In which Stanley experiences the joy of sacks - Mr Groat’s ancestral

fears - Horsefry is worried - Reacher Gilt, a man of Society - The

Stairway of Letters - Mailslide! - Mr Lipwig Sees It - Hoodwinked

- The Postman’s Walk - The Hat

 

Stanley polished his pins. He did so with a look of beatific concentration, like a man dreaming with his eyes open.

The collection sparkled on the folded strips of brown paper and the rolls of black felt that made up the landscape of the true pinhead’s world. Beside him was his large desktop magnifying glass and, by his feet, a sack of miscellaneous pins bought last week from a retiring needlewoman.

He was putting off the moment of opening it to savour it all the more. Of course, it’d almost certainly turn out to be full of everyday brassers, with maybe the occasional flathead or line flaw, but the thing was, you never knew. That was the joy of sacks. You never knew. Non-collectors were woefully unconcerned about pins, treating them as if they were no more than thin pointy bits of metal for sticking things to other things. Many a wonderful pin of great worth had been found in a sack of brassers.

And now he had a No. 3 Broad-headed ‘Chicken’ Extra Long, thanks to kind Mr Lipwig. The world shone like the pins so neatly ranged on the felt rolled out in front of him. He might smell faintly of cheese, and have athlete’s foot extending to the knee, but just now Stanley soared through glittering skies on wings of silver.

Groat sat by the stove, chewing his fingernails and muttering to himself. Stanley paid no attention, since pins were not the subject.

‘. . . appointed, right? Never mind what the Order says! He can promote anyone, right? That means I get the extra gold button on m’sleeve and the pay, right? None of the others called me Senior Postman! And when all’s said and done, he delivered a letter. Had the letter, saw the address, delivered it just like that! Maybe he has got postman’s blood! And he got them metal letters put back! Letters again, see? That’s a sign, sure enough. Hah, he can read words that ain’t there!’ Groat spat out a fragment of fingernail, and frowned. ‘But . . . then he’ll want to know about the New Pie. Oh yeah. But . . . it’d be like scratching at a scab. Could be bad. Very bad. But . . . hah, the way he got them letters back for us . . . very good. Maybe it’s true that one day we’ll get a true postmaster again, just like they say. “Yea, he will tread the Abandoned Roller Skates beneath his Boots, and Lo! the Dogs of the World will Break their Teeth upon Him.” And he did show us a sign, right? Okay, it was over a posh haircut shop for ladies, but it was a sign, you can’t argue with that. I mean, if it was obvious, anyone could show it to us.’ Another sliver of fingernail hit the side of the glowing stove, where it sizzled. ‘And I ain’t getting any younger, that’s a fact. Probationary, though, that’s not good, that’s not good. What’d happen if I popped my clogs tomorrow, eh? I’d stand there before my forefathers, and they’d say “Art thou Senior Postal Inspector Groat?” and I’d say no, and they’d say “Art thou then Postal Inspector Groat?” and I’d say not as such, and they’d say “Then surely thou art Senior Postman Groat?” and I’d say not in point of fact, and they’d say “Stone the crows, Tolliver, are you telling us you never got further than Junior Postman? What kind of Groat are you?” and my face will be red and I will be knee deep in the ignominy. Dun’t matter that I’ve been runnin’ this place for years, oh no. You got to have that gold button!’

He stared at the fire, and somewhere in his matted beard a smile struggled to get out.

‘He can try walking the Walk,’ he said. ‘No one can argue if he walks the Walk. An’ then I can tell him everything! So it’ll be all right! An’ if he don’t walk to the end, then he ain’t postmaster material anyway! Stanley? Stanley!’

Stanley awoke from a dream of pins. ‘Yes, Mr Groat?’

‘Got a few errands for you to run, lad.’ And if he ain’t postmaster material, Groat added in the privacy of his creaking brain, I’ll die a junior postman . . .

 

It was hard to knock at a door whilst trying desperately not to make a sound, and in the end Crispin Horsefry gave up on the second aim and just swung on the doorknocker.

The noise echoed through the empty street, but no one came to their window. No one in this select street would have come to the window even if a murder was going on. At least in the poorer districts people would have come out to watch, or join in.

The door opened.

‘Good evening, thur—’

Horsefry pushed past the stumpy figure and into the dark hallway, waving frantically to the servant to close the door.

‘Shut it, man, shut it! I may have been followed— Good grief, you’re an Igor, aren’t you? Gilt can afford an Igor?’

‘Well done, thur!’ said the Igor. He peered out into the early evening darkness. ‘All clear, thur.’

‘Shut the door, for gods’ sakes!’ moaned Horsefry. ‘I must see Mr Gilt!’

‘The marthter ith having one of hith little thoireeth, thur,’ said Igor. ‘I will thee if he can be dithturbed.’

‘Are any of the others here? Have they— What’s a thwawreath?’

‘A little get-together, thur,’ said Igor, sniffing. The man reeked of drink.

‘A soiree?’

‘Exactly tho, thur,’ said Igor impassively. ‘May I take your highly notitheable long hooded cloak, thur? And be tho kind ath to follow me into the withdrawing room . . .’

And suddenly Horsefry was alone in a big room full of shadows and candlelight and staring eyes, with the door closing behind him.

The eyes belonged to the portraits in the big dusty frames that filled the walls, edge to edge. Rumour was that Gilt had bought them outright, and not only the pictures; it was said that he’d bought all the rights in the long dead as well, deed-polled their names, and thus equipped himself with a proud pedigree overnight. That was slightly worrying, even for Horsefry. Everyone lied about their ancestors, and that was fair enough. Buying them was slightly disconcerting, but in its dark, original stylishness it was so very Reacher Gilt.

A lot of rumours had begun concerning Reacher Gilt, just as soon as people had noticed him and started asking, “Who is Reacher Gilt? What kind of a name is Reacher, anyway?’ He threw big parties, that was certain. They were the kind of parties that entered urban mythology (Was it true about the chopped liver? Were you there? What about the time when he brought in a troll stripper and three people jumped out of the window? Were you there? And that story about the bowl of sweets? Were you there? Did you see it? Was it true? Were you there?) Half of Ankh-Morpork had been, it seemed, drifting from table to buffet to dance floor to gaming tables, every guest seemingly followed by a silent and obliging waiter with a laden drinks tray. Some said he owned a gold mine, others swore that he was a pirate. And he certainly looked like a pirate, with his long curly black hair, pointed beard and eyepatch. He was even said to have a parrot. Certainly the piracy rumour might explain the apparently bottomless fortune and the fact that no one, absolutely no one, knew anything about him prior to his arrival in the city. Perhaps he’d sold his past, people joked, just like he’d bought himself a new one.

He was certainly piratical in his business dealing, Horsefry knew. Some of the things—

‘Twelve and a half per cent! Twelve and a half per cent!’

When he was sure that he hadn’t in fact had the heart attack he had been expecting all day, Horsefry crossed the room, swaying just like a man who’s had a little drink or two to steady his nerves, and lifted the dark red cloth that, it turned out, concealed the parrot cage. It was in fact a cockatoo, and danced frantically up and down its perch.

‘Twelve and a half per cent! Twelve and a half per cent!’

Horsefry grinned.

‘Ah, you’ve met Alphonse,’ said Reacher Gilt. ‘And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Crispin?’ The door swung slowly behind him into its felt-lined frame, shutting out the sound of distant music.

Horsefry turned, the brief moment of amusement evaporating instantly into the fearful turmoil of his soul. Gilt, one hand in the pocket of a beautiful smoking jacket, gave him a quizzical look.

‘I’m being spied on, Readier!’ Horsefry burst out. “Vetinari sent one of—’

‘Please! Sit down, Crispin. I think you require a large brandy.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Another large brandy, should I say?’

‘I wouldn’t say no! Had to have a little snifter, you know, just to calm m’nerves! What a day I’ve had!’ Horsefry plumped down into a leather armchair. ‘Did you know there was a watchman on duty outside the bank almost all afternoon?’

‘A fat man? A sergeant?’ said Gilt, handing him a glass.

‘Fat, yes. I didn’t notice his rank.’ Horsefry sniffed. ‘I’ve never had anything to do with the Watch.’

‘I, on the other hand, have,’ said Gilt, wincing to see very fine brandy drunk in the way Horsefry was drinking it. ‘And I gather that Sergeant Colon is in the habit of loitering near large buildings not in case they are stolen, but in fact simply because he enjoys a quiet smoke out of the wind. He is a clown, and not to be feared.’

‘Yes, but this morning one of the revenue officers came to see that old fool Cheeseborough—’

‘Is that unusual, Crispin?’ said Gilt soothingly. ‘Let me top up your glass there . . .’

‘Well, they come once or twice a month,’ Horsefry conceded, thrusting out the empty brandy glass. ‘But—’

‘Not unusual, then. You’re shying at flies, my dear Crispin.’

‘Vetinari is spying on me!’ Horsefry burst out. ‘There was a man in black spying on the house this evening! I heard a noise and I looked out and I could see him standing in the corner of the garden!’

‘A thief, perhaps?’

‘No, I’m fully paid up with the Guild! I’m sure someone was in the house this afternoon, too. Things were moved in my study. I’m worried, Reacher! I’m the one who stands to lose here! If there’s an audit—’

‘You know there won’t be, Crispin.’ Gilt’s voice was like honey.

‘Yes, but I can’t get my hands on all the paperwork, not yet, not until old Cheeseborough retires. And Vetinari’s got lots of little, you know, what are they called . . . clerks, you know, who do nothing but look at li’l bits of paper! They’ll work it out, they will! We bought the Grand Trunk wi’ its own money!’

Gilt patted him on the shoulder. ‘Calm yourself, Crispin. Nothing is going to go wrong. You think about money in the old-fashioned way. Money is not a thing, it is not even a process. It is a kind of shared dream. We dream that a small disc of common metal is worth the price of a substantial meal. Once you wake up from that dream, you can swim in a sea of money.’

The voice was almost hypnotic, but Horsefry’s terror was driving him on. His forehead glistened.

‘Then Greenyham’s pissing in it!’ he snapped, his little eyes aglint with desperate malice. ‘You know that tower widdershins of Lancre that was giving all that trouble a coupla months ago? When we were tol’ it was all due to witches flying into the towers? Hah! It w’s only a witch the firs’ time! Then Greenyham bribed a couple of the new men in the tower to call in a breakdown, and one of them rode like hell for the downstream tower and sen’ him the Genua market figures a good two hours before everyone else got them! That’s how he cornered dried prawns, you know. And dried fish maw and dried ground shrimp. It’s not the firs’ time he’s done it, either! The man is coining it!’

Gilt looked at Horsefry, and wondered whether killing him now would be the best option. Vetinari was clever. You didn’t stay ruler of a fermenting mess of a city like this one by being silly. If you saw his spy, it was a spy he wanted you to see. The way you’d know that Vetinari was keeping an eye on you would be by turning round very quickly and seeing no one at all.

Godsdamn Greenyham, too. Some people had no grasp, no grasp at all. They were so . . . small.

Using the clacks like that was stupid, but allowing a bottom-feeder like Horsefry to find out about it was indefensible. It was silly. Silly small people with the arrogance of kings, running their little swindles, smiling at the people they stole from, and not understanding money at all.

And stupid, pig-like Horsefry had come running here. That made it a little tricky. The door was soundproofed, the carpet was easily replaceable and, of course, Igors were renowned for their discretion, but almost certainly someone unseen had watched the man walk in and therefore it was prudent to ensure that he walked out.

‘Y’r a goo’ man, Reacher Gilt,’ Horsefry hiccuped, waving the brandy glass unsteadily now that it was almost empty again. He put it down on a small table with the exaggerated care of a drunk, but since it was the wrong one of three images of the table sliding back and forth across his vision the glass smashed on the carpet.

‘Sor’ ‘bout that,’ he slurred. ‘Y’r a goo’ man, so I’m goin’ to gi’ you this. Can’t keep it inna house, can’t keep it, not wi’ Vetininararari’s spies on to me. Can’t burn it neither, ‘sgot everything in it. All the little . . . transactions. Ver’ important. Can’t trust the others, they hate me. You take care of it, eh?’

He pulled out a battered red journal and proffered it unsteadily. Gilt took it, and flicked it open. His eye ran down the entries.

‘You wrote everything down, Crispin?’ he said. ‘Why?’

Crispin looked appalled. ‘Got to keep records, Reacher,’ he said. ‘Can’t cover y’tracks if you don’t know where y’left ‘em. Then . . . can put it all back, see, hardly a crime at all.’ He tried to tap the side of his nose, and missed.

‘I shall look after it with great care, Crispin,’ said Gilt. ‘You were very wise to bring it to me.’

‘That means a lot t’me, Reacher,’ said Crispin, now heading for the maudlin stage. ‘You take me serioussoussly, not like Greenyham and his pals. I take the risks, then they treat me like drit. I mean dirt. Bloody goo’ chap, you are. ‘sfunny, y’know, you havin’ an Igor, bloody goo’ chap like you, ‘cos—’ He belched hugely, “cos I heard that Igors only worked for mad chaps. Tot’ly bonkers chaps, y’know, and vampires and whatnot, people who’re a few pennies short of a picnic. Nothing against your man, mark you, he looks a bloody fine fellow, hahaha, several bloody fine fellows . . .’

Readier Gilt pulled him up gently. ‘You’re drunk, Crispin,’ he said. ‘And too talkative. Now, what I’m going to do is call Igor—’

‘Yeth, thur?’ said Igor behind him. It was the kind of service few could afford.

‘—and he’ll take you home in my coach. Make sure you deliver him safely to his valet, Igor. Oh, and when you’ve done that could you locate my colleague Mr Gryle? Tell him I have a little errand for him. Goodnight, Crispin.’ Gilt patted the man on a wobbly cheek. ‘And don’t worry. Tomorrow you’ll find all these little anxieties will have just . . . disappeared.’

‘Ver’ good chap,’ Horsefry mumbled happily. ‘F’r a foreigner . . .’

 

Igor took Crispin home. By that time the man had reached the ‘jolly drunk’ stage and was singing the kind of song that’s hilarious to rugby players and children under the age of eleven, and getting him into his house must have awoken the neighbours, especially when he kept repeating the verse about the camel.

Then Igor drove back home, put the coach away, saw to the horse, and went to the little pigeon loft behind the house. These were big, plump pigeons, not the diseased roof rats of the city, and he selected a fat one, expertly slipped a silver message ring round its leg, and tossed it up into the night.

Ankh-Morpork pigeons were quite bright, for pigeons. Stupidity had a limited life in this city. This one would soon find Mr Gryle’s rooftop lodgings, but it annoyed Igor that he never got his pigeons back.

 

Old envelopes rose up in drifts as Moist strode angrily, and sometimes waded angrily, through the abandoned rooms of the Post Office. He was in the mood to kick holes in walls. He was trapped. Trapped. He’d done his best, hadn’t he? Perhaps there really was a curse on this place. Groat would be a good name for it—

He pushed open a door and found himself in the big coachyard round which the Post Office was bent like the letter U. It was still in use. When the postal service had collapsed the coach part had survived, Groat had said. It was useful and established and, besides, it owned scores of horses. You couldn’t squash horses under the floor or bag them up in the attic. They had to be fed. More or less seamlessly, the coachmen had taken it over and run it as a passenger service.

Moist watched a laden coach roll out of the yard, and then movement up above caught his eye.

He had got used to the clacks towers now. Sometimes it seemed as though every roof sprouted one. Most were the new shutter boxes installed by the Grand Trunk Company, but old-fashioned arm semaphores and even signal flags were still well in evidence. Those, though, only worked slowly and by line-of-sight, and there was precious little space for that in the thrusting forest of towers. If you wanted more than the basic service, you went to one of the little clacks companies, and rented a small shutter tower with resident gargoyle to spot incoming messages and access to the bounce towers and, if you were really rich, a trained operator as well. And you paid. Moist had no grasp of or interest in technology, but as he understood it the price was something like an arm or a leg or both.

But these observations orbited his brain, as it were, like planetary thoughts around one central, solar thought: why the hell have we got a tower?

It was definitely on the roof. He could see it and he could hear the distant rattle of the shutters. And he was sure he’d seen a head, before it ducked out of sight.

Why have we got a tower up there, and who is using it?

He ran back inside. He’d never spotted a staircase to the roof, but then, who knew what was hidden behind some pile of letters at the end of some blocked corridor . . .

He squeezed his way along yet another passage lined with mail sacks, and came out into a space where big, bolted double doors led back to the yard. There were stairs there, leading upwards. Little safety lamps bled little pools of light into the blackness above. That was the Post Office for you, Moist thought - the Regulations said the stairs must be lit and lit they were, decades after anyone ever used them except for Stanley, the lamplighter.

There was an old freight elevator here, too, one of those dangerous ones that worked by pumping water in and out of a big rainwater tank on the roof, but he couldn’t work out how to make it go and wouldn’t have trusted it if he could. Groat had said it was broken.

At the foot of the stairs, scuffed but still recognizable, was a chalk outline. The arms and legs were not in comfortable positions.

Moist swallowed, but gripped the banister.

He climbed.

There was a door on the first floor. It opened easily. It burst open at the mere touch of the handle, spilling pent-up mail out into the stairwell like some leaping monster. Moist swayed and whimpered as the letters slithered past him, shoal after shoal, and cascaded down the stairs.

Woodenly, he climbed up another flight, and found another dimly lit door, but this time he stood to one side as he opened it. The force of the letters still rammed it against his legs, and the noise of the dead letters was a dry whispering as they poured away into the gloom. Like bats, perhaps. This whole building full of dead letters, whispering to one another in the dark as a man fell to his death—

Any more of this and he’d end up like Groat, mad as a spoon. But there was more to this place. Somewhere there had to be a door—

His head was all over the wall . . .

Look, he said to his imagination, if this is how you’re going to behave, I shan’t bring you again.

But, with its usual treachery, it went on working. He’d never, ever, laid a finger on anyone. He’d always run rather than fight. And murder, now, surely murder was an absolute? You couldn’t commit 0.021 of a murder, could you? But Pump seemed to think you could murder with a ruler. Okay, perhaps somewhere downstream people were . . . inconvenienced by a crime, but . . . what about bankers, landlords, even barmen? ‘Here’s your double brandy, sir, and I’ve 0.0003 killed you’? Everything everyone did affected everyone, sooner or later.

Besides, a lot of his crimes weren’t even crimes. Take the ring trick, now. He never said it was a diamond ring. Besides, it was depressing how quickly honest citizens warmed to an opportunity to take advantage of a poor benighted traveller. It could ruin a man’s faith in human nature, if he had one. Besides . . .

The third floor yielded another avalanche of letters, but when they subsided there was still a wall of paper plugging the corridor beyond. One or two rustling envelopes fell out, threatening a further fall as Moist advanced.

In fact it was retreat that was at the top of his mind, but the stairs were now layered with sliding envelopes and this was not the time to learn dry-slope skiing.

Well, the fifth floor would have to be clear, wouldn’t it? How else could Sideburn have got to the stairs in order to meet his appointment with eternity? And, yes, there was still a piece of black and yellow rope on the fourth-floor landing, on a drift of letters. The Watch had been here. Nevertheless, Moist opened the door with care, as a watchman must have done.

One or two letters fell out, but the main slide had already taken place. A few feet beyond there was the familiar wall of letters, packed as tight as rock strata. A watchman had been in here, too. Someone had tried to break through the wordface, and Moist could see the hole. They’d put in their arm, full length, just as Moist was doing. Just like his, their fingertips had brushed against yet more compacted envelopes.

No one had got on to the stairs here. They would have had to walk through a wall of envelopes at least six feet thick . . .

There was one more flight. Moist climbed the stairs, cautiously, and was halfway up when he heard the slide begin, below him.

He must have disturbed the wall of letters on the floor below, somehow. It was emerging from the corridor with the unstoppability of a glacier. As the leading edge reached the stairwell, chunks of mail broke off and plunged into the depths. Far below, wood creaked and snapped. The stairway shivered.

Moist ran up the last few steps to the fifth floor, grabbed the door there, pulled it open and hung on as another mailslide poured past him. Everything was shaking now. There was a sudden crack as the rest of the staircase gave way and left Moist swinging from the handle, letters brushing past.

He swung there, eyes shut, until the noise and movement had more or less died away, although there was still the occasional creak from below.

The stairs had gone.

With great care, Moist brought his feet up until he could feel the edge of the new corridor. Without doing anything so provocative as breathing, he changed his grip on the door so that now he had hold of the handle on both sides. Slowly, he walked his heels through the drift of letters on the corridor floor, thus pulling the door closed, while at the same time getting both hands on to the inner handle.

Then he took a deep breath of the stale, dry air, scrabbled madly with his feet, bent his body like a hooked salmon and ended up with just enough of himself on the corridor floor to prevent a fall through sixty feet of letters and broken woodwork.

Barely thinking, he unhooked the lamp from the doorpost and turned to survey the task ahead.

The corridor was brightly lit, richly carpeted and completely free of mail. Moist stared.

There had been letters in there, wedged tight from floor to ceiling. He’d seen them, and felt them fall past him into the stairwell. They hadn’t been a hallucination; they’d been solid, musty, dusty and real. To believe anything else now would be madness.

He turned back to look at the wreckage of the stairs and saw no doorway, no stairs. The carpeted floor extended all the way to the far wall.

Moist realized that there had to be an explanation for this, but the only one he could think of now was: it’s strange. He reached down gingerly to touch the carpet where the stairwell should be, and felt a chill on his fingertips as they passed through it.

And he wondered: did one of the other new postmasters stand here, just where I am? And did he walk out over what looked like solid floor and end up rolling down five flights of pain?

Moist inched his way along the corridor in the opposite direction, and sound began to grow. It was vague and generalized, the noise of a big building hard at work, shouts, conversations, the rattle of machinery, the crowded susurrus of a thousand voices and wheels and footfalls and stampings and scribblings and slammings all woven together in a huge space to become the pure audible texture of commerce.

The corridor opened out ahead of him, where it met a T-junction. The noise was coming from the brightly lit space beyond. Moist walked towards the shining brass railing of the balcony ahead—

—and stopped.

All right, the brain has been carried all the way up here at great expense; now it’s time for it to do some work.

The hall of the Post Office was a dark cavern filled with mountains of mail. There were no balconies, no shining brasswork, no bustling staff and as sure as hell there were no customers.

The only time the Post Office could have looked like this was in the past, yes?

There was balconies, sir, all round the big hall on every floor, made of iron, like lace!

But they weren’t in the present, not in the here and now. But he wasn’t in the past, not exactly. His fingers had felt a stairwell when his eyes had seen carpeted floor.

Moist decided that he was standing in the here and now but seeing in the here and then. Of course, you’d have to be mad to believe it, but this was the Post Office.

Poor Mr Sideburn had stepped out on to a floor that wasn’t there any more.

Moist stopped before stepping out on to the balcony, reached down, and felt the chill on his fingertips once again as they went through the carpet. Who was it - oh, yes, Mr Mutable. He’d stood here, rushed to look down and—

—smack, sir, smack on to the marble.

Moist stood up carefully, steadied himself against the wall, and peered gingerly into the big hall.

Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but they were unlit because sunlight was pouring through the sparkling dome on to a scene innocent of pigeon droppings but alive with people, scuttling across the chequerboard floor or hard at work behind the long polished counters made of rare wood, my dad said. Moist stood and stared.

It was a scene made up of a hundred purposeful activities that fused happily into a great anarchy. Below him big wire baskets on wheels were being manhandled across the floor, sacks of letters were being tipped on moving belts, clerks were feverishly filling the pigeon-holes. It was a machine, made of people, sir, you should’ve seen it!

Away to Moist’s left, at the far end of the hall, was a golden statue three or four times life size. It was of a slim young man, obviously a god, wearing nothing more than a hat with wings on, sandals with wings on and - Moist squinted - a fig leaf with wings on? He’d been caught by the sculptor as he was about to leap into the air, carrying an envelope and wearing an expression of noble purpose.

It dominated the hall. It wasn’t there in the present day; the dais was unoccupied. If the counters and the chandeliers had gone, a statue that even looked like gold must’ve stood no chance. It had probably been The Spirit of the Post, or something.

Meanwhile, the mail down there was moving more prosaically.

Right under the dome was a clock with a face pointing in each of the four directions. As Moist watched it, the big hand clanked to the top of the hour.

A horn blew. The frantic ballet ceased as, somewhere below Moist, some doors opened and two lines of men in the uniforms, sir, royal blue with brass buttons! You should’ve seen them! marched into the hall in two lines and stood to attention in front of the big doors. A large man, in a rather grander version of the uniform and with a face like toothache, was waiting there for them; he wore a large hourglass hanging in a gimballed brass cage at his belt, and he looked at the waiting men as if he had seen worse sights but not often and even then only on the soles of his enormous boots.

He held up the hourglass with an air of evil satisfaction, and took a deep breath before roaring: ‘Numbahhh Four Delivereeee . . . stand!’

The words reached Moist’s ears slightly muffled, as though he was hearing them through cardboard. The postmen, already at attention, contrived to look even more alert. The big man glared at them and took another huge gulp of air.

‘Numbahhh Four Delivereeee wait for it, wait for it! . . . DELIVAAAAAAAH!’

The two lines marched past him and out into the day.

Once, we were postmen . . .

I’ve got to find a real stairway, Moist thought, pushing himself away from the edge. I’m . . . hallucinating the past. But I’m standing in the present. It’s like sleepwalking. I don’t want to walk out on to fresh air and end up as one more chalk outline.

He turned round, and someone walked right through him.

The sensation was unpleasant, like a sudden snap of fever. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part is seeing someone’s head walk through yours. The view is mostly grey, with traces of red and hollow hints of sinus. You would not wish to know about the eyeballs.

 . . . face all contorted like he’d seen a ghost . . .

Moist’s stomach heaved, and as he turned with his hand over his mouth he saw a young postman looking in his general direction with a look of horror that probably reflected the one on the unseen Moist’s face. Then the boy shivered, and hurried away.

So Mr Ignavia had got this far, too. He’d been smart enough to work out the floor but seeing another head going through your own, well, that could take you the wrong way . . .

Moist ran after the boy. Up here, he was lost; he must have toured less than a tenth of the building with Groat, the way constantly being blocked by glaciers of mail. There were other stairs, he knew, and they still existed in the present. Ground level, that was the goal: a floor you could rely on.

The boy went through a door and into what looked like a room full of parcels, but Moist could see an open doorway at the far end, and a hint of banister. He speeded up, and the floor disappeared from under his feet.

The light vanished. He was briefly and horribly aware of dry letters all around him, falling with him. He landed on more letters, choking as dry, ancient mail piled up about him. For a moment, through the rain of paper, he caught a glimpse of a dusty window half covered with letters, and then he was submerged again. The heap under him began to move, slipping down and sideways. There was the crack of what could have been a door being burst off its hinges and the sideways flow increased noticeably. He struck out madly for the surface in time for his head to hit the top of a door jamb and then the current dragged him under.

Helpless now, tumbling in the river of paper, Moist dimly felt the jolt as a floor gave way. The mail poured through, taking him with it and slamming him into another drift of envelopes. Sight disappeared as thousands of letters thudded down on top of him, and then sound died, too.

Darkness and silence squeezed him in a fist.

Moist von Lipwig knelt with his head resting on his arms. There was air here but it was warm and stale and wouldn’t last long. He couldn’t move more than a finger.

He could die here. He would die here. There must be tons of mail around him.

‘I commend my soul to any god who can find it,’ he mumbled, in the stifling air.

A line of blue danced across his inner vision.

It was handwriting. But it spoke.

 

‘Dear Mother, I have arived safely and found good lodgings at . . . .

 

The voice sounded like a country boy but it had a . . . a scritchy quality to it. If a letter could talk, it would sound like that. The words rambled on, the characters curving and slanting awkwardly under the pen of a reluctant writer—

—and as it ran on another line also began to write across the dark, crisply and neatly:

 

Dear Sir, I have the honour to inform you that I am the sole executer of the estate of the late Sir Davie Thrill, of The Manor, Mixed Blessings, and it appears that you are the sole . . . .’

 

The voice continued in words so clipped that you could hear the shelves full of legal books behind the desk, but a third line was beginning.

 

Dear Mrs Clarck, I much regret to inform you that in an engagement with the enemy yesterday your husband, C. Clark, fought valiantly but was . . .

 

And then they all wrote at once. Voices in their dozens, their hundreds, their thousands, filled his ears and squiggled across his inner vision. They didn’t shout, they just unrolled the words until his head was full of sound, which formed new words, just as all the instruments of an orchestra tinkle and scrape and blast to produce one climax—

Moist tried to scream, but envelopes filled his mouth.

And then a hand closed on his leg and he was in the air and upside down.

‘Ah, Mr Lipvig!’ boomed the voice of Mr Pump. ‘You Have Been Exploring! Welcome To Your New Office!’

Moist spat out paper and sucked air into stinging lungs.

‘They’re . . . alive!’ he gasped. ‘They’re all alive! And angry! They talk! It was not a hallucination! I’ve had hallucinations and they don’t hurt! I know how the others died!’

‘I Am Happy For You, Mr Lipvig,’ said Pump, turning him the right way up and wading waist deep across the room, while behind them more mail trickled through a hole in the ceiling.

‘You don’t understand! They talk! They want . . .’ Moist hesitated. He could still hear the whispering in his head. He said, as much to himself as for the benefit of the golem, ‘It’s as though they want to be . . . read.’

‘That Is The Function Of A Letter,’ said Pump calmly. ‘You Will See That I Have Almost Cleared Your Apartment.’

‘Listen, they’re just paper! And they talked!’

‘Yes,’ rumbled the golem ponderously. ‘This Place Is A Tomb Of Unheard Words. They Strive To Be Heard.’

‘Oh, come on! Letters are just paper. They can’t speak!’

‘I Am Just Clay, And I Listen,’ said Pump, with the same infuriating calm.

‘Yes, but you’ve got added mumbo-jumbo—’

The red fire rose behind Pump’s eyes as he turned to stare at Moist.

‘I went . . . backwards in time, I think,’ Moist mumbled, backing away. ‘In . . . my head. That’s how Sideburn died. He fell down stairs that weren’t there in the past. And Mr Ignavia died of fright. I’m sure of it! But I was inside the letters! And there must have been a . . . a hole in the floor, or something, and that . . . I fell, and I . . .’ He stopped. ‘This place needs a priest, or a wizard. Someone who understands this kind of stuff. Not me!’

The golem scooped up two armfuls of the mail that had so recently entombed his client.

‘You Are The Postmaster, Mr Lipvig,’ he said.

‘That’s just Vetinari’s trick! I’m no postman, I’m just a fraud—’

‘Mr Lipwig?’ said a nervous voice from the doorway behind him. He turned and saw the boy Stanley, who flinched at his expression.

‘Yes?’ snapped Moist. ‘What the hell do you— What do you want, Stanley? I’m a little busy right now.’

‘There’s some men,’ said Stanley, grinning uncertainly. ‘They’re downstairs. Some men.’

Moist glared at him, but Stanley seemed to have finished for now.

‘And these men want . . . ?’ he prompted.

‘They want you, Mr Lipwig,’ said Stanley. ‘They said they want to see the man who wants to be postmaster.’

‘I don’t want to be—’ Moist began, but gave up. There was no point in taking it out on the boy.

‘Excuse Me, Postmaster,’ said the golem behind him. ‘I Wish To Complete My Allotted Task.’

Moist stood aside as the clay man walked out into the corridor, the old boards groaning under his enormous feet. Outside, you could see how he’d managed to clean out the office. The walls of other rooms were bowed out almost to the point of exploding. When a golem pushes things into a room, they stay pushed.

The sight of the plodding figure calmed Moist down a little. There was something intensely . . . well, down-to-earth about Mr Pump.

What he needed now was normality, normal people to talk to, normal things to do to drive the voices out of his head. He brushed fragments of paper off his increasingly greasy suit.

‘All right,’ he said, trying to find his tie, which had ended up hanging down his back. ‘I shall see what they want.’

 

They were waiting on the half-landing on the big staircase. They were old men, thin and bowed, like slightly older copies of Groat. They had the same ancient uniform, but there was something odd about them.

Each man had the skeleton of a pigeon wired on to the top of his peaked hat.

‘Be you the Unfranked Man?’ growled one of them, as he approached.

‘What? Who? Am I?’ said Moist. Suddenly, the idea of normality was ebbing again.

‘Yes, you are, sir,’ whispered Stanley beside him. ‘You have to say yes, sir. Gosh, sir, I wish it was me doing this.’

‘Doing what?’

‘For the second time: be you the Unfranked Man?’ said the old man, looking angry. Moist noticed that he was missing the top joints on the middle fingers of his right hand.

‘I suppose so. If you insist,’ he said. This didn’t meet with any approval at all.

‘For the last time: be you the Unfranked Man?’ This time there was real menace in the voice.

‘Yes, all right! For the purposes of this conversation, yes! I am the Unfranked Man!’ Moist shouted. ‘Now can we—’

Something black was dropped over his head from behind and he felt strings pulled tightly round his neck.

‘The Unfranked Man is tardy,’ crackled another elderly voice, in his ear, and unseen but tough hands took hold of him. ‘No postman he.’

‘You’ll be fine, sir,’ said the voice of Stanley, as Moist struggled. ‘Don’t worry. Mr Groat will guide you. You’ll do it easily, sir.’

‘Do what?’ said Moist. ‘Let go of me, you daft old devils!’

‘The Unfranked Man dreads the Walk,’ one assailant hissed.

‘Aye, the Unfranked Man will be Returned to Sender in no short order,’ said another.

‘The Unfranked Man must be weighed in the balance,’ said a third.

‘Stanley, fetch Mr Pump right now!’ shouted Moist, but the hood was thick and clinging.

‘Mustn’t do that, sir,’ said Stanley. ‘Mustn’t do that at all, sir. It will be all right, sir. It’s just a . . . a test, sir. It’s the Order of the Post, sir.’

Funny hats, Moist thought, and began to relax. Hoodwinks and threats . . . I know this stuff. It’s mysticism for tradesmen. There’s not a city in the world without its Loyal and Ancient and Justified and Hermetic Order of little men who think they can reap the secrets of the ancients for a couple of hours every Thursday night and don’t realize what prats they look in a robe. I should know - I must have joined a dozen of ‘em myself. I bet there’s a secret handshake. I know more secret handshakes than the gods. I’m in about as much danger as I would be in a class of five-year-olds. Less, probably. Unfranked Man . . . good grief.

He relaxed. He let himself be led down the stairs, and turned round. Ah, yes, that’s right. You’ve got to make the initiate fear, but everyone knows it’s just a party game. It’ll sound bad, it might even feel bad, but it won’t be bad. He remembered joining - what was it?

Oh yes - the Men of the Furrow, in some town out in the stalks.* He had been blindfolded, of course, and the Men had made all the horrific noises they could imagine, and then a voice in the darkness had said, ‘Shake hands with the Old Master!’ and Moist had reached out and shaken a goat’s foot. Those who got out of there with clean pants won.

 

* In areas more wooded, areas less dominated by the cabbage and general brassica industry, it would of course have been in the sticks.

 

Next day he’d swindled three of his trusting new Brothers out of eighty dollars. That didn’t seem quite so funny now.

The old postmen were taking him into the big hall. He could tell by the echoes. And there were other people there, according to those little hairs on the back of his neck. Not just people, maybe; he thought he heard a muffled growl. But that was how it went, right? Things had to sound worrying. The key was to be bold, to act brave and forthright.

His escorts left him. Moist stood in darkness for a moment, and then felt a hand grasp his elbow.

‘It’s me, sir. Probationary Senior Postman Groat, sir. Don’t you worry about a thing, sir. I’m your Temporary Deacon for tonight, sir.’

‘Is this necessary, Mr Groat?’ sighed Moist. ‘I was appointed postmaster, you know.’

‘Appointed, yes. Accepted, not yet, sir. Proof of posting is not proof of delivery, sir.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Can’t tell secrets to an Unfranked Man, sir,’ said Groat piously. ‘You’ve done well to get this far, sir.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Moist, trying to sound jovial. ‘What’s the worst that can happen, eh?’

Groat was silent.

‘I said—’ Moist began.

‘I was just working that out, sir,’ said Groat. ‘Let’s see . . . yes, sir. The worst that can happen is you lose all your fingers on one hand, are crippled for life, and break half the bones in your body. Oh, and then they don’t let you join. But don’t you worry about a thing, sir, not a thing!’

Up ahead, a voice boomed: ‘Who brings the Unfranked Man?’

Beside Moist, Groat cleared his throat and, when he spoke, his voice actually shook.

‘I, probationary Senior Postman Tolliver Groat, do bring the Unfranked Man.’

‘You did say that about the bones to frighten me, right?’ hissed Moist.

‘And does he stand in the Gloom of Night?’ the voice demanded.

‘He does now, Worshipful Master!’ shouted Groat happily, and whispered to the hooded Moist, ‘Some of the old boys are really happy about you getting the sign back.’

‘Good. Now, these broken bones you mentioned—’

‘Then let him walk the Walk!’ the unseen voice commanded.

‘We’re just going to walk forward, sir. Easy does it,’ Groat whispered urgently. ‘That’s it. Stop here.’

‘Look,’ said Moist, ‘all that stuff . . . that was just to scare me, right?’

‘You leave it to me, sir,’ Groat whispered.

‘But listen, the—’ Moist began, and had a mouthful of hood.

‘Let him don the Boots!’ the voice went on.

Amazing how you can hear the capital letters, Moist thought, trying not to choke on the cloth.

‘Pair of boots right in front of you, sir,’ came Groat’s hoarse whisper. ‘Put ‘em on. No problem, sir.’

‘Pff! Yes, but listen—’

‘The boots, sir, please!’

Moist removed his shoes, very clumsily, and slid his feet into the invisible boots. They turned out to be as heavy as lead.

‘The Walk of the Unfranked Man is Heavy,’ the booming voice intoned. ‘Let him continue!’

Moist took another step forward, trod on something which rolled, stumbled headlong and felt a stab of agony as his shins hit metal.

‘Postmen,’ the booming voice demanded again, ‘what is the First Oath?’

Voices sang out from the darkness, in chorus: ‘Strewth, would you bleedin’ credit it? Toys, prams, garden tools . . . they don’t care what they leaves out on the path on these dark mornings!’

‘Did the Unfranked Man cry out?’ the voice said.

I think I’ve broken my chin, Moist thought, as Groat dragged him to his feet. I think I’ve broken my chin! The old man hissed: ‘Well done, sir,’ and then raised his voice to add for the benefit of the unseen watchers: ‘He crydeth out not, Worshipful Master, but was resolute!’

‘Then give unto him the Bag!’ boomed the distant voice. Moist was beginning to loathe it.

Unseen hands put a strap round Moist’s neck. When they let go, the weight on it bent him double.

‘The Postman’s Bag is Heavy, but soon it shall be Light!’ echoed off the walls. No one had said anything about pain, Moist thought. Well, actually they had, but they didn’t say they meant it—

‘On we go, sir,’ Groat urged, invisible at his side. ‘This is the Postman’s Walk, remember!’

Moist edged forward, very carefully, and felt something rattle away.

‘He trod not upon the Roller Skate, Worshipful Master!’ Groat reported to the invisible watchers.

Moist, aching but heartened, tried two more hesitant steps, and there was another rattle as something bounced off his boot.

‘The Carelessly Abandoned Beer Bottle impeded him not!’ Groat yelled triumphantly.

Emboldened, Moist essayed a further step, trod on something slippery, and felt his foot head off and up without him. He landed heavily on his back, his head thumping on the floor. He was sure he heard his own skull crack.

‘Postmen, what is the Second Oath?’ the echoing voice commanded.

‘Dogs! I tell you, there’s no such thing as a good one! If they don’t bite they all crap! It’s as bad as stepping on machine oil!’

Moist got to his knees, head spinning.

‘That’s right, that’s right, you keeps goin’!’ hissed Groat, grabbing his elbow. ‘You get through, come rain or shine!’ He lowered his voice even further. ‘Remember what it says on the building!’

‘Mrs Cake?’ Moist mumbled, and then thought: was it rain or snow? Or sleet? He heard movement and hunched over the heavy bag as the water drenched him and an over-enthusiastic bucket bounced off his head.

Rain, then. He straightened up just in time to feel biting coldness slither down the back of the neck, and nearly screamed.

‘That was ice cubes,’ Groat whispered. ‘Got ‘em from the mortuary but don’t you worry, sir, they was hardly used . . . best we can do for snow, this time of year. Sorry! Don’t you worry about a thing, sir!’

‘Let the Mail be tested!’ bellowed the all-commanding voice.

Groat’s hand plunged into the bag while Moist staggered in a circle, and he raised a letter triumphantly.

‘I, probationary Senior— Oh, excuse me just a tick, Worshipful Master . . .’ Moist felt his head being pulled down to the level of Groat’s mouth, and the old man whispered: ‘Was that probationary or full Senior Postman, sir?’

‘What? Oh, full, yes, full!’ said Moist, as iced water filled his shoes. ‘Definitely!’

‘I, Senior Postman Groat, do declare the mail to be as dry as a bone, Worshipful Master!’ shouted Groat triumphantly.

This time the cracked voice of authority held a hint of gleeful menace.

‘Then let him . . . deliver it!

In the stifling gloom of the hood, Moist’s sense of danger barred the door and hid in the cellar. This was where the unseen chanters leaned forward. This was where it stopped being a game.

‘I haven’t actually written anything down, mark you,’ he began, swaying.

‘Careful now, careful,’ hissed Groat, ignoring him. ‘Nearly there! There’s a door right in front of you, there’s a letter box— Could he take a breather, Worshipful Master? He caught his head a nasty crack—’

‘A breather, Brother Groat? So’s you can give him another hint or two, maybe?’ said the presiding voice, with scorn.

‘Worshipful Master, the rituals says that the Unfranked Man is allowed a—’ Groat protested.

‘This Unfranked Man walketh alone! On his tod, Tolliver Groat! He doesn’t want to be a Junior Postman, oh no, nor even a Senior Postman, not him! He wants to achieve the rank of Postmaster all in one go! We’re not playing Postman’s Knock here, Junior Postman Groat! You talked us into this! We are not mucking about! He’s got to show he’s worth it!’

‘That’s Senior Postman Groat, thank you so very much!’ Groat yelled.

‘You ain’t a proper Senior Postman, Tolliver Groat, not if he fails the test!’

‘Yeah? And who says you’re Worshipful Master, George Aggy? You’re only Worshipful Master ‘cos you got first crack at the robes!’

The Worshipful Master’s voice become a little less commanding. ‘You’re a decent bloke, Tolliver, I’ll give you that, but all this stuff you spout about a real postmaster turning up one day and making it all better is just . . . silly! Look at this place, will you? It’s had its day. We all have. But if you’re going to be pig-headed, we’ll do it according to the book of rules!’

‘Right, then!’ said Groat.

‘Right, then!’ echoed the Worshipful Master.

A secret society of postmen, Moist thought. I mean, why?

Groat sighed, and leaned closer. ‘There’s going to be a bloody row after we’re finished,’ he hissed to Moist. ‘Sorry about this, sir. Just post the letter. I believe in you, sir!’

He stepped back.

In the dark night of the hood, stunned and bleeding, Moist shuffled forward, arms outstretched. His hands found the door, and ran across it in a vain search for the slot. Eventually they found it a foot above the ground.

Okay, okay, ram a damn letter in there and get this stupid pantomime over with.

But it wasn’t a game. This wasn’t one of those events where everyone knew that old Harry just had to mouth the right words to be the latest member of the Loyal Order of Chair Stuffers. There were people out there taking it seriously.

Well, he just had to post a letter through a slot, didn’t he? How hard could that b— Hold on, hold on . . . wasn’t one of the men who’d led him down here missing the tips of his fingers on one hand?

Suddenly, Moist was angry. It even sheared through the pain from his chin. He didn’t have to do this! At least, he didn’t have to do it like this. It would be a poor lookout if he wasn’t a better player of les buggeures risibles than this bunch of old fools!

He straightened up, stifling a groan, and pulled off the hood. There was still darkness all around him, but it was punctuated by the glow from the doors of a dozen or so dark lanterns.

‘ ‘ere, ‘e’s taken the hood off!’ someone shouted.

‘The Unfranked Man may choose to remain in darkness,’ said Moist. ‘But the Postman loves the Light.’

He pitched the voice right. It was the key to a thousand frauds. You had to sound right, sound like you knew what you were doing, sound like you were in charge. And, while he’d spoken gibberish, it was authentic gibberish.

The door of a lantern opened a little wider and a plaintive voice said, ‘ ‘ere, I can’t find that in the book. Where’s he supposed to say that?’

You had to move quickly, too. Moist wrapped the hood round his hand and levered up the flap of the letter box. With his other hand he grabbed a random letter out of the bag, flicked it through the slot and then pulled his makeshift glove away. It ripped as though cut by shears.

‘Postmen, what is the Third Oath?’ shouted Groat triumphantly. ‘All together, lads: Strewth, what do they make these flaps out of, razor blades?’

There was a resentful silence.

‘He never had ‘is ‘ood on,’ muttered a robed figure.

‘Yes he did! He wrapped it round his hand! Tell me where it says he can’t do that!’ screamed Groat. ‘I told you! He’s the One we’ve been waiting for!’

‘There’s still the final test,’ said the Worshipful Master.

‘What final test are you goin’ on about, George Aggy? He delivered the mail!’ Groat protested. ‘Lord Vetinari appointed him postmaster and he’s walked the Walk!’

‘Vetinari? He’s only been around five minutes! Who’s he to say who’s postmaster? Was his father a postman? No! Or his grandfather? Look at the men he’s been sending! You said they were sneaky devils who didn’t have a drop of Post Office ink in their blood!’

‘I think this one might be able to—’ Groat began.

‘He can take the ultimate test,’ said the Worshipful Master sternly. ‘You know what that is.’

‘It’ll be murder!’ said Groat. ‘You can’t—’

‘I ain’t telling you again, young Tolly, you just shut your mouth! Well, Mister Postmaster? Will you face the postman’s greatest challenge? Will you face . . .’ the voice paused for effect and just in case there might be a few bars of portentous music, ‘the Enemy at the Gate?’

‘Face it and o’ercome it, if you demand it!’ said Moist. The fool had called him Postmaster! It was working! Sound as if you’re in charge and they start to believe it! Oh, and ‘o’er’ had been a good touch, too.

‘We do! Oh yes, we do!’ chorused the robed postmen.

Groat, a bearded shadow in the gloom, took Moist’s hand and, to his amazement, shook it.

‘Sorry about this, Mr Lipwig,’ he said. ‘Din’t expect this at all. They’re cheating. But you’ll be fine. You just rely on Senior Postman Groat, sir.’

He drew his hand away, and Moist felt something small and cold in his palm. He closed his fist over it. Didn’t expect it at all?’

‘Right, Postmaster,’ said the Worshipful Master. ‘This is a simple test. All you have to do, right, is still be standing here, on your feet, in one minute’s time, all right? Run for it, lads!’

There was a swishing of robes and scurrying of feet and a distant door slammed. Moist was left standing in silent, pigeon-smelling gloom.

What other test could there be? He tried to remember all the words on the front of the building. Trolls? Dragons? Green things with teeth? He opened his hand to see what it was that Groat had slipped him.

It looked very much like a whistle.

Somewhere in the darkness a door opened, and shut again. It was followed by the distant sound of paws moving purposefully.

Dogs.

Moist turned and ran down the hall to the plinth, and scrambled on to it. It wouldn’t be much of a problem for large dogs, but at least it would put their heads at kicking height.

Then there was a bark, and Moist’s face broke into a smile. You only ever needed to hear that bark once. It wasn’t a particularly aggressive one, because it was made by a mouth capable of crushing a skull. You didn’t need too much extra advertising when you could do that. News got around.

This was going to be . . . ironic. They’d actually got hold of Lipwigzers!

Moist waited until he could see the eyes in the lantern light before hesaid,’Schlat!’

The dogs stopped, and stared at Moist. Clearly, they were thinking, something is wrong here. He sighed, and slipped down off the pedestal.

‘Look,’ he said, placing a hand on each rump and exerting downward pressure. ‘One fact everyone knows is that no female Lipwigzers have ever been let out of the country. That keeps the breed price high . . . Schlat! I said! . . . and every puppy is trained to Lipwigzian commands! This is the old country talking, boys! Schlat!’

The dogs sat down instantly.

‘Good boys,’ said Moist. It was true what people like his grandfather said: once you got past their ability to bite through a whole leg in one go, they were very nice animals.

He cupped his hands and shouted: ‘Gentlemen? It’s safe for you to come in now!’ The postmen would be listening, that was certain. They’d be waiting for snarls and screams.

The distant door opened.

‘Come forward!’ snapped Moist. The dogs turned to look at the huddle of approaching postmen. They growled, too, in one long, uninterrupted rumble.

Now he could see the mysterious Order clearly. They were robed, of course, because you couldn’t have a secret order without robes. They had pushed the hoods back now, and each man* was wearing a peaked cap with a bird skeleton wired to it.

 

* Women are always significantly under-represented in secret orders.

 

‘Now, sir, we knew Tolliver’d slip you the dog whistle—’ one of them began, looking nervously at the Lipwigzers.

‘This?’ said Moist, opening his hand. ‘I didn’t use it. It only makes ‘em angry.’

The postmen stared at the sitting dogs.

‘But you got ‘em to sit—’ one began.

‘I can get them to do other things,’ said Moist levelly. ‘I just have to say the word.’

‘Er . . . there’s a couple of lads outside with muzzles, if it’s all the same to you, sir,’ said Groat, as the Order backed away. ‘We’re heridititerrilyly wary of dogs. It’s a postman thing.’

‘I can assure you that the control my voice has over them at the moment is stronger than steel,’ said Moist. This was probably garbage, but it was good garbage.

The growl from one of the dogs had taken on the edge it tended to get just before the creature became a tooth-tipped projectile.

‘Vodit!’ shouted Moist. ‘Sorry about this, gentlemen,’ he added. ‘I think you make them nervous. They can smell fear, as you probably know.’

‘Look, we’re really sorry, all right?’ said the one whose voice suggested to Moist that he had been the Worshipful Master. ‘We had to be sure, all right?’

‘I’m the postmaster, then?’ said Moist.

‘Absolutely, sir. No problem at all. Welcome, O Postmaster!’

Quick learner, Moist thought.

‘I think I’ll just—’ he began, as the double doors opened at the other end of the hall.

Mr Pump entered, carrying a large box. It should be quite hard to open a big pair of doors while carrying something in both hands, but not if you’re a golem. They just walk at them. The doors can choose to open or try to stay shut, it’s up to them.

The dogs took off like fireworks. The postmen took off in the opposite direction, climbing on to the dais behind Moist with commendable speed for such elderly men.

Mr Pump plodded forward, crushing underfoot the debris of the Walk. He rocked as the creatures struck him, and then patiently put down the box and picked up the dogs by the scruff of their necks.

‘There Are Some Gentlemen Outside With Nets And Gloves And Extremely Thick Clothing, Mr Lipvig,’ he said. ‘They Say They Work For A Mr Harry King. They Want To Know If You Have Finished With These Dogs.’

&lsqu