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,’ said miss maccalariat, as if she regretted that there were currently no further things to complain of. ‘mr groat knows my particulars, postmaster. i will now return to the proper execution of my duties, otherwise people will try to steal the pens again. you have to watch them like hawks, you know.’

‘a good woman, that,’ said groat, as she strode away. ‘fifth generation of miss maccalariats. maiden name kept for professional purposes, o’ course.’

‘they get married?’ from the mob around the makeshift counter came the ringing command: ‘put that pen back this minute! do you think i’m made of pens?’

‘yessir,’ said groat.

‘do they bite their husbands’ heads off on their wedding night?’ said moist.

‘i wouldn’t know about that sort of thing, sir,’ said groat, blushing.

‘but she’s even got a bit of a moustache!’

‘yessir. there’s someone for everyone in this wonderful world, sir.’

‘and we’ve got other people looking for work, you say?’

groat beamed. ‘that’s right, sir. ‘cos of the bit in the paper, sir.’

‘you mean this morning?’

‘i expect that helped, sir,’ said groat. ‘but i reckon it was the lunchtime edition that did it.’

‘what lunchtime edition?’

‘we’re all over the front page!’ said groat proudly. ‘i put a copy on your desk upstairs—’

moist pushed the sto lat mailbag into the man’s arms. ‘get this . . . sorted,’ he said. ‘if there’s enough mail for another delivery to go, find some kid who’s mad for a job and put him on a horse and get him to take it. doesn’t have to be fast; we’ll call it the overnight delivery. tell him to see the mayor and come back in the morning with any fresh mail.’

‘right you are, sir,’ said groat. ‘we could do an overnight to quirm and pseudopolis too, sir, if we could change horses like the mail coaches do—’

‘hang on . . . why can’t the mail coaches take it?’ said moist. ‘hell, they’re still called mail coaches, right? we know they take stuff from anyone, on the quiet. well, the post office is back in business. they take our mail. go and find whoever runs them and tell him so!’

‘yessir,’ said groat, beaming. ‘thought about how we’re going to send post to the moon yet, sir?’

‘one thing at a time, mr groat!’

‘that’s not like you, sir,’ said groat cheerfully. ‘all at once is more your style, sir!’

i wish it wasn’t, moist thought, as he eased his way upstairs. but you had to move fast. he always moved fast. his whole life had been movement. move fast, because you never know what’s trying to catch you up—

he paused on the stairs.

not mr pump!

the golem hadn’t left the post office! he hadn’t tried to catch him up! was it that he’d been on postal business? how long could he be away on postal business? could he fake his death, maybe? the old pile-of-clothes-on-the-seashore trick? worth remembering. all he needed was a long enough start. how did a golem’s mind actually work? he’d have to ask miss—

miss dearheart! he’d been flying so high that he’d asked her out! that might be a problem now, because most of the lower part of his body was on fire, not especially for miss dearheart. oh, well, he thought as he entered the office, perhaps he could find a restaurant with really soft seats—

faster than the ‘speed of light’

‘old-fashioned’ mail beats clacks

postmaster delivers, says: snook not cocked

amazing scenes at post office

the headlines screamed at him as soon as he saw the paper. he almost screamed back.

of course he’d said all that. but he’d said it to the innocent smiling face of miss sacharissa cripslock, not to the whole world! and then she’d written it down all truthfully, and suddenly . . . you got this.

moist had never much bothered with newspapers. he was an artist. he wasn’t interested in big schemes. you swindled the man in front of you, looking him sincerely in the eyes.

the picture was good, though, he had to admit. the rearing horse, the winged hat and above all the slight blurring with speed. it was impressive.

he relaxed a little. the place was operating, after all. letters were being posted. mail was being delivered. okay, so a major part of it all was that the clacks wasn’t working properly, but maybe in time people would see that a letter to your sister in sto lat didn’t need to cost thirty pence to maybe get there in an hour but might as well cost a mere five pence to be there in the morning.

stanley knocked at the door and then pushed it open.

‘cup of tea, mr lipwig?’ he said. ‘and a bun, sir.’

‘you’re an angel in heavy disguise, stanley,’ said moist, sitting back with care, and wincing.

‘yes, thank you, sir,’ said stanley solemnly. ‘got some messages for you, sir.’

‘thank you, stanley,’ said moist. there was a lengthy pause until he remembered that this was stanley he was talking to and added: ‘please tell me what they are, stanley.’

‘er . . . the golem lady came in and said . . .’ stanley closed his eyes, ‘ “tell the streak of lightning he’ll have another eight golems in the morning and if he’s not too busy working miracles i’ll accept his invitation to dine at eight at le foie heureux, meeting at the mended drum at seven.”‘

‘the happy liver? are you sure?’ but of course it would be correct. this was stanley. ‘ha, even the damn soup there is fifteen dollars!’ said moist. ‘and you have to wait three weeks for an appointment to be considered for a booking! they weigh your wallet! how does she think i—’

his eye fell on ‘mr robinson’s box’, sitting innocently in the corner of the office. he liked miss dearheart. most people were . . . accessible. sooner or later you could find the springs that worked them; even miss maccalariat would have a lever somewhere, although it was a horrible thought. but adora belle fought back, and to make sure fought back even before she was attacked. she was a challenge, and therefore fascinating. she was so cynical, so defensive, so spiky. and he had a feeling she could read him much, much better than he read her. all in all, she was intriguing. and looked good in a severely plain dress, don’t forget that bit.

‘okay. thank you, stanley,’ he said. ‘anything else?’

the boy put a sheet of slightly damp greeny-grey stamps on the desk. ‘the first dollar stamps, sir!’ he announced.

‘my word, mr spools has done a good job here!’ said moist, staring at the hundreds of little green pictures of the university’s tower of art. ‘it even looks worth a dollar!’

‘yes, sir. you hardly notice the little man jumping from the top,’ said stanley.

moist snatched the sheet from the boy’s hand. ‘what? where?’

‘you need a magnifying glass, sir. and it’s only on a few of them. in some of them he’s in the water. mr spools is very sorry, sir. he says it may be some kind of induced magic. you know, sir? like, even a picture of a wizards’ tower might be a bit magical itself? there’s a few faults on some of the others, too. the printing went wrong on some of the black penny ones and lord vetinari’s got grey hair, sir. some haven’t got gum on, but they’re all right because some people have asked for them that way’

‘why?’

‘they say they’re as good as real pennies and a whole lot lighter, sir.’

‘do you like stamps, stanley?’ said moist kindly. he was feeling a lot better in a seat that didn’t go up and down.

stanley’s face lit up. ‘oh, yes, sir. really, sir. they’re wonderful, sir! amazing, sir!’

moist raised his eyebrows. ‘as good as that, eh?’

‘it’s like . . . well, it’s like being there when they invented the first pin, sir!’ stanley’s face glowed.

‘really? the first pin, eh?’ said moist. ‘outstanding! well, in that case, stanley, you are head of stamps. the whole department. which is, in fact, you. how do you like that? i imagine you already know more about them than anyone else.’

‘oh, i do, sir! for example, on the very first run of the penny stamps they used a different type of—’

‘good!’ said moist hurriedly. ‘well done! can i keep this first sheet? as a souvenir?’

‘of course, sir,’ said stanley. ‘head of stamps, sir? wow! er . . . is there a hat?’

‘if you like,’ said moist generously, folding up the sheet of stamps and putting them in his inside pocket. so much more convenient than dollars. wow, indeed. ‘or perhaps a shirt?’ he added. ‘you know . . . “ask me about stamps”?’

‘good idea, sir! can i go and tell mr groat, sir? he’d be so proud of me!’

‘off you go, stanley,’ said moist. ‘but come back in ten minutes, will you? i’ll have a letter for you to deliver - personally.’

stanley ran off.

moist opened the wooden box, which fanned out its trays obediently, and flexed his fingers.

hmm. it seemed that anyone who was, well, anyone in the city had their paper printed by teemer and spools. moist thumbed through his recently acquired paper samples, and spotted:

the grand trunk company

‘as fast as light’

from the office of the chairman

it was tempting. very tempting. they were rich, very rich. even with the current trouble, they were still very big. and moist had never met a head waiter who hated money.

he found a copy of yesterday’s times. there’d been a picture . . . yes, here. there was a picture of reacher gilt, chairman of the grand trunk, at some function. he looked like a better class of pirate, a buccaneer maybe, but one who took the time to polish his plank. that flowing black hair, that beard, that eyepatch and, oh gods, that cockatoo . . . that was a look, wasn’t it?

moist hadn’t paid much attention to the grand trunk company. it was too big, and from what he’d heard it practically employed its own army. things could be tough in the mountains, where you were often a long way from anything that resembled a watchman. it wasn’t a good idea to steal things from people who did their own law enforcement. they tended to be very definite.

but what he was intending wouldn’t be stealing. it might not even be breaking the law. fooling a maitre d’ was practically a public service.

he looked at the picture again. now, how would a man like that sign his name?

hmm . . . flowing yet small, that would be the handwriting of reacher gilt. he was so florid, so sociable, so huge a personality that one who was good at this sort of thing might wonder if another shard of glass was trying to sparkle like a diamond. and the essence of forgery is to make, by misdirection and careful timing, the glass look so much more like a diamond than a diamond does.

well, it was worth a try. it was not as though he was going to swindle anyone, as such.

hmm. small yet flowing, yes . . . but someone who’d never seen the man’s writing would expect it to be extravagantly big and curly, just like him . . .

moist poised the pen over the headed paper, and then wrote:

ma?tre d’,

le foie heuieux,

i would be most grateful if you could find a table for my good friend mr. lipwig and his lady at eight o’clock tonight.

reacher gilt

most grateful, that was good. the reacher gilt persona probably tipped like a drunken sailor.

he folded the letter, and was addressing the envelope when stanley and groat came in.

‘you’ve got a letter, mr lipwig,’ said stanley proudly.

‘yes, here it is,’ said moist,

‘no, i mean here’s one for you,’ said the boy. they exchanged envelopes. moist glanced cursorily at the envelope, and opened it with a thumb.

‘i’ve got bad news, sir,’ said groat, as stanley left.

‘hmm?’ said moist, looking at the letter.

postmaster,

the pseudopolis clacks line will break down at 9 a.m. tomorrow.

the smoking gnu

‘yessir. i went round to the coach office,’ groat went on, ‘and told them what you said and they said you stick to your business, thank you very much, and they’ll stick to theirs.’

‘hmm,’ said moist, still staring at the letter. ‘well, well. have you heard of someone called “the smoking gnu”, mr groat?’

‘what’s a gernue, sir?’

‘a bit like a dangerous cow, i think,’ said moist. ‘er . . . what were you saying about the coach people?’

‘they give me lip, sir, that’s what they give me,’ said groat. ‘i told ‘em, i told ‘em i was the assistant head postmaster and they said “so what?” sir. then i said i’d tell you, sir, and they said— you want to know what they said, sir?’

‘hmm. oh, yes. i’m agog, tolliver.’ moist’s eyes were scanning the strange letter over and over again.

‘they said “yeah, right”,’ said groat, a beacon of righteous indignation.

‘i wonder if mr trooper can still fit me in . . .’ mused moist, staring at the ceiling.

‘sorry, sir?’

‘oh, nothing. i suppose i’d better go and talk to them. go and find mr pump, will you? and tell him to bring a couple of the other golems, will you? i want to . . . impress people.’

igor opened the front door in answer to the knock.

there was no one there. he stepped outside and looked up and down the street.

there was no one there.

he stepped back inside, closing the door behind him - and no one was standing in the hall, his black cloak dripping rain, removing his wide, flat-brimmed hat.

‘ah, mithter gryle, thur,’ igor said to the tall figure, ‘i thould have known it wath you.’

‘readier gilt asked for me,’ said gryle. it was more a breath than a voice.

the clan of the igors had had any tendency to shuddering bred out of it generations ago, which was just as well. igor felt uneasy in the presence of gryle and his kind.

‘the marthter ith expecting—’ he began.

but there was no one there.

it wasn’t magic, and gryle wasn’t a vampire. igors could spot these things. it was just that there was nothing spare about him - spare flesh, spare time, or spare words. it was impossible to imagine gryle collecting pins, or savouring wine or even throwing up after a bad pork pie. the picture of him cleaning his teeth or sleeping completely failed to form in the mind. he gave the impression of restraining himself, with difficulty, from killing you.

thoughtfully, igor went down to his room off the kitchen and checked that his little leather bag was packed, just in case.

in his study, reacher gilt poured a small brandy. gryle looked around him with eyes that seemed not at home with the limited vistas of a room.

‘and for yourself?’ said gilt.

‘water,’ said gryle.

‘i expect you know what this is about?’

‘no.’ gryle was not a man for small talk or, if it came to it, any talk at all.

‘you’ve read the newspapers?’

‘do not read.’

‘you know about the post office.’

‘yes.’

‘how, may i ask?’

‘there is talk.’

gilt accepted that. mr gryle had a special talent, and if that came as a package with funny little ways then so be it. besides, he was trustworthy; a man without middle grounds. he’d never blackmail you, because such an attempt would be the first move in a game that would almost certainly end in death for somebody; if mr gryle found himself in such a game he’d kill right now, without further thought, in order to save time, and assumed that anyone else would, too. presumably he was insane, by the usual human standards, but it was hard to tell; the phrase ‘differently normal’ might do instead. after all, gryle could probably defeat a vampire within ten seconds, and had none of a vampire’s vulnerabilities, except perhaps an inordinate fondness for pigeons. he’d been a real find.

‘and you have discovered nothing about mr lipwig?’ gilt said.

‘no. father dead. mother dead. raised by grandfather. sent away to school. bullied. ran away. vanished,’ said the tall figure.

‘hmm. i wonder where he’s been all this time? or who he has been?’

gryle didn’t waste breath on rhetorical questions.

‘he is . . . a nuisance.’

‘understood.’ and that was the charm. gryle did understand. he seldom needed an order, you just had to state the problem. the fact that it was gryle that you were stating it to went a long way towards ensuring what the solution was likely to be.

‘the post office building is old and full of paper. very dry paper,’ said gilt. ‘it would be regrettable if the fine old place caught fire.’

‘understood.’

and that was another thing about gryle. he really did not talk much. he especially did not talk about old times, and all the other little solutions he had provided for reacher gilt. and he never said things like ‘what do you mean?’ he understood.

‘require one thousand, three hundred dollars,’ he said.

‘of course,’ said gilt. ‘i will clacks it to your account in—’

‘will take cash,’ said gryle.

‘gold? i don’t keep that much around,’ said gilt. ‘i can get it in a few days, of course, but i thought you preferred—’

‘i do not trust the semaphore now.’

‘but our ciphers are very well—’

‘i do not trust the semaphore now,’ gryle repeated.

‘very well.’

‘description,’ said gryle.

‘no one seems to remember what he looks like,’ said gilt. ‘but he always wears a big golden hat, with wings, and he has an apartment in the building.’

for a moment something flickered around gryle’s thin lips. it was a smile panicking at finding itself in such an unfamiliar place.

‘can he fly?’ he said.

‘alas, he doesn’t seem inclined to venture into high places,’ said gilt.

gryle stood up. ‘i will do this tonight.’

‘good man. or, rather—’

‘understood,’ said gryle.