the invention of the hole - mr lipwig speaks out — the wizard in a

jar - a discussion of lord vetinari’s back side — a promise to deliver —

mr hobson’s boris

mr spools, in his ancient office smelling of oil and ink, was impressed by this strange young man in the golden suit and winged hat.

‘you certainly know your papers, mr lipwig,’ he said, as moist thumbed through the samples. ‘it’s a pleasure to meet a customer who does. always use the right paper for the job, that’s what i say.’

‘the important thing is to make stamps hard to forge,’ said moist, leafing through the samples. ‘on the other hand, it mustn’t cost us anything like a penny to produce a penny stamp!’

‘watermarks are your friend there, mr lipwig,’ said mr spools.

‘not impossible to fake, though,’ said moist, and then added, ‘so i’ve been told.’

‘oh, we know all the tricks, mr lipwig, don’t you worry about that!’ said mr spools. ‘we’re up to scratch, oh yes! chemical voids, thaumic shadows, timed inks, everything. we do paper and engraving and even printing for some of the leading figures in the city, although of course i am not at liberty to tell you who they are.’

he sat back in his worn leather chair and scribbled in a notebook for a moment.

‘well, we could do you twenty thousand of the penny stamps, uncoated stock, gummed, at two dollars a thousand plus setup,’ said mr spools. ‘ten pence less for ungummed. you’ll have to find someone to cut them out, of course.’

‘can’t you do that with some kind of machine?’ said moist.

‘no. wouldn’t work, not with things as small as this. sorry, mr lipwig.’

moist pulled a scrap of brown paper out of his pocket and held it up. ‘do you recognize this, mr spools?’

‘what, is that a pin paper?’ mr spools beamed. ‘hah, that takes me back! still got my old collection in the attic. i’ve always thought it must be worth a bob or two if only—’

‘watch this, mr spools,’ said moist, gripping the paper carefully. stanley was almost painfully precise in placing his pins; a man with a micrometer couldn’t have done it better.

gently, the paper tore down the line of holes. moist looked at mr spools and raised his eyebrows.

‘it’s all about holes,’ he said. ‘it ain’t nothing if it ain’t got a hole . . .’

three hours went past. foremen were sent for. serious men in overalls turned things on lathes, other men soldered things together, tried them out, changed this, reamed that, then dismantled a small hand press and built it in a different way. moist loitered on the periphery of all this, clearly bored, while the serious men fiddled, measured things, rebuilt things, tinkered, lowered things, raised things and, eventually, watched by moist and mr spools, tried out the converted press officially—

chonk . . .

it felt to moist that everyone was holding their breath so hard that the windows were bending inwards. he reached down, eased the sheet of little perforated squares off the board, and lifted it up.

he tore off one stamp.

the windows snapped outwards. people breathed again. there wasn’t a cheer. these weren’t men to cheer and whoop at a job well done. instead, they lit their pipes and nodded to one another.

mr spools and moist von lipwig shook hands over the perforated paper.

‘the patent is yours, mr spools,’ said moist.

‘you’re very kind, mr lipwig. very kind indeed. oh, here’s a little souvenir . . .’

an apprentice had bustled up with a sheet of paper. to moist’s astonishment, it was already covered with stamps - ungummed, unperforated, but perfect miniature copies of his drawing for the one penny stamp.

‘iconodiabolic engraving, mr lipwig!’ said spools, seeing his face. ‘no one can say we’re behind the times! of course there’ll be a few little flaws this time round, but by early next week we’ll—’

‘i want penny and twopenny ones tomorrow, mr spools, please,’ said moist firmly. ‘i don’t need perfect, i want quick.’

‘my word, you’re hot off the mark, mr lipwig!’

‘always move fast, mr spools. you never know who’s catching up!’

‘hah! yes! er . . . good motto, mr lipwig. nice one,’ said mr spools, grinning uncertainly.

‘and i want the fivepennies and one dollars the day after, please.’

‘you’ll scorch your boots, mr lipwig!’ said spools.

‘got to move, mr spools, got to fly!’

moist hurried back to the post office as fast as decently possible, feeling slightly ashamed.

he liked teemer and spools. he liked the kind of business where you could actually speak to the man whose name was over the door; it meant it probably wasn’t run by crooks. and he liked the big, solid, unflappable workmen, recognizing in them all the things he knew he lacked, like steadfastness, solidarity and honesty. you couldn’t lie to a lathe or fool a hammer. they were good people, and quite unlike him . . .

one way in which they were quite unlike him was that none of them, right now, probably had wads of stolen paper stuffed into their jacket.

he really shouldn’t have done it, he really shouldn’t. it was just that mr spools was a kind and enthusiastic man and the desk had been covered with examples of his wonderful work, and when the perforation press was being made people had been bustling around and not really paying moist much attention and he’d . . . tidied up. he couldn’t help himself. he was a crook. what did vetinari expect?

the postmen were arriving back as he walked into the building. mr groat was waiting for him with a worried smile on his face.

‘how’s it going, postal inspector?’ said moist cheerfully.

‘pretty well, sir, pretty well. there’s good news, sir. people have been giving us letters to post, sir. not many yet and some of them are a bit, er, jokey, but we got a penny off’f them every time. that’s seven pence, sir,’ he added proudly, proffering the coins.

‘oh boy, we eat tonight!” said moist, taking the coins and pocketing the letters.

‘sorry, sir?’

‘oh, nothing, mr groat. well done. er . . . you said there was good news. is there any of the other sort, perhaps . . . ?’

‘um . . . some people didn’t like getting their mail, sir.’

‘things got posted through the wrong doors?’ said moist.

‘oh, no, sir. but old letters ain’t always welcome. not when they’re, as it might be, a will. a will. as in last will and testament, sir,’ the old man added meaningfully. ‘as in, it turns out the wrong daughter got mum’s jewellery twenty years ago. as it were.’

‘oh, dear,’ said moist.

‘the watch had to be called in, sir. there was what they call in the papers a “rumpus” in weaver street, sir. there’s a lady waiting for you in your office, sir.’

‘oh gods, not one of the daughters?’

‘no, sir. she’s a writing lady from the times. you can’t trust ‘em, sir, although they do a very reasonable crossword,’ groat added conspiratorially.

‘what does she want me for?’

‘couldn’t say, sir. i expect it’s ‘cos you’re postmaster?’

‘go and . . . make her some tea or something, will you?’ said moist, patting his jacket. ‘i’ll just go and . . . pull myself together . . .’

two minutes later, with the stolen paper tucked safely away, moist strode into his office.

mr pump was standing by the door, fiery eyes banked, in the stance of a golem with no current task other than to exist, and a woman was sitting in the chair by moist’s desk.

moist weighed her up. attractive, certainly, but dressing apparently to play down the fact while artfully enhancing it. bustles were back in fashion in the city for some inexplicable reason, but her only concession there was a bum-roll, which achieved a certain perkiness in the rear without the need to wear twenty-seven pounds of dangerously spring-loaded underwear. she was blonde but wore her hair in a bag net, another careful touch, while a small and quietly fashionable hat perched on top of her head to no particular purpose. a large shoulder bag was by her chair, a notebook was on her knee, and she wore a wedding ring.

‘mr lipwig?’ she said brightly. ‘i am miss cripslock. from the times!

okay, wedding ring but nevertheless ‘miss’, thought moist. handle with care. probably has views. do not attempt to kiss hand.

‘and how can i assist the times?’ he said, sitting down and giving her a non-condescending smile.

‘do you intend to deliver all the backlog of mail, mr lipwig?’

‘if at all possible, yes,’ said moist.

‘why?’

‘it’s my job. rain, snow, gloom of night, just as it says over the door.’

‘have you heard about the fracas in weaver street?’

‘i heard it was a rumpus.’

‘i’m afraid it’s got worse. there was a house on fire when i left. doesn’t that worry you?’ miss cripslock’s pencil was suddenly poised.

moist’s face remained expressionless as he thought furiously. ‘yes, it does, of course,’ he said. ‘people shouldn’t set fire to houses. but i also know that mr parker of the merchants’ guild is marrying his boyhood sweetheart on saturday. did you know that?’

miss cripslock hadn’t, but she scribbled industriously as moist told her about the greengrocer’s letter.

‘that’s very interesting,’ she said. ‘i will go and see him immediately. so you’re saying that delivering the old mail is a good thing?’

‘delivering the mail is the only thing,’ said moist, and hesitated again. just on the edge of hearing was a whispering.

‘is there a problem?’ said miss cripslock.

‘what? no! what was i— yes, it’s the right thing. history is not to be denied, miss cripslock. and we are a communicating species, miss cripslock!’ moist raised his voice to drown out the whispering. ‘the mail must get through! it must be delivered!’

‘er . . . you needn’t shout, mr lipwig,’ said the reporter, leaning backwards.

moist tried to get a grip, and the whispering died down a little.

‘i’m sorry,’ he said, and cleared his throat. ‘yes, i intend to deliver all the mail. if people have moved, we will try to find them. if they have died, we’ll try to deliver to their descendants. the post will be delivered. we are tasked to deliver it, and deliver it we will. what else should we do with it? burn it? throw it in the river? open it to decide if it’s important? no, the letters were entrusted to our care. delivery is the only way.’

the whispering had almost died away now, so he went on: ‘besides, we need the space. the post office is being reborn!’ he pulled out the sheet of stamps. ‘with these!’

she peered at them, puzzled. ‘little pictures of lord vetinari?’ she said.

‘stamps, miss cripslock. one of those stuck on a letter will ensure delivery anywhere within the city. these are early sheets, but tomorrow we will be selling them gummed and perforated for ease of use. i intend to make it easy to use the post. obviously we are still finding our feet, but soon i intend that we should be capable of delivering a letter to anyone, anywhere in the world.’

it was a stupid thing to say, but his tongue had taken over.

‘aren’t you being rather ambitious, mr lipwig?’ she said.

‘i’m sorry, i don’t know any other way to be,’ said moist.

‘i was thinking that we do have the clacks now.’

‘the clacks?’ said moist. ‘i dare say the clacks is wonderful if you wish to know the prawn market figures from genua. but can you write s.w.a.l.k. on a clacks? can you seal it with a loving kiss? can you cry tears on to a clacks, can you smell it, can you enclose a pressed flower? a letter is more than just a message. and a clacks is so expensive in any case that the average man in the street can just about afford it in a time of crisis: grandads dead funeral tues. a day’s wages to send a message as warm and human as a thrown knife? but a letter is real.’

he stopped. miss cripslock was scribbling like mad, and it’s always worrying to see a journalist take a sudden interest in what you’re saying, especially when you half suspect it was a load of pigeon guano. and it’s worse when they’re smiling.

‘people are complaining that the clacks is becoming expensive, slow and unreliable,’ said miss cripslock. ‘how do you feel about that?’

‘all i can tell you is that today we’ve taken on a postman who is eighteen thousand years old,’ said moist. ‘he doesn’t break down very easily.’

‘ah, yes. the golems. some people say—’

‘what is your first name, miss cripslock?’ said moist.

for a moment, the woman coloured. then she said: ‘it’s sacharissa.’

‘thank you. i’m moist. please don’t laugh. the golems— you’re laughing, aren’t you . . .’

‘it was just a cough, honestly,’ said the reporter, raising a hand to her throat and coughing unconvincingly.

‘sorry. it sounded a bit like a laugh. sacharissa, i need postmen, counter clerks, sorters - i need lots of people. the mail will move. i need people to help me move it. any kind of people. ah, thanks, stanley.’

the boy had come in with two mismatched mugs of tea. one had an appealing little kitten on it, except that erratic collisions in the washing-up bowl had scratched it so that its expression was that of a creature in the final stages of rabies. the other had once hilariously informed the world that clinical insanity wasn’t necessary for employment, but most of the words had faded, leaving:

he put them down with care on moist’s desk; stanley did everything carefully.

‘thank you,’ moist repeated. ‘er . . . you can go now, stanley. help with the sorting, eh?’

‘there’s a vampire in the hall, mr lipwig,’ said stanley.

‘that will be otto,’ said sacharissa quickly. ‘you don’t have a . . . a thing about vampires, do you?’

‘hey, if he’s got a pair of hands and knows how to walk i’ll give him a job!’

‘he’s already got one,’ said sacharissa, laughing. ‘he’s our chief iconographer. he’s been taking pictures of your men at work. we’d very much like to have one of you. for the front page.’

‘what? no!’ said moist. ‘please! no!’

‘he’s very good.’

‘yes, but . . . but . . . but . . .’ moist began, and in his head the sentence went on: but i don’t think that even a talent for looking like half the men you see in the street would survive a picture.

what actually came out was: ‘i don’t want to be singled out from all the hard-working men and golems who are putting the post office back on its feet! after all, there’s no “me” in team, eh?’

‘actually, there is,’ said sacharissa. ‘besides, you’re the one wearing the winged hat and the golden suit. come on, mr lipwig!’

‘all right, all right, i really didn’t want to go into this, but it’s against my religion,’ said moist, who’d had time to think. ‘we’re forbidden to have any image made of us. it removes part of the soul, you know.’

‘and you believe that?’ said sacharissa. ‘really?’

‘er, no. no. of course not. not as such. but . . . but you can’t treat religion as a sort of buffet, can you? i mean, you can’t say yes please, i’ll have some of the celestial paradise and a helping of the divine plan but go easy on the kneeling and none of the prohibition of images, they give me wind. it’s table d’hote or nothing, otherwise . . . well, it would be silly.’

miss cripslock looked at him with her head on one side. ‘you work for his lordship, don’t you?’ she said.

‘well, of course. this is an official job.’

‘and i expect you’ll tell me that your previous job was as a clerk, nothing special?’

‘that’s right.’

‘although your name probably is moist von lipwig, because i can’t believe anyone would choose that as an assumed name,” she went on.

‘thank you very much!’

‘it sounds to me as though you’re issuing a challenge, mr lipwig. there’s all sorts of problems with the clacks right now. there’s been a big stink about the people they’ve been sacking and how the ones that’re left are being worked to death, and up you pop, full of ideas.’

‘i’m serious, sacharissa. look, people are already giving us new letters to post!’

he pulled them out of his pocket and fanned them out. ‘see, there’s one here to go to dolly sisters, another to nap hill, one for . . . blind io . . .’

‘he’s a god,’ said the woman. ‘could be a problem.’

‘no,’ said moist briskly, putting the letters back in his pocket. “we’ll deliver to the gods themselves. he has three temples in the city. it’ll be easy.’ and you’ve forgotten about the pictures, hooray . . .

‘a man of resource, i see. tell me, mr lipwig, do you know much about the history of this place?’

‘not too much. i’d certainly like to find out where the chandeliers went to!’

‘you haven’t spoken to professor pelc?’

‘who’s he?’

‘i’m amazed. he’s at the university. he wrote a whole chapter on this place in his book on . . . oh, something to do with big masses of writing thinking for themselves. i suppose you do know about the people who died?’

‘oh, yes.’

‘he said the place drove them mad in some way. well, actually, we said that. what he said was a lot more complicated. i have to hand it to you, mr lipwig, taking on a job that has killed four men before you. it takes a special kind of man to do that.’

yes, thought moist. an ignorant one.

‘you haven’t noticed anything strange yourself?’ she went on.

‘well, i think my body travelled in time but the soles of my feet didn’t, but i’m not sure how much of it was hallucination; i was nearly killed in a mailslide and the letters keep talking to me,’ were the words that moist didn’t say, because it’s the kind of thing you don’t say to an open notebook. what he did say was, ‘oh, no. it’s a fine old building, and i fully intend to bring it back to its former glory.’

‘good. how old are you, mr lipwig?’

‘twenty-six. is that important?’

‘we like to be thorough.’ miss cripslock gave him a sweet smile. ‘besides, it’s useful if we have to write your obituary.’

moist marched through the hall, with groat sidling after him.

he pulled the new letters out of his pocket and thrust them into groat’s crabby hands. ‘get these delivered. anything for a god goes to his or her or its temple. any other strange ones put on my desk.’

‘we picked up another fifteen just now, sir. people think it’s funny!’

‘got the money?’

‘oh, yes, sir.’

‘then we’re the ones who’re laughing,’ said moist firmly. ‘i won’t be long. i’m off to see the wizard.’

by law and tradition the great library of unseen university is open to the public, although they aren’t allowed as far as the magical shelves. they don’t realize this, however, since the rules of time and space are twisted inside the library and so hundreds of miles of shelving can easily be concealed inside a space roughly the thickness of paint.

people flock in, nevertheless, in search of answers to those questions only librarians are considered to be able to answer, such as ‘is this the laundry?’ ‘how do you spell surreptitious?’ and, on a regular basis: ‘do you have a book i remember reading once? it had a red cover and it turned out they were twins.’

and, strictly speaking, the library will have it . . . somewhere. somewhere it has every book ever written, that ever will be written and, notably, every book that it is possible to write. these are not on the public shelves lest untrained handling cause the collapse of everything that it is possible to imagine.*

* again.

moist, like everyone else who entered the library, stared up at the dome. everyone did. they always wondered why a library that was technically infinite in size was covered by a dome a few hundred feet across, and they were allowed to go on wondering.

just below the dome, staring down from their niches, were statues of the virtues: patience, chastity, silence, charity, hope, tubso, bissonomy * and fortitude.

* many cultures practise neither of these in the hustle and bustle of the modern world,

because no one can remember what they are.

moist couldn’t resist removing his hat and giving a little salute to hope, to whom he owed so much. then, as he wondered why the statue of bissonomy was carrying a kettle and what looked like a bunch of parsnips, he collided with someone who grabbed him by the arm and hurried him across the floor.

‘don’t say a word, don’t say a word, but you are looking for a book, yes?’

‘well, actually—’ he seemed to be in the clutches of a wizard.

‘—you are not sure what book!’ said the wizard. ‘exactly. it is the job of a librarian to find the right book for the right person. if you would just sit here, we can proceed. thank you. please excuse the straps. this will not take long. it is practically painless.’

‘practically?’

moist was pushed, firmly, into a large and complex swivel chair. his captor, or helper or whatever he might turn out to be, gave him a reassuring smile. other, shadowy figures helped him strap moist into the chair which, while basically an old horseshoe-shaped one with a leather seat, was surrounded by . . . stuff. some of it was clearly magical, being of the stars-and-skulls variety, but what about the jar of pickles, the pair of tongs and the live mouse in a cage made of—

panic gripped moist and, not at all coincidentally, so did a pair of padded paddles, which closed over his ears. just before all sound was silenced, he heard: ‘you may experience a taste of eggs and the sensation of being slapped in the face with some sort of fish. this is perfectly—’

and then thlabber happened. it was a traditional magic term, although moist didn’t know this. there was a moment in which everything, even the things that couldn’t be stretched, felt stretched. and then there was the moment when everything suddenly went back to not being stretched, known as the moment of thlabber.

when moist opened his eyes again, the chair was facing the other ‘way. there was no sign of the pickles, the tongs or the mouse, but in their place was a bucket of clockwork pastry lobsters and a boxed set of novelty glass eyes.

moist gulped, and muttered: ‘haddock.’

‘really? most people say cod,’ said someone. ‘no accounting for taste, i suppose.’ hands unbuckled moist and helped him to his feet. these hands belonged to an orang-utan, but moist didn’t pass comment. this was a university of wizards, after all.

the man who had shoved him into the chair was now standing by a desk staring at some wizardly device.

‘any moment now,’ he said. ‘any moment. any moment now. any second . . .’

a bundle of what appeared to be hosepipes led from the desk into the wall. moist was certain they bulged for a moment, like a snake eating in a hurry; the machine stuttered, and a piece of paper dropped out of a slot.

‘ah . . . here we are,’ said the wizard, snatching it up. ‘yes, the book you were after was a history of hats, by f. g. smallfinger, am i right?’

‘no. i’m not after a book, in fact—’ moist began.

‘are you sure? we have lots.’

there were two striking things about this wizard. one was . . . well, grandfather lipwig had always said that you could tell the honesty of a man by the size of his ears, and this was a very honest wizard. the other was that the beard he was wearing was clearly false.

‘i was looking for a wizard called pelc,’ moist ventured.

the beard parted slightly to reveal a wide smile.

‘i knew the machine would work!’ said the wizard. ‘you are looking, in fact, for me.’

the sign on the outside of the office door said: ladislav pelc, d.m.phil, prehumous professor of morbid bibliomancy.

on the inside of the door was a hook, on which the wizard hung his beard.

it was a wizard’s study, so of course had the skull with a candle in it and a stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling. no one, least of all wizards, knows why this is, but you have to have them.

it was also a room full of books and made of books. there was no actual furniture; that is to say, the desk and chairs were shaped out of books. it looked as though many of them were frequently referred to, because they lay open with other books used as bookmarks.

‘you want to know about your post office, i expect?’ said pelc, as moist settled on to a chair carefully put together from volumes 1 to 41 of synonyms for the word ‘plimsoll’

‘yes, please,’ said moist.

‘voices? strange events?’

‘yes!’

‘how can i put this . . .’ mused pelc. ‘words have power, you understand? it is in the nature of our universe. our library itself distorts time and space on quite a grand scale. well, when the post office started accumulating letters it was storing words. in fact what was being created was what we call a gevaisa, a tomb of living words. are you of a literary persuasion, mr lipwig?’

‘not as such.’ books were a closed book to moist.

‘would you burn a book?’ said pelc. ‘an old book, say, battered, almost spineless, found in a box of rubbish?’

‘well . . . probably not,’ moist admitted.

‘why not? would the thought make you uncomfortable?’

‘yes, i suppose it would. books are . . . well, you just don’t do that. er . . . why do you wear a false beard? i thought wizards had real ones.’

‘it’s not compulsory, you know, but when we go outside the public expect beards,’ said pelc. ‘it’s like having stars on your robes. besides, they’re far too hot in the summer. where was i? gevaisas. yes. all words have some power. we feel it instinctively. some, like magical spells and the true names of the gods, have a great deal. they must be treated with respect. in klatch there is a mountain with many caves, and in those caves are entombed more than a hundred thousand old books, mostly religious, each one in a white linen shroud. that is perhaps an extreme approach, but intelligent people have always known that some words at least should be disposed of with care and respect.’

‘not just shoved in sacks in the attic,’ said moist. ‘hold on . . . a golem called the post office “a tomb of unheard words”.’

‘i’m not at all surprised,’ said professor pelc calmly. ‘the old gevaisas and libraries used to employ golems, because the only words that have the power to influence them are the ones in their heads. words are important. and when there is a critical mass of them, they change the nature of the universe. did you have what seemed to be hallucinations?’

‘yes! i was back in time! but also in the present!’

‘ah, yes. that’s quite common,’ said the wizard. ‘enough words crammed together can affect time and space.’

‘and they spoke to me!’

‘i told the watch the letters wanted to be delivered,’ said professor pelc. ‘until a letter is read, it’s not complete. they will try anything to be delivered. but they don’t think, as you understand it, and they’re not clever. they just reach out into any available mind. i see you’ve already been turned into an avatar.’

‘i can’t fly!’

‘avatar: the living likeness of a god,’ said the professor patiently. ‘the hat with wings. the golden suit.’

‘no, they happened by accident—’

‘are you sure?’

the room went quiet.

‘urn . . . i was until right now,’ said moist.

‘they’re not trying to hurt anyone, mr lipwig,’ said pelc. “they just want deliverance.’

‘we’ll never be able to deliver them all,’ said moist. ‘that’d take years.’

‘the mere fact you’re delivering any will help, i’m sure,’ said professor pelc, smiling like a doctor telling a man not to worry, the disease is only fatal in 87 per cent of cases. ‘is there anything else i can help you with?’ he stood up, to indicate that a wizard’s time is valuable.

‘well, i’d quite like to know where the chandeliers went,’ said moist. ‘it’d be nice to get them back. symbolic, you could say’

‘i can’t help you, but i’m sure professor goitre can. he’s the posthumous professor of morbid bibliomancy. we could drop in and see him on the way out, if you like. he’s in the wizards’ pantry.’

‘why’s he “posthumous”?’ moist asked, as they stepped out into the corridor.

‘he’s dead,’ said pelc.

‘ah . . . i was kind of hoping that it was going to be a little more metaphorical than that,’ said moist.

‘don’t worry, he decided to take early death. it was a very good package.’

‘oh,’ said moist. the important thing at a time like this was to spot the right moment to run, but they’d got here through a maze of dark passages and this was not a place you’d want to get lost in. something might find you.

they stopped outside a door, through which came the muffled sound of voices and the occasional clink of glassware. the noise stopped as soon as the professor pushed the door open, and it was hard to see where it could have come from. this was, indeed, a pantry, quite empty of people, its walls lined with shelves, the shelves filled with little jars. there was a wizard in each one.

now would be the right time to run, moist’s hindbrain thought, as pelc reached for a jar, unscrewed the lid and rummaged around in it for the tiny wizard.

‘oh, this isn’t him,’ said the professor cheerfully, seeing moist’s expression. ‘the housekeeper puts these little knitted wizard dolls in just to remind the kitchen staff that the jars shouldn’t be used for anything else. there was an incident with some peanut butter, i believe. i just have to take it out so that he doesn’t sound muffled.’

‘so . . . er, where is the professor, in fact?’

‘oh, in the jar, for a certain value of “in”,’ said professor pelc. ‘it’s very hard to explain to the layman. he’s only dead for—’

‘—a given value of dead?’ said moist.

‘exactly! and he can come back at a week’s notice. a lot of the older wizards are opting for it now. very refreshing, they say, just like a sabbatical. only longer.’

‘where do they go?’

‘no one’s sure, exactly, but you can hear the sounds of cutlery,’ said pelc, and raised the jar to his mouth.

‘excuse me, professor goitre? can you by any chance recall what happened to the chandeliers in the post office?’

moist was expecting a tinny little voice to reply, but a sprightly if elderly voice a few inches away from his ear said: ‘what? oh! yes indeed! one ended up in the opera house and the other was acquired by the assassins’ guild. here comes the pudding trolley! goodbye!’

‘thank you, professor,’ said pelc solemnly. ‘all is well here—’

‘fat lot i care!’ said the disembodied voice. ‘be off, please, we’re eating!’

‘there you have it, then,’ said pelc, putting the wizard doll back in the jar and screwing the lid on. ‘the opera house and the assassins’ guild. might be quite hard to get them back, i fancy.’

‘yes, i think i shall put that off for a day or two,’ said moist, stepping out of the door. ‘dangerous people to tangle with.’

‘indeed,’ said the professor, shutting the door behind them, which was the signal for the buzz of conversation to start up again. ‘i understand some of those sopranos can kick like a mule.’

moist dreamed of bottled wizards, all shouting his name.

in the best traditions of awaking from a nightmare, the voices gradually became one voice, which turned out to be that of mr pump, who was shaking him.

‘some of them were covered in jam!’ moist shouted, and then focused. ‘what?’

‘mr lipvig, you have an appointment with lord vetinari.’

this sank in, and sounded worse than wizards in jars. ‘i don’t have any appointment with vetinari! er . . . do i?’

‘he says you do, mr lipvig,’ said the golem. ‘therefore, you do. we’ll leave by the coach yard. there is a big crowd outside the front doors.’

moist stopped with his trousers halfway on. ‘are they angry? are any of them carrying buckets of tar? feathers of any kind?’

‘i do not know. i have been given instructions. i am carrying them out. i advise you to do the same.’

moist was hustled out into the back streets, where some shreds of mist were still floating. ‘what time is this, for heavens’ sake?’ he complained.

‘a quarter to seven, mr lipvig.’

‘that’s still night time! doesn’t the man ever sleep? what’s so important that i’ve got to be dragged off my nice warm pile of letters?’

the clock in lord vetinari’s ante-room didn’t tick right. sometimes the tick was just a fraction late, sometimes the tock was early. occasionally, one or the other didn’t happen at all. this wasn’t really noticeable until you’d been in there for five minutes, by which time small but significant parts of the brain were going crazy.

moist was not good at early mornings in any case. that was one of the advantages of a life of crime: you didn’t have to get up until other people had got the streets aired.

the clerk drumknott glided in on hushed feet, so soundlessly that he came as a shock. he was one of the most silent people moist had ever encountered.

‘would you like some coffee, postmaster?’ he said quietly.

‘am i in trouble, mr drumknott?’

‘i wouldn’t care to say, sir. have you read the times this morning?’

‘the paper? no. oh . . .’ moist’s mind ran back furiously over yesterday’s interview. he hadn’t said anything wrong, had he? it had all been good, positive stuff, hadn’t it? vetinari wanted people to use the post, didn’t he?

‘we always get a few copies straight off the press,’ said drumknott. ‘i shall fetch you one.’

he returned with the paper. moist unfolded it, took in the front page in one moment of agony, read a few sentences, put his hand over his eyes and said, ‘oh, gods.’

‘did you notice the cartoon, postmaster?’ said drumknott innocently. ‘it may be thought quite droll.’

moist risked another glance at the terrible page. perhaps in unconscious self-defence his gaze had skipped over the cartoon, which showed two ragged street urchins. one of them was holding a strip of penny stamps. the text below read:

first urchin (having acquired some of the newly minted ‘stampings’): ’ ‘ere, ‘ave you seen lord vetinari’s back side?’

second urchin: ‘nah, and i wouldn’t lick it for a penny, neiver!’

moist’s face went waxen. ‘he’s seen this?’ he croaked.

‘oh, yes, sir.’

moist stood up quickly. ‘it’s still early,’ he said. ‘mr trooper is probably still on duty. if i run he can probably fit me in. i’ll go right away. that will be okay, won’t it? it’ll cut out the paperwork. i don’t want to be a burden to anyone. i’ll even—’

‘now, now, postmaster,’ said drumknott, pushing him gently back into his chair, ‘don’t distress yourself unduly. in my experience, his lordship is a . . . complex man. it is not wise to anticipate his reactions.’

‘you mean you think i’m going to live?’

drumknott screwed up his face in thought, and stared at the ceiling for a moment. ‘hmm, yes. yes, i think you might,’ he said.

‘i mean, in the fresh air? with everything attached?’

‘quite probably, sir. you may go in now, sir.’

moist tiptoed into the patrician’s office.

only lord vetinari’s hands were visible on either side of the times. moist reread the headlines with dull horror.

we don’t break down,

postmaster vows

amazing attack on clacks

pledges: we’ll deliver anywhere

using remarkable new ‘stamps’

that was the main story. it was alongside a smaller story which nevertheless drew the eye. the headline was:

grand trunk down again:

continent cut off

. . . and at the bottom, in a heavier typeface to show it was meant to be light-hearted, and under the headline:

history cannot be denied

. . . were a dozen stories about the things that had happened when the ancient post turned up. there was the rumpus that had turned into a fracas, mr parker and his bride-to-be and others too. the post had changed unremarkable lives in small ways. it was like cutting a window into history and seeing what might have been.

that seemed to be the entirety of the front page, except for a story about the watch hunting for the ‘mystery killer’ who had mauled some banker to death in his house. they were baffled, it said. that cheered moist up a little; if their infamous werewolf officer couldn’t sniff out a bloody murderer, then maybe they wouldn’t find moist, when the time came. a brain could surely beat a nose.

lord vetinari seemed oblivious of moist’s presence, and moist wondered what effect a polite cough might have.

at which point, the newspaper rustled.

‘it says here in the letters column,’ said the voice of the patrician, ‘that the phrase “stick it up your jumper” is based on an ancient ephebian saying that is at least two thousand years old, thus clearly pre-dating jumpers but not, presumably, the act of sticking.’ he lowered the paper and looked at moist over the top of it. ‘i don’t know if you have been following this interesting little etymological debate?’

‘no, sir,’ said moist. ‘if you remember, i spent the past six weeks in a condemned cell.’

his lordship put down the paper, steepled his fingers, and looked at moist over the top of them.

‘ah, yes. so you did, mr lipwig. well, well, well.’

‘look, i’m really sorr—’ moist began.

‘anywhere in the world? even to the gods? our postmen don’t break down so easily? history is not to be denied? very impressive, mr lipwig. you have made quite a splash,’ vetinari smiled, ‘as the fish said to the man with the lead weight tied to his feet.’

‘i didn’t exactly say—’

‘in my experience miss cripslock tends to write down exactly what one says,’ vetinari observed. ‘it’s a terrible thing when journalists do that. it spoils the fun. one feels instinctively that it’s cheating, somehow. and i gather you are selling promissory notes, too?’

‘what?’

‘the stamps, mr lipwig. a promise to carry a penny’s worth of mail. a promise that must be kept. do come and look at this.’ he stood up and walked across to the window, where he beckoned. ‘do come, mr lipwig.’

fearing that he might be hurled down on to the cobbles, moist nevertheless did so.

‘see the big clacks tower over there on the tump?’ said vetinari, gesturing. ‘not much activity on the grand trunk this morning. problems with a tower out on the plains, i gather. nothing is getting to sto lat and beyond. but now, if you look down . . .’

it took moist a moment to understand what he was seeing, and then—

‘that’s a queue outside the post office?’ he said.

‘yes, mr lipwig,’ said vetinari, with dark glee. ‘for stamps, as advertised. ankh-morpork citizens have an instinct for, you might say, joining in the fun. go to it, mr lipwig. i’m sure you’re full of ideas. don’t let me detain you.’

lord vetinari returned to his desk and picked up the paper.

it’s right there on the front page, moist thought, he can’t have not seen it . . .

‘er . . . about the other thing . . .’ he ventured, staring at the cartoon.

‘what other thing would that be?’ said lord vetinari.

there was a moment’s silence.

‘er . . . nothing, really,’ said moist. ‘i’ll be off, then.’

‘indeed you will, postmaster. the mail must get through, must it not?’

vetinari listened to distant doors shut, and then went and stood at the window until he saw a golden figure hurry across the courtyard.

drumknott came and tidied up the ‘out’ tray. ‘well done, sir,’ he said quietly.

‘thank you, drumknott.’

‘i see mr horsefry has passed away, sir.’

‘so i understand, drumknott.’

there was a stir in the crowd as moist crossed the street. to his unspeakable relief he saw mr spools, standing with one of the serious men from his printery. spools hurried over to him.

‘i, er, have several thousand of both of the, er, items,’ he whispered, pulling out a package from under his coat. ‘pennies and twopennies. they’re not the best we can do but i thought you might be in want of them. we heard the clacks was down again.’

‘you’re a life saver, mr spools. if you could just take them inside. by the way, how much is a clacks message to sto lat?’

‘even a very short message would be at least thirty pence, i think,’ said the engraver.

‘thank you.’ moist stood back and cupped his hands. ‘ladies and gentlemen!’ he shouted. ‘the post office will be open in five minutes for the sale of penny and twopenny stamps! in addition, we will be taking mail for sto lat! first express delivery to sto lat leaves on the hour, ladies and gentlemen, to arrive this morning. the cost will be ten pence per standard envelope! i repeat, ten pence! the royal mail, ladies and gentlemen! accept no substitutes! thank you!’

there was a stir from the crowd, and several people hurried away.

moist led mr spools into the building, politely closing the door in the face of the crowd. he felt the tingle he always felt when the game was afoot. life should be made of moments like this, he decided. with his heart singing, he poured out orders.

‘stanley!’

‘yes, mr lipwig?’ said the boy, behind him.

‘run along to hobson’s livery stable and tell them i want a good fast horse, right? something with a bit of fizz in its blood! not some feagued-up old screw, and i know the difference! i want it here in half an hour! off you go! mr groat?’

‘yessir!’ groat actually saluted.

‘rig up some kind of table for a counter, will you?’ said moist. ‘in five minutes, we open to accept mail and sell stamps! i’m taking letters to sto lat while the clacks is down and you’re acting postmaster while i’m gone! mr spools!’

‘i’m right here, mr lipwig. you really don’t have to shout,’ said the engraver reproachfully.

‘sorry, mr spools. more stamps, please. i’ll need some to take with me, in case there’s mail to come back. can you do that? and i’ll need the fives and the dollar stamps as soon as— are you all right, mr groat?’

the old man was swaying, his lips moving soundlessly.

‘mr groat?’ moist repeated.

‘acting postmaster . . .’ mumbled groat.

‘that’s right, mr groat.’

‘no groat has ever been acting postmaster . . .’ suddenly groat dropped to his knees and gripped moist round the legs. ‘oh, thank you, sir! i won’t let you down, mr lipwig! you can rely on me, sir! neither rain nor snow nor glom of—’

‘yes, yes, thank you, acting postmaster, thank you, that’s enough, thank you,’ said moist, trying to pull away. ‘please get up, mr groat. mr groat, please!’

‘can i wear the winged hat while you’re gone, sir?’ groat pleaded. ‘it’d mean such a lot, sir—’

‘i’m sure it would, mr groat, but not today. today, the hat flies to sto lat.’

groat stood up. ‘should it really be you that takes the mail, sir?’

‘who else? golems can’t move fast enough, stanley is . . . well, stanley, and the rest of you gentlemen are ol— rich in years.’ moist rubbed his hands together. ‘no argument, acting postmaster groat! now - let’s sell some stamps!’

the doors were opened, and the crowd flocked in. vetinari had been right. if there was any action, the people of ankh-morpork liked to be a part of it. penny stamps flowed over the makeshift counter. after all, the reasoning went, for a penny you got something worth a penny, right? after all, even if it was a joke it was as safe as buying money! and envelopes came the other way. people were actually writing letters in the post office. moist made a mental note: envelopes with a stamp already on them and a sheet of folded paper inside them: instant letter kit, just add ink! that was an important rule of any game: always make it easy for people to give you money.

to his surprise, although he realized it shouldn’t have been, drumknott elbowed his way through the crowd with a small but heavy leather package, sealed with a heavy wax seal bearing the city crest and a heavy v. it was addressed to the mayor of sto lat.

‘government business,’ he announced pointedly, as he handed it over.

‘do you want to buy any stamps for it?’ said moist, taking the packet.

‘what do you think, postmaster?’ said the clerk.

‘i definitely think government business travels free,’ said moist.

‘thank you, mr lipwig. the lord likes a fast learner.’

other mail for sto lat did get stamped, though. a lot of people had friends or business there. moist looked around. people were scribbling everywhere, even holding the notepaper up against walls. the stamps, penny and twopenny, were shifting fast. at the other end of the hall, the golems were sorting the endless mail mountains . . .

in fact, in a small way, the place was bustling.

you should’ve seen it, sir, you should’ve seen it!

‘lipwig, are yer?’

he snapped out of a dream of chandeliers to see a thickset man in front of him. recognition took “a moment, and then said that this was the owner of hobson’s livery stable, at once the most famous and the most notorious such enterprise in the city. it was probably not the hive of criminal activity that popular rumour suggested, although the huge establishment often seemed to contain grubby-looking men with not much to do apart from sit around and squint at people. and he was employing an igor, everyone knew, which of course was sensible when you had such a high veterinary overhead, but you heard stories . . . *

* that, for example, stolen horses got dismantled at dead of night and might well turn up with a dye job and two different legs. and it was said that there was one horse in ankh-morpork that had a longitudinal seam from head to tail, being sewn together from what was left of two horses that had been involved in a particularly nasty accident.

‘oh, hello, mr hobson,’ said moist.

‘seems yer think i hire tired old horses, sir, do you?’ said willie hobson. his smile was not entirely friendly. a nervous stanley stood behind him. hobson was big and heavy-set but not exactly fat; he was probably what you’d get if you shaved a bear.

‘i have ridden some that—’ moist began, but hobson raised a hand.

‘seems yer want fizz,’ said hobson. his smile widened. ‘well, i always give the customer what i want, you know that. so i’ve brought yer boris.’

‘oh, yes?’ said moist. ‘and he’ll get me to sto lat, will he?’

‘oh, at the very least, sir,’ said hobson. ‘good horseman, are yer?’

‘when it comes to riding out of town, mr hobson, there’s no one faster.’

‘that’s good, sir, that’s good,’ said hobson, in the slow voice of someone carefully urging the prey towards the trap. ‘boris does have a few faults, but i can see a skilled horseman like you should have no trouble. ready, then? he’s right outside. got a man holding him.’

it turned out that there were in fact four men holding the huge black stallion in a network of ropes, while it danced and lunged and kicked and tried to bite. a fifth man was lying on the ground. boris was a killer.

‘like i said, sir, he’s got a few faults, but no one could call him a . . . now what was it . . . oh, yeah, a feagued-up old screw. still want a horse with fizz?’ hobson’s grin said it all: this is what i do to snooty buggers who try to mess me around. let’s see you try to ride this one, mister-i-know-all-about-horses!

moist looked at boris, who was trying to trample the fallen man, and at the watching crowd. damn the gold suit. if you were moist von lipwig, there was only one thing to do now, and that was raise the stakes.

‘take his saddle off,’ he said.

‘you what?’ said hobson.

‘take his saddle off, mr hobson,’ said moist firmly. ‘this bag’s quite heavy, so let’s lose the saddle.’

hobson’s smile remained, but the rest of his face tried to sidle away from it. ‘had all the kids you want, have yer?’ he said.

‘just give me a blanket and a bellyband, mr hobson.’

now hobson’s smile vanished completely. this was going to look too much like murder. ‘you might want to think again, sir,’ he said. ‘boris took a couple of fingers off a man last year. he’s a trampler, too, and a snaffler and a scraper and he’ll horlock if he can get away with it. he’s got demons in him, and that’s a fact.’

‘will he run?’

‘not so much run as bolt, sir. born evil, that one,’ said hobson. ‘you need a crowbar to get him round corners, too. look, sir, fair play to yer for a game ‘un, but i’ve got plenty of other—’

hobson flinched as moist gave him a special grin.’ you chose him, mr hobson. i’ll ride him. i’d be grateful if you could get your gentlemen to point him up broadway for me while i go and conclude a few items of business.’

moist went into the building, ran up the stairs to his office, shut the door, crammed his handkerchief in his mouth and whimpered gently for a few seconds, until he felt better. he’d ridden bareback a few times, when things had been really hot, but boris had the eyes of a crazy thing.

but back off now and he’d be . . . just a fool in a shiny suit. you had to give them a show, an image, something to remember. all he had to do was stay on until he left the city and then find a suitable bush to jump off into. yes, that’d do. and then stagger into sto lat hours later, still with the mail, having valiantly fought off bandits. he’d be believed, because it would feel right . . . because people wanted to believe things, because it’d make a good tale, because if you made it glitter sufficiently glass could appear more like a diamond than a diamond did.

there was a cheer when he strode out on to the steps again. the sun, on cue, decided to appear from the mists, and sparkled off his wings.

boris was looking apparently docile now, chewing his bit. this didn’t fool moist; if a horse like boris was quiet it was because he was planning something.

‘mr pump, i shall need you to give me a leg up,’ he said, slinging the post bag round his neck.

‘yes, mr lipvig,’ said the golem.

‘mr lipwig!’

moist turned round to see sacharissa cripslock hurrying up the street, notebook in hand.

‘always a pleasure to see you, sacharissa,’ said moist, ‘but i am a little busy right now—’

‘you are aware that the grand trunk is shut again?’ she said.

‘yes, it was in the paper. now i must—’

‘so you are challenging the clacks company?’ the pencil hung poised over her notebook.

‘simply delivering the mail, miss cripslock, just like i said i’d do,’ said moist in firm, manly tones.

‘but it’s rather strange, is it not, that a man on horseback is more reliable than a—’

‘please, miss cripslock! we are the post office!’ said moist, in his best high-minded voice. ‘we don’t go in for petty rivalry. we’re sorry to hear that our colleagues in the clacks company are experiencing temporary difficulties with their machinery, we fully sympathize with their plight, and if they would like us to deliver their messages for them we would of course be happy to sell them some stamps - soon to be available in penny, twopenny, fivepenny, tenpenny and one dollar values, available here at your post office, ready gummed. incidentally, we intend eventually to flavour the gum in liquorice, orange, cinnamon and banana flavours, but not strawberry because i hate strawberries.’

he could see her smile as she wrote this down. then she said: ‘i did hear you correctly, did i? you are offering to carry clacks messages?

‘certainly. ongoing messages can be put on the trunk in sto lat. helpfulness is our middle name.’

‘are you sure it’s not “cheekiness”?’ said sacharissa, to laughter from the crowd.

‘i don’t understand you, i’m sure,’ said moist. ‘now, if you will—’

‘you’re cocking a snook at the clacks people again, aren’t you?’ said the journalist.

‘ah, that must be a journalistic term,’ said moist. ‘i’ve never owned a snook, and even if i did i wouldn’t know how to cock it. and now, if you will excuse me, i have the mail to deliver and ought to leave before boris eats somebody. again.’

‘can i ask you just one last thing? will your soul be unduly diminished if otto takes a picture of you departing?’

‘i suppose i can’t stop you out here, provided my face isn’t very clear,’ said moist, as mr pump cupped his pottery hands to make a step. ‘the priest is very hot on that, you know.’

‘yes, i expect “the priest” is,’ said miss cripslock, making sure the inverted commas clanged with irony. ‘besides, by the look of that creature, it may be the last chance we get. it looks like death on four legs, mr lipwig.’

the crowd fell silent as moist mounted. boris merely shifted his weight a little.

look at it like this, moist thought, what have you got to lose? your life? you’ve already been hanged. you’re into angel time. and you’re impressing the hell out of everybody. why are they buying stamps? because you’re giving them a show—

‘just say the word, mister,’ said one of hobson’s men, hauling on the end of a rope. ‘when we let him go, we ain’t hanging around!’

‘wait a moment—’ said moist quickly.

he’d seen a figure at the front of the crowd. it was wearing a figure-hugging grey dress and, as he watched, it blew a neurotic cloud of smoke at the sky, gave him a look, and shrugged.

‘dinner tonight, miss dearheart?’ he shouted.

heads turned. there was a ripple of laughter, and a few cheers. for a moment she flashed him a look that should have left his shadow on the smoking remains of the wall opposite, and then she gave a curt nod.

who knows, it could be peaches underneath . . .

‘let him go, boys!’ said moist, his heart soaring.

the men dived away. the world was still for a breath, and then boris sprang from docility into a mad rearing dance, back legs clattering across the flagstones, hooves pawing at the air.

‘vunderful! hold it!’

the world went white. boris went mad.