‘Ah. Fire kills them, doesn’t it?’ said Moist, desperate to look on the bright side.
‘It kills everybody, Mr Lipwig,’ said Miss Dearheart. ‘It kills everybody.’ She grabbed him by the ears and gave him a big kiss on the mouth. It was like being kissed by an ashtray, but in a good way.
‘On the whole, I’d like you to come out of there,’ she said quietly. ‘Are you sure you won’t wait? The boys will be here in a minute—’
‘The golems? It’s their day off!’
‘They have to obey their chem, though. A fire means humans are in danger. They’ll smell it and be here in minutes, believe me.’
Moist hesitated, looking at her face. And people were watching him. He couldn’t not go in there, it wouldn’t fit in with the persona. Gods damn Vetinari!
He shook his head, turned, and ran towards the doors. Best not to think about it. Best not to think about being so dumb. Just feel the front door . . . quite cool. Open it gently . . . a rush of air, but no explosion. The big hall, lit with flame . . . but it was all above him, and if he weaved and dodged he could make it to the door that led down to the locker room.
He kicked it open.
Stanley looked up from his stamps.
‘Hello, Mr Lipwig,’ he said. ‘I kept calm. But I think Mr Groat is ill.’
The old man was lying on the bed, and ill was too jolly a word.
‘What happened to him?’ said Moist, lifting him gently. Mr Groat was no weight at all.
‘It was like a big bird, but I frightened it off,’ said Stanley. ‘I hit it in the mouth with a sack of pins. I . . . had a Little Moment, sir.’
‘Well, that ought to do it,’ said Moist. ‘Now, can you follow me?’
‘I’ve got all the stamps,’ said Stanley. ‘And the cashbox. Mr Groat keeps them under his bed for safety.’ The boy beamed. ‘And your hat, too. I kept calm.’
‘Well done, well done,’ said Moist. ‘Now, stick right behind me, okay?’
‘What about Mr Tiddles, Mr Lipwig?’ said Stanley, suddenly looking worried. Somewhere outside in the hall there was a crash, and the crackle of the fire grew distinctly louder.
‘Who? Mr Tidd— the cat? To hell with—’ Moist stopped, and readjusted his mouth. ‘He’ll be outside, you can bet on it, eating a toasted rat and grinning. Come on, will you?’
‘But he’s the Post Office cat!’ said Stanley. ‘He’s never been outside!’
I’ll bet he has now, thought Moist. But there was that edge in the boy’s voice again.
‘Let’s get Mr Groat out of here, okay,’ he said, easing his way through the door with the old man in his arms, ‘and then I’ll come back for Tidd—’
A burning beam dropped on to the floor halfway across the hall, and sent sparks and burning envelopes spiralling upwards into the main blaze. It roared, a wall of flame, a fiery waterfall in reverse, up through the other floors and out through the roof. It thundered. It was fire let loose and making the most of it.
Part of Moist von Lipwig was happy to let it happen. But a new and troublesome part was thinking: I was making it work. It was all moving forward. The stamps were really working. It was as good as being a criminal without the crime. It had been fun.
‘Come on, Stanley!’ Moist snapped, turning away from the horrible sight and the fascinating thought. The boy followed, reluctantly, calling for the damn cat all the way to the door.
The air outside struck like a knife, but there was a round of applause from the crowd and then a flash of light that Moist had come to associate with eventual trouble.
‘Good eefning, Mr Lipvig!’ said the cheery voice of Otto Chriek. ‘My vord, if ve vant news, all ve have to do is follow you!’
Moist ignored him and shouldered his way to Miss Dearheart who, he noticed, was not beside herself with worry.
‘Is there a hospice in this city?’ he said. ‘A decent doctor, even?’
‘There’s the Lady Sybil Free Hospital,’ said Miss Dearheart.
‘Is it any good?’
‘Some people don’t die.’
‘That good, eh? Get him there right now! I’ve got to go back in for the cat!’
‘You are going to go back in there for a cat?’
‘It’s Mr Tiddles,’ said Stanley primly. ‘He was born in the Post Office.’
‘Best not to argue,’ said Moist, turning to go. ‘See to Mr Groat, will you?’
Miss Dearheart looked down at the old man’s bloodstained shirt. ‘But it looks as though some creature tried to—’ she began.
‘Something fell on him,’ said Moist shortly.
‘That couldn’t cause—’
‘Something fell on him’, said Moist. ‘That’s what happened.’
She looked at his face. ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘Something fell on him. Something with big claws.’
‘No, a joist with lots of nails in it, something like that. Anyone can see that.’
‘That’s what happened, was it?’ said Miss Dearheart.
‘That’s exactly what happened,’ said Moist, and strode away before there were any more questions.
No point in getting the Watch involved in this, he thought, hurrying towards the doors. They’ll clump around and there won’t be any answers for them and in my experience watchmen always like to arrest somebody. What makes you think it was Reacher Gilt, Mr . . . Lipwig, wasn’t it? Oh, you could tell, could you? That’s a skill of yours, is it? Funny thing, we can tell sometimes, too. You’ve got a very familiar face, Mr Lipwig. Where are you from?
No, there was no point in getting friendly with the Watch. They might get in the way.
An upper window exploded outwards, and flames licked along the edge of the roof; Moist ducked into the doorway as glass rained down. As for Tiddles . . . well, he had to find the damn cat. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t be fun any more. If he didn’t risk at least a tiny bit of life and a smidgen of limb, he just wouldn’t be able to carry on being him.
Had he just thought that?
Oh, gods. He’d lost it. He’d never been sure how he’d got it, but it had gone. That’s what happened if you took wages. And hadn’t his grandfather warned him to keep away from women as neurotic as a shaved monkey? Actually he hadn’t, his interest lying mainly with dogs and beer, but he should have done.
The vision of Mr Groat’s chest kept bumping insistently against his imagination. It looked as though something with claws had taken a swipe at him, and only the thick uniform coat prevented him from being opened like a clam. But that didn’t sound like a vampire. They weren’t messy like that. It was a waste of good food. Nevertheless, he picked up a piece of smashed chair. It had splintered nicely. And the good thing about a stake through the heart was that it also worked on non-vampires.
More ceiling had come down in the hall, but he was able to dodge between the debris. The main staircase was at this end and completely untouched, although smoke lay on the floor like a carpet; at the other end of the hall, where the mountains of old mail had been, the blaze still roared.
He couldn’t hear the letters any more. Sorry, he thought. I did my best. It wasn’t my fault . . .
What now? At least he could get his box out of his office. He didn’t want that to burn. Some of those chemicals would be quite hard to replace.
The office was full of smoke but he dragged the box out from under his desk and then spotted the golden suit on its hanger. He had to take it, didn’t he? Something like that couldn’t be allowed to burn. He could come back for the box, right? But the suit . . . the suit was necessary. There was no sign of Tiddles. He must have got out, yes? Didn’t cats leave sinking ships? Or was it rats? Wouldn’t the cats follow the rats? Anyway, smoke was coming up between the floorboards and drifting down from the upper floors, and this wasn’t the time to hang around. He’d looked everywhere sensible; there was no sense in being where a ton of burning paper could drop on your head.
It was a good plan and it was only spoiled when he spotted the cat, down in the hall. It was watching him with interest.
‘Tiddles!’ bellowed Moist. He wished he hadn’t. It was such a stupid name to shout in a burning building.
The cat looked at him, and trotted away. Cursing, Moist hurried after it, and saw it disappear down into the cellars.
Cats were bright, weren’t they? There was probably another way out . . . bound to be . . .