Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [141]
“I suspect you meant ‘psst’?” said Moist. Sane Alex stepped out of the shadows; he was wearing his old Grand Trunk donkey-jacket and a huge helmet with horns on.
“We’re running slow with the canvas—” he began.
“Why the helmet?” said Moist.
“It’s a disguise,” said Alex.
“A big horned helmet?”
“Yes. It makes me so noticeable that no one will suspect I’m trying not to be noticed, so they won’t bother to notice me.”
“Only a very intelligent man would think of something like that,” said Moist carefully. “What’s happening?”
“We need more time,” said Alex.
“What? The race starts at six!”
“It won’t be dark enough. We won’t be able to get the sails up until half past at least! We’ll be spotted if we poke our head over the parapet before then!”
“Oh, come on! The other towers are too far away!”
“People on the road aren’t,” said Alex.
“Blast!” Moist had forgotten about the road. All it would take later was someone saying he’d seen people on the old wizarding tower…
“Listen, we’ve got it all ready to raise,” said Alex, watching his face. “We can work fast when we’re up there. We just need half an hour of darkness, maybe a few minutes more.”
Moist bit his lip. “Okay. I can do that, I think. Now get back there and help them. But don’t start until I get there, understand? Trust me!”
I’m saying that a lot, he thought after the man had hurried away. I just hope they will.
He went up to his office. The golden suit was on its hanger. He put it on.
There was work to do. It was dull, but it had to be done. So he did it.
At half past five the floorboards creaked as Mr. Pump walked into the room, dragging a broomstick behind him.
“Soon It Will Be Time For The Race, Mr. Lipvig,” he said.
“I must finish a few things,” said Moist. “There’s letters here from builders and architects, oh, and someone wants me to cure their warts…I really have to deal with the paperwork, Mr. Pump.”
IN THE PRIVACY of Reacher Gilt’s kitchen, Igor very carefully wrote a note. There were niceties to be observed, after all. You didn’t just leg it like a thief in the night. You tidied up, made sure the larder was stocked, washed the dishes, and took exactly what you were owed from the petty-cash box.
Shame, really. It had been a pretty good job. Gilt hadn’t expected him to do much, and Igor had enjoyed terrorizing the other servants. Most of them, anyway.
“It’s so sad you’re going, Mr. Igor,” said Mrs. Glowbury, the cook. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “You’ve been a real breath of fresh air.”
“Can’t be helped, Mrthth Glowbury,” said Igor. “I shall mithth your thteak and kidney pie, and no mithtake. It doth my heart to good to thee a woman who can really make thomething out of leftoverth.”
“I’ve knitted you this, Mr. Igor,” said the cook, hesitantly proffering a small, soft package. Igor opened it with care and unfolded a red-and-white-striped balaclava.
“I thought it would help keep your bolt warm,” said Mrs. Glowbury, blushing.
Igor agonized for a moment. He liked and respected the cook. He’d never seen a woman handle sharp knives so skillfully. Sometimes you had to forget the Code of the Igors.
“Mrthth Glowbury, you did thay you had a thithter in Quirm?” he said.
“That’s right, Mr. Igor.”
“Now would be a very good time for you to go and vithit her,” said Igor firmly. “Do not athk me why. Goodbye, dear Mrthth Glowbury. I thall remember your liver with fondnethth.”
NOW IT WAS ten minutes to six.
“If You Leave Now, Mr. Lipvig, You Will Be Just In Time For The Race,” the golem rumbled from the corner.
“This is work of civic importance, Mr. Pump,” said Moist severely, reading another letter. “I am showing rectitude and attention to duty.”
“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 either nonchalance or sauntering, he left the Post Office behind.
The crowd