Terence Pratchett - Going Postal

Moist allowed a look of genuine concern to cross his face. ‘Yes, that does seem unfair,’ he said. He turned to Ponder Stibbons. ‘Don’t you think that’s unfair, Mr Stibbons?’

The wizard looked puzzled. ‘But once they’ve coded it it’ll only take them a couple of hours to get it to Genua!’ he said.

‘Nevertheless, I must insist,’ said Moist. ‘We don’t want an unfair advantage. Stand down, Jim,’ he called up to the coachman. ‘We’re going to give the clacks a head start.’ He turned to Ponder and Mr Pony with an expression of innocent helpfulness. ‘Would an hour be all right, gentlemen?’

The crowd exploded. Gods, I’m good at this, Moist thought. I want this moment to go on for ever…

‘Mr Lipwig!’ a voice called out. Moist scanned the faces, and spotted the caller.

‘Ah, Miss Sacharissa. Pencil at the ready?’

‘Are you seriously telling us you’ll wait while the Grand Trunk prepares their message?’ she said. She was laughing.

‘Indeed,’ said Moist, grasping the lapels of his gleaming jacket. ‘We in the Post Office are fair-minded people. May I take this opportunity to tell you about our new Green Cabbage stamp, by the way?’

‘Surely you’re going too far, Mr Lipwig?’

‘All the way to Genua, dear lady! Did I mention the gum is cabbage-flavoured?’

Moist couldn’t have stopped himself now for hard money. This was where his soul lived: dancing on an avalanche, making the world up as he went along, reaching into people’s ears and changing their minds. For this he offered glass as diamonds, let the Find The Lady cards fly under his fingers, stood smiling in front of clerks examining fake bills. This was the feeling he craved, the raw naked excitement of pushing the envelope—

Reacher Gilt was moving through the crowd, like a shark among minnows. He gave Moist a carefully neutral look, and turned to Mr Pony.

‘Is there some problem, gentlemen?’ he said. ‘It’s getting late.’

In a silence punctuated by chuckles from the crowd, Pony tried to explain, in so far as he now had any grip of what was going on.

‘I see,’ said Gilt. ‘You are pleased to make fun of us, Mr Lipwig? Then allow me to say that we of the Grand Trunk will not take it amiss if you should leave now. I think we can spare you a couple of hours, eh?’

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Moist. ‘If it will make you feel any better.’

‘Indeed it will,’ said Gilt gravely. ‘It would be best, Mr Lipwig, if you were a long way away from here.’

Moist heard the tone, because he was expecting it. Gilt was being reasonable and statesmanlike, but his eye was a dark metal ball and there was the harmonic of murder in his voice. And then Gilt said: ‘Is Mr Groat well, Mr Lipwig? I was sorry to hear of the attack.’

‘Attack, Mr Gilt? He was hit by falling timber,’ said Moist. And that question entitles you to no mercy at all, no matter what.

‘Ah? Then I was misinformed,’ said Gilt. ‘I shall know not to listen to rumours in future.’

‘I shall pass on your good wishes to Mr Groat,’ said Moist.

Gilt raised his hat. ‘Goodbye, Mr Lipwig. I wish you the best of luck in your gallant attempt. There are some dangerous people on the road.’

Moist raised his own hat and said: ‘I intend to leave them behind very soon, Mr Gilt.’

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?’