dearheart.
“That’s exactly what happened,” said Moist, and strode away before there were any more questions.
No point in getting the Watch in this
, he thought, hurrying toward the doors.
They’ll clump around, and there won’t be any answers for them, and, in my experience, watchmen always like to arrest
somebody.
What makes you think it was Reacher Gilt, Mr.…Lipwig, wasn’t it? Oh, you could tell, could you? That’s a skill of yours, is it? Funny thing, we can tell sometimes, too. You’ve got a very familiar face, Mr. Lipwig. Where are you from?
No, there was no point in getting friendly with the Watch. They might get in the way.
An upper window exploded outwards, and flames licked along the edge of the roof; Moist ducked into the doorway as glass rained down. As for Tiddles…well…he had to find the damn cat. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t be fun anymore. If he didn’t risk at least a tiny bit of life and a smidgen of limb, he just wouldn’t be able to carry on being him.
Had he just thought that?
Oh, gods. He’d lost
it
. He’d never been sure how he’d got it, but it was gone. That’s what happened if you took wages. And hadn’t his grandfather warned him to keep away from women as neurotic as a shaved monkey? Actually he hadn’t, his interest lying mainly with dogs and beer, but he should have.
The vision of Mr. Groat’s chest kept bumping insistently against his imagination. It looked as though something with claws had taken a swipe at him, and only the thick uniform coat prevented him from being opened like a clam. But that didn’t sound like a vampire. They weren’t messy like that. It was a waste of good food.
Nevertheless, he picked up a piece of smashed chair. It had splintered nicely. And the nice thing about a stake through the heart was that it also worked on non-vampires.
More ceiling had come down in the hall, but he was able to dodge between the debris. The main staircase was at this end and completely untouched, although smoke lay on the floor like a carpet; at the other end of the hall, where the mountains of old mail had been, the blaze still roared.
He couldn’t hear the letters anymore.
Sorry
, he thought.
I did my best. It wasn’t my fault…
What now? At least he could get his box out of his office. That couldn’t be allowed to burn. Some of those chemicals would be quite hard to replace.
The office was full of smoke but he dragged the box out from under his desk and then spotted the golden suit on its hanger. He had to take it, didn’t he? Something like that couldn’t be allowed to burn. He could come back for the box, right? But the suit…the suit was
necessary
. There was no sign of Tiddles. He
must
have got out, yes? Didn’t cats leave sinking ships? Or was it rats? Wouldn’t the cats follow the rats? Anyway, smoke was coming up between the floorboards and drifting down from the upper floors, and this wasn’t the time to hang around. He’d looked everywhere sensible; there was
no
sense in being where a ton of burning paper could drop on your head.
It was a good plan and it was only spoiled when he spotted the cat, down in the hall. It was watching him with interest.
“Tiddles!” bellowed Moist. He wished he hadn’t. It was such a stupid name to shout in a burning building.
The cat looked at him and trotted away. Cursing, Moist hurried after it and saw it disappear down into the cellars.
Cats were bright, weren’t they? There was probably another way out…bound to be…
Moist didn’t even look up when he heard the creaking of wood overhead, but ran forward and went down the steps five at a time. By the sound of it, a large amount of the entire building smashed into the floor just behind him, and sparks roared down the cellar passage, burning his neck.
Well, there was no going back, at least. But cellars, now, they had trapdoors and coal shutes and things, didn’t they? And they were cool and safe and—
—just the place where you’d go to lick your wounds after being smashed in the mouth with a sackful of pins, right?
An imagination is a terrible thing to bring along.
A vampire, she’d said. And Stanley had hit “a big bird” with a sackful of pins. Stanley the Vampire Slayer, with a bag of pins. You wouldn’t believe it unless you’d seen him in one of what Mr. Groat called his “Little Moments.”
