Terence Pratchett - Going Postal

The trouble was, he missed the golden suit. Everything was an act, really. But the Man in the Golden Suit was a good act. He didn’t want to be a person you forgot, someone who was one step above a shadow. Underneath the winged hat, he could do miracles or, at least, make it appear that miracles had been done, which is nearly as good.

He’d have to do one in an hour or two, that was certain.

Oh well…

He went round the back of the Post Office, and was about to slip inside when a figure in the shadow said, ‘Pissed!’

‘I suspect you mean Psst?’ said Moist. Sane Alex stepped out of the shadows; he was wearing his old Grand Trunk donkey jacket and a huge helmet with horns on.

‘We’re running slow with the canvas—’ he began.

‘Why the helmet?’ said Moist.

‘It’s a disguise,’ said Alex.

‘A big horned helmet?’

‘Yes. It makes me so noticeable that no one will suspect I’m trying not to be noticed, so they won’t bother to notice me.’

‘Only a very intelligent man would think of something like that,’ said Moist carefully. ‘What’s happening?’

‘We need more time,’ said Alex.

‘What? The race starts at six!’

‘It won’t be dark enough. We won’t be able to get the sail up until half past at least. We’ll be spotted if we poke our heads over the parapet before then.’

‘Oh, come on! The other towers are far too far away!’

‘People on the road aren’t,’ said Alex.

‘Blast!’ Moist had forgotten about the road. All it would take later was someone saying he’d seen people on the old wizarding tower…

‘Listen, we’ve got it all ready to raise,’ said Alex, watching his face. ‘We can work fast when we’re up there. We just need half an hour of darkness, maybe a few minutes more.’

Moist bit his lip. ‘Okay. I can do that, I think. Now get back there and help them. But don’t start until I get there, understand? Trust me!’

I’m saying that a lot, he thought after the man had hurried away. I just hope they will.

He went up to his office. The golden suit was on its hanger. He put it on. There was work to do. It was dull, but it had to be done. So he did it.

At half past five the floorboards creaked as Mr Pump walked into the room, dragging a broomstick behind him.

‘Soon It Will Be Time For The Race, Mr Lipvig,’ he said.

‘I must finish a few things,’ said Moist. ‘There’s letters here from builders and architects, oh, and someone wants me to cure their warts… I really have to deal with the paperwork, Mr Pump.’

In the privacy of Reacher Gilt’s kitchen, Igor very carefully wrote a note. There were niceties to be observed, after all. You didn’t just leg it like a thief in the night. You tidied up, made sure the larder was stocked, washed the dishes and took exactly what you were owed from the petty cash box.

Shame, really. It had been a pretty good job. Gilt hadn’t expected him to do much, and Igor had enjoyed terrorizing the other servants. Most of them, anyway.

‘It’s so sad you’re going, Mr Igor,’ said Mrs Glowbury, the cook. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘You’ve been a real breath of fresh air.’

‘Can’t be helped, Mrthth Glowbury,’ said Igor. ‘I thall mith your thteak and kidney pie, and no mithtake. It doth my heart good to thee a woman who can really make thomething out of leftoverth.’

‘I’ve knitted you this, Mr Igor,’ said the cook, hesitantly proffering a small soft package. Igor opened it with care, and unfolded a red and white striped balaclava.

‘I thought it would help keep your bolt warm,’ said Mrs Glowbury, blushing.

Igor agonized for a moment. He liked and respected the cook. He’d never seen a woman handle sharp knives so skilfully. Sometimes, you had to forget the Code of the Igors.

‘Mrthth Glowbury, you did thay you had a thithter in Quirm?’ he said.

‘That’s right, Mr Igor.’

‘Now would be a very good time for you to go and vithit her,’ said Igor firmly. ‘Do not athk me why. Goodbye, dear Mrthth Glowbury. I thall remember your liver with fondneth.’

Now it was ten minutes to six.

‘If You Leave Now, Mr Lipvig, You Will Be Just In Time For The Race,’ the golem rumbled, from the corner.

‘This is work of civic importance, Mr Pump,’ said Moist severely, reading another letter. ‘I am showing rectitude and attention to duty.’

‘Yes, Mr Lipvig.’

He let it go on until ten minutes past the hour, because it’d take five minutes to get to the square, at a nonchalant saunter. With the golem lumbering beside him, in something approaching the antithesis of both nonchalance and sauntering, he left the Post Office behind.

The crowd in the square parted at his approach, and there were cheers and some laughter when people saw the broomstick over his shoulder. It had stars painted on it, therefore it must be a magic broomstick. Of such beliefs are fortunes made.

Find The Lady, Find The Lady… there was a science to it, in a way. Of course, it helped if you found out how to hold three cards in a loose stack; that was really the key. Moist had learned to be good at that, but he had found mere mechanical tricks a bit dull, a bit beneath him. There were other ways, ways to mislead, to distract, to anger. Anger was always good. Angry people made mistakes.

There was a space in the centre of the square, round the stagecoach on which Leadpipe Jim sat proudly. The horses gleamed, the coach-work sparkled in the torchlight. But the group standing around the coach sparkled rather less.

There were a couple of people from the Trunk, several wizards and, of course, Otto Chriek the iconographer. They turned and welcomed Moist with expressions ranging from relief to deep suspicion.

‘We were considering disqualification, Mr Lipwig,’ said Ridcully, looking severe.

Moist handed the broom to Mr Pump. ‘I do apologize, Arch-chancellor,’ he said. ‘I was checking some stamp designs and completely lost track of time. Oh, good evening, Professor Pelc’

The Professor of Morbid Bibliomancy gave him a big grin and held up a jar. ‘And Professor Goitre,’ he said. ‘The old chap thought he’d like to see what all the fuss is about.’

‘And this is Mr Pony of the Grand Trunk,’ said Ridcully.

Moist shook hands with the engineer. ‘Mr Gilt not with you?’ he said, winking.

‘He’s, er, watching from his coach,’ said the engineer, looking nervously at Moist.

‘Well, since you are both here, Mr Stibbons will hand you each a copy of the message,’ said the Archchancellor. ‘Mr Stibbons?’

Two packages were handed over. Moist undid his, and burst out laughing.

‘But it’s a book!’ said Mr Pony. ‘It’ll take all night to code. And there’s diagrams!’

Okay, let’s begin, thought Moist, and moved like a cobra. He snatched the book from the startled Pony, thumbed through it quickly, grabbed a handful of pages and ripped them out, to a gasp from the crowd.

‘There you are, sir,’ he said, handing the pages back. ‘There is your message! Pages 79 to 128. We’ll deliver the rest of the book and the recipient can put your pages in later, if they arrive!’ He was aware of Professor Pelc glaring at him, and added: ‘And I’m sure it can be repaired very neatly !’

It was a stupid gesture but it was big and loud and funny and cruel and if Moist didn’t know how to get the attention of a crowd he didn’t know anything. Mr Pony backed away, clutching the stricken chapter.

‘I didn’t mean—’ he tried, but Moist interrupted with: ‘After all, we’ve got a big coach for such a small book.’

‘It’s just that pictures take time to code—’ Mr Pony protested. He wasn’t used to this sort of thing. Machinery didn’t answer back.