Chris Patterson - Going Postal

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.