‘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.
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.’