Going Postal (16 page)

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.

“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 they 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 onto 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 scruffs 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.”

“Harry King?” said Moist.

“He’s a big scrap merchant, sir,” said Groat. “I expect the dogs was borrowed off of him. He turns ’em loose in his yards at night.”

“No burglar gets in, eh?”

“I think he’s quite happy if they get
in
, sir. Saves having to feed the dogs.”

“Hah! Please take them away, Mr. Pump,” said Moist. Lipwigzers! It had been so
easy
.

As they watched the golem turn around with a whimpering dog under each arm, he added: “Mr. King must be doing well, then, to run Lipwigzers as common guard dogs!”

“Lipwigzers? Harry King? Bless you, sir, old Harry wouldn’t buy posh foreign dogs when he can buy crossbreeds, not him!” said Groat. “Probably a
bit
of Lipwigzer in ’em, I daresay, probably the worst bits. Hah, a purebred Lipwigzer prob’ly wouldn’t last five minutes against some of the mongrels in
our
alleys. Some of ’em has got
crocodile
in ’em.”

There was a moment of silence and then Moist said, in a faraway voice: “So…definitely not imported purebreds, you think?”

“Bet your life on it, sir,” said Groat cheerfully. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“What? Um…no. Not at all.”

“You sounded a bit disappointed, sir. Or something.”

“No. I’m fine. No problem.” Moist added thoughtfully: “You know, I really have
got
to get some laundry done. And perhaps some new shoes…”

The doors swung open to reveal not the return of the dogs but Mr. Pump again. He picked up the box he’d left and headed on toward Moist.

“Well, we’ll be off,” said the Worshipful Master. “Nice to have met you, Mr. Moist.”

“That’s it?” said Moist. “Isn’t there a ceremony or something?”

“Oh, that’s Tolliver, that is,” said the Worshipful Master. “I like to see the old place still standing, really I do, but it’s all about the clacks these days, isn’t it? Young Tolliver thinks it can all be got going again, but he was just a lad when it all broke down. You can’t fix some things, Mr. Moist. Oh, you can call yourself postmaster, but where’d you start to get this lot back working? It’s an old fossil, sir, just like us.”

“Your hat, sir,” said Pump. They turned.

“What?” said Moist, and turned to where the golem was standing by the dais, patiently, with a hat in his hands.

It was a postman’s peaked hat, in gold, with golden wings. Moist took it, and saw how the gold was just paint, cracked and peeling, and the wings were real dried pigeon wings and almost crumbled to the touch. As the golem had held it up in the light, it had gleamed like something from some ancient tomb. In Moist’s hands, it crackled and smelled of attics and shed golden flakes. Inside the brim, on a stained label, were the words
BOULT & LOCKE, MILITARY AND CEREMONIAL OUTFITTERS, PEACH PIE STREET, A-M. SIZE
: 7¼.

“There is a pair of boots with wings, too,” said Mr. Pump, “and some sort of elasticated—”

“Don’t bother about that bit!” said Groat excitedly. “Where did you find that stuff? We’ve been looking everywhere! For
years
!”

“It Was Under The Mail In The Postmaster’s Office, Mr. Groat.”

“Couldn’t have been, couldn’t have been!” Groat protested. “We’ve sifted through there dozens of times! I seen every inch o’ carpet in there!”

“A lot of mail, er, moved about today,” said Moist.

“That Is Correct,” said the golem. “Mr. Lipvig Came Through The Ceiling.”

“Ah, so he found it, eh?” said Groat triumphantly. “See? It’s all coming true! The prophecy!”

“There is no prophecy, Tolliver,” said the Worshipful Master, shaking his head sadly. “I know you think there is, but wishing that someone will come along and sort this mess out one day is not the same as a prophecy. Not really.”

“We’ve been hearing the letters talking again!” said Groat. “They whisper in the night. We have to read them the Regulations to keep ’em quiet. Just like the wizard said!”

“Yes, well, you know what we used to say: you
do
have to be mad to work here!” said the Worshipful Master. “It’s all over, Tolliver. It really is. The city doesn’t even
need
us anymore.”

“You put that hat on, Mr. Lipwig!” said Groat. “It’s fate, that turning up like this. You just put it on and see what happens!”

“Well, if everyone’s happy about it…” Moist mumbled. He held the hat above his head, but hesitated.

“Nothing is going to happen, is it?” he said. “Only I’ve had a very strange day—”

“No, nothing’s going to happen,” said the Worshipful Master. “It never does. Oh, we all thought it would, once. Every time someone said they’d put the chandeliers back or deliver the mail, we thought, maybe it’s ended, maybe it really
is
going to work this time. And young Tolliver there, you made him happy when you put the sign back. Got him excited. Made
him
think it’d work this time. It never does, though, ’cos this place is curséd.”

“That’s cursed with an extra ed?”

“Yes, sir. The worst kind. No, put your hat on, sir. It’ll keep the rain off, at least.”

Moist prepared to lower the hat, but as he did so he was aware that the old postmen were drawing back.

“You’re not sure!” he yelled, waving a finger. “You’re not
actually
sure, are you! All of you! You’re thinking, hmm, maybe this time it
will
work, right? You’re holding your breath! I can tell! Hope is a terrible thing, gentlemen!”

He lowered the hand.

“Feeling anything?” said Groat after a while.

“It’s a bit…scratchy,” said Moist.

“Ah, that’d be some amazing mystic force leakin’ out, eh?” said Groat, desperately.

“I don’t think so,” said Moist. “Sorry.”

“Most of the postmasters I served under hated wearing that thing,” said the Worshipful Master, as everyone relaxed. “Mind you, you’ve got the height to carry it off. Postmaster Atkinson was only five feet one, and it made him look broody.” He patted Moist on the shoulder. “Never mind, lad, you did your best.”

An envelope bounced off his head. As he brushed it away, another one landed on his shoulder and slid off.

Around the group, letters started to land on the floor like fish dropped by a passing tornado.

Moist looked up. The letters were falling down from the darkness, and the drizzle was turning into a torrent.

“Stanley? Are you…messing about up there?” Groat ventured, almost invisible in the paper sleet.

“I always said those attics didn’t have strong enough floors,” moaned the Worshipful Master. “It’s just a mailstorm again. We made too much noise, that’s all. C’mon, let’s get out while we can, eh?”

“Then put those lanterns out! They ain’t safety lights!” shouted Groat.

“We’ll be groping around in the dark, lad!”

“Oh, you’d rather see by the light of a burning roof, would you?”

The lanterns winked out…and by the darkness they now shed Moist von Lipwig saw the writing on the wall or, at least, hanging in the air just in front of it. The hidden pen swooped through the air in loops and curves, drawing its glowing blue letters behind it.

Moist von Lipwig?
it wrote.

“Er…yes?”

You are the Postmaster!

“Look, I’m not the One you’re looking for!”

Moist von Lipwig, at a time like this any One will do!

“But…but…I am not worthy!”

Acquire worth with speed, Moist von Lipwig! Bring back the light! Open the doors! Stay not the messengers about their business!

Moist looked down at the golden light coming up from around his feet. It sparkled off his fingertips and began to fill him up from inside, like fine wine. He felt his feet leave the dais as the words lifted him up and spun him gently.

In the beginning was a Word, but what is a word without its messenger, Moist von Lipwig? You ARE the Postmaster!

“I
am
the Postmaster!” Moist shouted.

The mail must move, Moist von Lipwig! Too long have we been bound here
.

“I will move the mail!”

You will move the mail?

“I will! I will!”

Moist von Lipwig?

“Yes?”

The words came like a gale, whirling the envelopes in the sparkling light, shaking the building to its foundations.

Deliver Us!

CHAPTER 6

Little Pictures

The postmen unmasked • A terrible engine
• The new pie • Mr. Lipwig thinks about stamps
• The messenger from the Dawn of Time

“M
R.
L
IPVIG
?” said Mr. Pump.

Moist looked up into the golem’s glowing eyes. There had to be a better way of waking up in the morning. Some people managed with a clock, for heavens’ sake.

He was lying on a bare mattress under a musty blanket in his newly excavated apartment, which smelled of ancient paper, and every bit of him ached.

In a clouded kind of way, he was aware of Pump saying: “The Postmen Are Waiting, Sir. Postal Inspector Groat Said That You Would Probably Wish To Send Them Out Properly On This Day.”

Moist blinked at the ceiling.

“Postal inspector? I promoted him all the way to postal inspector?”

“Yes, Sir. You Were Very Ebullient.”

Memories of last night flocked treacherously to tapdance their speciality acts on the famous stage of the Grand Old Embarrassing Recollection.

“Postmen?” he said.

“The Brotherhood Of The Order Of The Post. They’re Old Men, Sir, But Wiry. They’re Pensioners Now, But They All Volunteered. They’ve Been Here For Hours, Sorting The Mail.”

I hired a bunch of men even older than Groat…

“Did I do anything else?”

“You Gave A Very Inspirational Speech, Sir. I Was Particularly Impressed When You Pointed Out That ‘Angel’ Is Just A Word For Messenger. Not Many People Know That.”

On the bed, Moist slowly tried to cram his fist into his mouth.

“Oh, And You Promised To Bring Back The Big Chandeliers And The Fine Polished Counter, Sir. They Were Very Impressed. No One Knows Where They Got To.”

Oh gods
, thought Moist.

“And The Statue Of The God, Sir. That Impressed Them Even More, I Would Say, Because Apparently It Was Melted Down Many Years Ago.”

“Did I do anything last night that suggested I was
sane
?”

“I Am Sorry, Sir?” said the golem.

But Moist remembered the light, and the whispering of the mail. It’d filled his mind with…knowledge, or memories that he didn’t remember ever acquiring.

“Unfinished stories,” he said.

“Yes, Sir,” said the golem calmly. “You Talked About Them At Length, Sir.”

“I did?”

“Yes, Sir. You Said—”

—that every undelivered message is a piece of space-time that lacks another end, a little bundle of effort and emotion floating freely. Pack millions of them together and they do what letters are meant to do. They communicate, and change the nature of events. When there’s enough of them, they distort the universe around them.

It had all made sense to Moist. Or, at least, as much sense as anything else.

“And…did I actually rise up in the air, glowing gold?” said Moist.

“I Think I Must Have Missed That, Sir,” said Mr. Pump.

“You mean I didn’t, then.”

“In A Manner Of Speaking, You Did, Sir,” said the golem.

“But in common, everyday reality, I didn’t?”

“You Were Lit, As It Were, By An Inner Fire, Sir. The Postmen Were Extremely Impressed.”

Moist’s eye lit on the winged hat, which had been thrown carelessly on the desk.

“I’m never going to live up to all this, Mr. Pump,” he said. “They want a saint, not someone like me.”

“Perhaps A Saint Is Not What They
Need
, Sir,” said the golem.

Moist sat up, and the blanket dropped away.

“What happened to my clothes?” he said. “I’m sure I hung them neatly on the floor.”

“I Did, In Fact, Try To Clean Your Suit With Spot Remover, Sir,” said Mr. Pump. “But Since It Was Effectively Just One Large Spot, It Removed The Whole Suit.”

“I liked that suit! At least you could have saved it for dusters, or something.”

“I’m Sorry, Sir, I’d Assumed That Dusters Had Been Saved For Your Suit. But In Any Case, I Obeyed Your Order, Sir.”

Moist paused. “What order?” he said suspiciously.

“Last Night You Asked Me To Obtain A Suit Fit For A Postmaster, Sir. You Gave Me Very Precise Instructions,” said the golem. “Fortunately My Colleague Stitcher 22 Was Working At The Theatrical Costumers. It Is Hanging On The Door.”

And the golem had even found a mirror. It wasn’t very big, but it was big enough to show Moist that if he was dressed any sharper he’d cut himself as he walked.

“Wow,” he breathed. “El Dorado or what?”

The suit was a cloth of gold, or whatever actors used instead. Moist was about to protest, but second thoughts intervened quickly.

Good suits helped. A smooth tongue was not much help in rough trousers. And people would notice the suit, not him. He’d certainly be noticed in this suit; it’d light up the street, people would have to shade their eyes to look at him. And, apparently, he’d
asked
for this.

“It’s very…” He hesitated. The only word was: “…fast. I mean, it looks as if it’s about to speed away at any moment!”

“Yes, Sir. Stitcher 22 Has A Skill. Note Also The Gold Shirt And Tie. To Match The Hat, Sir.”

“Er, you couldn’t get him to knock up something a little more somber, could you?” said Moist, covering his eyes to stop himself being blinded by his own lapels. “For me to wear when I don’t want to illuminate distant objects?”

“I Shall Do So Immediately, Sir.”

“Well,” Moist said, blinking in the light of his sleeves. “Let’s speed the mail, then, shall we?”

The formerly retired postmen were waiting in the hall, in a space cleared from last night’s maildrop. They all wore uniforms, although since no two uniforms were exactly alike, they were not, in fact, uniform, and therefore not technically uniforms. The caps all had peaks, but some were high-domed and some were soft, and the old men themselves had ingrown their clothes, too, so that jackets hung like drape coats and trousers looked like concertinas. And, as is the wont of old men, they wore their medals and the determined looks of those ready for the final combat.

“Delivery ready for inspection, sah!” said Postal Inspector Groat, standing at attention so hard that sheer pride had lifted his feet a full inch off the floor.

“Thank you. Er…right.”

Moist wasn’t sure what he was inspecting, but he did his best. Wrinkled face after wrinkled face stared back at him.

The medals, he realized, weren’t all for military service. The Post Office had medals of its own. One was a golden dog’s head, worn by a little man with a face like a pack of weasels.

“What’s this, er—” he began.

“Senior Postman George Aggy, sir. The badge? Fifteen bites and still standin’, sir!” said the man proudly.

“Well, that is a…a…a lot of bites, isn’t it…”

“Ah, but I foxed ’em after number nine, sir, and got meself a tin leg, sir!”

“You lost your leg?” said Moist, horrified.

“No, sir. Bought a bit of ol’ armor, didn’t I?” said the wizened man, grinning artfully. “Does m’heart to hear their teeth squeaking, sir!”

“Aggy, Aggy…” Moist mused, and then memory sparked. “Weren’t you—”

“I’m the Worshipful Master, sir,” said Aggy. “I hope you won’t take last night the wrong way, sir. We all used to be like young Tolliver, sir, but we gave up hope, sir. No hard feelings?”

“No, not,” said Moist, rubbing the back of his head.

“And I’d like to add my own message of congratulations as chairman of the Ankh-Morpork Order of Postal Workers Benevolent & Friendly Society,” Aggy went on.

“Er…thank you,” said Moist. “And who are they, exactly?”

“That was us last night, sir,” said Aggy, beaming.

“But I thought you were a secret society!”

“Not secret, sir. Not
exactly
secret. More…ignored, you might say. These days it’s just about pensions and making sure your ol’ mates get a proper funeral when they’re Returned to Sender, really.”

“Well done,” said Moist vaguely, which seemed to cover everything. He stood back and cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, this is it. If we want the Post Office back in business, we must start by delivering the old mail. It is a sacred trust. The mail gets through. It may take fifty years, but we get there in the end. You know your walks. Take it steady. Remember, if you can’t deliver it, if the house has gone…well, it comes back here and we’ll put it into the Dead Letter office and at least we’ll have tried. We just want people to know the Post Office is back again, understand?”

A postman raised a hand.

“Yes?” Moist’s skill at remembering names was better than his skill at remembering anything else about last night. “Senior Postman Thompson, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir! So what do we do when people give us letters, sir?”

Moist’s brow wrinkled. “Sorry? I thought you
deliver
the mail, don’t you?”

“No, Bill’s right, sir,” said Groat. “What do we do if people give us new mail?”

“Er…what did you used to do?” said Moist.

The postmen looked at one another.

“Get one penny off ’em for the stamping, bring it back here for it to be stamped with the official stamp,” said Groat promptly. “Then it gets sorted and delivered.”

“So…people have to wait until they see a postman? That seems rather—”

“Oh, in the old days there was dozens of smaller offices, see?” Groat added. “But when it all started going bad we lost ’em.”

“Well, let’s get the mail moving again and we can work things out as we go along,” said Moist. “I’m sure ideas will occur. And now, Mr. Groat, you have a secret to share…”

G
ROAT’S KEY RING
jingled as he led Moist through the Post Office’s cellars and eventually to a metal door. Moist noted a length of black-and-yellow rope on the floor: the Watch had been here, too.

The door clicked open. There was a blue glow inside, just faint enough to be annoying, leave purple shadows on the edge of vision, and make the eyes water.

“Voil-ah,” said Groat.

“It’s a…is it some kind of theater organ?” said Moist. It was hard to see the outlines of the machine in the middle of the floor, but it stood there with all the charm of a torturer’s rack. The blue glow was coming from somewhere in the middle of it. Moist’s eyes were streaming already.

“Good try, sir! Actually it is the Sorting Engine,” said Groat. “It’s the curse of the Post Office, sir. It had imps in it for the actual reading of the envelopes, but they all evaporated years ago. Just as well, too.”

Moist’s gaze took in the wire racks that occupied a whole wall of the big room. It also found the chalk outlines on the floor. The chalk glowed in the strange light. The outlines were quite small. One of them had five fingers.

“Industrial accident,” he muttered. “All right, Mr. Groat. Tell me.”

“Don’t go near the glow, sir,” said Groat. “That’s what I said to Mr. Whobblebury. But he snuck down here all by hisself, later on. Oh dear, sir, it was poor young Stanley that went and found him, sir, after he saw poor little Tiddles dragging something along the passage. A scene of car-nage met his eyes. You just can’t imagine what it was like in here, sir.”

“I think I can,” said Moist.

“I doubt if you can, sir.”

“I can, really.”

“I’m sure you can’t, sir.”

“I can! All right?” shouted Moist. “Do you think I can’t see all those little chalk outlines? Now can we get on with it before I throw up?”

“Er…right you are, sir.” said Groat. “Ever heard of Bloody Stupid Johnson? Quite famous in this city.”

“Didn’t he build things? Wasn’t there always something wrong with them? I’m sure I read something about him…”

“That’s the man, sir. He built all kinds of things, but, sad to say, there was always some major flaw.”

In Moist’s brain, a memory kicked a neuron. “Wasn’t he the man who specified quicksand as a building material because he wanted a house finished fast?” he said.

“That’s right, sir. Usually the major flaw was that the designer was Bloody Stupid Johnson. Flaw, you might say, was part of the whole thing. Actually, to be fair, a lot of the things he designed worked quite well, it was just that they didn’t do the job they were supposed to. This thing, sir, did indeed begin life as an organ, but it ended up as a machine for sorting letters. The idea was that you tipped the mail sack in that hopper, and the letters were speedily sorted into those racks. Postmaster Cowerby meant well, they say. He was a stickler for speed and efficiency, that man. My grandad told me the Post Office spent a fortune on getting it to work.”

“And lost their money, eh?” said Moist.

“Oh no, sir. It worked. Oh yes, it worked very well. Well enough so people went mad, come the finish.”

“Let me guess,” said Moist. “The postmen had to work too hard?”

“Oh, postmen always work too hard, sir,” said Groat, without blinking. “No, what got people worried was finding letters in the sorting tray a year before they were due to be written.”

There was silence. In that silence, Moist tried out a variety of responses, from “Pull the other one, it has got bells on” to “That’s impossible,” and decided they all sounded stupid. Groat looked deadly serious. So instead he said: “How?”

The old postman pointed to the blue glow.

“Have a squint inside, sir. You can just see it. Don’t get right above it, whatever you do.”

Moist moved a little closer to the machine and peered into the machinery. He could just make out, at the heart of the glow, a little wheel. It was turning slowly.

“I was raised in the Post Office,” said Groat behind him. “Born in the sorting room, weighed on the official scales. Learned to read from envelopes, learned figuring from old ledgers, learned jography from looking at the maps of the city and history from the old men. Better than any school. Better than any school, sir. But never learned jommetry, sir. Bit of a hole in my understanding, all that stuff about angles and suchlike. But this, sir, is all about pie.”

“Like in food?” said Moist, drawing back from the sinister glow.