Going Postal

by Terence David John Pratchett

  ‘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.’

  Fearing that he might be hurled down on to 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 with 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.’

  There 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 twopennies. 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 twopenny 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 Royal 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 poured out orders.

  ‘Stanley!’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lipwig?’ said the boy, behind him.

  ‘Run along to Hobson’s Livery Stable and 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.

  ‘Rig up some kind of table for a counter, will you?’ said Moist. ‘In five minutes, we open to accept mail and sell stamps! I’m taking letters to Sto Lat while the clacks is down and you’re Acting Postmaster while I’m gone! Mr Spools!’

  ‘I’m right here, Mr Lipwig. You really don’t have to shout,’ said the engraver reproachfully.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Spools. More stamps, please. I’ll need some to take with me, in case there’s mail to come back. Can you do that? And I’ll need the fives and the dollar stamps as soon as— Are you all right, Mr Groat?’

  The old man was swaying, his lips moving soundlessly.

  ‘Mr Groat?’ Moist repeated.

  ‘Acting Postmaster… ’ mumbled Groat.

  ‘That’s right, Mr Groat.’

  ‘No Groat has ever been Acting Postmaster… ’ Suddenly Groat dropped to his knees and gripped Moist round the legs. ‘Oh, thank you, sir! I won’t let you down, Mr Lipwig! You can rely on me, sir! Neither rain nor snow nor glom of—’

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you, Acting Postmaster, thank you, that’s enough, thank you,’ said Moist, trying to pull away. ‘Please get up, Mr Groat. Mr Groat, please!’

  ‘Can I wear the winged hat while you’re gone, sir?’ Groat pleaded. ‘It’d mean such a lot, sir—’

  ‘I’m sure it would, Mr Groat, but not today. Today, the hat flies to Sto Lat.’

  Groat stood up. ‘Should it really be you that takes the mail, sir?’

  ‘Who else? Golems can’t move fast enough, Stanley is… well, Stanley, and the rest of you gentlemen are ol— rich in years.’ Moist rubbed his hands together. ‘No argument, Acting Postmaster Groat! Now - let’s sell some stamps!’

  The doors were opened, and the crowd flocked in. Vetinari had been right. If there was any action, the people of Ankh-Morpork liked to be a part of it. Penny stamps flowed over the makeshift counter. After all, the reasoning went, for a penny you got something worth a penny, right? After all, even if it was a joke it was as safe as buying money! And envelopes came the other way. People were actually writing letters in the Post Office. Moist made a mental note: envelopes with a stamp already on them and a sheet of folded paper inside them: Instant Letter Kit, Just Add Ink! That was an important rule of any game: always make it easy for people to give you money.

  To his surprise, although he realized it shouldn’t have been, Drumknott elbowed his way through the crowd with a small but heavy leather package, sealed with a heavy wax seal bearing the city crest and a heavy V. It was addressed to the mayor of Sto Lat.

  ‘Government business,’ he announced pointedly, as he handed it over.

  ‘Do you want to buy any stamps for it?’ said Moist, taking the packet.

  ‘What do you think, Postmaster?’ said the clerk.

  ‘I definitely think government business travels free,’ said Moist.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Lipwig. The lord likes a fast learner.’

  Other mail for Sto Lat did get stamped, though. A lot of people had friends or business there. Moist looked around. People were scribbling everywhere, even holding the notepaper up against walls. The stamps, penny and twopenny, were shifting fast. At the other end of the hall, the golems were sorting the endless mail mountains…

  In fact, in a small way, the place was bustling.

  You should’ve seen it, sir, you should’ve seen it!

  ‘Lipwig, are yer?’

  He snapped out of a dream of chandeliers to see a thickset man in front of him. Recognition took “a moment, and then said that this was the owner of Hobson’s Livery Stable, at once the most famous and the most notorious such enterprise in the city. It was probably not the hive of criminal activity that popular rumour suggested, although the huge establishment often seemed to contain grubby-looking men with not much to do apart from sit around and squint at people. And he was employing an Igor, everyone knew, which of course was sensible when you had such a high veterinary overhead, but you heard stories… *

  * That, for example, stolen horses got dismantled at dead of night and might well turn up with a dye job and two different legs. And it was said that there was one horse in Ankh-Morpork that had a longitudinal seam from head to tail, being sewn together from what was left of two horses that had been involved in a particularly nasty accident.

  �
�Oh, hello, Mr Hobson,’ said Moist.

  ‘Seems yer think I hire tired old horses, sir, do you?’ said Willie Hobson. His smile was not entirely friendly. A nervous Stanley stood behind him. Hobson was big and heavy-set but not exactly fat; he was probably what you’d get if you shaved a bear.

  ‘I have ridden some that—’ Moist began, but Hobson raised a hand.

  ‘Seems yer want fizz,’ said Hobson. His smile widened. ‘Well, I always give the customer what I want, you know that. So I’ve brought yer Boris.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Moist. ‘And he’ll get me to Sto Lat, will he?’

  ‘Oh, at the very least, sir,’ said Hobson. ‘Good horseman, are yer?’

  ‘When it comes to riding out of town, Mr Hobson, there’s no one faster.’

  ‘That’s good, sir, that’s good,’ said Hobson, in the slow voice of someone carefully urging the prey towards the trap. ‘Boris does have a few faults, but I can see a skilled horseman like you should have no trouble. Ready, then? He’s right outside. Got a man holding him.’

  It turned out that there were in fact four men holding the huge black stallion in a network of ropes, while it danced and lunged and kicked and tried to bite. A fifth man was lying on the ground. Boris was a killer.

  ‘Like I said, sir, he’s got a few faults, but no one could call him a… now what was it… oh, yeah, a feagued-up old screw. Still want a horse with fizz?’ Hobson’s grin said it all: this is what I do to snooty buggers who try to mess me around. Let’s see you try to ride this one, Mister-I-Know-All-About-Horses!

  Moist looked at Boris, who was trying to trample the fallen man, and at the watching crowd. Damn the gold suit. If you were Moist von Lipwig, there was only one thing to do now, and that was raise the stakes.

  ‘Take his saddle off,’ he said.

  ‘You what?’ said Hobson.

  ‘Take his saddle off, Mr Hobson,’ said Moist firmly. ‘This bag’s quite heavy, so let’s lose the saddle.’

  Hobson’s smile remained, but the rest of his face tried to sidle away from it. ‘Had all the kids you want, have yer?’ he said.

  ‘Just give me a blanket and a bellyband, Mr Hobson.’