Dark Clerks and dead Postmasters - A Werewolf in the Watch - The

wonderful pin - Mr Lipwig reads letters that are not there — Hugo the

hairdresser is surprised — Mr Parker buys fripperies — The Nature of

Social Untruths - Princess in the Tower - A man is not dead while his

name is still spoken.’

 

‘Ntow Then, Mr Lipvig, What Good Will Violence Do?’ Mr Pump rumbled. He rocked on his huge feet as Moist struggled in his grip.

Groat and Stanley were huddled at the far end of the locker room.

One of Mr Groat’s natural remedies was bubbling over on to the floor, where the boards were staining purple.

‘They were all accidents, Mr Lipwig! All accidents!’ Groat babbled. ‘The Watch was all over the place by the fourth one! They were all accidents, they said!’

‘Oh, yes!’ screamed Moist. ‘Four in five weeks, eh? I bet that happens all the time around here! Ye gods, I’ve been done up good and brown! I’m dead, right? Just not lying down yet! Vetinari? There’s a man who knows how to save the price of a rope! I’m done for!’

‘You’ll feel better for a nice cup o’ bismuth and brimstone tea, sir,’ Groat quavered. ‘I’ve got the kettle boiling—’

‘A cup of tea is not going to be sufficient!’ Moist got a grip on himself, or at least began to act as if he had, and took a deep, theatrical breath. ‘Okay, okay, Mr Pump, you can let go now.’

The golem released his grip. Moist straightened up. ‘Well, Mr Groat?’ he said.

‘Looks like you’re genuine after all, then,’ the old man said. ‘One of the dark clerks wouldn’t have gone bursar like that. We thought you was one of his lordship’s special gentlemen, see.’ Groat fussed around the kettle. ‘No offence, but you’ve got a bit more colour than the average penpusher.’

‘Dark clerks?’ said Moist, and then recollection dawned. ‘Oh . . . do you mean those stocky little men in black suits and bowler hats?’

‘The very same. Scholarship boys at the Assassins’ Guild, some of ‘em. I heard that they can do some nasty things when they’ve a mind.’

‘I thought you called them penpushers?’

‘Yeah, but I didn’t say where, heehee.’ Groat caught Moist’s expression and coughed. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean it, just my little joke. We reckon the last new postmaster we had, Mr Whobblebury, he was a dark clerk. Can’t hardly blame him, with a name like that. He was always snooping around.’

‘And why do you think that was?’ said Moist.

‘Well, Mr Mutable, he was the first, decent chap, he fell down into the big hall from the fifth floor, smack, sir, smack on to the marble. Head first. It was a bit . . . splashy, sir.’

Moist glanced at Stanley, who was starting to tremble.

‘Then there was Mr Sideburn. He fell down the back stairs and broke his neck, sir. Excuse me, sir, it’s eleven forty-three.’ Groat walked over to the door and opened it, Tiddles walked through, Groat shut the door again. ‘At three in the morning, it was. Right down five flights. Broke just about every bone you could break, sir.’

‘You mean he was wandering around without a light?’

‘Dunno, sir. But I know about the stairs. The stairs have lamps burning all night, sir. Stanley fills them every day, regular as Tiddles.’

‘Use those stairs a lot, then, do you?’ said Moist.

‘Never, sir, except for the lamps. Nearly everywhere on that side is bunged up with mail. But it’s a Post Office Regulation, sir.’

‘And the next man?’ said Moist, a little hoarsely. ‘Another accidental fall?’

‘Oh, no, sir. Mr Ignavia, that was his name. They said it was his heart. He was just lyin’ dead on the fifth floor, dead as a doorknob, face all contorted like he’d seen a ghost. Natural causes, they said. Werrrl, the Watch was all over the place by then, you may depend on it. No one had been near him, they said, and there was not a mark on him. Surprised you didn’t know about all this, sir. It was in the paper.’

Except you don’t get much chance to keep up with the news in a condemned cell, Moist thought.

‘Oh yes?’ he said. ‘And how would they know no one had been near him?’

Groat leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Everyone knows there’s a werewolf in the Watch and one of them could bloody nearly smell what colour clothes someone was wearing.’

‘A werewolf,’ said Moist, flatly.

‘Yes. Anyway, the one before him—’

‘A werewolf.’

‘That’s what I said, sir,’ said Groat.

‘A damn werewolf.’

‘Takes all sorts to make a world, sir. Anyway—’

‘A werewolf.’ Moist awoke from the horror. ‘And they don’t tell visitors?’

‘Now, how’d they do that, sir?’ said Groat, in a kindly voice. ‘Put it on a sign outside? “Welcome To Ankh-Morpork, We Have A Werewolf”, sir? The Watch’s got loads of dwarfs and trolls and a golem - a free golem, savin’ your presence, Mr Pump - and a couple of gnomes and a zombie . . . even a Nobbs.’

‘Nobbs? What’s a Nobbs?’

‘Corporal Nobby Nobbs, sir. Not met him yet? They say he’s got an official chitty saying he’s human, and who needs one of those, eh? Fortunately there’s only one of him so he can’t breed. Anyway, we’ve got a bit of everything, sir. Very cosmopolitan. You don’t like werewolves?’

They know who you are by your smell, thought Moist. They’re as bright as a human and can track you better than any wolf. They can follow a trail that’s days old, even if you cover yourself with scent - especially if you cover yourself with scent. Oh, there’s ways around, if you know there is going to be a werewolf on your tail. No wonder they caught up with me. There should be a law!

‘Not a lot,’ he said aloud, and glanced at Stanley again. It was useful to watch Stanley when Groat was talking. Now the boy had his eyes turned up so much that they were practically all whites.

‘And Mr Whobblebury?’ he said. ‘He was investigating for Vetinari, eh? What happened to him?’

Stanley was shaking like a bush in a high wind.

‘Er, you did get given the big keyring, sir?’ Groat enquired, his voice trembling with innocence.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I bet there is one key missing,’ said Groat. ‘The Watch took it. It was the only one. Some doors ought to stay closed, sir. It’s all over and done with, sir. Mr Whobblebury died of an industrial accident, they said. Nobody near him. You don’t want to go there, sir. Sometimes things get so broke it’s best to walk away, sir.’

‘I can’t,’ said Moist. ‘I am the Postmaster General. And this is my building, isn’t it? I’ll decide where I go, Junior Postman Groat.’

Stanley shut his eyes.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Groat, as if talking to a child. ‘But you don’t want to go there-, sir.’

‘His head was all over the wall!’ Stanley quavered.

‘Oh dear, now you’ve set him off, sir,’ said Groat, scuttling across to the boy. ‘It’s all right, lad, I’ll just get you your pills—’

‘What is the most expensive pin ever made commercially, Stanley?’ said Moist quickly.

It was like pulling a lever. Stanley’s expression went from agonized grief to scholarly cogitation in an instant.

‘Commercially? Leaving aside those special pins made for exhibitions and trade shows, including the Great Pin of 1899, then probably it is the Number Three Broad-headed “Chicken” Extra Long made for the lace-making market by the noted pinner Josiah Doldrum, I would say. They were hand-drawn and had his trademark silver head with a microscopic engraving of a cockerel. It’s believed that fewer than a hundred were made before his death, sir. According to Hubert Spider’s Pin Catalogue, examples can fetch between fifty and sixty-five dollars, depending on condition. A Number Three Broad-headed Extra Long would grace any true pinhead’s collection.’

‘Only . . . I spotted this in the street,’ said Moist, extracting one of that morning’s purchases from his lapel. ‘I was walking down Market Street and there it was, between two cobblestones. I thought it looked unusual. For a pin.’

Stanley pushed away the fussing Groat and carefully took the pin from Moist’s fingers. A very large magnifying glass appeared as if by magic in his other hand.

The room held its breath as the pin was subjected to serious scrutiny. Then Stanley looked up at Moist in amazement.

‘You knew?’ he said. ‘And you spotted this in the street? I thought you didn’t know anything about pins!’

‘Oh, not really, but I dabbled a bit as a boy,’ said Moist, waving a hand deprecatingly to suggest that he had been too foolish to turn a schoolboy hobby into a lifetime’s obsession. ‘You know . . . a few of the old brass Imperials, one or two oddities like an unbroken pair or a double-header, the occasional cheap packet of mixed pins on approval . . .’ Thank the gods, he thought, for the skill of speed-reading.

‘Oh, there’s never anything worthwhile in those,’ said Stanley, and slid again into the voice of the academic: ‘While most pinheads do indeed begin with a casually acquired flashy novelty pin, followed by the contents of their grandmothers’ pincushions, haha, the path to a truly worthwhile collection lies not in the simple disbursement of money in the nearest pin emporium, oh no. Any dilettante can become “king pin” with enough expenditure, but for the true pinhead the real pleasure is in the joy of the chase, the pin fairs, the house clearances and, who knows, a casual glint in the gutter that turns out to be a well-preserved Doublefast or an unbroken two-pointer. Well is it said: “See a pin and pick it up, and all day long you’ll have a pin”.’

Moist nearly applauded. It was word for word what J. Lanugo Owlsbury had written in the introduction to his work. And, much more important, he now had an unshakable friend in Stanley. That was to say, his darker regions added, Stanley was friends with him. The boy, his panic subsumed by the joy of pins, was holding his new acquisition up to the light.

‘Magnificent,’ he breathed, all terrors fled. ‘Clean as a new pin! I have a place ready and waiting for this in my pin folder, sir!’

‘Yes, I thought you might.’

His head was all over the wall . . .

Somewhere there was a locked door, and Moist didn’t have the key. Four of his predecessors had predeceased in this very building. And there was no escape. Being Postmaster General was a job for life - one way or the other. That was why Vetinari had put him here. He needed a man who couldn’t walk away, and who was incidentally completely expendable. It didn’t matter if Moist von Lipwig died. He was already dead.

And then he tried not to think about Mr Pump.

How many other golems had worked their way to freedom in the service of the city? Had there been a Mr Saw, fresh from a hundred years in a pit of sawdust? Or Mr Shovel? Mr Axe, maybe?

And had there been one here when the last poor guy had found the key to the locked door, or a good lockpick, and was about to open it when behind him someone called maybe Mr Hammer, yes, oh gods, yes, raised his fist for one sudden, terminal blow?

No one had been near him? But they weren’t people, were they . . . they were tools. It’d be an industrial accident.

His head was all over the wall . . .

I’m going to find out about this. I have to, otherwise it’ll lie in wait for me. And everyone will tell me lies. But I am the fibbermeister.

‘Hmm?’ he said, aware that he’d missed something.

‘I said, could I go and put this in my collection, Postmaster?’ said Stanley.

‘What? Oh. Yes. Fine. Yes. Give it a really good polish, too.’

As the boy gangled off to his end of the locker room, and he did gangle, Moist caught Groat looking at him shrewdly.

‘Well done, Mr Lipwig,’ he said. ‘Well done.’

‘Thank you, Mr Groat.’

‘Good eyesight you’ve got there,’ the old man went on.

‘Well, the light was shining off it—’

‘Nah, I meant to see cobbles in Market Street, it being all brick-paving up there.’

Moist returned his blank stare with one even blanker. ‘Bricks, cobbles, who cares?’ he said.

‘Yeah, right. Not important, really,’ said Groat.

‘And now,’ said Moist, feeling the need for some fresh air, ‘there’s a little errand I have to run. I’d like you to come with me, Mr Groat. Can you find a crowbar anywhere? Bring it, please. And I’ll need you, too, Mr Pump.’

Werewolves and golems, golems and werewolves, Moist thought. I’m stuck here. I might as well take it seriously.

I will show them a sign.

 

‘There’s a little habit I have,’ said Moist, as he led the way through the streets. ‘It’s to do with signs.’

‘Signs, sir?’ said Groat, trying to keep close to the walls.

‘Yes, Junior Postman Groat, signs,’ said Moist, noticing the way the man winced at ‘Junior’. ‘Particularly signs with missing letters. When I see one, I automatically read what the missing letters say.’

‘And how can you do that, sir, when they’re missing?’ said Groat.

Ah, so there’s a clue as to why you’re still sitting in a run-down old building making tea from rocks and weeds all day, Moist thought. Aloud he said: ‘It’s a knack. Now, I could be wrong, of course, but— Ah, we turn left here . . .’

This was quite a busy street, and the shop was in front of them. It was everything that Moist had hoped.

‘Voila,’ he said and, remembering his audience, he added: ‘That is to say, there we have it.’

‘It’s a barber’s shop,’ said Groat uncertainly. ‘For ladies.’

‘Ah, you’re a man of the world, Tolliver, there’s no fooling you,’ said Moist. And the name over the window, in those large, blue-green letters, is . . . ?’

‘Hugos,’ said Groat. ‘And?’

‘Yes, Hugo’s,’ said Moist. ‘No apostrophe present in fact, and the reason for this is . . . you could work with me a little here, perhaps . . . ?’

‘Er . . .’ Groat stared frantically at the letters, defying them to reveal their meaning.

‘Close enough,’ said Moist. ‘There is no apostrophe there because there was and is no apostrophe in the uplifting slogan that adorns our beloved Post Office, Mr Groat.’ He waited for light to dawn. ‘Those big metal letters were stolen from our facade, Mr Groat. I mean, the front of the building. They’re the reason for Glom of Nit, Mr Groat.’

It took a little time for Mr Groat’s mental sunrise to take place, but Moist was ready when it did.

‘No, no, no!’ he said, grabbing the old man’s greasy collar as he lurched forward, and almost pulling Groat off his feet. ‘That’s not how we deal with this, is it?’

‘That’s Post Office property! That’s worse’n stealing, that is! That’s treason!’ Groat yelled.

‘Quite so,’ said Moist. ‘Mr Pump, if you would just hold on to our friend here, I will go and . . . discuss the matter.’ Moist handed over the furious Junior Postman and brushed himself off. He looked a bit rumpled but it would have to do.

‘What are you going to do, then?’ said Groat.

Moist smiled his sunshine smile. ‘Something I’m good at, Mr Groat. I’m going to talk to people.’

He crossed the road and opened the shop door. The bell jangled.

Inside the hairdresser’s shop was an array of little booths, and the air smelled sweet and cloying and, somehow, pink; right by the door was a little desk with a big open diary. There were lots of flowers around, and the young woman at the desk gave him a haughty look that was going to cost her employer a lot of money.

She waited for Moist to speak.

Moist put on a grave expression, leaned down and said in a voice that had all the characteristics of a whisper but also seemed to be able to carry quite a long way, ‘Can I see Mr Hugo, please? It is very important.’

‘On what business would that be?’

‘Well . . . it’s a little delicate . . .’ said Moist. He could see the tops of permed heads turning. ‘But you can tell him it’s good news.’

‘Well, if it’s good news . . .’

‘Tell him I think I can persuade Lord Vetinari that this can be settled without charges being brought. Probably,’ said Moist, lowering his voice just enough to increase the curiosity of the customers while not so much as to be inaudible.

The woman stared at him in horror.

‘You can? Er . . .’ She groped for an ornate speaking tube, but Moist took it gently from her hand, whistled expertly down it, lifted it to his ear and flashed her a smile.

‘Thank you,’ he said. For what did not matter; smile, say the right kinds of words in the right kind of voice, and always, always radiate confidence like a supernova.

A voice in his ear, faint as a spider trapped in a matchbox, said: ‘Scitich wabble nabnab?’

‘Hugo?’ said Moist. ‘It’s good of you to make time for me. It’s Moist, Moist von Lipwig. Postmaster General.’ He glanced at the speaking tube. It disappeared into the ceiling. ‘So kind of you to assist us, Hugo. It’s these missing letters. Five missing letters, to be exact.’

‘Scrik? Shabadatwik? Scritch vit bottofix!’

‘Don’t really carry that kind of thing, Hugo, but if you’d care to look out of your window you’ll see my personal assistant, Mr Pump. He’s standing on the other side of the street.’

And he’s eight feet tall and carrying a huge crowbar, Moist added mentally. He winked at the lady sitting at the desk, who was watching him in a kind of awe. You had to keep people skills polished at all times.

He heard the muffled expletive through the floor. Via the speaking tube it became ‘Vugrs nickbibble!’

‘Yes,’ said Moist. ‘Perhaps I should come up and speak to you directly . . .’

 

Ten minutes later Moist crossed the road with care and smiled at his staff. ‘Mr Pump, if you would be so good as to step over there and pry out our letters, please?’ he said. ‘Try not to damage anything. Mr Hugo has been very co-operative. And Tolliver, you’ve lived here a long time, haven’t you? You’ll know where to hire men with ropes, steeplejacks, that sort of thing? I want those letters back on our building by midday, okay?’

‘That’ll cost a lot of money, Mr Lipwig,’ said Groat, staring at him in amazement. Moist pulled a bag out of his pocket, and jingled it.

‘One hundred dollars should more than cover it?’ he said. ‘Mr Hugo was very apologetic and very, very inclined to be helpful. Says he bought them years ago off a man in a pub and is only too happy to pay for them to be returned. It’s amazing how nice people can be, if approached in the right way.’

There was a clang from the other side of the street. Mr Pump had already removed the H, without any apparent effort.

Speak softly and employ a huge man with a crowbar, thought Moist. This might be bearable after all.

 

The weak sunlight glinted on the S as it was swung into position. There was quite a crowd. People in Ankh-Morpork always paid attention to people on rooftops, in case there was a chance of an interesting suicide. There was a cheer, just on general principles, when the last letter was hammered back into place.

Four dead men, Moist thought, looking up at the roof. I wonder if the Watch would talk to me? Do they know about me? Do they think I’m dead? Do I want to speak to policemen? No! Damn! The only way I can get out of this is by running forward, not going back. Bloody, bloody Vetinari. But there’s a way to win.

He could make money!

He was part of the government, wasn’t he? Governments took money off people. That’s what they were for.

He had people skills, hadn’t he? He could persuade people that brass was gold that had got a bit tarnished, that glass was diamond, that tomorrow there was going to be free beer.

He’d outfox them all! He wouldn’t try to escape, not yet! If a golem could buy its freedom, then so could he! He’d buckle down and bustle and look busy and he’d send all the bills to Vetinari, because this was government work! How could the man object?

And if Moist von Lipwig couldn’t cream a little somethi— a big something off the top, and the bottom, and maybe a little off the sides, then he didn’t deserve to! And then, when it was all going well and the cash was rolling in . . . well, then there’d be time to make plans for the big one. Enough money bought a lot of men with sledgehammers.

The workmen pulled themselves back on to the flat roof. There was another ragged cheer from a crowd that reckoned it hadn’t been bad entertainment even if no one had fallen off.

‘What do you think, Mr Groat?’ he said.

‘Looks nice, sir, looks nice,’ said Groat, as the crowd dispersed and they walked back to the Post Office building.

‘Not disturbing anything, then?’ said Moist.

Groat patted the surprised Moist on the arm. ‘I don’t know why his lordship sent you, sir, really I don’t,’ he whispered. ‘You mean well, I can see. But take my advice, sir, and get out of here.’

Moist glanced towards the building’s doors. Mr Pump was standing beside them. Just standing, with his arms hanging down. The fire in his eyes was a banked glow.

‘I can’t do that,’ he said.

‘Nice of you to say so, sir, but this place isn’t for a young man with a future,’ said Groat. ‘Now, Stanley, he’s all right if he’s got his pins, but you, sir, you could go far.’

‘No-o, I don’t think I can,’ said Moist. ‘Honestly. My place, Mr Groat, is here.’

‘Gods bless you for saying that, sir, gods bless you,’ said Groat. Tears were beginning to roll down his face. ‘We used to be heroes,’ he said. ‘People wanted us. Everyone watched out for us. Everyone knew us. This was a great place, once. Once, we were postmen!

‘Mister!’

Moist turned. Three people were hurrying towards him, and he had to quell an automatic urge to turn and run, especially when one of them shouted, ‘Yes, that’s him!’

He recognized the greengrocer from this morning. An elderly couple were trailing behind him. The older man, who had the determined face and upright bearing of a man who subdued cabbages daily, stopped an inch in front of Moist and bellowed: ‘Are you the po’stman, young man?’

‘Yes, sir, I suppose I am,’ said Moist. ‘How can I—’

‘You delivered me this letter from Aggie here! I’m Tim Parker!’ the man roared. ‘Now, there’s s’ome people’d say it wa’s a little bit on the late side!’

‘Oh,’ said Moist. ‘Well, I—’

‘That took a bit of nerve, young man!’

‘I’m very sorry that—’ Moist began. People skills weren’t much good in the face of Mr Parker. He was one of the impervious people, whose grasp of volume control was about as good as his understanding of personal space.

‘S’orry?’ Parker shouted. ‘What’ve you got to be s’orry about? Not your fault, lad. You weren’t even born! More fool me for thinking she didn’t care, eh? Hah, I wa’s so downhearted, lad, I went right out and joined the . . .’ His red face wrinkled. ‘You know . . . camel’s, funny hat’s, sand, where you go to forget . . .’

‘The Klatchian Foreign Legion?’ said Moist.

‘That wa’s it! And when I came back I met Sadie, and Aggie had met her Frederick, and we both got s’ettled and forgot the other one was alive and then blow me down if this letter didn’t arrive from Aggie! Me and my lad have s’pent half the morning tracking her down! And to cut a long s’tory short, lad, we’re getting married Sat’day! ‘co’s of you, boy!’

Mr Parker was one of those men who turn into teak with age. When he slapped Moist on the back it was like being hit with a chair.

‘Won’t Frederick and Aggie object—’ Moist wheezed.

‘I doubt it! Frederick pas’sed away ten years ago and Sadie’s been buried up in S’mall God’s for the last five!’ Mr Barker bellowed cheerfully. ‘And we were s’orry to see them go but, as Aggie say’s, it was all meant to be and you wa’s sent by a higher power. And I say it took a man with real backbone to come and deliver that letter after all this time. There’s many that would have tos’sed it aside like it was of no account! You’d do me and the future second Mrs Parker a great favour if you wa’s to be a guest of honour at our wedding, and I for one won’t take no for an ans’wer! I’m Grand Ma’ster of the Guild of Merchant’s this year, too! We might not be posh like the Assassins or the Alchemists but there’s a lot of us and I shall put in a word on your behalf, you can depend on that! My lad George here will be down later on with the invitation’s for you to deliver, now you’re back in busines’s! It will be a great honour for me, my boy, if you would shake me by the hand . . .’

He thrust out a huge hand. Moist took it, and old habits died hard. Firm grip, steady gaze . . .

‘Ah, you’re an honest man, all right,’ said Parker. ‘I’m never mis’taken!’ He clapped his hand on Moist’s shoulder, causing a knee joint to crunch. ‘What’s your name, lad?’

‘Lipwig, sir. Moist von Lipwig,’ Moist said. He was afraid he’d gone deaf in one ear.

‘A von, eh,’ said Parker. ‘Well, you’re doing damn well for a foreigner, and I don’t care who know’s it! Got to be going now. Aggie want’s to buy fripperie’s!’

The woman came up to Moist, stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. ‘And I know a good man when I see one,’ she said. ‘Do you have a young lady?’

‘What? No! Not at all! Er . . . no!’ said Moist.

‘I’m sure you shall,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘And while we’re very grateful to you, I would advise you to propose in person. We do so much look forward to seeing you on Saturday!’

Moist watched her scurry away after her long-lost swain.

‘You delivered a letter?’ said Groat, horrified.

‘Yes, Mr Groat. I didn’t mean to, but I just happened to be—’

‘You took one of the old letters and you delivered it?’ said Groat, as if the concept was something he could not fit into his head—

His head was all over the wall . . .

Moist blinked.

‘We are supposed to deliver the mail, man! That’s our job! Remember?’

‘You delivered a letter . . .’ breathed Groat. ‘What was the date on it?’

‘I can’t remember! More than forty years ago?’

‘What was it like? Was it in good condition?’ Groat insisted.

Moist glared at the little postman. A small crowd was forming around them, as was the Ankh-Morpork way.

‘It was a forty-year-old letter in a cheap envelope!’ he snarled. ‘And that’s what it looked like! It never got delivered and it upset the lives of two people. I delivered it and it’s made two people very happy. What is the problem, Mr Groat— Yes, what is it?’

This was to a woman who was tugging at his sleeve.

‘I said is it true you’re opening the old place again?’ she repeated. ‘My grandad used to work there!’

‘Well done him,’ said Moist.

‘He said there was a curse!’ said the woman, as if the idea was rather pleasing.

‘Really?’ said Moist. ‘Well, I could do with a good curse right now, as a matter of fact.’

‘It lives under the floor and drives you maaad!’ she went on, enjoying the syllable so much that she seemed loath to let it go. ‘Maaad!’

‘Really,’ said Moist. ‘Well, we do not believe in going crazy in the postal service, do we, Mr Gro—’ He stopped. Mr Groat had the expression of one who did believe in going crazy.

‘You daft old woman!’ Groat yelled. ‘What did you have to tell him that for?’

‘Mr Groat!’ snapped Moist. ‘I wish to speak to you inside!’

He grabbed the old man by the shoulder and very nearly carried him through the amused crowd, dragged him into the building and slammed the door.

‘I’ve had enough of this!’ he said. ‘Enough of dark comments and mutterings, do you understand? No more secrets. What’s going on here? What went on here? You tell me right now or—’

The little man’s eyes were full of fear. This is not me, Moist thought. This is not the way. People skills, eh?

‘You tell me right now, Senior Postman Groat!’ he snapped.

The old man’s eyes widened. ‘Senior Postman?’

‘I am the postmaster in this vicinity, yes?’ said Moist. ‘That means I can promote, yes? Senior Postman, indeed. On probation, of course. Now, will you tell me what—’

‘Don’t you hurt Mr Groat, sir!’ said a ringing voice behind Moist.

Groat looked past Moist into the gloom and said: ‘It’s all right, Stanley, there’s no need for that, we don’t want a Little Moment.’ To Moist he whispered: ‘Best you put me down gently, sir . . .’

Moist did so, with exaggerated care, and turned round.

The boy was standing behind him with a glazed look on his face and the big kettle raised. It was a heavy kettle.

‘You mustn’t hurt Mr Groat, sir,’ he said hoarsely.

Moist pulled a pin out of his lapel. ‘Of course not, Stanley. By the way, is this a genuine Clayfeather Medium Sharp?’

Stanley dropped the kettle, suddenly oblivious of everything but the inch of silvery steel between Moist’s fingers. One hand was already pulling out his magnifying glass.

‘Let me see, let me see,’ he said, in a level, thoughtful voice. ‘Oh, yes. Ha. No, sorry. It’s an easy mistake to make. Look at the marks on the shoulder, here. See? And the head was never coiled. This is machine-made. Probably by one of the Happily brothers. Short run, I imagine. Hasn’t got their sigil, though. Could have been done by a creative apprentice. Not worth much, I’m afraid, unless you find someone who specializes in the minutiae of the Happily pinnery.’

‘I’ll, er, just make a cup of tea, shall I?’ said Groat, picking up the kettle as it rolled backwards and forwards on the floor. ‘Well done again, Mr Lipwig. Er . . . Senior Postman Groat, right?’

‘Off you go with, yes, probationary Senior Postman Groat, Stanley,’ said Moist, as kindly as he could manage. He looked up and added sharply: ‘I just want to talk to Mr Pump here.’

Stanley looked round at the golem, who was right behind him. It was astonishing how quietly a golem could move; he’d crossed the floor like a shadow and now stood with one still fist raised like the wrath of gods.

‘Oh, I didn’t see you standing there, Mr Pump,’ said Stanley cheerfully. “Why is your hand up?’

The holes in the golem’s face bathed the boy in red light. ‘I . . . Wanted To Ask The Postmaster A Question?’ said the golem slowly.

‘Oh. All right,’ said Stanley, as if he hadn’t been about to brain Moist a moment before. ‘Do you want your pin back, Mr Lipwig?’ he added, and when Moist waved him away he went on, ‘All right, I’ll put it in next month’s charity pin auction.’

When the door had shut behind him, Moist looked up at the golem’s impassive face.

‘You lied to him. Are you allowed to lie, Mr Pump?’ he said. ‘And you can lower that arm, by the way.’

‘I Have Been Instructed As To The Nature Of Social Untruths, Yes.’

‘You were going to smash his brains out!’ said Moist.

‘I Would Have Endeavoured Not To,’ the golem rumbled. ‘However, I Cannot Allow You To Come To Inappropriate Harm. It Was A Heavy Kettle.’

‘You can’t do that, you idiot!’ said Moist, who’d noticed the use of ‘inappropriate’.

‘I Should Have Let Him Kill You?’ said the golem. ‘It Would Not Have Been His Fault. His Head Is Not Right.’

‘It would be even less right if you walloped it. Look, I sorted it out!’

‘Yes,’ Pump said. ‘You Have A Talent. It Is A Pity You Misuse It.’

‘Do you understand anything I’m saying?’ shouted Moist. ‘You can’t just go around killing people!’

‘Why Not? You Do.’ The golem lowered his arm.

‘What?’ snapped Moist. ‘I do not! Who told you that?’

‘I Worked It Out. You Have Killed Two Point Three Three Eight People,’ said the golem calmly.

‘I have never laid a finger on anyone in my life, Mr Pump. I may be— all the things you know I am, but I am not a killer! I have never so much as drawn a sword!’

‘No, You Have Not. But You Have Stolen, Embezzled, Defrauded And Swindled Without Discrimination, Mr Lipvig. You Have Ruined Businesses And. Destroyed Jobs. When Banks Fail, It Is Seldom Bankers Who Starve. Your Actions Have Taken Money From Those Who Had Little Enough To Begin With. In A Myriad Small Ways You Have Hastened The Deaths Of Many. You Do Not Know Them. You Did Not See Them Bleed. But You Snatched Bread From Their Mouths And Tore Clothes From Their Backs. For Sport, Mr Lipvig. For Sport. For The Joy Of The Game.’

Moist’s mouth had dropped open. It shut. It opened again. It shut again. You can never find repartee when you need it.

‘You’re nothing but a walking flowerpot, Pump 19,’ he snapped. ‘Where did that come from?’

‘I Have Read The Details Of Your Many Crimes, Mr Lipvig. And Pumping Water Teaches One The Value Of Rational Thought. You Took From Others Because You Were Clever And They Were Stupid.’

‘Hold on, most of the time they thought they were swindling me!’

‘You Set Out To Trap Them, Mr Lipvig,’ said Mr Pump.

Moist went to prod the golem meaningfully, but decided against it just in time. A man could break a finger that way.

‘Well, think about this,’ he said. ‘I’m paying for all that! I was nearly hanged, godsdammit!’

‘Yes. But Even Now You Harbour Thoughts Of Escape, Of Somehow Turning The Situation To Your Advantage. They Say The Leopard Does Not Change His Shorts.’

‘But you have to obey my orders, yes?’ snarled Moist.

‘Yes.’

‘Then screw your damn head off!’

For a moment the red eyes flickered. When Pump spoke next, it was in the voice of Lord Vetinari.

‘Ah, Lipwig. Despite everything, you do not pay attention. Mr Pump cannot be instructed to destroy himself. I would have thought you at least could have worked this out. If you instruct him to do so again, punitive action will be taken.’

The golem blinked again.

‘How did you—’ Moist began.

‘I Have Perfect Recall Of Legal Verbal Instructions,’ said the golem, in his normal rumbling tone. ‘I Surmise That Lord Vetinari, Mindful Of Your Way Of Thinking, Left That Message Because—’

‘I meant the voice!’

‘Perfect Recall, Mr Lipvig,’ Pump replied. ‘I Can Speak With All The Voices Of Men.’

‘Really? How nice for you.’ Moist stared up at Mr Pump. There was never any animation in that face. There was a nose, of sorts, but it was just a lump in the clay. The mouth moved when he spoke, and the gods knew how baked clay could move like that - indeed, they probably did know. The eyes never closed, they merely dimmed.

‘Can you really read my thoughts?’ he said.

‘No, I Merely Extrapolate From Past Behaviour.’

‘Well . . .’ Moist, most unusually, was stuck for words. He glared up at the expressionless face, which nevertheless contrived to be disapproving. He was used to looks of anger, indignation and hatred. They were part of the job. But what was a golem? Just . . . dirt. Fired earth. People looking at you as though you were less than the dust beneath their feet was one thing, but it was strangely unpleasant when even the dust did that too.

‘. . . don’t,’ he finished lamely. ‘Go and . . . work. Yes! Go on! That’s what you do! That’s what you’re for!’

 

It was called the lucky clacks tower, Tower 181. It was close enough to the town of Bonk for a man to be able to go and get a hot bath and a good bed on his days off, but since this was Uberwald there wasn’t too much local traffic and - this was important - it was way, way up in the mountains and management didn’t like to go that far. In the good old days of last year, when the Hour of the Dead took place every night, it was a happy tower because both the up-line and the down-line got the Hour at the same time, so there was an extra pair of hands for maintenance. Now Tower 181 did maintenance on the fly or not at all, just like all the others, but it was still, proverbially, a good tower to man.

Mostly man, anyway. Back down on the plains it was a standing joke that 181 was staffed by vampires and werewolves. In fact, like a lot of towers, it was often manned by kids.

Everyone knew it happened. Actually, the new management probably didn’t, but wouldn’t have done anything about it if they’d found out, apart from carefully forgetting that they’d known. Kids didn’t need to be paid.

The - mostly - young men on the towers worked hard in all weathers for just enough money. They were loners, hard dreamers, fugitives from the law that the law had forgotten, or just from everybody else. They had a special kind of directed madness; they said the rattle of the clacks got into your head and your thoughts beat time with it so that sooner or later you could tell what messages were going through by listening to the rattle of the shutters. In their towers they drank hot tea out of strange tin mugs, much wider at the bottom so that they didn’t fall over when gales banged into the tower. On leave, they drank alcohol out of anything. And they talked a gibberish of their own, of donkey and nondonkey, system overhead and packet space, of drumming it and hotfooting, of a 181 (which was good) or flock (which was bad) or totally flocked (really not good at all) and plug-code and hog-code and jacquard . . .

And they liked kids, who reminded them of the ones they’d left behind or would never have, and kids loved the towers. They’d come and hang around and do odd jobs and maybe pick up the craft of semaphore just by watching. They tended to be bright, they mastered the keyboard and levers as if by magic, they usually had good eyesight and what they were doing, most of them, was running away from home without actually leaving.

Because, up on the towers, you might believe you could see to the rim of the world. You could certainly see several other towers, on a good clear day. You pretended that you too could read messages by listening to the rattle of the shutters, while under your fingers flowed the names of faraway places you’d never see but, on the tower, were somehow connected to . . .

She was known as Princess to the men on Tower 181, although she was really Alice. She was thirteen, could run a line for hours on end without needing help, and later on would have an interesting career which . . . but anyway, she remembered this one conversation, on this day, because it was strange. Not all the signals were messages. Some were instructions to towers. Some, as you operated your levers to follow the distant signal, made things happen in your own tower. Princess knew all about this. A lot of what travelled on the Grand Trunk was called the Overhead. It was instructions to towers, reports, messages about messages, even chatter between operators, although this was strictly forbidden these days. It was all in code. It was very rare you got Plain in the Overhead. But now . . .

‘There it goes again,’ she said. ‘It must be wrong. It’s got no origin code and no address. It’s Overhead, but it’s in Plain.’

On the other side of the tower, sitting in a seat facing the opposite direction because he was operating the up-line, was Roger, who was seventeen and already working for his tower-master certificate.

His hand didn’t stop moving as he said: ‘What did it say?’

‘There was GNU, and I know that’s a code, and then just a name. It was John Dearheart. Was it a—’

‘You sent it on?’ said Grandad. Grandad had been hunched in the corner, repairing a shutter box in this cramped shed halfway up the tower. Grandad was the tower-master and had been everywhere and knew everything. Everyone called him Grandad. He was twenty-six. He was always doing something in the tower when she was working the line, even though there was always a boy in the other chair. She didn’t work out why until later.

‘Yes, because it was a G code,’ said Princess.

‘Then you did right. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Yes, but I’ve sent that name before. Several times. Upline and downline. Just a name, no message or anything!’

She had a sense that something was wrong, but she went on: ‘I know a U at the end means it has to be turned round at the end of the line, and an N means Not Logged.’ This was showing off, but she’d spent hours reading the cypher book. ‘So it’s just a name, going up and down all the time! Where’s the sense in that?’

Something was really wrong. Roger was still working his line, but he was staring ahead with a thunderous expression.

Then Grandad said: ‘Very clever, Princess. You’re dead right.’

‘Hah!’ said Roger.

‘I’m sorry if I did something wrong,’ said the girl meekly. ‘I just thought it was strange. Who’s John Dearheart?’

‘He . . . fell off a tower,’ said Grandad.

‘Hah!’ said Roger, working his shutters as if he suddenly hated them.

‘He’s dead?’ said Princess.

‘Well, some people say—’ Roger began.

‘Roger!’ snapped Grandad. It sounded like a warning.

‘I know about Sending Home,’ said Princess. ‘And I know the souls of dead linesmen stay on the Trunk.’

‘Who told you that?’ said Grandad.

Princess was bright enough to know that someone would get into trouble if she was too specific.

‘Oh, I just heard it,’ she said airily. ‘Somewhere.’

‘Someone was trying to scare you,’ said Grandad, looking at Roger’s reddening ears.

It hadn’t sounded scary to Princess. If you had to be dead, it seemed a lot better to spend your time flying between the towers than lying underground. But she was bright enough, too, to know when to drop a subject.

It was Grandad who spoke next, after a long pause broken only by the squeaking of the new shutter bars. When he did speak, it was as if something was on his mind. ‘We keep that name moving in the Overhead,’ he said, and it seemed to Princess that the wind in the shutter arrays above her blew more forlornly, and the everlasting clicking of the shutters grew more urgent. ‘He’d never have wanted to go home. He was a real linesman. His name is in the code, in the wind in the rigging and the shutters. Haven’t you ever heard the saying “A man’s not dead while his name is still spoken”?’