slugger and leadpipe - gladys pulls it off- the hour of the dead -
irrational fear of dental spinach - ‘a proper brawl doesn’t just happen’
- how the trunk was stolen - stanley’s little moment - the etiquette
of knives - face to face – fire
the mail coaches had survived the decline and fall of the post office because they had to. horses needed to be fed. but in any case, the coaches had always carried passengers. the halls went silent, the chandeliers disappeared along with everything else, even things that were nailed down, but out back in the big yard the coach service flourished. the coaches weren’t exactly stolen, and weren’t exactly inherited . . . they just drifted into the possession of the coach people.
then, according to groat, who regarded himself as the custodian of all post office knowledge, the other coach drivers had been bought out by big jim ‘still standing’ upwright with the money he’d won betting on himself in a bare knuckle contest against harold ‘the hog’ boots, and the coach business was now run by his sons harry ‘slugger’ upwright and little jim ‘leadpipe’ upwright.
moist could see that a careful approach was going to be required.
the hub or nerve centre of the coach business was a big shed next to the stable. it smelled - no, it stank - no, it fugged of horses, leather, veterinary medicine, bad coal, brandy and cheap cigars. that’s what a fug was. you could have cut cubes out of the air and sold it for cheap building material.
when moist entered, a huge man, made practically spherical by multiple layers of waistcoats and overcoats, was warming his backside in front of the roaring stove. another man of very much the same shape was leaning over the shoulder of a clerk, both of them concentrating on some paper.
some staffing debate had obviously been in progress, because the man by the fire was saying ‘. . . well, then, if he’s sick put young alfred on the evening run and—’
he stopped when he saw moist, and then said, ‘yes, sir? what can we do for you?’
‘carry my mailbags,’ said moist.
they stared at him, and then the man who’d been toasting his bottom broke into a grin. jim and harry upwright might have been twins. they were big men, who looked as though they’d been built out of pork and fat bacon.
‘are you this shiny new postmaster we’ve been hearing about?’
‘that’s right.’
‘yeah, well, your man was already here,’ said the toaster. ‘went on and on about how we should do this and do that, never said anything about the price!’
‘a price?’ said moist, spreading out his hands and beaming. ‘is that all this is about? easily done. easily done.’
he turned, opened the door and shouted: ‘okay, gladys!’
there was some shouting in the darkness of the yard, and then the creak of timber.
‘what the hell did you do?’ said the spherical man.
‘my price is this,’ said moist. ‘you agree to carry my mail, and you won’t have another wheel dragged off that mail coach out there. i can’t say fairer than that, okay?’
the man lumbered forward, growling, but the other coachman grabbed his coat.
‘steady there, jim,’ he said. ‘he’s gov’ment and he’s got golems working for ‘im.’
on cue, mr pump stepped into the room, bending to get through the doorway. jim scowled at him.
‘that don’t frighten me!’ said jim. ‘they ain’t allowed to hurt folks!’
‘wrong,’ said moist. ‘probably dead wrong.’
‘then we’ll call the watch on yer,’ said harry upwright, still holding back his brother. ‘all proper and official. how d’you like that?’
‘good, call the watch,’ said moist. ‘and i shall tell them i’m recovering stolen property.’ he raised his voice. ‘gladys!’
there was another crash from outside.
‘stolen? those coaches are ours!’ said harry upwright.
‘wrong again, i’m afraid,’ said moist. ‘mr pump?’
‘the mail coaches were never sold off,’ the golem rumbled. ‘they are the property of the post office. no rent has been paid for the use of post office property.’
‘right, that’s it!’ jim roared, shaking his brother away. mr pump’s fists rose, instantly.
the world paused.
‘hold on, jim, hold on just one minute,’ said harry upwright carefully. ‘what’s your game, mr postman? the coaches always used to carry passengers too, right? and then there was no mail to take but people still wanted to travel, and the coaches were just standing around and the horses were needing to be fed, so our dad paid for the fodder and the vet’s bills and no one—’
‘just take my mail,’ said moist. ‘that’s all. every coach takes the mailbags and drops them off where i say. that’s all. tell me where you’ll get a better deal tonight, eh? you could try your luck pleading finders keepers to vetinari but that’d take a while to sort out and in the meantime you’d lose all that lovely revenue . . . no? okay. glady—’
‘no! no! wait a minute,’ said harry. ‘just the mailbags? that’s all?’
‘what?’ said jim. ‘you want to negotiate? why? they say possession’s nine points of the law, right?’
‘and i possess a lot of golems, mr upwright,’ said moist. ‘and you don’t possess any deeds, mortgages or bills of sale.’
‘yeah? and you won’t possess any teeth, mister!’ said jim, rolling forward.
‘now, now,’ said moist, stepping quickly in front of mr pump and raising a hand. ‘don’t kill me again, mr upwright.’
both the brothers looked puzzled.
‘i’ll swear jim never laid a finger on you, and that’s the truth,’ said harry. ‘what’s your game?’
‘oh, he did, harry,’ said moist. ‘lost his temper, took a swing, i went over, hit my head on that old bench there, got up not knowing where the hell i was, you tried to hold jim back, he hit me with that chair, the one just there, and down i went for keeps. the golems got you, harry, but jim went on the run, only to be tracked down by the watch in sto lat. oh, what scenes, what chases, and you both ended up in the tanty, the charge against the pair of you being murder—’
‘here, i didn’t hit you with the chair!’ said harry, eyes wide. ‘it was ji— here, hang on a minute . . .’
‘—and this morning mr trooper measured you up for the last necktie and there you were, standing in that room under the gallows, knowing that you’d lost your business, you’d lost your coaches, you’d lost your fine horses, and in two minutes—’
moist let the sentence hang in the air.
‘and?’ said harry. both brothers were watching him with expressions of horrified confusion which would coalesce into violence inside five seconds if this didn’t work. keeping them off balance was the ticket.
moist counted to four in his head, while smiling beatifically. ‘and then an angel appeared,’ he said.
ten minutes can change a lot. it was enough to brew two cups of tea thick enough to spread on bread.
the brothers upwright probably didn’t believe in angels. but they believed in bullshit, and were the type to admire it when it was delivered with panache. there’s a kind of big, outdoor sort of man who’s got no patience at all with prevaricators and fibbers, but will applaud any man who can tell an outrageous whopper with a gleam in his eye.
‘funny you should turn up tonight,’ said harry.
‘oh? why?’
‘ ‘cos a man from the grand trunk came round this afternoon and offered us big money for the business. too much money, you could say.’
oh, thought moist, something’s starting . . .
‘but you, mr lipwig, is giving us nothing but attitude and threats,’ said jim. ‘care to raise your offer?’
‘okay. bigger threats,’ said moist. ‘but i’ll throw in a new paint job on every coach, gratis. be sensible, gentlemen. you’ve had an easy ride, but now we’re back in business. all you have to do is what you’ve always done, but you’ll carry my mail. come on, there’s a lady waiting for me and you know you shouldn’t keep a lady waiting. what do you say?’
‘is she an angel?’ said harry.
‘he probably hopes not, hur, hur.’ jim had a laugh like a bull clearing its throat.
‘hur, hur,’ said moist solemnly. ‘just carry the bags, gents. the post office is going places and you could be in the driving seat.’
the brothers exchanged a glance. then they grinned. it was as if one grin spread across two glistening red faces.
‘our dad would’ve liked you,’ said jim.
‘he sure as hell wouldn’t like the grand trunk devils,’ said harry. ‘they need cutting down to size, mr lipwig, and people are saying you’re the man to do it.’
‘people die on them towers,’ said jim. ‘we see, you know. damn right! the towers follows the coach roads. we used to have the contract to haul lads out to the towers and we heard ‘em talking. they used to have an hour a day when they shut the whole trunk down for maint’nance.’
‘the hour of the dead, they called it,’ said harry. ‘just before dawn. that’s when people die.’
across a continent, the line of light, beads on the pre-dawn darkness. and, then, the hour of the dead begins, at either end of the grand trunk, as the upline and downline shutters clear their messages and stop moving, one after the other.
the men of the towers had prided themselves on the speed with which they could switch their towers from black and white daylight transmission to the light and dark mode of the night. on a good day they could do it with barely a break in transmission, clinging to swaying ladders high above the ground while around them the shutters rattled and chattered. there were heroes who’d lit all sixteen lamps on a big tower in less than a minute, sliding down ladders, swinging on ropes, keeping their tower alive. ‘alive’ was the word they used. no one wanted a dark tower, not even for a minute.
the hour of the dead was different. that was one hour for repairs, replacements, maybe even some paperwork. it was mostly replacements. it was fiddly to repair a shutter high up on the tower with the wind making it tremble and freezing the blood in your fingers, and always better to swing it out and down to the ground and slot another one in place. but when you were running out of time, it was tempting to brave the wind and try to free the bloody shutters by hand.
sometimes the wind won. the hour of the dead was when men died.
and when a man died, they sent him home by clacks.
moist’s mouth dropped open. ‘huh?’
‘that’s what they call it,’ said harry. ‘not lit’rally, o’ course. but they send his name from one end of the trunk to the other, ending up at the tower nearest his home.’
‘yeah, but they say sometimes the person stays on in the towers, somehow,’ said jim.’ “living in the overhead”, they call it.’
‘but they’re mostly pissed when they say that,’ said harry.
‘oh, yes, mostly pissed, i’ll grant you,’ said his brother. ‘they get worked too hard. there’s no hour of the dead now; they only get twenty minutes. they cut the staff, too. they used to run a slow service on octedays; now it’s high speed all the time, except towers keep breaking down. we seen lads come down from them towers with their eyes spinning and their hands shaking and no idea if it’s bum or breakfast time. it drives ‘em mad. eh? damn right!’
‘except that they’re already mad,’ said harry. ‘you’d have to be mad to work up in them things.’
‘they get so mad even ordinary mad people think they’re mad.’
‘that’s right. but they still go back up there. the clacks drives them back. the clacks owns them, gets into their souls,’ said harry. ‘they get paid practically nothing but i’ll swear they’d go up those towers for free.’
‘the grand trunk runs on blood now, since the new gang took over. it’s killin’ men for money,’ said jim.
harry drained his mug. ‘we won’t have none of it,’ he said. ‘we’ll run your mail for you, mr lipwig, for all that you wear a damn silly hat.’
‘tell me,’ said moist, ‘have you ever heard of something called the smoking gnu?’
‘dunno much,’ said jim. ‘a couple of the boys mentioned them once. some kind of outlaw signallers, or something. something to do with the overhead.’
‘what is the overhead? er . . . dead people live in it?’
‘look, mr lipwig, we just listen, okay,’ said jim. ‘we chat to ‘em nice and easy, ‘cos when they come down from the towers they’re so dozy they’ll walk under your coach wheels—’
‘it’s the rocking in the wind,’ said harry. ‘they walk like sailors.’
‘right. the overhead? well, they say a lot of the messages the clacks carries is about the clacks, okay? orders from the company, housekeeping messages, messages about messages—’
‘—dead men’s names—’ said moist.
‘yeah, them too. well, the smoking gnu is in there somewhere,’ jim went on. ‘that’s all i know. i drive coaches, mr lipwig. i ain’t a clever man like them up on the towers. hah, i’m stupid enough to keep my feet on the ground!’
‘tell mr lipwig about tower 93, jim,’ said harry. ‘make ‘is flesh creep!’
‘yeah, heard about that one?’ said jim, looking slyly at moist.
‘no. what happened?’
‘only two lads were up there, where there should’ve been three. one of them went out in a gale to budge a stuck shutter, which he shouldn’t’ve done, and fell off and got his safety rope tangled round his neck. so the other bloke rushed out to get him, without his safety rope - which he shouldn’t’ve done - and they reckon he got blown right off the tower.’
‘that’s horrible,’ said moist. ‘not creepy, though. as such.’
‘oh, you want the creepy bit? ten minutes after they was both dead the tower sent a message for help. sent by a dead man’s hand.’ jim stood up and put his tricorn hat on. ‘got to take a coach out in twenty minutes. nice to meet you, mr lipwig.’ he pulled open a drawer in the battered desk and pulled out a length of lead pipe. ‘that’s for highwaymen,’ he said, and then took out a big silver brandy flask. ‘and this is for me,’ he added with rather more satisfaction. ‘eh? damn right!’
and i thought the post office was full of crazy people, moist thought.
‘thank you,’ he said, standing. then he remembered the strange letter in his pocket, for whatever use it was, and added: ‘have you got a coach stopping at pseudopolis tomorrow?’
‘yeah, at ten o’clock,’ said harry.
‘we’ll have a bag for it,’ said moist.
‘is is worth it?’ said jim. ‘it’s more’n fifty miles, and i heard they’ve got the trunk repaired. it’s a stoppin’ coach, won’t get there ‘til nearly dark.’
‘got to make the effort, jim,’ said moist.
the coachman gave him a look with a little glint that indicated he thought moist was up to something, but said: ‘well, you’re game, i’ll say that for you. we’ll wait for your bag, mr lipwig, and the best of luck to you. must rush, sir.’
‘what coach are you taking out?’ said moist.
til take the first two stages of the overnight flyer to quirm, leaving at seven,’ said jim. ‘if it’s still got all its wheels.’
‘it’s nearly seven?’
‘twenty to, sir.’
‘i’ll be late!’
the coachmen watched him run back across the yard, with mr pump and gladys trailing slowly behind.
jim pulled on his thick leather gauntlets, thoughtfully, and then said to his brother: ‘you know how you get them funny feelings?’
‘i reckon i do, jim.’
‘and would you reckon there’ll be a clacks failure between here and pseudopolis tomorrow?’
‘funny you should mention that. mind you, it’d be a two to one bet anyway, the way things have been going. maybe he’s just a betting man, jim.’
‘yeah,’ said jim. ‘yeah. eh? damn right!’
moist struggled out of the golden suit. it was good advertising, no doubt about it, and when he wore it he felt he had style coming out of his ears, but wearing something like that to the mended drum meant that he wanted to be hit over the head with a stool and what would come out of his ears wouldn’t bear thinking about.
he threw the winged hat on the bed and struggled into his second golem-made suit. sombre, he’d said. you had to hand it to golem tailoring. the suit was so black that if it had been sprinkled with stars the owls would have collided with it. he needed more time but adora belle dearheart was not someone you felt you should keep waiting.
‘you look fine, sir,’ said groat.
‘thanks, thanks,’ said moist, struggling with his tie. ‘you’re in charge, mr groat. should all be quiet this evening. remember, first thing tomorrow, all mail for pseudopolis ten pence a go, okay?’
‘right you are, sir. can i wear the hat now?’ groat pleaded.
‘what? what?’ said moist, staring into the mirror. ‘look, have i got spinach between my teeth?’
‘have you eaten spinach today, sir?’ said mr pump.
‘i haven’t eaten spinach since i was old enough to spit,’ said moist. ‘but people always worry about that at a time like this, don’t they? i thought it just turned up somehow. you know . . . like moss? what was it you asked me, tolliver?’
‘can i wear the hat, sir?’ said groat patiently. ‘bein’ as i’m your deputy and you’re going out, sir.’
‘but we’re closed, groat.’
‘yes, but . . . it’s . . . i’d just like to wear the hat. for a while, sir. just for a while, sir. if it’s all right with you.’ groat shifted from one foot to the other. ‘i mean, i will be in charge.’
moist sighed. ‘yes, of course, mr groat. you may wear the hat. mr pump?’
‘yes, sir?’
‘mr groat is in charge for the evening. you will not follow me, please.’
‘no, i will not. my day off begins now. for all of us. we will return at sunset tomorrow,’ said the golem.
‘oh . . . yes.’ one day off every week, miss dearheart said. it was part of what distinguished golems from hammers. ‘i wish you’d given me more warning, you know? we’re going to be a bit short-staffed.’
‘you were told, mr lipvig.’
‘yes, yes. it is a rule. it’s just that tomorrow is going to be—’
‘don’t you worry about a thing, sir,’ said groat. ‘some of the lads i hired today, sir, they’re postmen’s sons, sir, and grandsons. no problem, sir. they’ll be out delivering tomorrow.’
‘oh. good. that’s fine, then.’ moist adjusted the tie again. a black tie on a black shirt under a black jacket isn’t easy even to find. ‘all right, mr pump? still no attack of spinach? i’m going to see a lady.’
‘yes, mr lipvig. miss dearheart,’ said the golem calmly.
‘how did you know that?’ said moist.
‘you shouted it out in front of approximately a hundred people, mr lipvig,’ said mr pump. ‘we - that is to say, mr lipvig, all the golems - we wish miss dearheart was a happier lady. she has had much trouble. she is looking for someone with—’
‘—a cigarette lighter?’ said moist quickly. ‘stop right there, mr pump, please! cupids are these . . . little overweight kids in nappies, all right? not big clay people.’
‘anghammarad said she reminded him of lela the volcano goddess, who smokes all the time because the god of rain has rained on her lava,’ the golem went on.
‘yes, but women always complain about that sort of thing,’ said moist. ‘i look all right, mr groat, do i?’
‘oh, sir,’ said groat, ‘i shouldn’t think mr moist von lipwig ever has to worry when he’s off to meet a young lady, eh?’
come to think of it, moist came to think as he hurried through the crowded streets, he never has been off to meet a young lady. not in all these years. oh, albert and all the rest of them had met hundreds, and had all kinds of fun, including once getting his jaw dislocated which was only fun in a no-fun-at-all kind of way. but moist, never. he’d always been behind the false moustache or glasses or, really, just the false person. he had that naked feeling again, and began to wish he hadn’t left his golden suit behind.
when he reached the mended drum he remembered why he had.
people kept telling him that ankh-morpork was a lot more civilized these days, that between them the watch and the guilds had settled things down enough to ensure that actually being attacked while going about your lawful business in ankh-morpork was now merely a possibility instead of, as it once was, a matter of course. and the streets were so clean now that you could sometimes even see the street.
but the mended drum could be depended upon. if someone didn’t come out of the door backwards and fall down in the street just as you passed, then there was something wrong with the world.
and there was a fight going on. more or less. but in some ways at least time had moved on. you couldn’t just haul off and belt someone with an axe these days. people expected things of a bar brawl. as he went in moist passed a large group of men of the broken-nosed, one-eared persuasion, bent in anxious conclave.
‘look, bob, what part of this don’t you understand, eh? it’s a matter of style, okay? a proper brawl doesn’t just happen. you don’t just pile in, not any more. now, oyster dave here - put your helmet back on, dave - will be the enemy in front and basalt who, as we know, don’t need a helmet, he’ll be the enemy coming up behind you. okay, it’s well past knuckles time, let’s say gravy there has done his thing with the bench swipe, there’s a bit of knifeplay, we’ve done the whole chandelier swing number, blah blah blah, then second chair - that’s you, bob - you step smartly between their number five man and a bottler, swing the chair back over your head like this - sorry, pointy -and then swing it right back on to number five, bang, crash, and there’s a cushy six points in your pocket. if they’re playing a dwarf at number five then a chair won’t even slow him down but don’t fret, hang on to the bits that stay in your hand, pause one moment as he comes at you and then belt him across both ears. they hate that, as stronginthearm here will tell you. another three points. it’s probably going to be freestyle after that but i want all of you, including mucky mick and crispo, to try for a double andrew when it gets down to the fist-fighting again. remember? you back into each other, turn round to give the other guy a thumping, cue moment of humorous recognition, then link left arms, swing round and see to the other fellow’s attacker, foot or fist, it’s your choice. fifteen points right there if you get it to flow just right. oh, and remember we’ll have an igor standing by, so if your arm gets taken off do pick it up and hit the other bugger with it - it gets a laugh and twenty points. on that subject, do remember what i said about getting everything tattooed with your name, all right? igors do their best, but you’ll be on your feet much quicker if you make life easier for him and, what’s more, it’s your feet you’ll be on. okay, positions everyone, let’s run through it again . . .’
moist sidled past the group and scanned the huge room. the important thing was not to slow down. slowing down attracted people.
he saw a thin plume of blue smoke rise above the crowd, and forced his way through.
miss dearheart was sitting alone at a very small table with a very small drink in front of her. she couldn’t have been there long; the only other stool was unoccupied.
‘do you come in here often?’ said moist, slipping on to it quickly.
miss dearheart raised her eyebrows at him. ‘yes. why not?’
‘well, i . . . i imagine it’s not very safe for a woman on her own.’
‘what, with all these big strong men here to protect me? why don’t you go and get your drink?’
moist got to the bar eventually, by dropping a handful of small change on the floor. that usually cleared the crush a little.
when he returned, his seat was occupied by a currently friendly drunk. moist recognized the type, and the operative word was ‘currently’. miss dearheart was leaning back to avoid his attentions and more probably his breath.
moist heard the familiar cry of the generously sloshed.
‘what . . . right? what i’m saying is, right, what i’m saying, narhmean, why won’t you, right, gimme a kiss, right? all i’m saying is—’
oh gods, i’m going to have to do something, moist thought. he’s big and he’s got a sword like a butcher’s cleaver and the moment i say anything he’s going to go right into stage four, violent undirected madman, and they can be surprisingly accurate before they fall over.
he put down his drink.
miss dearheart gave him a very brief look, and shook her head. there was movement under the table, a small fleshy kind of noise and the drunk suddenly bent forward, colour draining from his face. probably only he and moist heard miss dearheart purr: ‘what is sticking in your foot is a mitzy “pretty lucretia” four-inch heel, the most dangerous footwear in the world. considered as pounds per square inch, it’s like being trodden on by a very pointy elephant. now, i know what you’re thinking: you’re thinking, “could she press it all the way through to the floor?” and, you know, i’m not sure about that myself. the sole of your boot might give me a bit of trouble, but nothing else will. but that’s not the worrying part. the worrying part is that i was forced practically at knifepoint to take ballet lessons as a child, which means i can kick like a mule; you are sitting in front of me; and i have another shoe. good, i can see you have worked that out. i’m going to withdraw the heel now.’
there was a small ‘pop’ from under the table. with great care the man stood up, turned and, without a backward glance, lurched unsteadily away.
‘can i bother you?’ said moist. miss dearheart nodded, and he sat down, with his legs crossed. ‘he was only a drunk,’ he ventured.
‘yes, men say that sort of thing,’ said miss dearheart. ‘anyway, tell me that if i hadn’t done that you wouldn’t now be trying to collect all your teeth in your hat. which you are not wearing, i notice. this must be your secret identity. sorry, was that the wrong thing to say? you spilled your drink.’
moist wiped beer off his lapel. ‘no, this is me,’ he said. ‘pure and unadorned.’
‘you hardly know me and yet you invited me out on a date,’ said miss dearheart. ‘why?’
because you called me a phoney, moist thought. you saw through me straight away. because you didn’t nail my head to the door with your crossbow. because you have no small talk. because i’d like to get to know you better, even though it would be like smooching an ashtray. because i wonder if you could put into the rest of your life the passion you put into smoking a cigarette. in defiance of miss maccalariat i’d like to commit hanky-panky with you, miss adora belle dearheart . . . well, certainly hanky, and possibly panky when we get to know one another better. i’d like to know as much about your soul as you know about mine . . .
he said: ‘because i hardly know you.’
‘if it comes to that, i hardly know you, either,’ said miss dearheart.
‘i’m rather banking on that,’ said moist. this got a smile.
‘smooth answer. slick. where are we really eating tonight?’
‘le foie heureux, of course,’ said moist.
she looked genuinely surprised. ‘you got a reservation?’
‘oh, yes.’
‘you’ve got a relative that works there, then? you’re blackmailing the ma?tre d’?’
‘no. but i’ve got a table for tonight,’ said moist.
‘then it’s some sort of trick,’ said miss dearheart. ‘i’m impressed. but i’d better warn you, enjoy the meal. it may be your last.’
‘what?’
‘the grand trunk company kills people, mr lipwig. in all kinds of ways. you must be getting on reacher gilt’s nerves.’
‘oh, come on! i’m barely a wasp at their picnic!’
‘and what do people do to wasps, do you think?’ said miss dearheart. ‘the trunk is in trouble, mr lipwig. the company has been running it as a machine for making money. they thought repair would be cheaper than maintenance. they’ve cut everything to the bone - to the bone. they’re people who can’t take a joke. do you think reacher gilt will hesitate for one minute to swat you?’
‘but i’m being very—’ moist tried.
‘do you think you’re playing a game with them? ringing doorbells and running away? gilt’s aiming to become patrician one day, everyone says so. and suddenly there’s this . . . this idiot in a big gold hat reminding everyone what a mess the clacks is, poking fun at it, getting the post office working again—’
‘hang on, hang on,’ moist managed. ‘this is a city, not some cow town somewhere! people don’t kill business rivals just like that, do they?’
‘in ankh-morpork? you really think so? oh, he won’t kill you. he won’t even bother with the formality of going through the guild of assassins. you’ll just die. just like my brother. and he’ll be behind it.’
‘your brother?’ said moist. on the far side of the huge room, the evening’s fight began with a well-executed looking-at-me-in-a-funny-way, earning two points and a broken tooth.
‘he and some of the people who used to work on the trunk before it was pirated - pirated, mr lipwig - were going to start up a new trunk,’ said miss dearheart, leaning forward. ‘they’d scraped up funding somehow for a few demonstration towers. it was going to be more than four times as fast as the old system, they were going to do all kinds of clever things with the coding, it was going to be wonderful. a lot of people gave them their savings, people who’d worked for my father. most of the good engineers left when my father lost the trunk, you see. they couldn’t stand gilt and his bunch of looters. my brother was going to get all our money back.’
‘you’ve lost me there,’ said moist. an axe landed in the table, and juddered.
miss dearheart stared at moist and blew a stream of smoke past his ear.
‘my father was robert dearheart,’ she said distantly. ‘he was chairman of the original grand trunk company. the clacks was his vision. hell, he designed half of the mechanisms in the towers. and he got together with a group of other engineers, all serious men with slide rules, and they borrowed money and mortgaged their houses and built a local system and poured the money back in and started building the trunk. there was a lot of money coming in; every city wanted to be in on it, everyone was going to be rich. we had stables. i had a horse. admittedly i didn’t like it much, but i used to feed it and watch it run about or whatever it is they do. everything was going fine and suddenly he got this letter and there were meetings and they said he was lucky not to go to prison for, oh, i don’t know, something complicated and legal. but the clacks was still making huge amounts. can you understand that? reacher gilt and his gang acted friendly, oh yes, but they were buying up the mortgages and controlling banks and moving numbers around and they pulled the grand trunk out from under us like thieves. all they want to do is make money. they don’t care about the trunk. they’ll run it into the ground and make more money by selling it. when dad was in charge people were proud of what they did. and because they were engineers they made sure that the towers worked properly, all the time. they even had what they called “walking towers”, prefabricated ones that packed on to a couple of big carts so that if a tower was having serious trouble they could set this one up alongside and start it up and take over the traffic without dropping a single code. they were proud of it, everyone was, they were proud to be a part of it!’
‘you should’ve been there. you should’ve seen it!’ moist said to himself. he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. across the room, a man hit another man with his own leg and picked up seven points.
‘yes,’ said miss dearheart. ‘you should have. and three months ago my brother john raised enough to start a rival to the trunk. that took some doing. gilt has got tentacles everywhere. well, john ended up dead in a field. they said he hadn’t clipped his safety rope on. he always did. and now my father just sits and stares at the wall. he even lost his workshop when everything got taken away. we lost our house, of course. now we live with my aunt in dolly sisters. that’s what we’ve come to. when reacher gilt talks about freedom he means his, not anyone else’s. and now you pop up, mr moist von lipwig, all shiny and new, running around doing everything at once. why?’
‘vetinari offered me the job, that’s all,’ said moist.
‘why did you take it?’
‘it was a job for life.’
she stared at moist so hard that he began to feel uncomfortable. ‘well, you’ve managed to get a table at le foie heureux at a few hours’ notice,’ she conceded, as a knife struck a beam behind her. ‘are you still going to lie if i ask you how?’
‘yes, i think so.’
‘good. shall we go?’
a little pressure lamp burned in the stuffy snugness of the locker room, its glow a globe of unusual brilliance. in the centre of it, magnifying glass in hand, stanley examined his stamps.
this was . . . heaven. peas are known for their thoroughness, and stanley was conscientious in the extreme. mr spools, slightly unnerved by his smile, had given him all the test sheets and faulty pages, and stanley was carefully cataloguing them - how many of each, what the errors were, everything.
a little tendril of guilt was curling through his mind: this was better than pins, it really was. there could be no end to stamps. you could put anything on them. they were amazing. they could move letters around and then you could stick them in a book, all neat. you wouldn’t get ‘pinhead’s thumb’, either.
he’d read about this feeling in the pin magazines. they said you could come unpinned. girls and marriage were sometimes mentioned in this context. sometimes an ex-head would sell off his whole collection, just like that. or at some pin-meet someone would suddenly throw all their pins in the air and run out shouting, ‘aargh, they’re just pins!’ up until now, such a thing had been unthinkable to stanley.
he picked up his little sack of unsorted pins, and stared at it. a few days ago, the mere thought of an evening with his pins would have given him a lovely warm, comfortable feeling inside. but now it was time to put away childish pins.
something screamed.
it was harsh, guttural, it was malice and hunger given a voice. small huddling shrew-like creatures had once heard sounds like that, circling over the swamps.
after a moment of ancient terror had subsided, stanley crept over and opened the door.
‘h-hello?’ he called, into the cavernous darkness of the hall. ‘is there anyone there?’
there was fortunately no reply, but there was some scrabbling up near the roof.
‘we’re closed, you know,’ he quavered. ‘but we’re open again at seven in the morning for a range of stamps and a wonderful deal on mail to pseudopolis.’ his voice slowed and his brow creased as he tried to remember everything mr lipwig had told them earlier. ‘remember, we may not be the fastest but we always get there. why not write to your old granny?’
‘i ate my grandmother,’ growled a voice from high in the darkness. ‘i gnawed her bones.’
stanley coughed. he had not been trained in the art of salesmanship.
‘ah,’ he said. ‘er . . . perhaps an aunt, then?’
he wrinkled his nose. why was there the stink of lamp oil in the air?
‘hello?’ he said again.
something dropped out of the dark, bounced off his shoulder and landed on the floor with a wet thud. stanley reached down, felt around and found a pigeon. at least, he found about half a pigeon. it was still warm, and very sticky.
mr gryle sat on a beam high above the hall. his stomach was on fire. it was no good, old habits died too hard. they were bred in the bone. something warm and feathery fluttered up in front of you and of course you snapped at it. ankh-morpork had pigeons roosting on every gutter, cornice and statue. not even the resident gargoyles could keep them down. he’d had six before he sailed in through the broken dome, and then another huge warm feathery cloud had risen up and a red haze had simply dropped in front of his eyes.
they were so tasty. you couldn’t stop at one! and five minutes later you remembered why you should have done.
these were feral, urban birds, that lived on what they could find on the streets. ankh-morpork streets, at that. they were bobbing, cooing plague pits. you might as well eat a dog turd burger and wash it down with a jumbo cup of septic tank.
mr gryle groaned. best to finish the job, get out of here and go and throw up over a busy street. he dropped his oil bottle into the dark and fumbled for his matches. his species had come to fire late, because nests burned too easily, but it did have its uses . . .
flame blossomed, high up at the far end of the hall. it dropped from the beams and landed on the stacks of letters. there was a whoomph as the oil caught fire; blue runnels of flame began to climb the walls.
stanley looked down. a few feet away, lit by the fire crawling across the letters, was a figure curled up on the floor. the golden hat with wings lay next to it.
stanley looked up, eyes glowing red in the firelight, as a figure swooped from the rafters and sped towards him, mouth open.
and that’s when it all went wrong for mr gryle, because stanley had one of his little moments.
attitude was everything. moist had studied attitude. some of the old nobility had it. it was the total lack of any doubt that things would go the way they expected them to go.
the maitre d’ ushered them to their table without a moment’s hesitation.
‘can you really afford this on a government salary, mr lipwig?’ said miss dearheart as they sat down. ‘or are we going to exit via the kitchens?’
‘i believe i have adequate funds,’ said moist.
he probably hadn’t, he knew. a restaurant that has a waiter even for the mustard stacks up the prices. but right now moist wasn’t worrying about the bill. there were ways to deal with bills, and it was best to deal with them on a full stomach.
they ordered starters that probably cost more than the weekly food bill for an average man. there was no point in looking for the cheapest thing on the menu. the cheapest thing theoretically existed but somehow, no matter how hard you stared, didn’t quite manage to be there. on the other hand, there were a lot of most expensive things.
‘are the boys settling in okay?’ said miss dearheart.
the boys, moist thought. ‘oh, yes. anghammarad has really taken to it. a natural postman,’ he said.
‘well, he’s had practice.’
‘what’s that box he’s got riveted to his arm?’
‘that? a message he’s got to deliver. not the original baked clay tablet, i gather. he’s had to make copies two or three times and the bronze lasts hardly any time at all, to a golem. it’s a message to king het of thut from his astrologers on their holy mountain, telling him that the goddess of the sea was angry and what ceremonies he’d have to do to placate her.’
‘didn’t thut slide into the sea anyway? i thought he said—’
‘yeah, yeah, anghammarad got there too late and was swept away by the ferocious tidal wave and the island sank.’
‘so . . . ?’ said moist.
‘so what?’ said miss dearheart.
‘so . . . he doesn’t think that delivering it now might be a bit on the tardy side?’
‘no. he doesn’t. you’re not seeing it like a golem. they believe the universe is doughnut-shaped.’
‘would that be a ring doughnut or a jam doughnut?’ said moist.
‘ring, definitely, but don’t push for further culinary details, because i can see you’ll try to make a joke of it. they think it has no start or finish. we just keep going round and round, but we don’t have to make the same decisions every time.’
‘like getting an angel the hard way,’ said moist.
‘what do you mean?’ said miss dearheart.
‘er . . . he’s waiting until the whole tidal wave business comes around again and this time he’ll get there earlier and do it right?’
‘yes. don’t point out all the flaws in the idea. it works for him.’
‘he’s going to wait for millions and millions of years?’ said moist.
‘that’s not a flaw, not to a golem. that’s only a matter of time. they don’t get bored. they repair themselves and they’re very hard to shatter. they survive under the sea or in red-hot lava. he might be able to do it, who knows? in the meantime, he keeps himself busy. just like you, mr lipwig. you’ve been very busy—’
she froze, staring over his shoulder. he saw her right hand scrabble frantically among the cutlery and grab a knife.
‘that bastard has just walked into the place!’ she hissed. ‘readier gilt! i’ll just kill him and join you for the pudding . . .’
‘you can’t do that!’ hissed moist.
‘oh? why not?’
‘you’re using the wrong knife! that’s for the fish! you’ll get into trouble!’
she glared at him, but her hand relaxed and something like a smile appeared.
‘they don’t have a knife for stabbing rich murdering bastards?’ she said.
‘they bring it to the table when you order one,’ said moist urgently. ‘look, this isn’t the drum, they don’t just throw the body on to the river! they’ll call the watch! get a grip. not on the knife! and get ready to run.’
‘why?’
‘because i forged his signature on grand trunk notepaper to get us in here, that’s why.’
moist turned round to look at the great man in the flesh for the first time. he was great, a bear-shaped man, in a frock coat big enough for two and a gold-braid waistcoat. and he had a cockatoo on his shoulder, although a waiter was hurrying forward with a shiny brass perch and, presumably, the seed-and-nut menu.
there was a party of well-dressed people with gilt, and as they progressed across the room the whole place began to revolve around the big man, gold being very dense and having a gravity all of its own. waiters bustled and grovelled and did unimportant things with an air of great importance, and it was probably only a matter of minutes before one of them told gilt that his other guests had been seated. but moist was scanning the rest of the room for the— ah, there they were, two of them. what was it about hired muscle that made it impossible to get a suit to fit?
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 maitre 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 humour. ‘but you appear to have me at a disadvantage.’
t 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 steel-worker’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 honourable 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 per cent, for heavens’ 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 round 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. while he screamed she dragged the bewildered moist away.
‘water . . . we’ve got to get water,’ he groaned. ‘they’re burning! they’re all burning!’
