Chris Patterson - Going Postal

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.'