Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [56]
Moist waited until he could see the eyes in the lantern light before he said, “Schlat!”
The dogs stopped and stared at Moist. Clearly, they were thinking, Something is wrong here.
He sighed and slipped down off the pedestal.
“Look,” he said, placing a hand on each rump and exerting downward pressure. “One fact everyone knows is that no female Lipwigzers have ever been let out of the country. That keeps the breed price high…Schlat! I said!…and every puppy is trained to Lipwigzian commands! This is the old country talking, boys! Schlat!”
The dogs sat down instantly.
“Good boys,” said Moist. It was true what people like his grandfather said: Once you put aside their ability to bite through a whole leg in one go, they were very nice animals.
He cupped his hands and shouted: “Gentlemen? It’s safe for you to come in now!” The postmen would be listening, that was certain. They’d be waiting for snarls and screams.
The distant door opened.
“Come forward!” snapped Moist. The dogs turned to look at the huddle of approaching postmen. They growled, too, in one long, uninterrupted rumble.
Now he could see the mysterious order clearly. They were robed, of course, because you couldn’t have a secret order without robes. They had pushed the hoods back now, and each man* was wearing a peaked cap with a bird skeleton wired to it.
“Now, sir, we knew Tolliver’d slip you the dog whistle—” one of them began, looking nervously at the Lipwigzers.
“This?” said Moist, opening his hand. “I didn’t use it. It only makes ’em angry.”
The postmen stared at the sitting dogs.
“But you got ’em to sit—” one began.
“I can get them to do other things,” said Moist levelly. “I just have to say the word.”
“Er…there’s a couple of lads outside with muzzles, if it’s all the same to you, sir,” said Groat, as The Order backed away. “We’re heridititerrilyly wary of dogs. It’s a postman thing.”
“I can assure you that the control my voice has over them at the moment is stronger than steel,” said Moist. This was probably garbage, but it was good garbage.
The growl from one of the dogs had taken on the edge they tended to get just before the creature became a tooth-tipped projectile.
“Vodit!” shouted Moist. “Sorry about this, gentlemen,” he added. “I think you make them nervous. They can smell fear, as you probably know.”
“Look, we’re really sorry, all right?” said the one whose voice suggested to Moist that he had been the Worshipful Master. “We had to be sure, all right?”
“I’m the postmaster, then?” said Moist.
“Absolutely, sir. No problem at all. Welcome, O Postmaster!”
Quick learner, Moist thought.
“I think I’ll just—” he began, as the double doors opened at the other end of the hall.
Mr. Pump entered, carrying a large box. It should be quite hard to open a big pair of doors while carrying something in both hands, but not if you’re a golem. They just walk at them. The doors can choose to open or try to stay shut, it’s up to them.
The dogs took off like fireworks. The postmen took off in the opposite direction, climbing onto the dais behind Moist with commendable speed for such elderly men.
Mr. Pump plodded forward, crushing underfoot the debris of the Walk. He rocked as the creatures struck him, and then patiently put down the box and picked up the dogs by the scruffs of their necks.
“There Are Some Gentlemen Outside With Nets And Gloves And Extremely Thick Clothing, Mr. Lipvig,” he said. “They Say They Work For A Mr. Harry King. They Want To Know If You Have Finished With These Dogs.”
“Harry King?” said Moist.
“He’s a big scrap merchant, sir,” said Groat. “I expect the dogs was borrowed off of him. He turns ’em loose in his yards at night.”
“No burglar gets in, eh?”
“I think he’s quite happy if they get in, sir. Saves having to feed the dogs.”
“Hah! Please take them away, Mr. Pump,” said Moist. Lipwigzers! It had been so easy.
As they watched the golem turn around with a whimpering dog under each arm, he added: “Mr. King must be doing well, then, to run Lipwigzers as common guard dogs!”
“Lipwigzers? Harry King? Bless