Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [139]
But he’d gone too far this time. Oh, it’d be no great shame to admit that a coach and horses couldn’t travel at a thousand miles an hour, but Gilt would strut about it and the Post Office would remain just a little, old-fashioned thing, behind the times, small, unable to compete. Gilt would find some way to hold on to the Grand Trunk, cutting even more corners, killing people out of greed—
“Are You All Right, Mr. Lipvig?” said the golem behind him.
Moist stared into his own eyes, and what flickered in the depths.
Oh, boy.
“You Have Cut Yourself, Mr. Lipvig,” said Mr. Pump. “Mr. Lipvig?”
Shame I missed my throat, Moist thought. But that was a secondary thought, edging past the big dark one now unfolding in the mirror.
Look into the abyss and you’ll see something growing, reaching toward the light. It whispered: Do this. This will work. Trust me.
Oh, boy. It’s a plan that will work, Moist thought. It’s simple and deadly, like a razor. But it’d need an unprincipled man to even think about it.
No problem there, then.
I’ll kill you, Mr. Gilt. I’ll kill you in our special way, the way of the weasel and cheat and liar. I’ll take away everything but your life. I’ll take away your money, your reputation, and your friends. I’ll spin words around you until you’re cocooned in them. I’ll leave you nothing, not even hope…
He carefully finished shaving, and wiped the remnant of the foam off his chin. There was not, in truth, that much blood.
“I think I could do with a hearty breakfast, Mr. Pump,” he said. “And then I have a few things to do. In the meantime, can you please find me a broomstick? A proper birch besom? And then paint some stars on the handle?”
THE MAKESHIFT counters were crowded when Moist came down, but the bustle stopped when he entered the hall. Then a cheer went up. He nodded and waved, and was immediately surrounded by people waving envelopes. He did his best to sign them all.
“A lot o’ extra mail for Genua, sir!” Mr. Groat exulted, pushing his way through the crowd. “Never seen a day like it, never!”
“Jolly good, well done,” Moist murmured.
“And the mail for the gods has gone right up, too!” Groat continued.
“Pleased to hear it. Mr. Groat,” said Moist.
“We’ve got the first Sto Lat stamps, sir!” said Stanley, waving a couple of sheets above his head. “The early sheets are covered in flaws, sir!”
“I’m very happy for you,” said Moist. “But I’ve got to go and prepare a few things.”
“Aha, yes!” said Mr. Groat, winking. “‘A few things,’ eh? Just as you say, sir. Stand aside, please, postmaster coming through!”
Groat more or less pushed customers out of the way as Moist, trying to avoid the people who wanted him to kiss babies or were trying to grab a scrap of his suit for luck, made it out into the fresh air.
Then he kept to the back streets, and found a place that did a very reasonable double sausage, egg, bacon, and fried slice, in the hope that food could replace sleep.
It was all getting out of hand. People were putting out bunting and setting up stalls in Sator Square. The huge floating crowd that was the street population of Ankh-Morpork ebbed and flowed around the city, and tonight it would contract to form a mob in the square, and could be sold things.
Finally he plucked up his courage and headed for the Golem Trust. It was closed. A bit more graffiti had been added to the strata that now covered the boarded-up window. It was just above knee-level and said, in crayon, Golms are Made of poo. It was good to see the fine old traditions of idiot bigotry being handed down in a no-good-at-all kind of way.
Dolly Sisters, he thought wildly, staying with an aunt. Did she ever mention the aunt’s name?
He ran in that direction.
Dolly Sisters had once been a village, before the sprawl had rolled over it; its residents still considered themselves