Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [100]
Stanley looked down. A few feet away, lit by the fire crawling across the letters, was a figure curled up on the floor. The golden hat with wings lay next to it.
Stanley looked up, eyes glowing red in the firelight, as a figure swooped from the rafters and sped toward him, mouth open.
And that’s when it all went wrong for Mr. Gryle, because Stanley had one of his Little Moments.
ATTITUDE WAS EVERYTHING. Moist had studied attitude. Some of the old nobility had it. It was the total lack of any doubt that things would go the way they expected them to go.
The maître d’ ushered them to their table without a moment’s hesitation.
“Can you really afford this on a government salary, Mr. Lipwig?” said Miss Dearheart as they sat down. “Or are we going to exit via the kitchens?”
“I believe I have adequate funds,” said Moist.
He probably hadn’t, he knew. A restaurant that has a waiter even for the mustard stacks up the prices. But right now Moist wasn’t worrying about the bill. There were ways to deal with bills, and it was best to deal with them on a full stomach.
They ordered appetizers that probably cost more than the weekly food bill for an average man. There was no point in looking for the cheapest thing on the menu. The cheapest thing theoretically existed but somehow, no matter how hard you stared, didn’t quite manage to be there. On the other hand, there were a lot of most expensive things.
“Are the boys settling in okay?” said Miss Dearheart.
The boys, Moist thought. “Oh, yes. Anghammarad has really taken to it. A natural postman,” he said.
“Well, he’s had practice.”
“What’s that box he’s got riveted to his arm?”
“That? A message he’s got to deliver. Not the original baked-clay tablet, I gather. He’s had to make copies two or three times and the bronze lasts hardly any time at all, to a golem. It’s a message to King Het of Thut from his astrologers on their holy mountain, telling him that the Goddess of the Sea was angry and what ceremonies he’d have to do to placate her.”
“Didn’t that slide into the sea anyway? I thought he said—”
“Yeah, yeah, Anghammarad got there too late and was swept away by the ferocious tidal wave, and the island sank.”
“So…?” said Moist.
“So what?” said Miss Dearheart.
“So…he doesn’t think that delivering it now might be a bit on the tardy side?”
“No. He doesn’t. You’re not seeing it like a golem. They believe the universe is doughnut-shaped.”
“Would that be a ring doughnut or a jam doughnut?” said Moist.
“Ring, definitely, but don’t push for further culinary details, because I can see you’ll try to make a joke of it. They think it has no start or finish. We just keep going round and round, but we don’t have to make the same decisions every time.”
“Like getting an angel the hard way,” said Moist.
“What do you mean?” said Miss Dearheart.
“Er…he’s waiting until the whole tidal-wave business comes around again and this time he’ll get there earlier and do it right?”
“Yes. Don’t point out all the flaws in the idea. It works for him.”
“He’s going to wait for millions and millions of years?” said Moist.
“That’s not a flaw, not to a golem. That’s only a matter of time. They don’t get bored. They repair themselves and they’re very hard to shatter. They survive under the sea or in red-hot lava. He might be able to do it, who knows? In the meantime, he keeps himself busy. Just like you, Mr. Lipwig. You’ve been very busy—”
She froze, staring over his shoulder. He saw her right hand scrabble frantically among the cutlery and grab a knife.
“That bastard has just walked into the place!” she hissed. “Reacher Gilt! I’ll just kill him and join you for the pudding…”
“You can’t do that!” hissed Moist.
“Oh? Why not?”
“You’re using the wrong knife! That’s for the fish! You’ll get into trouble!”
She glared at him, but her hand relaxed, and something like a smile appeared on her face.
“They don’t have a knife for stabbing rich, murdering bastards?” she said.
“They bring it to the table when you order one,” said Moist urgently. “Look, this isn’t