The Nature of Boris the Horse - Foreboding Tower - Mr Lipwig

cools off- The Lady with Buns on Her Ears - Invitation Accepted —

Mr Robinsons Box — A mysterious stranger

 

Hobson had tried Boris as a racehorse and he would have been a very good one were it not for his unbreakable habit, at the off, of attacking the horse next to him and jumping the railings at the first bend. Moist clapped one hand on to his hat, wedged his toes into the belly band and hung on to the reins as Broadway came at him all at once, carts and people blurring past, his eyeballs pressing into his head.

There was a cart across the street but there was no possibility of steering Boris. Huge muscles bunched and there was a long, slow, silent moment as he drifted over the cart.

Hooves slid over the cobbles ahead of a trail of sparks when he landed again, but he recovered by sheer momentum and accelerated.

The usual crowd around the Hubwards Gate scattered and there, filling the horizon, were the plains. They did something to Boris’s mad horse brain. All that space, nice and flat with only a few easily jumped obstacles, like trees . . .

He found extra muscle and speeded up again, bushes and trees and carts flying towards him.

Moist cursed the bravado with which he’d ordered the saddle taken away. Every part of his body already hated him. But in truth Boris, once you got past the pineapple, wasn’t too bad a ride. He’d hit his rhythm, a natural single-footed gait, and his burning eyes were focused on the blueness. His hatred of everything was for the moment subsumed in the sheer joy of space. Hobson was right, you couldn’t steer him with a mallet, but at least he was headed in the right direction, which was away from his stable. Boris didn’t want to spend the days kicking the bricks out of his wall while waiting to throw the next bumptious idiot. He wanted to bite the horizon. He wanted to run.

Moist carefully removed his hat and gripped it in his mouth. He didn’t dare imagine what’d happen if he lost it, and he’d need to have it on his head at the end of the journey. It was important. It was all about style.

One of the towers of the Grand Trunk was ahead and slightly to the left. There were two in the twenty miles between Ankh-Morpork and Sto Lat, because they were taking almost all the traffic of lines that stretched right across the continent. Beyond Sto Lat the Trunk began to split into tributaries, but here, flashing overhead, the words of the world were flowing—

—should be flowing. But the shutters were still. As he drew level, Moist saw men working high up on the open wooden tower; by the look of it, a whole section had broken off.

Ha! So long, suckers! That’d take some repairing! Worth an overnight attempt at a delivery to Pseudopolis, maybe? He’d talk to the coachmen. It wasn’t as if they’d ever paid the Post Office for their damn coaches. And it wouldn’t matter if the clacks got repaired in time, either, because the Post Office would have made the effort. The clacks company was a big bully, sacking people, racking up the charges, demanding lots of money for bad service. The Post Office was the underdog, and an underdog can always find somewhere soft to bite.

Carefully, he eased more of the blanket under him. Various organs were going numb.

The towering fumes of Ankh-Morpork were falling far behind. Sto Lat was visible between Boris’s ears, a plume of lesser smokes. The tower disappeared astern and already Moist could see the next one. He’d ridden more than a third of the way in twenty minutes, and Boris was still eating up the ground.

About halfway between the cities was an old stone tower, all that remained of a heap of ruins surrounded by woodland. It was almost as high as a clacks tower and Moist wondered why they hadn’t simply used it as one. It was probably too derelict to survive in a gale under the weight of the shutters, he thought. The area looked bleak, a piece of weedy wilderness in the endless fields.

If he’d had spurs, Moist would have spurred Boris on at this point, and would probably have been thrown, trampled and eaten for his pains.* Instead, he lay low over the horse’s back and tried not to think about what this ride was doing to his kidneys.

 

* Which would have been agonizing.

 

Time passed.

The second tower went by, and Boris dropped into a canter. Sto Lat was clearly visible now; Moist could make out the city walls and the turrets of the castle.

He’d have to jump off; there was no other way. Moist had tried out half a dozen scenarios as the walls loomed, but nearly all of them involved haystacks. The one that didn’t was the one where he broke his neck.

But it didn’t seem to occur to Boris to turn aside. He was on a road, the road was straight, it went through this gateway and Boris had no problem with that. Besides, he wanted a drink.

The city streets were crowded with things that couldn’t be jumped or trampled, but there was a horse trough. He was only vaguely aware of something falling off his back.

Sto Lat wasn’t a big city. Moist had once spent a happy week there, passing a few dud bills, pulling off the Indigent Heir trick twice and selling a glass ring on the way out, not so much for the money as out of a permanent fascination with human deviousness and gullibility.

Now he staggered up the steps of the town hall, watched by a crowd. He pushed open the doors and slammed the mailbag on the desk of the first clerk he saw.

‘Mail from Ankh-Morpork,’ he growled. ‘Started out at nine, so it’s fresh, okay?’

‘But it’s only just struck a quarter past ten! What mail?’

Moist tried not to get angry. He was sore enough as it was.

 ‘See this hat?’ he said, pointing. ‘You see it? That means I’m the Postmaster General of Ankh-Morpork! This is your mail! In an hour I’m going back again, understand? If you want mail delivered to the big city by two p.m.— Ouch. Make that three p.m. - then put it in this bag. These,’ he waved a wad of stamps under the young man’s nose, ‘are stamps! Red ones tuppence, black ones a penny. It’ll cost ten - ow - eleven pence per letter, got it? You sell the stamps, you give me the money, you lick the stamps and put them on the letters! Express Delivery guaranteed! I’m making you Acting Postmaster for an hour. There’s an inn next door. I’ve going to find a bath. I want a cold bath. Really cold. Got an ice house here? As cold as that. Colder. Ooooh, colder. And a drink and a sandwich and by the way there’s a big black horse outside. If your people can catch him, please put a saddle on him and a cushion and drag him round to face Ankh-Morpork. Do it!’

 

It was only a hip bath, but at least there was an ice house in the city. Moist sat in a state of bliss amongst the floating ice, drinking a brandy, and listened to the commotion outside.

After a while there was a knock at the door, and a male voice enquired: ‘Are you decent, Mr Postmaster?’

‘Thoroughly decent, but not dressed,’ said Moist. He reached down beside him and put his winged hat on again. ‘Do come in.’

The mayor of Sto Lat was a short, bird-like man, who’d either become mayor very recently and immediately after the post had been held by a big fat man, or thought that a robe that trailed several feet behind you and a chain that reached to the waist was the look for civic dignitaries this year.

‘Er . . . Joe Camels, sir,’ he said nervously. ‘I’m the mayor here . . .’

‘Really? Good to meet you, Joe,’ said Moist, raising his glass. ‘Excuse me if I don’t get up.’

‘Your horse, er, has run away after kicking three men, I’m sorry to say.’

‘Really? He never usually does that,’ said Moist.

‘Don’t worry, sir, we’ll catch him, and anyway we can let you have a horse to get back on. Not as fast, though, I dare say.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Moist, easing himself into a new position amongst the floating ice. ‘That’s a shame.’

‘Oh, I know all about you, Mr Lipwig,’ said the mayor, winking conspiratorially. ‘There were some copies of the Times in the mailbag! A man who wants to be up and doing, you are. A man full of vim, you are! A man after my own heart, you are! You aim for the moon, you do! You see your target and you go for it hell for leather, you do! That’s how I does business, too! You’re a go-getter, just like me! I’d like you to put it here, sir!’

‘What where?’ said Moist, stirring uneasily in his rapidly-becoming-lukewarm tub. ‘Oh.’ He shook the proffered hand. “What is your business, Mr Camels?’

‘I make parasols,’ said the mayor. ‘And it’s about time that clacks company was told what’s what! It was all fine up until a few months ago - I mean, they made you pay through the nose but at least stuff got where it was going fast as an arrow, but now it’s all these breakdowns and repairs and they charge even more, mark you! And they never tell you how long you’re going to be waiting, it’s always “very shortly”. They’re always “sorry for the inconvenience” - they even got that written on a sign they hang up on the office! As warm and human as a thrown knife, just like you said. So you know what we just done? We went round to the clacks tower in the city and had a serious word with young Davey, who’s a decent lad, and he gave us back all the overnight clacks for the big city that never got sent. How about that, eh?’

‘Won’t he get into trouble?’

‘He says he’s quitting anyway. None of the boys like the way the company’s run now. They’ve all been stamped for you, just like you said. Well, I’ll let you get dressed, Mr Lipwig. Your horse is ready.’ He stopped at the door. ‘Oh, just one thing, sir, about them stamps . . .’

‘Yes? Is there a problem, Mr Camels?’ said Moist.

‘Not as such, sir. I wouldn’t say anything against Lord Vetinari, sir, or Ankh-Morpork’ - said a man living within twenty miles of a proud and touchy citizenry - ‘but, er, it doesn’t seem right, licking . . . well, licking Ankh-Morpork stamps. Couldn’t you print up a few for us? We’ve got a Queen, nice girl. She’d look good on a stamp. We’re an important city, you know!’

‘I’ll see what I can do, Mr Camels. Got a picture of her, by any chance?’

They’ll all want one, he thought, as he got dressed. Having your own stamps could be like having your own flag, your own crest. It could be big! And I bet I could do a deal with my friend Mr Spools, oh yes. Doesn’t matter if you haven’t got your own post office, you’ve got to have your own stamp . . .

An enthusiastic crowd saw him off on a horse which, while no Boris, did his best and seemed to know what reins were for. Moist gratefully accepted the cushion on the saddle, too. That added more glitter to the glass: he’d ridden so hard he needed a cushion!

He set off with a full mailbag. Amazingly, once again, people had bought stamps just to own them. The Times had got around. Here was something new, so people wanted to be part of it.

Once he was cantering over the fields, though, he felt the fizz die away. He was employing Stanley, a bunch of game but creaky old men, and some golems. He couldn’t keep this up.

But the thing was, you added sparkle. You told people what you intended to do and they believed you could do it. Anyone could have done this ride. No one had. They kept waiting for the clacks to be repaired.

He took things gently along the road, speeding up as he passed the clacks tower that had been under repair. It was still under repair, in fact, but he could see more men around it and high up on the tower. There was a definite suggestion that repair work was suddenly going a lot faster.

As he watched, he was sure he saw someone fall off. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to go over there and see if he could help, though, not if he wanted to continue to go through life with his own teeth. Besides, it was a long, long drop all the way down to the cabbage fields, handily combining death and burial at the same time.

He speeded up again when he reached the city. Somehow trotting up to the Post Office steps was not an option. The queue - still a queue - cheered when he cantered up.

Mr Groat came running out, insofar as a crab can run.

‘Can you make another delivery to Sto Lat, sir?’ he shouted. ‘Got a full bag already! And everyone’s asking when you’ll be taking ‘em to Pseudopolis and Quirm! Got one here for Lancre, too!’

“What? That’s five hundred damn miles, man!’ Moist dismounted, although the state of his legs turned the action into more of a drop.

‘It’s all got a bit busy since you were away,’ said Groat, steadying him. ‘Oh, yes indeed! Ain’t got enough people! But there’s people wanting jobs, too, sir, since the paper came out! People from the old postal families, just like me! Even some more workers out of retirement! I took the liberty of taking them on pro tern for the time being, seeing as I’m Acting Postmaster. I hope that’s all right with you, sir? And Mr Spools is running off more stamps! I’ve twice had to send Stanley up for more. I hear we’ll have the early fivepennies and the dollars out tonight! Great times, eh, sir?’

‘Er . . . yes,’ said Moist. Suddenly the whole world had turned into a kind of Boris - moving fast, inclined to bite and impossible to steer. The only way not to be ground down was to stay on top.

Inside the hall extra makeshift tables had been set up. They were crowded with people.

‘We’re selling them the envelopes and paper,’ said Groat. ‘The ink is free gratis.’

‘Did you think that up yourself?’ said Moist.

‘No, it’s what we used to do,’ said Groat. ‘Miss Maccalariat got a load of cheap paper from Spools.’

‘Miss Maccalariat?’ said Moist. ‘Who is Miss Maccalariat?’

‘Very old Post Office family, sir,’ said Groat. ‘She’s decided to work for you.’ He looked a little nervous.

‘Sorry?’ said Moist. ‘She has decided to work for me?’

‘Well, you know what it’s like with Post Office people, sir,’ said Groat. ‘We don’t like to—’

‘Are you the postmaster?’ said a withering voice behind Moist.

The voice went into his head, bored down through his memories, riffled through his fears, found the right levers, battened on to them and pulled. In Moist’s case, it found Frau Shambers. In the second year at school you were precipitated out of the warm, easy-going kindergarten of Frau Tissel, smelling of finger paint, salt dough and inadequate toilet training, and on to the cold benches governed by Frau Shambers, smelling of Education. It was as bad as being born, with the added disadvantage that your mother wasn’t there.

Moist automatically turned and looked down. Yes, there they were, the sensible shoes, the thick black stockings that were slightly hairy, the baggy cardigan - oh, yes, arrgh, the cardigan; Frau Shambers used to stuff the sleeves with handkerchiefs, arrgh, arrgh -and the glasses and the expression like an early frost. And her hair was plaited and coiled up on either side of her head in those discs that back home in Uberwald had been called ‘snails’ but in Ankh-Morpork put people in mind of a woman with a curly iced bun clamped to each ear.

‘Now look here, Miss Maccalariat,’ he said firmly. ‘I am the postmaster here, and I am in charge, and I do not intend to be browbeaten by a member of the counter staff just because their ancestors worked here. I do not fear your clumpy shoes, Miss Maccalariat, I smile happily in the teeth of your icy stare. Fie on you! Now I am a grown man, Frau Shambers, I will quake not at your sharp voice and will control my bladder perfectly however hard you look at me, oh yes indeed! For I am the Postmaster and my word here is law!’

That was the sentence his brain said. Unfortunately it got routed through his trembling backbone on the way to his mouth and issued from his lips as: ‘Er, yes!’ which came out as a squeak.

‘Mr Lipwig, I ask you: I have nothing against them, but are these golems you are employing in my Post Office gentlemen or ladies?’ the terrible woman demanded.

This was sufficiently unexpected to jolt Moist back into something like reality. ‘What?’ he said. ‘I don’t know! What’s the difference? A bit more clay . . . less clay? Why?’

Miss Maccalariat folded her arms, causing both Moist and Mr Groat to shy backwards.

‘I hope you’re not funning with me, Mr Lipwig?’ she demanded.

‘What? Funning? I never fun!’ Moist tried to pull himself together. Whatever happened next, he could not be made to stand in the corner. ‘I do not fun, Miss Maccalariat, and have no history of funning, and even if I were inclined to funning, Miss Maccalariat, I would not dream of funning with you. What is the problem?’

‘One of them was in the ladies’ . . . rest room, Mr Lipwig,’ said Miss Maccalariat.

‘Doing what? I mean, they don’t eat, so—’

‘Cleaning it, apparently,’ said Miss Maccalariat, contriving to suggest that she had dark suspicions on this point. ‘But I have heard them referred to as “Mister”.’

‘Well, they do odd jobs all the time, because they don’t like to stop working,’ said Moist. ‘And we prefer to give them Mister as an honorific because, er, “it” seems wrong and there are some people, yes, some people for whom the word “Miss” is not appropriate, Miss Maccalariat.’

‘It is the principle of the thing, Mr Lipwig,’ said the woman firmly. ‘Anyone called Mister is not allowed in the Ladies. That sort of thing can only lead to hanky-panky. I will not stand for it, Mr Lipwig.’

Moist stared at her. Then he looked up at Mr Pump, who was never far away.

‘Mr Pump, is there any reason why one of the golems can’t have a new name?’ he asked. ‘In the interest of hanky-panky avoidance?’

‘No, Mr Lipvig,’ the golem rumbled.

Moist turned back to Miss Maccalariat. ‘Would “Gladys” do, Miss Maccalariat?’

‘Gladys will be sufficient, Mr Lipwig,’ said Miss Maccalariat, more than a hint of triumph in her voice. ‘She must be properly clothed, of course.’

‘Clothed?’ said Moist weakly. ‘But a golem isn’t— it doesn’t— they don’t have . . .’ He quailed under the glare, and gave up. ‘Yes, Miss Maccalariat. Something gingham, I think, Mr Pump?’

‘I Shall Arrange It, Postmaster,’ said the golem.

‘Will that be all right, Miss Maccalariat?’ said Moist meekly.

‘For the present,’ s............