This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. You won, and you pocketed the cash and walked away. That was how the game was supposed to go, wasn’t it?
His eye fell on Anghammarad’s message box, on its twisted, corroded strap, and he wished he was at the bottom of the sea.
‘Mr Lipwig?’
He looked up. Drumknott the clerk was standing in the doorway, with another clerk behind him.
‘Yes?’
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said the clerk. ‘We’re here to see Mr Pump. Just a minor adjustment, if you don’t mind?’
‘What? Oh. Fine. Whatever. Go ahead.’ Moist waved a hand vaguely.
The two men walked over to the golem. There was some muted conversation, and then it knelt down and they unscrewed the top of its head.
Moist stared in horror. He knew it was done, of course, but it was shocking to see it happening. There was some rummaging around that he couldn’t make out, and then the cranium was replaced, with a little pottery noise.
‘Sorry to have disturbed you, sir,’ said Drumknott, and the clerks left.
Mr Pump stayed on his knees for a moment, and then rose slowly. The red eyes focused on Moist, and the golem stuck out his hand.
‘I Do Not Know What A Pleasure Is, But I Am Sure That If I Did, Then Working With You Would Have Been One,’ he said. ‘Now I Must Leave You. I Have Another Task.’
‘You’re not my, er, parole officer any more?’ said Moist, taken aback.
‘Correct.’
‘Hold on,’ said Moist, as light dawned, ‘is Vetinari sending you after Gilt?’
‘I Am Not At Liberty To Say.’
‘He is, isn’t he? You’re not following me any more?’
‘I Am Not Following You Any More.’
‘So I’m free to go?’
‘I Am Not At Liberty To Say. Good Night, Mr Lipvig.’ Mr Pump paused at the door. ‘I Am Not Certain What Happiness Is, Either, Mr Lipvig, But I Think – Yes, I Think I Am Happy To Have Met You.’
And, ducking to get through the doorway, the golem left.
That only leaves the werewolf, thought part of Moist’s mind, faster than light. And they’re not much good at boats and completely lost when it comes to oceans! It’s the middle of the night, the Watch are running around like madmen, everyone’s busy, I’ve got a bit of cash and I’ve still got the diamond ring and a deck of cards . . . who’d notice? Who’d care? Who’d worry?
He could go anywhere. But that wasn’t really him thinking that, was it . . . it was just a few old brain cells, running on automatic. There wasn’t anywhere to go, not any more.
He walked over to the big hole in the wall and looked down into the hall. Did anyone go home here? But now the news had got around, and if you wanted any hope of anything delivered anywhere tomorrow, you came to the Post Office. It was quite busy, even now.
‘Cup of tea, Mr Lipwig?’ said the voice of Stanley, behind him.
‘Thank you, Stanley,’ said Moist, without looking round. Down below, Miss Maccalariat was standing on a chair and nailing something to the wall.
‘Everyone says we’ve won, sir, ‘cos the clacks has been shut down ‘cos the directors are in prison, sir. They say all Mr Upwright has to do is get there! But Mr Groat says the bookies probably won’t pay up, sir. And the king of Lancre wants some stamps printed, but it’ll come a bit pricey, sir, since they only write about ten letters a year up there. Still, we’ve showed them, eh, sir? The Post Office is back!’
‘It’s some kind of banner,’ said Moist, aloud.
‘Sorry, Mr Lipwig?’ said Stanley.
‘Er . . . nothing. Thank you, Stanley. Have fun with the stamps. Good to see you standing up so . . . straight . . .’
‘It’s like having a new life, sir,’ said Stanley. ‘I’d better go, sir, they need help with the sorting . . .’
The banner was crude. It read: ‘Thank You Mr Lipwic!’
Gloom rolled around Moist. It was always bad after he’d won, but this time was the worst. For days his mind had been flying and he’d felt alive. Now he felt numb. They’d put up a banner like that, and he was a liar and a thief. He’d fooled them all, and there they were, thanking him for fooling them.
A quiet voice from the doorway behind him said: ‘Mad Al and the boys told me what you did.’
‘Oh,’ said Moist, still not turning round. She’ll be lighting a cigarette, he thought.
‘It wasn’t a nice thing to do,’ Adora Belle Dearheart went on, in the same level tone.
‘There wasn’t a nice thing that would work,’ said Moist.
‘Are you going to tell me that the ghost of my brother put the idea in your head?’ she said.
‘No. I dreamed it up myself,’ said Moist.
‘Good. If you’d tried that, you’d be limping for the rest of your life, believe me.’
‘Thank you,’ said Moist leadenly. ‘It was just a lie I knew people would want to believe. Just a lie. It was a way to keep the Post Office going and get the Grand Trunk out of Gilt’s hands. You’ll probably get it back, if you want it. You and all the other people Gilt swindled. I’ll help, if I can. But I don’t want thanking.’
He felt her draw nearer.
‘It’s not a lie,’ she said. ‘It’s what ought to have been true. It pleased my mother.’
‘Does she think it’s true?’
‘She doesn’t want to think it isn’t.’
No one does. I can’t stand this, Moist thought. ‘Look, I know what I’m like,’ he said. ‘I’m not the person everyone thinks I am. I just wanted to prove to myself I’m not like Gilt. More than a hammer, you understand? But I’m still a fraud by trade. I thought you knew that. I can fake sincerity so well that even I can’t tell. I mess with people’s heads—’
‘You’re fooling no one but yourself,’ said Miss Dearheart, and reached for his hand.
Moist— shook her off, and ran out of the building, out of the city and back to his old life, or lives, always moving on, selling glass as diamond, but somehow it just didn’t seem to work any more, the flair wasn’t there, the fun had dropped out of it, even the cards didn’t seem to work for him, the money ran out, and one winter in some inn that was no more than a slum he turned his face to the wall—
And an angel appeared.
‘What just happened?’ said Miss Dearheart.
Perhaps you do get two . . .
‘Only a passing thought,’ said Moist. He let the golden glow rise. He’d fooled them all, even here. But the good bit was that he could go on doing it; he didn’t have to stop. All he had to do was remind himself, every few months, that he could quit any time. Provided he knew he could, he’d never have to. And there was Miss Dearheart, without a cigarette in her mouth, only a foot away. He leaned forward—
There was a loud cough behind them. It turned out to have come from Groat, who was holding a large parcel.
‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but this just arrived for you,’ he said, and sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Messenger, not one of ours. I thought I’d better bring it straight up ‘cos there’s something moving about inside it . . .’
There was. And airholes, Moist noted. He opened the lid with care, and pulled his fingers away just in time.
‘Twelve and a half per cent! Twelve and a half per cent!’ screamed the cockatoo, and landed on Groat’s hat.
There was no note inside, and nothing on the box but the address.
‘Why’d someone send you a parrot?’ said Groat, not caring to raise a hand within reach of the curved beak.
‘It’s Gilt’s, isn’t it?’ said Miss Dearheart. ‘He’s given you the bird?’
Moist smiled. ‘It looks like it, yes. Pieces of eight!’
‘Twelve and a half per cent!’ yelled the cockatoo.
‘Take it away, will you, Mr Groat?’ said Moist. ‘Teach it to say . . . to say . . .’
‘Trust me?’ said Miss Dearheart.
‘Good one!’ said Moist. ‘Yes, do that, Mr Groat.’
When Groat had gone, with the cockatoo balancing happily on his shoulder, Moist turned back to the woman.
‘And tomorrow,’ he said, ‘I’ll definitely get the chandeliers back!’
‘What? Most of this place doesn’t have a ceiling,’ said Miss Dearheart, laughing.
‘First things first. Trust me! And then, who knows? I might even find the fine polished counter! There’s no end to what’s possible!’
And out in the bustling cavern white feathers began to fall from the roof. They may have been from an angel, but were more likely to be coming from the pigeon that a hawk was just disembowelling on a beam. Still, they were feathers. It’s all about style.