Chris Patterson - Going Postal

There, he thought. We've said it all, and the nice lady from the newspaper thinks we're good chums or, at least, just business rivals being stiffly polite to each other. Let's spoil the mood.

‘Goodbye, ladies and gentlemen,' he said. ‘Mr Pump, be so good as to put the broom on the coach, would you?'

‘Broom?' said Gilt, looking up sharply. ‘That broom? The one with stars on it? You're taking a broomstick ?'

‘Yes. It will come in handy if we break down,' said Moist.

‘I protest, Archchancellor!' said Gilt, spinning round. ‘This man intends to fly to Genua!'

‘I have no such intention!' said Moist. ‘I resent the allegation!'

‘Is this why you appear so confident?' snarled Gilt. And it was a snarl, there and then, a little sign of a crack appearing.

A broomstick could travel fast enough to blow your ears off. It wouldn't need too many towers to break down, and heavens knew they broke down all the time, for a broomstick to beat the clacks to Genua, especially since it could fly direct and wouldn't have to follow the big dog-leg the coach road and the Grand Trunk took. The Trunk would have to be really unlucky, and the person flying the broom would be really frozen and probably really dead, but a broomstick could fly from Ankh-Morpork to Genua in a day. That might just do it.

Gilt's face was a mask of glee. Now he knew what Moist intended.

Round and round she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows...

It was the heart of any scam or fiddle. Keep the punter uncertain or, if he is certain, make him certain of the wrong thing.

‘I demand that no broomstick is taken on the coach!' said Gilt to the Archchancellor, which was not a good move. You didn't demand anything from wizards. You requested . ‘If Mr Lipwig is not confident in his equipment,' Gilt went on, ‘I suggest he concedes right now!'

‘We'll be travelling alone on some dangerous roads,' said Moist. ‘A broomstick might be essential.'

‘However, I am forced to agree with this... gentleman,' said Ridcully, with some distaste. ‘It would not look right , Mr Lipwig.'

Moist threw up his hands. ‘As you wish, sir, of course. It is a blow. May I request even-handed treatment, though?'

‘Your meaning?' said the wizard.

‘There is a horse stationed at each tower to be used when the tower breaks down,' said Moist.

‘That is normal practice!' snapped Gilt.

‘Only in the mountains,' said Moist calmly. ‘And even then only at the most isolated towers. But today, I suspect, there's one at every tower. It's a pony express, Archchancellor, with apologies to Mr Pony. They could easily beat our coach without sending a word of code.'

‘You can't possibly be suggesting that we'd take the message all the way on horseback!' said Gilt.

‘You were suggesting I'd fly,' said Moist. ‘If Mr Gilt is not confident in his equipment, Archchancellor, I suggest he concedes now.'

And there it was, a shadow on Gilt's face. He was more than just irate now; he'd passed into the calm, limpid waters of utter, visceral fury.

‘So let's agree that this isn't a test of horses against broomsticks,' said Moist. ‘It's stagecoach against clacks tower. If the stage breaks down, we repair the stage. If a tower breaks down, you repair the tower.'

‘That seems fair, I must say,' said Ridcully. ‘And I so rule. However, I must take Mr Lipwig aside to issue a word of warning.'

The Archchancellor put his arm round Moist's shoulders and led him round the coach. Then he leaned down until their faces were a few inches apart.

‘You are aware, are you, that painting a few stars on a perfectly ordinary broomstick doesn't mean it will get airborne?' he said.

Moist looked into a pair of milky blue eyes that were as innocent as a child's, particularly a child who is trying hard to look innocent.

‘My goodness, doesn't it?' he said.

The wizard patted him on the shoulder. ‘Best to leave things as they are, I feel,' he said happily.

Gilt smiled at Moist as they returned.

It was just too much to resist, so Moist didn't. Raise the stakes. Always push your luck, because no one else would push it for you.

"Would you care for a little personal wager, Mr Gilt?' he said. ‘Just to make it... interesting?'

Gilt handled it well, if you couldn't read the tells, the little signs...

‘Dear me, Mr Lipwig, do the gods approve of gambling?' he said, and gave a short laugh.

‘What is life but a lottery, Mr Gilt?' said Moist. ‘Shall we say... one hundred thousand dollars?'

That did it. That was the last straw. He saw something snap inside Reacher Gilt.

‘One hundred thousand? Where would you lay your hands on that kind of money, Lipwig?'

‘Oh, I just place them together, Mr Gilt. Doesn't everyone know that?' said Moist, to general amusement. He gave the chairman his most insolent smile. ‘And where will you lay your hands on one hundred thousand dollars?'

‘Hah. I accept the wager! We shall see who laughs tomorrow,' said Gilt bluntly.

‘I'll look forward to it,' said Moist.

And now I have you in the hollow of my hand, he thought to himself. The hollow of my hand. You're enraged, now. You're making wrong decisions. You're walking the plank.

He climbed up on to the coach and turned to the crowd. ‘Genua, ladies and gentlemen. Genua or bust!'

‘Someone will!' yelled a wag in the crowd. Moist bowed, and, as he straightened up, looked into the face of Adora Belle Dearheart.

‘Will you marry me, Miss Dearheart?' he shouted.

There was an ‘Oooh' from the crowd, and Sacharissa turned her head like a cat seeking the next mouse. What a shame the paper had only one front page, eh?

Miss Dearheart blew a smoke ring. ‘Not yet,' she said calmly. This got a mixture of cheers and boos.

Moist waved, jumped down beside the driver and said: ‘Hit it, Jim.'

Jim cracked his whip for the sound of the thing, and the coach moved away amidst cheering. Moist looked back, and made out Mr Pony pushing determinedly through the crowd in the direction of the Tump Tower. Then he sat back and looked at the streets, in the light of the coach lamps.

Perhaps it was the gold working its way in from outside. He could feel something filling him, like a mist. When he moved his hand, he was sure that it left a trail of flecks in the air. He was still flying.

‘Jim, do I look all right?' he said.

‘Can't see much of you in this light, sir,' said the coachman. ‘Can I ask a question?'

‘Go ahead, please.'

‘Why'd you give those bastards just those middle pages?'

‘Two reasons, Jim. It makes us look good and makes them look like whiny kids. And the other is, it's the bit with all the colour illustrations. I hear it takes ages to code one of those.'

‘You're so sharp you'll cut yourself, Mr Lipwig! Eh? Damn straight!'

‘Drive like the blazes, Jim!'

‘Oh, I know how to give them a show, sir, you can bank on it! HyahP The whip cracked again, and the sound of hooves bounced off the buildings.

‘Six horses?' said Moist, as they rattled up Broadway.

‘Aye, sir. Might as well make a name for myself, sir,' said the coachman.

‘Slow down a bit when you get to the old wizard tower, will you? I'll get off there. Did you get some guards?'

‘Four of them, Mr Lipwig,' Jim announced. ‘Lying low inside. Men of repute and integrity. Known ‘em since we were lads: Nosher Harry, Skullbreaker Tapp, Grievous Bodily Harmsworth and Joe "No Nose" Tozer. They're mates, sir, don't you worry, and they're looking forward to a little holiday in Genua.'

‘Yeah, we've all got our buckets and spades,' growled a voice from inside.