Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [126]
“Sorry, sir,” said Moist, forcing himself upright. He’d fallen asleep at his desk again; his mouth tasted as though Tiddles had slept in it. Behind Vetinari’s head, he could see Mr. Groat and Stanley, peering anxiously around the door.
Lord Vetinari sat down opposite him, after dusting some ash off a chair.
“You have read this morning’s Times?” he said.
“I was there when it was printed, sir.” Moist’s neck seemed to have developed extra bones. He tried to twist his head straight.
“Ah, yes. Ankh-Morpork to Genua is about two thousand miles, Mr. Lipwig. And you say you can get a message there faster than the clacks. You have issued that as a challenge. Most intriguing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Even the fastest coach takes almost two months, Mr. Lipwig, and I’m given to understand that if you traveled nonstop your kidneys would be jolted out of your ears.”
“Yes, sir. I know that,” said Moist, yawning.
“It would be cheating, you know, to use magic.”
Moist yawned again. “I know that, too, sir.”
“Did you ask the Archchancellor of Unseen University before you suggested that he should devise the message for this curious race?” Lord Vetinari demanded, unfolding the newspaper. Moist caught sight of the headlines:
THE RACE IS ON!
“Flying Postman” vs. Grand Trunk
“No, my lord. I said the message should be prepared by a well-respected citizen of great probity, such as the Archchancellor, sir.”
“Well, he’s hardly likely to say no now, is he?” said Vetinari.
“I’d like to think so, sir. Gilt won’t be able to bribe him, at least.”
“Hmm.” Vetinari tapped the floor once or twice with his cane. “Would it surprise you to know that the feeling in the city this morning is that you’ll win? The Trunk has never been out of commission for longer than a week, a clacks message can get to Genua in a few hours, and yet, Mr. Lipwig, people think you can do this. Don’t you find that amazing?”
“Er…”
“But, of course, you are the man of the moment, Mr. Lipwig,” said Vetinari, suddenly jovial. “You are the golden messenger!” His smile was reptilian. “I do hope you know what you are doing. You do know what you are doing, don’t you, Mr. Lipwig?”
“Faith moves mountains, my lord,” said Moist.
“There are a lot of them between here and Genua, indeed,” said Lord Vetinari. “You say in the paper that you’ll leave tomorrow night?”
“That’s right. The weekly coach. But on this run we won’t take paying passengers, to save weight.”
Moist looked into Vetinari’s eyes.
“You wouldn’t like to give me some little clue?” said the Patrician.
“Best all round if I don’t, sir,” said Moist.
“I suppose the gods haven’t left an extremely fast magical horse buried somewhere nearby, have they?”
“Not that I’m aware, sir,” said Moist earnestly. “Of course, you never know until you pray.”
“No-oo,” said Vetinari. He’s trying the penetrating gaze, Moist thought. But we know how to deal with that, don’t we? We let it pass right through.
“Gilt will have to accept the challenge, of course,” said Vetinari. “But he is a man of…ingenious resource.”
That seemed to Moist to be a very careful way of saying “murderous bastard.” Once again, he let it pass.
His Lordship stood up. “Until tomorrow night, then,” he said. “No doubt there will be some little ceremony for the newspapers?”
“I haven’t actually planned that, sir,” said Moist.
“No, of course you haven’t,” said Lord Vetinari, and gave him what could only be called…a look.
MOIST GOT very much the same look from Jim Upwright, before the man said: “Well, we can put out the word and call in some favors and we’ll get good horses at the post houses, Mr. Lipwig, but we only go as far as Bonk, you know? Then you’ll have to change. The Genua Express is pretty good, though. We know the lads.”
“You’re sure you want to hire the whole coach?” said Harry, as he rubbed down a horse. “It’ll be expensive, ’cos we’ll have to run another for the passengers. It’s a popular run, that one.”
“Just the mail in that coach,” said Moist. “And some guards.”
“Ah, you think you’ll be attacked?” said Harry, squeezing the towel bone-dry with barely