‘That would explain why the smell of sausages is always better than the actual sausage, then?' said Moist. ‘I've often noticed that.'
The priest was impressed. ‘Are you a theologian, sir?' he said.
‘I'm in... a similar line of work,' said Moist. ‘But what I'm getting at is this: if you were to read this letter it would be as though Offler himself was reading it, am I right? Through your eyeballs the spirit of the letter would ascend unto Offler? And then I could give you the sausages.'
The young priest looked desperately around the temple. It was too early in the morning. When your god, metaphorically, doesn't do much until the sandbanks have got nice and warm, the senior priests tend to lie in.
‘I suppose so,' he said reluctantly. ‘But would you rather wait until Deacon Jones gets—'
‘I'm in rather a hurry,' said Moist. There was a pause. ‘I've brought some honey mustard,' he added. ‘The perfect accompaniment to sausages.'
Suddenly, the priest was all attention. ‘What sort?' he said.
‘Mrs Edith Leakall's Premium Reserve,' said Moist, holding up the jar.
The young man's face lit up. He was low in the hierarchy and got barely more sausage than Offler.
‘God, that's the expensive stuff!' he breathed.
‘Yes, it's the hint of wild garlic that does it,' said Moist. ‘But perhaps I should wait until Deacon—'
The priest grabbed the letter and the jar. ‘No, no, I can see you are in a hurry,' he said. ‘I'll do it right away. It's probably a request for help, yes?'
‘Yes. I'd like Offler to let the light of his eyes and the gleam of his teeth shine on my colleague Tolliver Groat, who is in the Lady Sybil Hospital,' said Moist.
‘Oh, yes,' said the acolyte, relieved, ‘we often do this sort of—'
‘And I would also like one hundred and fifty thousand dollars,' Moist went on. ‘Ankh-Morpork dollars preferred, of course, but other reasonably hard currencies would be acceptable.'
There was a certain spring in his step as Moist walked back to the ruin of the Post Office. He'd sent letters to Offler, Om and Blind Io, all important gods, and also to Anoia, a minor goddess of Things That Stick In Drawers.* She had no temple and was handled by a jobbing priestess in Cable Street, but Moist had a feeling that by the end of the day Anoia was destined for higher things. He only picked her because he liked the name.
* Often, but not uniquely, a ladle, but sometimes a metal spatula or, rarely, a mechanical egg-whisk that nobody in the house admits to ever buying. The desperate mad rattling and cries of ‘How can it close on the damn thing but not open with it? Who bought this? Do we ever use it?' is as praise unto Anoia. She also eats corkscrews.
He'd leave it about an hour. Gods worked fast, didn't they?
The Post Office was no better by grey daylight. About half of the building was still standing. Even with tarpaulins, the area under cover was small and dank. People were milling around, uncertain of what to do.
He'd tell them.
The first person he saw was George Aggy, heading for him at a high-speed hobble.
‘Terrible thing, sir, terrible thing. I came as soon as—' he began.
‘Good to see you, George. How's the leg?'
‘What? Oh, feels fine, sir. Glows in the dark, but on the other hand that's a great saving in candles. What are we—'
‘You're my deputy while Mr Groat's in hospital,' said Moist. ‘How many postmen can you muster?'
‘About a dozen, sir, but what shall we—'
‘Get the mail moving, Mr Aggy! That's what we do. Tell everyone that today's special is Pseudopolis for ten pence, guaranteed! Everyone else can get on with cleaning up. There's still some roof left. We're open as usual. More open than usual.'
‘But...' Aggy's words failed him, and he waved at the debris. ‘All this?'
‘Neither rain nor fire, Mr Aggy!' said Moist sharply.
‘Doesn't say that on the motto, sir,' said Aggy.
‘It will by tomorrow. Ah, Jim...'
The coachman bore down on Moist, his enormous driving cape flapping.
‘It was bloody Gilt, wasn't it!' he growled. ‘Arson around! What can we do for you, Mr Lipwig?'
‘Can you still run a service to Pseudopolis today?' said Moist.
‘Yes,' said Jim. ‘Harry and the lads got all the horses out as soon as they smelled smoke, and only lost one coach. We'll help you, damn right about that, but the Trunk is running okay. You'll be wasting your time.'
‘You provide the wheels, Jim, and I'll give them something to carry,' said Moist. ‘We'll have a bag for you at ten.'
‘You're very certain, Mr Lipwig,' said Jim, putting his head on one side.
‘An angel came and told me in my sleep,' said Moist.
Jim grinned. ‘Ah, that'd be it, then. An angel, eh? A very present help in times of trouble, or so I'm given to understand.'
‘So I believe,' said Moist, and went up to the draughty, smoke-blackened, three-walled cave that was the wreckage of his office. He brushed off the ash from the chair, reached into his pocket, and put the Smoking Gnu's letter on his desk.
The only people who could know when a clacks tower would break down must work for the company, right? Or used to work for it, more likely. Hah. That's how things happened. That bank in Sto Lat, for example - he'd never have been able to forge those bills if that bent clerk hadn't sold him that old ledger with all the signatures in. That had been a good day.
The Grand Trunk mustn't just make enemies, it must mass-produce them. And now this Smoking Gnu wanted to help him. Outlaw signallers. Think of all the secrets they'd know...
He'd kept an ear open for clock chimes, and it was gone a quarter to nine now. What would they do? Blow up a tower? But people worked in the towers. Surely not...
‘Oh, Mr Lipwig!'
It is not often that a wailing woman rushes into a room and throws herself at a man. It had never happened to Moist before. Now it happened, and it seemed such a waste that the woman was Miss Maccalariat.
She tottered forward and clung to the startled Moist, tears streaming down her face.
‘Oh, Mr Lipwig!' she wailed. ‘Oh, Mr Lipwig!'
Moist reeled under her weight. She was dragging at his collar so hard that he was likely to end up on the floor, and the thought of being found on the floor with Miss Maccalariat was— well, a thought that just couldn't be thoughted. The head would explode before entertaining it.
She had a pink hairgrip in her grey hair. It had little hand-painted violets on it. The sight of it, a few inches from Moist's eyes, was curiously disturbing.
‘Now, now, steady on, Miss Maccalariat, steady on,' he muttered, trying to keep the balance for both of them.
‘Oh, Mr Lipwig!'
‘Yes indeed, Miss Maccalariat,' he said desperately. ‘What can I do for—'
‘Mr Aggy said the Post Office won't ever be rebuilt! He says Lord Vetinari will never release the money! Oh, Mr Lipwig! I dreamed all my life of working on the counter here! My grandmother taught me everything, she even made me practise sucking lemons to get the expression right! I've passed it all on to my daughter, too. She's got a voice that'd take the skin off paint! Oh, Mr Lipwig!'
Moist searched wildly for somewhere to pat the woman that wasn't soaked or out of bounds. He settled for her shoulder. He really, really needed Mr Groat. Mr Groat knew how to deal with things like this.
‘It's all going to be all right, Miss Maccalariat,' he said soothingly.
‘And poor Mr Groat!' the woman sobbed.
‘I understand he's going to be fine, Miss Maccalariat. You know what they say about the Lady Sybiclass="underline" some people come out alive.' I really, really hope he does, he added to himself. I'm lost without him.
‘It's all so dreadful, Mr Lipwig!' said Miss Maccalariat, determined to drain the bitter cup of despair to the very dregs. ‘We're all going to be walking the streets!'
Moist held her by her arms and pushed her gently away, while fighting against a mental picture of Miss Maccalariat walking the streets. ‘Now you listen to me, Miss Mac— What is your first name, by the way?'
‘It's Iodine, Mr Lipwig,' said Miss Maccalariat, snuffling into a handkerchief. ‘My father liked the sound.'
‘Well... Iodine, I firmly believe that I will have the money to rebuild by the end of the day,' said Moist. She's blown her nose on it and, yes, yes, aargh, she's going to put it back up the sleeve of her cardigan, oh, gods...
‘Yes, Mr Aggy said that, and there's talk, sir. They say you sent the gods letters asking for money! Oh, sir! It's not my place to say so, sir, but gods don't send you money!'
‘I have faith, Miss Maccalariat,' said Moist, drawing himself up.
‘My family have been Anoians for five generations, sir,' said Miss Maccalariat. ‘We rattle the drawers every day, and we've never got anything solid, as you might say, excepting my granny who got an egg beater she didn't remember putting there and we're sure that was an accident—'
‘Mr Lipwig! Mr Lipwig!' someone yelled. ‘They say the clacks— Oh, I'm so sorry...' The sentence ended in syrup.
Moist sighed, and turned to the grinning newcomer in the charcoal-rimmed doorway. ‘Yes, Mr Aggy?'
‘We've heard the clacks has gone down again, sir! To Pseudopolis!' said Aggy.
‘How unfortunate,' said Moist. ‘Come, Miss Maccalariat, come, Mr Aggy - let's move the mail!'