‘Lipwig, sir. Moist von Lipwig,’ Moist said. He was afraid he’d gone deaf in one ear.
‘A von, eh,’ said Parker. ‘Well, you’re doing damn well for a foreigner, and I don’t care who know’s it! Got to be going now. Aggie want’s to buy fripperie’s!’
The woman came up to Moist, stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. ‘And I know a good man when I see one,’ she said. ‘Do you have a young lady?’
‘What? No! Not at all! Er . . . no!’ said Moist.
‘I’m sure you shall,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘And while we’re very grateful to you, I would advise you to propose in person. We do so much look forward to seeing you on Saturday!’
Moist watched her scurry away after her long-lost swain.
‘You delivered a letter?’ said Groat, horrified.
‘Yes, Mr Groat. I didn’t mean to, but I just happened to be—’
‘You took one of the old letters and you delivered it?’ said Groat, as if the concept was something he could not fit into his head—
His head was all over the wall . . .
Moist blinked.
‘We are supposed to deliver the mail, man! That’s our job! Remember?’
‘You delivered a letter . . .’ breathed Groat. ‘What was the date on it?’
‘I can’t remember! More than forty years ago?’
‘What was it like? Was it in good condition?’ Groat insisted.
Moist glared at the little postman. A small crowd was forming around them, as was the Ankh-Morpork way.
‘It was a forty-year-old letter in a cheap envelope!’ he snarled. ‘And that’s what it looked like! It never got delivered and it upset the lives of two people. I delivered it and it’s made two people very happy. What is the problem, Mr Groat— Yes, what is it?’
This was to a woman who was tugging at his sleeve.
‘I said is it true you’re opening the old place again?’ she repeated. ‘My grandad used to work there!’
‘Well done him,’ said Moist.
‘He said there was a curse!’ said the woman, as if the idea was rather pleasing.
‘Really?’ said Moist. ‘Well, I could do with a good curse right now, as a matter of fact.’
‘It lives under the floor and drives you maaad!’ she went on, enjoying the syllable so much that she seemed loath to let it go. ‘Maaad!’
‘Really,’ said Moist. ‘Well, we do not believe in going crazy in the postal service, do we, Mr Gro—’ He stopped. Mr Groat had the expression of one who did believe in going crazy.
‘You daft old woman!’ Groat yelled. ‘What did you have to tell him that for?’
‘Mr Groat!’ snapped Moist. ‘I wish to speak to you inside!’
He grabbed the old man by the shoulder and very nearly carried him through the amused crowd, dragged him into the building and slammed the door.
‘I’ve had enough of this!’ he said. ‘Enough of dark comments and mutterings, do you understand? No more secrets. What’s going on here? What went on here? You tell me right now or—’
The little man’s eyes were full of fear. This is not me, Moist thought. This is not the way. People skills, eh?
‘You tell me right now, Senior Postman Groat!’ he snapped.
The old man’s eyes widened. ‘Senior Postman?’
‘I am the postmaster in this vicinity, yes?’ said Moist. ‘That means I can promote, yes? Senior Postman, indeed. On probation, of course. Now, will you tell me what—’
‘Don’t you hurt Mr Groat, sir!’ said a ringing voice behind Moist.
Groat looked past Moist into the gloom and said: ‘It’s all right, Stanley, there’s no need for that, we don’t want a Little Moment.’ To Moist he whispered: ‘Best you put me down gently, sir . . .’
Moist did so, with exaggerated care, and turned round.
The boy was standing behind him with a glazed look on his face and the big kettle raised. It was a heavy kettle.
‘You mustn’t hurt Mr Groat, sir,’ he said hoarsely.
Moist pulled a pin out of his lapel. ‘Of course not, Stanley. By the way, is this a genuine Clayfeather Medium Sharp?’
Stanley dropped the kettle, suddenly oblivious of everything but the inch of silvery steel between Moist’s fingers. One hand was already pulling out his magnifying glass.
‘Let me see, let me see,’ he said, in a level, thoughtful voice. ‘Oh, yes. Ha. No, sorry. It’s an easy mistake to make. Look at the marks on the shoulder, here. See? And the head was never coiled. This is machine-made. Probably by one of the Happily brothers. Short run, I imagine. Hasn’t got their sigil, though. Could have been done by a creative apprentice. Not worth much, I’m afraid, unless you find someone who specializes in the minutiae of the Happily pinnery.’
‘I’ll, er, just make a cup of tea, shall I?’ said Groat, picking up the kettle as it rolled backwards and forwards on the floor. ‘Well done again, Mr Lipwig. Er . . . Senior Postman Groat, right?’
‘Off you go with, yes, probationary Senior Postman Groat, Stanley,’ said Moist, as kindly as he could manage. He looked up and added sharply: ‘I just want to talk to Mr Pump here.’
Stanley looked round at the golem, who was right behind him. It was astonishing how quietly a golem could move; he’d crossed the floor like a shadow and now stood with one still fist raised like the wrath of gods.
‘Oh, I didn’t see you standing there, Mr Pump,’ said Stanley cheerfully. “Why is your hand up?’
The holes in the golem’s face bathed the boy in red light. ‘I . . . Wanted To Ask The Postmaster A Question?’ said the golem slowly.
‘Oh. All right,’ said Stanley, as if he hadn’t been about to brain Moist a moment before. ‘Do you want your pin back, Mr Lipwig?’ he added, and when Moist waved him away he went on, ‘All right, I’ll put it in next month’s charity pin auction.’
When the door had shut behind him, Moist looked up at the golem’s impassive face.
‘You lied to him. Are you allowed to lie, Mr Pump?’ he said. ‘And you can lower that arm, by the way.’
‘I Have Been Instructed As To The Nature Of Social Untruths, Yes.’
‘You were going to smash his brains out!’ said Moist.
‘I Would Have Endeavoured Not To,’ the golem rumbled. ‘However, I Cannot Allow You To Come To Inappropriate Harm. It Was A Heavy Kettle.’
‘You can’t do that, you idiot!’ said Moist, who’d noticed the use of ‘inappropriate’.
‘I Should Have Let Him Kill You?’ said the golem. ‘It Would Not Have Been His Fault. His Head Is Not Right.’
‘It would be even less right if you walloped it. Look, I sorted it out!’
‘Yes,’ Pump said. ‘You Have A Talent. It Is A Pity You Misuse It.’
‘Do you understand anything I’m saying?’ shouted Moist. ‘You can’t just go around killing people!’
‘Why Not? You Do.’ The golem lowered his arm.
‘What?’ snapped Moist. ‘I do not! Who told you that?’
‘I Worked It Out. You Have Killed Two Point Three Three Eight People,’ said the golem calmly.
‘I have never laid a finger on anyone in my life, Mr Pump. I may be— all the things you know I am, but I am not a killer! I have never so much as drawn a sword!’
‘No, You Have Not. But You Have Stolen, Embezzled, Defrauded And Swindled Without Discrimination, Mr Lipvig. You Have Ruined Businesses And. Destroyed Jobs. When Banks Fail, It Is Seldom Bankers Who Starve. Your Actions Have Taken Money From Those Who Had Little Enough To Begin With. In A Myriad Small Ways You Have Hastened The Deaths Of Many. You Do Not Know Them. You Did Not See Them Bleed. But You Snatched Bread From Their Mouths And Tore Clothes From Their Backs. For Sport, Mr Lipvig. For Sport. For The Joy Of The Game.’
Moist’s mouth had dropped open. It shut. It opened again. It shut again. You can never find repartee when you need it.
‘You’re nothing but a walking flowerpot, Pump 19,’ he snapped. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘I Have Read The Details Of Your Many Crimes, Mr Lipvig. And Pumping Water Teaches One The Value Of Rational Thought. You Took From Others Because You Were Clever And They Were Stupid.’
‘Hold on, most of the time they thought they were swindling me!’
‘You Set Out To Trap Them, Mr Lipvig,’ said Mr Pump.
Moist went to prod the golem meaningfully, but decided against it just in time. A man could break a finger that way.
‘Well, think about this,’ he said. ‘I’m paying for all that! I was nearly hanged, godsdammit!’
‘Yes. But Even Now You Harbour Thoughts Of Escape, Of Somehow Turning The Situation To Your Advantage. They Say The Leopard Does Not Change His Shorts.’
‘But you have to obey my orders, yes?’ snarled Moist.