Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [153]
The crowd parted hurriedly as Lord Vetinari headed toward the door; behind him, the Watch closed in.
Ultimately, there is the freedom to take the consequences.
THE PATRICIAN leaned back in the leather upholstery as the coach drew away.
“What a strange evening, Mr. Lipwig,” he said. “Yes, indeed.”
Moist, like the suddenly bewildered Mr. Stowley, considered that his future happiness lay in saying as little as possible.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“I wonder if that engineer will find any evidence that the strange message was put on the clacks by human hands?” Vetinari wondered aloud.
“I don’t know, Your Lordship.”
“You don’t?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah,” said Vetinari. “Well, the dead are known to speak, sometimes. Ouija boards and seances and so on. Who can say they wouldn’t use the medium of the clacks?”
“Not me, sir.”
“And you are clearly enjoying your new career, Mr. Lipwig.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. On Monday your duties will include the administration of the Grand Trunk. It is being taken over by the city.”
Oh well, so much for future happiness…
“No, my lord,” said Moist.
Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “There is an alternative, Mr. Lipwig?”
“It really is private property, sir. It belongs to the Dearhearts and the other people who built it.”
“My, my, how the worm turns,” said Vetinari. “But the trouble is, you see, they weren’t good at business, only at mechanisms. Otherwise they would have seen through Gilt. The freedom to succeed goes hand in hand with the freedom to fail.”
“It was robbery by numbers,” said Moist. “It was Find the Lady done with ledgers. They didn’t stand a chance.”
Vetinari sighed. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Lipwig.” Moist, who wasn’t aware he had tried to drive a bargain at all, said nothing. “Oh, very well. The question of ownership will remain in abeyance for now, until we have plumbed the sordid depths of this affair. But what I truly meant was that a great many people depend on the Trunk for their living. Out of sheer humanitarian considerations, we must do something. Sort things out, Postmaster.”
“But I’m going to have my hands more than full with the Post Office!” Moist protested.
“I hope you are. But, in my experience, the best way to get something done is to give it to someone who is busy,” said Vetinari.
“In that case, I’m going to keep the Grand Trunk running,” said Moist.
“In honor of the dead, perhaps,” said Vetinari “Yes. As you wish. Ah, here is your stop.”
As the coachman opened the door, Lord Vetinari leaned toward Moist.
“Oh, and I do suggest you go before dawn and check that everyone’s left the old wizarding tower,” he said.
“What do you mean, sir?” said Moist. He knew his face betrayed nothing.
Vetinari sat back. “Well done, Mr. Lipwig.”
THERE WAS A CROWD outside the Post Office, and a cheer went up as Moist made his way to the doors. It was raining now, a gray, sooty drizzle that was little more than fog with a slight weight problem.
Some of the staff were waiting inside. He realized the news hadn’t got around. Even Ankh-Morpork’s permanent rumor mill hadn’t been able to beat him back from the university.
“What’s happened, Postmaster?” said Groat, his hands twisting together. “Have they won?”
“No,” said Moist, but they picked up the edge in his voice.
“Have we won?”
“The Archchancellor will have to decide that,” said Moist. “I suppose we won’t know for weeks. The clacks is being shut down, though. I’m sorry, it’s all complicated…”
He left them standing and staring as he trudged up to his office, where Mr. Pump was standing in the corner.
“Good Evening, Mr. Lipvig,” the golem boomed.
Moist sat down and put his head in his hands. This was victory, but it didn’t feel like it. It felt like a mess.
The bets? Well, if Leadpipe got to Genua, you could make a case under the rules that he’d won, but Moist had a feeling that all bets were off now. That meant people would get their money back, at least.
He’d have to keep the Trunk going, gods knew how. He’d sort of promised the Gnu, hadn’t he? And