Going Postal

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! Goodbye!'

‘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.'

Moist 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 that 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 sank 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 heavens' sake?' he complained.

‘A Quarter To Seven, Mr Lipvig.'

‘That's still night time! Doesn't the man ever sleep? What's so important that I've got to be dragged off my nice warm pile of letters?'

The clock in Lord Vetinari's ante-room 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-defence 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 back side?'

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? It'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 light-hearted, and 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 of 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 pre-dating 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 have been 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 sorr—' 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,' Vetinari smiled, ‘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 Lipwig. 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.'