Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [55]
“’Ere, ’e’s taken the hood off!” someone shouted.
“The Unfranked Man may choose to remain in darkness,” said Moist. “But the Postman loves the Light.”
He pitched the voice right. It was the key to a thousand frauds. You had to sound right, sound like you knew what you were doing, sound like you were in charge. And, while he’d spoken gibberish, it was authentic gibberish.
In the dark, the door of a lantern opened a little wider and a plaintive voice said, “’Ere, I can’t find that in the book, where’s he supposed to say that?”
You had to move quickly, too. Moist wrapped the hood around his hand and levered up the flap of the letterbox. With his other hand he grabbed a random letter out of the bag, flicked it through the slot, and then pulled his makeshift glove away. It ripped as though cut by shears.
“Postmen, what is the Third Oath?” shouted Groat triumphantly. “All together, lads: Strewth, what do they make these flaps out of, razor blades?”
There was a resentful silence.
“He never had ’is ’ood on,” muttered a robed figure.
“Yes he did! He wrapped it round his hand! Tell me where it says he can’t do that!” screamed Groat. “I told you! He’s the One we’ve been waiting for!”
“There’s still the final test,” said the Worshipful Master.
“What final test are you goin’ on about, George Aggy? He delivered the mail!” Groat protested. “Lord Vetinari appointed him postmaster and he’s walked the Walk!”
“Vetinari? He’s only been around five minutes! Who’s he to say who’s postmaster? Was his father a postman? No! Or his grandfather? Look at the men he’s been sending! You said they were sneaky devils who didn’t have a drop of Post Office ink in their blood!”
“I think this one might be able to—” Groat began.
“He can take the ultimate test,” said the Worshipful Master sternly. “You know what that is.”
“It’ll be murder!” said Groat. “You can’t—”
“I ain’t telling you again, young Tolly, you just shut your mouth! Well, Mister Postmaster? Will you face the postman’s greatest challenge? Will you face”—the voice paused for effect and just in case there might be a few bars of portentous music—“The Enemy At The Gate?”
“Face it and o’ercome it, if you demand it!” said Moist. The fool had called him postmaster! It was working! Sound as if you’re in charge and they start to believe it! Oh, and “o’er” had been a good touch, too.
“We do! Oh yes, we do!” chorused the robed postmen.
Groat, a bearded shadow in the gloom, took Moist’s hand and, to his amazement, shook it.
“Sorry about this, Mr. Lipwig,” he said. “Din’t expect this at all. They’re cheating. But you’ll be fine. You just rely on Senior Postman Groat, sir.”
He drew his hand away, and Moist felt something small and cold in his palm. He closed his fist over it. Didn’t expect it at all?
“Right, Postmaster,” said the Worshipful Master. “This is a simple test. All you have to do, right, is still be standing here, on your feet, in one minute’s time, all right? Run for it, lads!”
There was a swishing of robes and scurrying of feet, and a distant door slammed. Moist was left standing in silent, pigeon-smelling gloom.
What other test could there be? He tried to remember all the words on the front of the building. Trolls? Dragons? Green things with teeth? He opened his hand to see what it was that Groat had slipped him.
It looked very much like a whistle.
Somewhere in the darkness, a door opened and shut again. It was followed by the distant sound of paws moving purposefully.
Dogs.
Moist turned and ran down to the hall to the plinth, and scrambled onto it. It wouldn’t be much of a problem for large dogs, but at least it would put their heads at kicking height.
Then there was a bark, and Moist’s face broke into a smile. You only ever needed to hear that bark once. It wasn’t a particularly aggressive one, because it was made by a mouth capable of crushing a skull. You didn’t need too much extra advertising when you could do that. News got around.
This was going to be…ironic. They’d actually got