Going Postal (29 page)

“—an extra-large pigeon. I see. And you’ve no idea how the fire started? I know you use safety lamps in here
.”

“Probably spontaneous combustion in the letter piles, I’m afraid,” said Moist, who’d had time to think about this one
.

“No one has been behaving oddly?”

“In the Post Office, Captain, it’s very hard to tell. Believe me
.”

“No threats made, sir? By anyone you might have upset, perhaps?
”

“None at all
.”

The captain had sighed and put away his notebook
.

“I’ll have a couple of men watching the building overnight, nevertheless,” he said. “Well done for saving the cat, sir. That was a big cheer you got when you came out. Just one thing, though, sir…
”

“Yes, Captain?
”

“Why would a banshee—or possibly a giant pigeon—attack Mr. Groat?
”

And Moist thought: The hat…

“I have no idea,” he said.

“Yes, sir. I’m sure you haven’t,” said the captain. “I’m sure you haven’t. I’m Captain Ironfoundersson, sir, although most people call me Captain Carrot. Don’t hesitate to contact me, sir, if anything occurs to you. We are here for your protection
.”

And what would you have done against a banshee? Moist had thought. You suspect Gilt. Well done. But people like Gilt don’t bother with the law. They never break it, they
just use people who do. And you’ll never find anything written down, anywhere
.

Just before the captain turned to go, Moist was sure that the werewolf winked at him
.

Now, with the rain drifting in and hissing where the stones were still warm, Moist looked around at the fires. There were still plenty of them, where the golems had dumped the rubble. This being Ankh-Morpork, people of the night had risen like the mists and gathered around them for warmth.

This place would need a fortune spent on it. Well? He knew where to lay his hands on plenty of money, didn’t he? He didn’t have much use for it. It has only ever been a way of keeping score. But then this would all end, because it had belonged to Albert Spangler and the rest of them, not to an innocent postmaster.

He took off his golden hat and looked at it. An avatar, Pelc had said. The human embodiment of a god. But he wasn’t a god, he was just a con man in a golden suit, and the con was over. Where was the angel now? Where were the gods when you needed them?

The gods could help
.

The hat glinted in the firelight, and parts of Moist’s brain sparkled. He didn’t breathe as the thought emerged, in case it took flight, but it was so
simple
. And something that no honest man would ever have thought of…

“What we need is,” he said, “is…”

“Is what?” said Miss Dearheart.

“Is music!” declared Moist. He stood up and cupped his hands. “Hey, you people! Any banjo players out there? A fiddle, maybe? I’ll give a one-dollar stamp, highly collectible, to anyone who can pick out a waltz tune. You know, one-two-three, one-two-three?”

“Have you gone
completely
mad?” said Miss Dearheart. “You’re clearly—”

She stopped, because a shabbily dressed man had tapped Moist on the shoulder.

“I can play the banjo,” he said, “and my friend Humphrey here can blow the harmonica something cruel. The fee will be a dollar, sir. Coin, please, if it’s all the same to you, on account of how I can’t write and don’t know anyone who can read.”

“My lovely Miss Dearheart,” said Moist, smiling madly at her. “Do you have any other name? Some pet name or nickname, some delightful little diminutive you don’t mind being called?”

“Are you drunk?” she demanded.

“Unfortunately, no,” said Moist. “But I’d like to be. Well, Miss Dearheart? I even rescued my best suit!”

She was clearly taken aback, but an answer escaped before natural cynicism could bar the door. “My brother used to call me…er…”

“Yes?”

“Killer,” said Miss Dearheart. “But he meant it in a nice way. Don’t
you
even think about using it.”

“How about Spike?”

“
Spike?
We-ell, I could live with Spike,” said Miss Dearheart. “So you will, too. But this is not the time for dancing—”

“On the contrary, Spike,” said Moist, beaming in the firelight, “this is just the time. We’ll dance, and then we’ll get things cleaned up ready for opening time, get the mail delivery working again, order the rebuilding of the building, and have everything back the way it was. Just watch me.”

“You know, perhaps it
is
true that working for the Post Office drives people mad,” said Miss Dearheart. “Just where will you get the money to have this place rebuilt?”

“The gods will provide,” said Moist. “Trust me on this.”

She peered at him.

“You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” said Moist.

“You’re going to
pray
for money?”

“Not exactly, Spike. They get thousands of prayers every day. I have other plans. We’ll bring the Post Office back, Miss Dearheart. I don’t have to think like a policeman, or a postman, or a clerk. I just have to do things
my
way. And then I’ll bankrupt Reacher Gilt by the end of the week.”

Her mouth became a perfect
O
.

“How exactly will you do that?” she managed.

“I’ve no idea, but anything is possible if I can dance with you and still have ten toes left. Shall we dance, Miss Dearheart?”

She was amazed and surprised and bewildered, and Moist von Lipwig liked that in a person. For some reason, he felt immensely happy. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t know what he was going to do next, but it was going to be
fun
.

He could feel that old electric feeling, the one you got deep inside when you stood right there in front of a banker who was carefully examining an example of your very best work. The universe held its breath, and then the man would smile and say, “Very good, Mr. Assumed Name, I will have my clerk bring up the money right away.” It was the thrill not of the chase but of the standing still, of remaining so calm, composed, and genuine that, for just long enough, you could fool the world and spin it on your finger. These were the moments he lived for, when he was
really
alive, and his thoughts flowed like quicksilver, and the very air sparkled. Later, that feeling would present its bill. For now, he flew.

He
was
back in the game. But, for now, by the light of the burning yesterdays, he waltzed with Miss Dearheart while the scratch band scratched away.

Then she went home to bed, puzzled but smiling oddly, and he went up to his office, which was missing the whole of one wall, and got religion as it had never been got before.

T
HE YOUNG PRIEST
of Offler the Crocodile God was somewhat off-balance at 4 a.m., but the man in the wingéd hat and golden suit seemed to know what should be happening and so the priest went along with it. He was not hugely bright, which was why he was on this shift.

“You want to
deliver
this letter to Offler?” he said, yawning. An envelope had been placed in his hand.

“It’s addressed to him,” said Moist. “And correctly stamped. A smartly written letter always gets attention. I’ve also brought a pound of sausages, which I believe is customary. Crocodiles love sausages.”

“Strictly speaking, you see, it’s prayers that go up to the gods,” said the priest doubtfully. The nave of the temple was deserted, except for a little old man in a grubby robe, dreamily sweeping the floor.

“As I understand it,” said Moist, “the gift of sausages reaches Offler by being fried, yes? And the spirit of the sausages ascends unto Offler by means of the smell? And then you eat the sausages?”

“Ah, no. Not exactly. Not at all,” said the young priest, who knew this one. “It might
look
like that to the uninitiated, but, as you say, the true sausagidity goes straight to Offler. He, of course, eats the spirit of the sausages. We eat the mere earthy shell, which, believe me, turns to dust and ashes in our mouths.”

“That would explain why the smell of sausages is always better than the actual sausage, then?” said Moist. “I’ve often noticed that.”

The priest was impressed. “Are you a theologian, sir?” he said.

“I’m in…a similar line of work,” said Moist. “But what I’m getting at is this: If you were to read this letter it would be as though Offler himself was reading it, am I right? Through your eyeballs, the
spirit
of the letter would ascend to Offler? And then I could give you the sausages.”

The young priest looked desperately around the temple. It was too early in the morning. When your god, metaphorically, doesn’t do much until the sandbanks have got nice and warm, the senior priests tend to lie in.

“I
suppose
so,” he said reluctantly. “But wouldn’t you rather wait until Deacon Jones gets—”

“I’m in rather a hurry,” said Moist. There was a pause. “I’ve brought some honey mustard,” he added. “The perfect accompaniment to sausages.”

Suddenly, the priest was all attention.

“What sort?” he said.

“Mrs. Edith Leakall’s Premium Reserve,” said Moist, holding up the jar.

The young man’s face lit up. He was low in the hierarchy and got barely more sausage than Offler.

“God, that’s the expensive stuff!” he breathed.

“Yes, it’s the hint of wild garlic that does it,” said Moist. “But perhaps I should wait until Deacon—”

The priest grabbed the letter and the jar.

“No, no, I can see you are in a hurry,” he said. “I’ll do it right away. It’s probably a request for help, yes?”

“Yes, I’d like Offler to let the light of his eyes and the gleam on his teeth shine on my colleague Tolliver Groat, who is in the Lady Sybil Hospital,” said Moist.

“Oh, yes,” said the acolyte, relieved, “we often do this sort of—”

“And I would also like one hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Moist went on. “Ankh-Morpork dollars preferred, of course, but other reasonably hard currencies would be acceptable.”

T
HERE WAS A CERTAIN
spring in his step as Moist walked back to the ruin of the Post Office. He’d sent letters to Offler, Om, and Blind Io, all important gods, and also to Anoia, a minor goddess of Things That Stick In Drawers.
*
She had no temple and was handled by a jobbing priestess in Cable Street, but Moist had a feeling that by the end of the day Anoia was destined for higher things. He only picked her because he liked the name.

He’d leave it about an hour. Gods worked fast, didn’t they?

The Post Office was no better by gray daylight. About half of the building was still standing. Even with tarpaulins, the area under cover was small and dank. People were milling around, uncertain of what to do.

He’d tell them.

The first person he saw was George Aggy, heading for him in a high-speed hobble.

“Terrible thing, sir, terrible thing, I came as soon as—” he began.

“Good to see you, George. How’s the leg?”

“What? Oh, feels fine, sir. Glows in the dark, but on the other hand that’s a great saving in candles. What are we—”

“You’re my deputy while Mr. Groat’s in hospital,” said Moist. “How many postmen can you muster?”

“About a dozen, sir, but what shall we—”

“Get the mail moving, Mr. Aggy! That’s what we do. Tell everyone that today’s special is Pseudopolis for 10p, guaranteed! Everyone else can get on with cleaning up. There’s still some roof left. We’re open, as usual.
More
open than usual.”

“But—” Aggy’s words failed him, and he waved at the debris. “All this?”

“Neither rain nor fire, Mr. Aggy!” said Moist sharply.

“Doesn’t say
that
on the motto, sir,” said Aggy.

“It will by tomorrow. Ah, Jim…”

The coachman bore down on Moist, his enormous driving cape flapping.

“It was bloody Gilt, wasn’t it!” he growled. “Arson around! What can we do for you, Mr. Lipwig?”

“Can you still run a service to Pseudopolis today?” said Moist.

“Yes,” said Jim. “Harry and the lads got all the horses out as soon as they smelled smoke, and only lost one coach. We’ll help you, damn right about that, but the Trunk is running okay. You’ll be wasting your time.”

“You provide the wheels, Jim, and I’ll give them something to carry,” said Moist. “We’ll have a bag for you at ten.”

“You’re very certain, Mr. Lipwig,” said Jim, putting his head to one side.

“An angel came and told me in my sleep,” said Moist.

Jim grinned. “Ah, that’d be it, then. An angel, eh? A very present help in times of trouble, or so I’m given to understand.”

“So I believe,” said Moist, and went up to the drafty, smoke-blackened three-walled cave that was the wreckage of his office. He brushed off the ash from the chair, reached into his pocket, and put the Smoking Gnu’s letter on his desk.

The only people who could
know
when a clacks tower would break down must work for the company, right? Or
used
to work for it, more likely. Hah. That’s how things happened.

That bank in Sto Lat, for example. He’d never have been able to forge those bills if that bent clerk hadn’t sold him that old ledger with all the signatures in it. That had been a good day.

The Grand Trunk mustn’t just make enemies, it must mass-produce them. And now this Smoking Gnu wanted to help him. Outlaw signalers. Think of all the secrets they’d know…

He’d kept an ear open for clock chimes, and it was gone a quarter to nine now. What would they do? Blow up a tower? But people worked in the towers. Surely not…

“Oh, Mr. Lipwig!”

It is not often that a wailing woman rushes into a room and throws herself at a man. It had never happened to Moist before. Now it happened, and it seemed such a waste that the woman was Miss Maccalariat.