Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [145]
“Jim, do I look all right?” he said.
“Can’t see much of you in this light, sir,” said the coachman. “Can I ask a question?”
“Go ahead, please.”
“Why’d you give those bastards just those middle pages?”
“Two reasons, Jim. It makes us look good and makes them look like whiny kids. And the other is, it’s the bit with all the color illustrations. I hear it takes ages to code one of those.”
“You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself, Mr. Lipwig! Eh? Damn straight!”
“Drive like the blazes, Jim!”
“Oh, I know how to give them a show, sir, you can bank on it! Hyah!” The whip cracked again, and the sound of hooves bounced off the buildings.
“Six horses?” said Moist, as they rattled up Broad Way.
“Aye, sir. Might as well make a name for myself, sir,” said the coachman.
“Slow down a bit when you get to the old wizard tower, will you? I’ll get off there. Did you get some guards?”
“Four of them, Mr. Lipwig,” Jim announced. “Lying low inside. Men of repute and integrity, known ’em since we were lads: Nosher Harry, Skullbreaker Tapp, Grievous Bodily Harmsworth, and Joe ‘No Nose’ Tozer. They’re mates, sir, don’t you worry, and they’re looking forward to a little holiday in Genua.”
“Yeah, we’ve all got our buckets and spades,” growled a voice from inside.
“I’d rather have them than a dozen watchmen,” said Jim happily.
The coach rattled on, leaving the outlying suburbs behind. The road under the wheels became rougher, but the coach swung and danced along on its steel springs.
“After you’ve dropped me off you can rein them in a bit. No need to rush, Jim,” said Moist after a while.
In the glow of the coach lamps Moist saw Jim’s red face glow with guile.
“It’s your plan, eh, sir?”
“It’s a wonderful plan, Jim!” said Moist. And I shall have to make sure it doesn’t work.
THE LIGHTS of the coach disappeared, leaving Moist in chilly darkness. In the distance, the faintly glowing smokes of Ankh-Morpork made a great, trailing mushroom of a cloud that blotted out the stars. Things rustled in the bushes, and a breeze wafted the scent of cabbages over the endless fields.
Moist waited untl he got some night vision. The tower appeared, a column of night without stars. All he had to do was find his way through the dense, brambly, root-knotted woodland—
He made a noise like an owl. Since Moist was no ornithologist, he did this by saying “woo woo.”
The woodland exploded with owl hoots. These were owls that roosted in an old wizarding tower, which drove you mad in a day. It had no obvious effect on them except that the noises they made included every possible sound that could be made by a living or even dying creature. There was definitely some elephant in there, and possibly some hyena, too, with a hint of bedspring.
When the din had died down, a voice from a few feet away whispered: “All right, Mr. Lipwig. It’s me, Adrian. Grab my hand and let’s go before the others start fighting again.”
“Fighting? What about?”
“They drive each other up the wall! Feel this rope? Can you feel it? Right. You can move fast, we scouted out a trail and strung the rope…”
They hurried through the trees. You had to be really close to the tower to see the glow coming through the ruined doorway at the base. Undecided Adrian had fixed some of his little cold lights up the inner wall, and stones moved under Moist’s feet as he scrambled to the top. He paid them no attention, but ran up the spiral stair so fast that when he reached the top he spun.
Mad Al caught him by the shoulders. “No rush,” he said cheerfully, “we’ve got ten minutes to go.”
“We’d have been ready twenty minutes ago if somebody hadn’t lost the hammer,” muttered Sane Alex, tightening a wire.
“What? I put it in the tool box, didn’t I?” said Mad Al.
“In the spanner drawer!”
“So?”
“Who in their right mind would look for a hammer in the spanner drawer?”
Down below, the owls started up again.
“Look,” said Moist quickly, “that’s not important, is it? Right now?”
“This man,