Going Postal (25 page)

And I thought the Post Office was full of crazy people
, Moist thought.

“Thank you,” he said, standing. Then he remembered the strange letter in his pocket, for whatever use it was, and added: “Have you got a coach stopping at Pseudopolis tomorrow?”

“Yeah, at ten o’clock,” said Harry.

“We’ll have a bag for it,” said Moist.

“Is it worth it?” said Jim. “It’s more’n fifty miles, and I heard they’ve got the Trunk repaired. It’s a stoppin’ coach, won’t get there ’til nearly dark.”

“Got to make the effort, Jim,” said Moist.

The coachman gave him a look with the little glint that indicated he thought Moist was up to something, but said: “Well, you’re game, I’ll say that for you. We’ll wait for your bag, Mr. Lipwig, and the best of luck to you. Must rush, sir.”

“What coach are you taking out?” said Moist.

“I’ll take the first two stages of the overnight flyer to Quirm, leaving at seven,” said Jim. “If it’s still got all its wheels.”

“It’s nearly seven?”

“Twenty to, sir.”

“I’ll be late!”

The coachmen watch him run back across the yard, with Mr. Pump trailing slowly behind.

Jim thoughtfully pulled on his thick leather gauntlets and then said to his brother: “You know how you get them funny feelings?”

“I reckon I do, Jim.”

“And would you reckon there’ll be a clacks failure between here and Pseudopolis tomorrow?”

“Funny you should mention that. Mind you, it’d be a two-to-one bet anyway, the way things have been going. Maybe he’s just a betting man, Jim.”

“Yeah,” said Jim. “Yeah. Eh? Damn right!”

M
OIST STRUGGLED
out of the golden suit. It was good advertising, no doubt about it, and when he wore it he felt he had style coming out of his ears, but wearing something like that to the Mended Drum meant that he wanted to be hit over the head with a stool and what would come out of his ears wouldn’t bear thinking about.

He threw the wingéd hat on the bed and struggled into his second golem-made suit. Somber, he’d said. You had to hand it to golem tailoring. The suit was so black that if it had been sprinkled with stars the owls would have collided with it. He needed more time, but somehow Adora Belle Dearheart was not someone you should keep waiting.

“You look fine, sir,” said Groat.

“Thanks, thanks,” said Moist, struggling with his tie. “You’re in charge, Mr. Groat. Should all be quiet this evening. Remember, first thing tomorrow, all mail for Pseudopolis ten pence a go, okay?”

“Right you are, sir. Can I wear the hat now?” Groat pleaded.

“What? What?” said Moist, staring into the mirror. “Look, have I got spinach between my teeth?”

“Have You Eaten Spinach Today, Sir?” said Mr. Pump.

“I haven’t eaten spinach since I was old enough to spit,” said Moist. “But people always worry about that at a time like this, don’t they? I thought it just turned up somehow. You know…like moss? What was it you asked me, Tolliver?”

“Can I wear the hat, sir?” said Groat patiently. “Bein’ as I’m your deputy and you’re going out, sir.”

“But we’re closed!”

“Yes, but…it’s, well…I’d just like to wear the hat. For a while, sir. Just for a while, sir. If it’s all right with you.” Groat shifted from one foot to the other. “I mean, I
will
be in charge.”

Moist sighed. “Yes, of course, Mr. Groat. You may wear the hat. Mr. Pump?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Mr. Groat is in charge for the evening. You will
not
follow me, please.”

“No, I Will Not. My Day Off Begins Now. For All Of Us. We Will Return At Sunset Tomorrow.”

“Oh…yes.” One day off every week, Miss Dearheart said. It was part of what distinguished golems from hammers. “I wish you’d given me more warning, you know? We’re going to be a bit short-staffed.”

“You Were Told, Mr. Lipvig.”

“Yes, yes. It is a rule. It’s just that tomorrow is going to be—”

“Don’t you worry about a thing, sir,” said Groat. “Some of the lads I hired today, sir, they’re postmen’s sons, sir, and grandsons. No problem, sir. They’ll be out delivering tomorrow.”

“Oh. Good. That’s fine, then.” Moist adjusted his tie again. A black tie on a black shirt under a black jacket isn’t easy even to find. “All right, Mr. Pump? Still no attack of spinach? I’m going to see a lady.”

“Yes, Mr. Lipvig. Miss Dearheart,” said the golem calmly.

“How did you know that?” said Moist.

“You Shouted It Out In Front Of Approximately A Hundred People, Mr. Lipvig,” said Mr. Pump. “We—That Is To Say, Mr. Lipvig, All The Golems—We Wish Miss Dearheart Was A Happier Lady. She Has Had Much Trouble. She Is Looking For Someone With—”

“—a cigarette lighter?” said Moist quickly. “Stop right there, Mr. Pump, please! Cupids are these…little overweight kids in nappies, all right? Not big clay people.”

“Anghammarad Said She Reminded Him of Lela The Volcano Goddess, Who Smokes All The Time Because The God Of Rain Has Rained On Her Lava,” the golem went on.

“Yes, but women always complain about that sort of thing,” said Moist. “I look all right, Mr. Groat, do I?”

“Oh, sir,” said Groat, “I shouldn’t think Mr. Moist von Lipwig ever has to worry when he’s off to meet a young lady, eh?”

Come to think of it, Moist came to think as he hurried through the crowded streets, he never has been off to meet a young lady. Not in all these years. Oh, Albert and all the rest of them had met hundreds, and had all kinds of fun, including once getting his jaw dislocated, which was only fun in a no-fun-at-all kind of way. But Moist, never. He’d always been behind the false mustache or glasses or, really, just the false person. He had that naked feeling again, and began to wish he hadn’t left his golden suit behind.

When he reached the Mended Drum, he remembered why he had.

People kept telling him that Ankh-Morpork was a lot more civilized these days, that, between them, the Watch and the Guilds had settled things down enough that actually being attacked while going about your lawful business in Ankh-Morpork was now merely a possibility instead of, as it once was, a matter of course. And the streets were so clean now that you could sometimes even
see
the street.

But the Mended Drum could be depended upon. If someone didn’t come out of the door backwards and fall down in the street just as you passed, then there was something wrong with the world.

And there was a fight going on. More or less. But in some ways, at least, time had moved on. You couldn’t just haul off and belt someone with an ax these days. People
expected
things of a bar brawl. As he went in, Moist passed a large group of men of the broken-nosed, one-eared persuasion, bent in anxious conclave:

“Look, Bob, what part of this don’t you understand, eh? It’s a matter of style, okay? A proper brawl doesn’t just
happen
. You don’t just pile in, not anymore. Now, Oyster Dave here—put your helmet back on, Dave—will be the enemy in front, and Basalt, who, as we know, don’t need a helmet, he’ll be the enemy coming up behind you. Okay, it’s well past knuckles time, let’s say Gravy there has done his thing with the Bench Swipe, there’s a bit of knife play, we’ve done the whole Chandelier Swing number, blah blah blah, then Second Chair—that’s
you
, Bob—you step smartly between their Number Five man and a Bottler, swing the chair
back
over your head, like this—sorry, Pointy—and then swing it right back onto Number Five, bang, crash, and there’s a cushy six points in your pocket. If they’re playing a dwarf at Number Five, then a chair won’t even slow him down, but don’t fret, hang on to the bits that stay in your hand, pause one moment as he comes at you, and then belt him across both ears. They hate that, as Stronginthearm here will tell you. Another three points. It’s probably going to be freestyle after that but I want all of you, including Mucky Mick and Crispo, to try for a Double Andrew when it gets down to the fist-fighting again. Remember? You back into each other, turn around to give the other guy a thumping, cue moment of humorous recognition, then link left arms, swing round and see to the other fellow’s attacker, foot or fist, it’s your choice. Fifteen points right there if you get it to flow just right. Oh, and remember we’ll have an Igor standing by, so if your arm gets taken off do pick it up and hit the other bugger with it, it gets a laugh and twenty points. On that subject,
do
remember what I said about getting everything tattooed with your name, all right? Igors do their best, but you’ll be on your feet much quicker if you make life easier for him and, what’s more, it’s
your
feet you’ll be on. Okay, positions, everyone, let’s run through it again…”

Moist sidled past the group and scanned the huge room. The important thing was not to slow down. Slowing down attracted people.

He saw a thin plume of blue smoke rise above the crowd, and forced his way through.

Miss Dearheart was sitting alone at a very small table with a very small drink in front of her. She couldn’t have been there long; the only other stool was unoccupied.

“Do you come in here often?” said Moist, slipping onto it quickly.

Miss Dearheart raised her eyebrows at him.

“Yes. Why not?”

“Well, I…I imagine it’s not very safe for a woman on her own.”

“What, with all these big strong men here to protect me? Why don’t you go and get your drink?”

Moist got to the bar eventually, by dropping a handful of small change on the floor. That usually cleared the crush a little.

When he returned, his seat was occupied by a Currently Friendly Drunk. Moist recognized the type, and the operative word was “currently.” Miss Dearheart was leaning back to avoid his attentions and, more probably, his breath.

Moist heard the familiar cry of the generously sloshed.

“What…right? What I’m saying is, right, what I’m saying, narhmean, why won’t you, right, gimme a kiss, right? All I’m saying is—”

Oh gods, I’m going to have to do something
, Moist thought. He’s big and he’s got a sword like a butcher’s cleaver and the moment I say anything he’s going to go right into stage four, Violent Undirected Madman, and they can be surprisingly accurate before they fall over.

He put down his drink.

Miss Dearheart gave him a very brief look, and shook her head. There was movement under the table, a small, fleshy kind of noise, and the drunk suddenly bent forward, color draining from his face. Probably only the man and Moist heard Miss Dearheart purr: “What is sticking in your foot is a Mitzy ‘Pretty Lucretia’ four-inch heel, the most dangerous footwear in the world. Considered as pounds per square inch, it’s like being trodden by a very pointy elephant. Now, I know what you’re thinking: you’re thinking, ‘Could she press it all the way through to the floor?’ And, you know, I’m not sure about that myself. The sole of your boot might give me a bit of trouble, but nothing else will. But that’s not the worrying part. The worrying part is that I was forced practically at
knifepoint
to take ballet lessons as a child, which means I can kick like a mule; you are sitting in front of me; and
I have another shoe
. Good, I can see you have worked that out. I’m going to withdraw the heel now.”

There was a small
pop
from under the table. With great care, the man stood up, turned, and lurched unsteadily away, without so much as a backward glance.

“Can
I
bother you?” said Moist. Miss Dearheart nodded, and he sat down, with his legs crossed.

“He was only a drunk,” Moist ventured.

“Yes, men say that sort of thing,” said Miss Dearheart. “Anyway, tell me that if I hadn’t done that you wouldn’t be now trying to collect all your teeth in your hat. Which you are not wearing, I notice. This must be your secret identity. Sorry, was that the wrong thing to say? You spilled your drink.”

Moist wiped beer off his lapel.

“No, this is me,” he said. “Pure and unadorned.”

“You hardly know me and yet you invited me out on a date,” said Miss Dearheart. “Why?”

Because you called me a phony
, Moist thought.
You saw through me straight away. Because you didn’t nail my head to the door with your crossbow. Because you have no small talk. Because I’d like to get to know you better, even though it would be like smooching an ashtray. Because I wonder if you could put into the rest of your life the passion you put into smoking a cigarette. In defiance of Miss Maccalariat I’d like to commit hanky-panky with you, Miss Adora Belle Dearheart…well, certainly hanky, and possibly panky when we get to know each other better. I’d like to know as much about your soul as you know about mine…

He
said
: “Because I hardly know you.”

“If it comes to that, I hardly know you, either,” said Miss Dearheart.

“I’m rather banking on that,” said Moist. This got a smile.

“Smooth answer, slick. Where are we
really
eating tonight?”

“Le Foie Heureux, of course,” said Moist.

She looked genuinely surprised. “You got a reservation?”

“Oh, yes.”

“You’ve got a relative that works there, then? You’re blackmailing the maître d’?”

“No. But I’ve got a table for tonight,” said Moist.

“Then it’s some sort of trick,” said Miss Dearheart. “I’m impressed. But I’d better warn you, enjoy the meal. It may be your last.”

“What?”

“The Grand Trunk Company kills people, Mr. Lipwig. In all kinds of ways. You must be getting on Reacher Gilt’s nerves.”

“Oh, come
on
! I’m barely a wasp at their picnic!”

“And what do people do to wasps, do you think?” said Miss Dearheart. “The Trunk is in trouble, Mr. Lipwig. The company has been running it as a machine for making money. They thought repair would be cheaper than maintenance. They’ve cut everything to the bone, to the
bone
. They’re people who can’t take a joke. Do you think Reacher Gilt will hesitate for one minute to swat you?”

“But I’m being very—” Moist tried.