in which stanley remains calm - moist the hero - searching for a cat,

never a good idea - something in the dark - mr gryle is encountered -

fire and water - mr lipwig helps the watch - dancing on the edge

— mr lipwig gets religion — opportunity time - miss maccalariat’s

hairgrip - the miracle

the letters burned.

part of the ceiling fell down, showering more letters on to the flames. the fire was already reaching for the upper floors. as stanley dragged mr groat across the floor another slab of plaster smashed on the tiles and the old mail that poured down after it was already burning. smoke, thick as soup, rolled across the distant ceiling.

stanley pulled the old man into the locker room and laid him on his bed. he rescued the golden hat, too, because mr lipwig would be bound to be angry if he didn’t. then he shut the door and took down, from the shelf over groat’s desk, the book of regulations. he turned the pages methodically until he came to the bookmark he’d put in a minute ago, on the page what to do in case of fire.

stanley always followed the rules. all sorts of things could go wrong if you didn’t.

so far he’d done 1: upon discovery of the fire, remain calm.

now he came to 2: shout ‘fire!’ in a loud, clear voice.

‘fire!’ he shouted, and then ticked off 2 with his pencil.

next was: 3: endeavour to extinguish fire if possible.

stanley went to the door and opened it. flames and smoke billowed in. he stared at them for a moment, shook his head, and shut the door.

paragraph 4 said: if trapped by fire, endeavour to escape. do not open doors if warm. do not use stairs if burning. if no exit presents itself remain calm and await a) rescue or b) death.

this seemed to cover it. the world of pins was simple and stanley knew his way around it as a goldfish knows its tank, but everything else was very complicated and only worked if you followed the rules.

he glanced up at the grubby little windows. they were far too small to climb through and had been welded shut by many applications of official paint, so he broke one pane as neatly as possible to allow some fresh air in. he made a note of this in the breakages book.

mr groat was still breathing, although with an unpleasant bubbling sound. there was a first aid kit in the locker room, because regulations demanded it, but it contained only a small length of bandage, a bottle of something black and sticky, and mr groat’s spare teeth. mr groat had told him never to touch his home-made medicines, and since it was not unusual for bottles to explode during the night stanley had always observed this rule very carefully.

it did not say in the regulations: if attacked by huge swooping screaming creature hit hard in the mouth with sack of pins, and stanley wondered if he should pencil this in. but that would be defacing post office property, and he could get into trouble for that.

all avenues of further activity being therefore closed, stanley remained calm.

it was a gentle snow of letters. some landed still burning, fountaining out of the column of crackling fire that had already broken through the post office roof. some were blackened ashes on which sparks travelled in mockery of the dying ink. some - many - had sailed up and over the city unscathed, zigzagging down gently like communications from an excessively formal sort of god.

moist tore off his jacket as he pushed through the crowd.

‘the people probably got out,’ said miss dear heart, clattering along beside him.

‘do you really think so?’ said moist.

‘really? no. not if gilt set this up. sorry, i’m not very good at being comforting any more.’

moist paused, and tried to think. the flames were coming out of the roof at one end of the building. the main door and the whole left side looked untouched. but fire was sneaky stuff, he knew. it sat there and smouldered until you opened the door to see how it was getting on, and then the fire caught its breath and your eyeballs got soldered to your skull.

‘i’d better go in,’ he said. ‘er . . . you wouldn’t care to say “no, no, don’t do it, you’re being far too brave!” would you?’ he added. some people were organizing a bucket chain from a nearby fountain; it would be as effective as spitting at the sun.

miss dearheart caught a burning letter, lit a cigarette with it, and took a drag. ‘no, no, don’t do it, you’re being far too brave!’ she said. ‘how was that for you? but if you do, the left side looks pretty clear. watch out, though. there are rumours gilt employs a vampire. one of the wild ones.’

‘ah. fire kills them, doesn’t it?’ said moist, desperate to look on the bright side.

‘it kills everybody, mr lipwig,’ said miss dearheart. ‘it kills everybody.’ she grabbed him by the ears and gave him a big kiss on the mouth. it was like being kissed by an ashtray, but in a good way.

‘on the whole, i’d like you to come out of there,’ she said quietly. ‘are you sure you won’t wait? the boys will be here in a minute—’

‘the golems? it’s their day off!’

‘they have to obey their chem, though. a fire means humans are in danger. they’ll smell it and be here in minutes, believe me.’

moist hesitated, looking at her face. and people were watching him. he couldn’t not go in there, it wouldn’t fit in with the persona. gods damn vetinari!

he shook his head, turned, and ran towards the doors. best not to think about it. best not to think about being so dumb. just feel the front door . . . quite cool. open it gently . . . a rush of air, but no explosion. the big hall, lit with flame . . . but it was all above him, and if he weaved and dodged he could make it to the door that led down to the locker room.

he kicked it open.

stanley looked up from his stamps.

‘hello, mr lipwig,’ he said. ‘i kept calm. but i think mr groat is ill.’

the old man was lying on the bed, and ill was too jolly a word.

‘what happened to him?’ said moist, lifting him gently. mr groat was no weight at all.

‘it was like a big bird, but i frightened it off,’ said stanley. ‘i hit it in the mouth with a sack of pins. i . . . had a little moment, sir.’

‘well, that ought to do it,’ said moist. ‘now, can you follow me?’

‘i’ve got all the stamps,’ said stanley. ‘and the cashbox. mr groat keeps them under his bed for safety.’ the boy beamed. ‘and your hat, too. i kept calm.’

‘well done, well done,’ said moist. ‘now, stick right behind me, okay?’

‘what about mr tiddles, mr lipwig?’ said stanley, suddenly looking worried. somewhere outside in the hall there was a crash, and the crackle of the fire grew distinctly louder.

‘who? mr tidd— the cat? to hell with—’ moist stopped, and readjusted his mouth. ‘he’ll be outside, you can bet on it, eating a toasted rat and grinning. come on, will you?’

‘but he’s the post office cat!’ said stanley. ‘he’s never been outside!’

i’ll bet he has now, thought moist. but there was that edge in the boy’s voice again.

‘let’s get mr groat out of here, okay,’ he said, easing his way through the door with the old man in his arms, ‘and then i’ll come back for tidd—’

a burning beam dropped on to the floor halfway across the hall, and sent sparks and burning envelopes spiralling upwards into the main blaze. it roared, a wall of flame, a fiery waterfall in reverse, up through the other floors and out through the roof. it thundered. it was fire let loose and making the most of it.

part of moist von lipwig was happy to let it happen. but a new and troublesome part was thinking: i was making it work. it was all moving forward. the stamps were really working. it was as good as being a criminal without the crime. it had been fun.

‘come on, stanley!’ moist snapped, turning away from the horrible sight and the fascinating thought. the boy followed, reluctantly, calling for the damn cat all the way to the door.

the air outside struck like a knife, but there was a round of applause from the crowd and then a flash of light that moist had come to associate with eventual trouble.

‘good eefning, mr lipvig!’ said the cheery voice of otto chriek. ‘my vord, if ve vant news, all ve have to do is follow you!’

moist ignored him and shouldered his way to miss dearheart who, he noticed, was not beside herself with worry.

‘is there a hospice in this city?’ he said. ‘a decent doctor, even?’

‘there’s the lady sybil free hospital,’ said miss dearheart.

‘is it any good?’

‘some people don’t die.’

‘that good, eh? get him there right now! i’ve got to go back in for the cat!’

‘you are going to go back in there for a cat?’

‘it’s mr tiddles,’ said stanley primly. ‘he was born in the post office.’

‘best not to argue,’ said moist, turning to go. ‘see to mr groat, will you?’

miss dearheart looked down at the old man’s bloodstained shirt. ‘but it looks as though some creature tried to—’ she began.

‘something fell on him,’ said moist shortly.

‘that couldn’t cause—’

‘something fell on him’, said moist. ‘that’s what happened.’

she looked at his face. ‘all right,’ she agreed. ‘something fell on him. something with big claws.’

‘no, a joist with lots of nails in it, something like that. anyone can see that.’

‘that’s what happened, was it?’ said miss dearheart.

‘that’s exactly what happened,’ said moist, and strode away before there were any more questions.

no point in getting the watch involved in this, he thought, hurrying towards the doors. they’ll clump around and there won’t be any answers for them and in my experience watchmen always like to arrest somebody. what makes you think it was reacher gilt, mr . . . lipwig, wasn’t it? oh, you could tell, could you? that’s a skill of yours, is it? funny thing, we can tell sometimes, too. you’ve got a very familiar face, mr lipwig. where are you from?

no, there was no point in getting friendly with the watch. they might get in the way.

an upper window exploded outwards, and flames licked along the edge of the roof; moist ducked into the doorway as glass rained down. as for tiddles . . . well, he had to find the damn cat. if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be fun any more. if he didn’t risk at least a tiny bit of life and a smidgen of limb, he just wouldn’t be able to carry on being him.

had he just thought that?

oh, gods. he’d lost it. he’d never been sure how he’d got it, but it had gone. that’s what happened if you took wages. and hadn’t his grandfather warned him to keep away from women as neurotic as a shaved monkey? actually he hadn’t, his interest lying mainly with dogs and beer, but he should have done.

the vision of mr groat’s chest kept bumping insistently against his imagination. it looked as though something with claws had taken a swipe at him, and only the thick uniform coat prevented him from being opened like a clam. but that didn’t sound like a vampire. they weren’t messy like that. it was a waste of good food. nevertheless, he picked up a piece of smashed chair. it had splintered nicely. and the good thing about a stake through the heart was that it also worked on non-vampires.

more ceiling had come down in the hall, but he was able to dodge between the debris. the main staircase was at this end and completely untouched, although smoke lay on the floor like a carpet; at the other end of the hall, where the mountains of old mail had been, the blaze still roared.

he couldn’t hear the letters any more. sorry, he thought. i did my best. it wasn’t my fault . . .

what now? at least he could get his box out of his office. he didn’t want that to burn. some of those chemicals would be quite hard to replace.

the office was full of smoke but he dragged the box out from under his desk and then spotted the golden suit on its hanger. he had to take it, didn’t he? something like that couldn’t be allowed to burn. he could come back for the box, right? but the suit . . . the suit was necessary. there was no sign of tiddles. he must have got out, yes? didn’t cats leave sinking ships? or was it rats? wouldn’t the cats follow the rats? anyway, smoke was coming up between the floorboards and drifting down from the upper floors, and this wasn’t the time to hang around. he’d looked everywhere sensible; there was no sense in being where a ton of burning paper could drop on your head.

it was a good plan and it was only spoiled when he spotted the cat, down in the hall. it was watching him with interest.

‘tiddles!’ bellowed moist. he wished he hadn’t. it was such a stupid name to shout in a burning building.

the cat looked at him, and trotted away. cursing, moist hurried after it, and saw it disappear down into the cellars.

cats were bright, weren’t they? there was probably another way out . . . bound to be . . .

moist didn’t even look up when he heard the creaking of wood overhead, but ran forward and went down the steps five at a time. by the sound of it, a large amount of the entire building smashed on to the floor just behind him, and sparks roared down the cellar passage, burning his neck.

well, there was no going back, at least. but cellars, now, they had trapdoors and coal shutes and things, didn’t they? and they were cool and safe and—

—just the place where you’d go to lick your wounds after being smashed in the mouth with a sackful of pins, right?

an imagination is a terrible thing to bring along.

a vampire, she’d said. and stanley had hit ‘a big bird’ with a sackful of pins. stanley the vampire slayer, with a bag of pins. you wouldn’t believe it, unless you’d seen him in one of what mr groat called his ‘little moments’.

you probably couldn’t kill a vampire with pins . . .

and after a thought like that is when you realize that however hard you try to look behind you, there’s a behind you, behind you, where you aren’t looking. moist flung his back to the cold stone wall, and slithered along it until he ran out of wall and acquired a doorframe.

the faint blue glow of the sorting engine was just visible.

as moist peered into the machine’s room, tiddles was visible too. he was crouched under the engine.

‘that’s a very cat thing you’re doing there, tiddles,’ said moist, staring at the shadows. ‘come to uncle moist. please?’

he sighed, and hung the suit on an old letter rack, and crouched down. how were you supposed to pick up a cat? he’d never done it. cats never figured in grandfather’s lipwigzer kennels, except as an impromptu snack.

as his hand drew near tiddles, the cat flattened its ears and hissed.

‘do you want to cook down here?’ said moist. ‘no claws, please.’

the cat began to growl, and moist realized that it wasn’t looking directly at him.

‘good tiddles,’ he said, feeling the terror begin to rise. it was one of the prime rules of exploring in a hostile environment: do not bother about the cat. and, suddenly, the environment was a lot more hostile.

another important rule was: don’t turn round slowly to look. it’s there all right. not the cat. damn the cat. it’s something else.

he stood upright and took a two-handed grip on the wooden stake. it’s right behind me, yes? he thought. bloody well bloody right bloody behind me! of course it is! how could things be otherwise?

the feeling of fear was almost the same as the feeling he got when, say, a mark was examining a glass diamond. time slowed a little, every sense was heightened, and there was a taste of copper in his mouth.

don’t turn round slowly. turn round fast.

he spun, screamed and thrust. the stake met resistance, which yielded only slightly.

a long pale face grinned at him in the blue light. it showed rows of pointy teeth.

‘missed both my hearts,’ said mr gryle, spitting blood.

moist jumped back as a thin clawed hand sliced through the air, but kept the stake in front of him, jabbing with it, holding the thing off . . .

banshee, he thought. oh, hell . . .

only when he moved did gryle’s leathery black cape swing aside briefly to show the skeletal figure beneath; it helped if you knew that the black leather was wing. it helped if you thought of banshees as the only humanoid race that had evolved the ability to fly, in some lush jungle somewhere where they’d hunted flying squirrels. it didn’t help, much, if you knew why the story had grown up that hearing the scream of the banshee meant that you were going to die.

it meant that the banshee was tracking you. no good looking behind you. it was overhead.

there weren’t many of the feral ones, even in uberwald, but moist knew the advice passed on by people who’d survived them. keep away from the mouth - those teeth are vicious. don’t attack the chest; the flight muscles there are like armour. they’re not strong but they’ve got sinews like steel cables and the long reach of those arm bones’ll mean it can slap your silly head right off—

tiddles yowled and backed further under the sorting engine. gryle slashed at moist again, and came after him as he backed away.

—but their necks snap easily if you can get inside their reach, and they have to shut their eyes when they scream.

gryle came forward, head bobbing as he strutted. there was nowhere else for moist to go, so he tossed aside the wood and held up his hands.

‘all right, i give in,’ he said. ‘just make it quick, okay?’

the creature kept looking at the golden suit; they had a magpie’s eye for glitter.

‘i’m going somewhere afterwards,’ said moist helpfully.

gryle hesitated. he was hurt, disorientated and had eaten pigeons that were effluent on wings. he wanted to get out of here and up into the cool sky. everything was too complicated here. there were too many targets, too many smells.

for a banshee, everything was in the pounce, when teeth, claws and bodyweight all bore down at once. now, bewildered, he strutted back and forth, trying to deal with the situation. there was no room to fly, nowhere else to go, the prey was standing there . . . instinct, emotion and some attempt at rational thought all banged together in gryle’s overheated head.

instinct won. leaping at things with your claws out had worked for a million years, so why stop now?

he threw his head back, screamed, and sprang.

so did moist, ducking under the long arms. that wasn’t programmed into the banshee’s responses: the prey should be huddled, or running away. but moist’s shoulder caught him in the chest.

the creature was as light as a child.

moist felt a claw slash into his arm as he hurled the thing on to the sorting engine, and flung himself to the floor. for one horrible moment he thought it was going to get up, that he’d missed the wheel, but as the enraged mr gryle shifted there was a sound like . . .

. . . gloop . . .

. . . followed by silence.

moist lay on the cool flagstones until his heart slowed down to the point where he could make out individual beats. he was aware, as he lay there, that something sticky was dripping down the side of the machine.

he arose slowly, on unsteady legs, and stared at what had become of the creature. if he’d been a hero, he would have taken the opportunity to say, ‘that’s what i call sorted!’ since he wasn’t a hero, he threw up. a body doesn’t work properly when significant bits are not sharing the same space-time frame as the rest of it, but it does look more colourful.

then, clutching at his bleeding arm, moist knelt down and looked under the engine for tiddles.

he had to come back with the cat, he thought muzzily. it was just something that had to happen. a man who rushes into a burning building to rescue a stupid cat and comes out carrying the cat is seen as a hero, even if he is a rather dumb one. if he comes out sans cat he’s a twit.

a muffled thunder above them suggested that part of the building had fallen down. the air was roasting.

tiddles backed away from moist’s hand.

‘listen,’ moist growled. ‘the hero has to come out with the cat. the cat doesn’t have to be alive—’

he lunged, grabbed tiddles and dragged the cat out.

‘right,’ he said, and picked up the suit hanger in his other hand. there were a few blobs of banshee on it, but, he thought light-headedly, he could probably find something to remove them.

he lurched out into the corridor. there was a wall of fire at both ends, and tiddles chose this moment to sink all four sets of claws into his arm.

‘ah,’ said moist. ‘up until now it was going so well—’

‘mr lipvig! are you all right, mr lipvig?’

what golems removed from a fire was, in fact, the fire. they took out of a burning property everything that was burning. it was curiously surgical. they assembled at the edge of the fire and deprived it of anything to burn, herded it, cornered it, and stamped it to death.

golems could wade through lava and pour molten iron. even if they knew what fear was, they wouldn’t find it in a mere burning building.

glowing rubble was hauled away from the steps by red-hot hands. moist stared up into a landscape of flame but also, in front of it, mr pump. he was glowing orange. specks of dust and dirt on his clay flashed and sparkled.

‘good to see you, mr lipvig!’ he boomed cheerfully, tossing a crackling beam aside. ‘we have cleared a path to the door! move with speed!’

‘er . . . thank you!’ shouted moist, above the roar of the flames. there was a path, dragged clear of debris, with the open door beckoning calmly and coolly at the end of it. away towards the far end of the hall other golems, oblivious of the pillars of flame, were calmly throwing burning floorboards out through a hole in the wall.

the heat was intense. moist lowered his head, clutched the terrified cat to his chest, felt the back of his neck begin to roast and scampered forward.

from then on, it became all one memory. the crashing noise high above. the metallic boom. the golem anghammarad looking up, with his message glowing yellow on his cherry-red arm. ten thousand tons of rainwater pouring down in deceptive slow motion. the cold hitting the glowing golem . . .

. . . the explosion . . .

flames died. sound died. light died.

anghammarad.

anghammarad looked at his hands. there was nothing there except heat, furnace heat, blasting heat that nevertheless made the shapes of fingers.

anghammarad , a hollow voice repeated.

‘i have lost my clay,’ said the golem.

yes, said death, that is standard. you are dead. smashed. exploded into a million pieces.

‘then who is this doing the listening?’

everything there was about you that isn’t clay.

‘do you have a command for me?’ said the remains of anghammarad, standing up.

not now. you have reached the place where there are no more orders.

‘what shall i do?’

i believe you have failed to understand my last comment.

anghammarad sat down again. apart from the fact that there was sand rather than ooze underfoot, this place reminded him of the abyssal plain.

generally people like to move on, death hinted. they look forward to an afterlife.

‘i will stay here, please.’

here? there’s nothing to do here, said death.

‘yes, i know,’ said the ghost of the golem. ‘it is perfect. i am free.’

at two in the morning it began to rain.

things could have been worse. it could have rained snakes. it could have rained acid.

there was still some roof, and some walls. that meant there was still some building.

moist and miss dearheart sat on some warm rubble outside the locker room, which was more or less the only room that could still be properly described as one. the golems had stamped out the last of the fire, shored things up and then, without a word, had gone back to not being a hammer until sunset.

miss dearheart held a half-melted bronze band in her hand, and turned it over and over.

‘eighteen thousand years,’ she whispered.

‘it was the rainwater tank,’ mumbled moist, staring at nothing.

‘fire and water,’ muttered miss dearheart. ‘but not both!’

‘can’t you . . . rebake him, or something?’ it sounded hopeless even as moist said it. he’d seen the other golems scrabbling in the rubble.

‘not enough left. just dust, mixed up with everything else,’ said miss dearheart. ‘all he wanted to do was be useful.’

moist looked at the remains of the letters. the flood had washed the black slurry of their ashes into every corner.

all they wanted to do was be delivered, he thought. at a time like this, sitting on the sea bed for nine thousand years seemed quite attractive.

‘he was going to wait until the universe comes round again. did you know that?’

‘you told me, yes,’ said moist.

there’s no stink more sorrowful than the stink of wet, burnt paper, moist thought. it means: the end.

‘vetinari won’t rebuild this place, you know,’ miss dearheart went on. ‘gilt will get people to make a fuss if he tries it. waste of city funds. he’s got friends. people who owe him money and favours. he’s good at that sort of people.’

‘it was gilt who had this place torched,’ said moist. ‘he was shocked to see me back in the restaurant. he thought i’d be here.’

‘you’ll never be able to prove it.’

probably not, moist agreed, in the sour, smoke-addled hollow of his head. the watch had turned up with more speed than moist had found usual amongst city policemen. they had a werewolf with them. oh, probably most people would have thought it was just a handsome dog, but grow up in uberwald with a grandfather who bred dogs and you learned to spot the signs. this one had a collar, and snuffled around while the embers were still smoking, and found something extra to scent in the pall of steaming ashes.

they’d dug down, and there had been an awkward interview. moist had handled it as well as he could manage, in the circumstances. the key point was never to tell the truth. coppers never believed what people told them in any case, so there was no point in giving them extra work.

‘a winged skeleton?’ moist had said, with what surely sounded like genuine surprise.

‘yes, sir. about the size of a man, but very . . . damaged. i could even say mangled. i wonder if you know anything about it?’ this watchman was a captain. moist hadn’t been able to make him out. his face gave nothing away that he didn’t want to let go of. something about him suggested that he already knew the answers but was asking the questions for the look of the thing.

‘perhaps it was an extra large pigeon? they’re real pests in this building,’ moist had said.

‘i doubt it, sir. we believe it to have been a banshee, mr lipwig,’ said the captain patiently. ‘they’re very rare.’

‘i thought they just screamed on the rooftops of people who are going to die,’ said moist.

‘the civilized ones do, sir. the wild ones cut out the middle man. your young man said he hit something?’

‘stanley did say something about, oh, something flying around,’ said moist. ‘but i thought it was simply—’

‘—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 may 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’d 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 had turned to go moist was sure that the werewolf had 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 had 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 conman 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 fright, but it was so simple. and something that no honest man would ever have thought of . . .

‘what we need,’ 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 collectable, 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 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. they 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.

the young priest of offler the crocodile god was somewhat off-balance at 4 a.m., but the man in the winged 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 earthly 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 unto 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 would 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 of 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.’

there 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.

* often, but not uniquely, a ladle, but sometimes a metal spatula or, rarely, a mechanical egg-whisk that nobody in the house admits to ever buying. the desperate mad rattling and cries of ‘how can it close on the damn thing but not open with it? who bought this? do we ever use it?’ is as praise unto anoia. she also eats corkscrews.

he’d leave it about an hour. gods worked fast, didn’t they?

the post office was no better by grey 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 at 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 ten pence, 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 on 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 draughty, 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. 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 signallers. 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.

she tottered forward and clung to the startled moist, tears streaming down her face.

‘oh, mr lipwig!’ she wailed. ‘oh, mr lipwig!’

moist reeled under her weight. she was dragging at his collar so hard that he was likely to end up on the floor, and the thought of being found on the floor with miss maccalariat was— well, a thought that just couldn’t be thoughted. the head would explode before entertaining it.

she had a pink hairgrip in her grey hair. it had little hand-painted violets on it. the sight of it, a few inches from moist’s eyes, was curiously disturbing.

‘now, now, steady on, miss maccalariat, steady on,’ he muttered, trying to keep the balance for both of them.

‘oh, mr lipwig!’

‘yes indeed, miss maccalariat,’ he said desperately. ‘what can i do for—’

‘mr aggy said the post office won’t ever be rebuilt! he says lord vetinari will never release the money! oh, mr lipwig! i dreamed all my life of working on the counter here! my grandmother taught me everything, she even made me practise sucking lemons to get the expression right! i’ve passed it all on to my daughter, too. she’s got a voice that’d take the skin off paint! oh, mr lipwig!’

moist searched wildly for somewhere to pat the woman that wasn’t soaked or out of bounds. he settled for her shoulder. he really, really needed mr groat. mr groat knew how to deal with things like this.

‘it’s all going to be all right, miss maccalariat,’ he said soothingly.

‘and poor mr groat!’ the woman sobbed.

‘i understand he’s going to be fine, miss maccalariat. you know what they say about the lady sybil: some people come out alive.’ i really, really hope he does, he added to himself. i’m lost without him.

‘it’s all so dreadful, mr lipwig!’ said miss maccalariat, determined to drain the bitter cup of despair to the very dregs. ‘we’re all going to be walking the streets!’

moist held her by her arms and pushed her gently away, while fighting against a mental picture of miss maccalariat walking the streets. ‘now you listen to me, miss mac— what is your first name, by the way?’

‘it’s iodine, mr lipwig,’ said miss maccalariat, snuffling into a handkerchief. ‘my father liked the sound.’

‘well . . . iodine, i firmly believe that i will have the money to rebuild by the end of the day,’ said moist. she’s blown her nose on it and, yes, yes, aargh, she’s going to put it back up the sleeve of her cardigan, oh, gods . . .

‘yes, mr aggy said that, and there’s talk, sir. they say you sent the gods letters asking for money! oh, sir! it’s not my place to say so, sir, but gods don’t send you money!’

‘i have faith, miss maccalariat,’ said moist, drawing himself up.

‘my family have been anoians for five generations, sir,’ said miss maccalariat. ‘we rattle the drawers every day, and we’ve never got anything solid, as you might say, excepting my granny who got an egg beater she didn’t remember putting there and we’re sure that was an accident—’

‘mr lipwig! mr lipwig!’ someone yelled. ‘they say the clacks— oh, i’m so sorry . . .’ the sentence ended in syrup.

moist sighed, and turned to the grinning newcomer in the charcoal-rimmed doorway. ‘yes, mr aggy?’

‘we’ve heard the clacks has gone down again, sir! to pseudopolis!’ said aggy.

‘how unfortunate,’ said moist. ‘come, miss maccalariat, come, mr aggy - let’s move the mail!’

there was a crowd in what remained of the hall. as moist had remarked, the citizens had an enthusiasm for new things. the post was an old thing, of course, but it was so old that it had magically become new again.

a cheer greeted moist when he came down the steps. give them a show, always give them a show. ankh-morpork would applaud a show.

moist commandeered a chair, stood on it and cupped his hands.

‘special today, ladies and gentlemen!’ he shouted above the din. ‘mail to pseudopolis, reduced to three pence only. three pence! coach goes at ten! and if anyone has clacks messages lodged with our unfortunate colleagues in the grand trunk company, and would care to get them back, we will deliver them for free!’

this caused an additional stir, and a number of people peeled away from the crowd and hurried off.

‘the post office, ladies and gentlemen!’ yelled moist. ‘we deliver!’ there was a cheer.

‘do you want to know something really interesting, mr lipwig?’ said stanley, hurrying up.

‘and what’s that, stanley?’ said moist, climbing down off the chair.

‘we’re selling lots of the new one-dollar stamps this morning! and do you know what? people are sending letters to themselves!’

‘what?’ said moist, mystified.

‘just so the stamps have been through the post, sir. that makes them real, you see! it proves they’ve been used. they’re collecting, them, sir! and it gets better, sir!’

‘how could it get better than that, stanley?’ said moist. he looked down. yes, the boy had a new shirt, showing a picture of the penny stamp and bearing the legend: ask me about stamps.

‘sto lat want teemer and spools to do them their own set! and the other cities are asking about it, too!’

moist made a mental note: we’ll change the stamps often. and offer stamp designs to every city and country we can think of. everyone will want to have their own stamps rather than ‘lick vetinari’s back side’ and we’ll honour them, too, if they’ll deliver our mail, and mr spools will express his gratitude to us in very definite ways, i’ll see to it.

‘sorry about your pins, stanley.’

‘pins?’ said the boy. ‘oh, pins. pins are just pointy metal things, sir. pins are dead!

and so we progress, thought moist. aways keep moving. there may be something behind you.

all we need now is for the gods to smile on us.

hmm. i think they’ll smile a little broader outside.

moist stepped out into the daylight. the difference between the inside and the outside of the post office was less marked than formerly, but there were still a lot of people. there were a couple of watchmen, too. they’d be useful. they were already watching him suspiciously.

well, this was it. it was going to be a miracle. actually, it bloody well was going to be a miracle!

moist stared up into the sky, and listened to the voices of the gods.