Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [77]
“So…er, where is the professor, in fact?”
“Oh, in the jar, for a certain value of ‘in,’” said Professor Pelc. “It’s very hard to explain to the layman. He’s only dead for—”
“—a given value of dead?” said Moist.
“Exactly! And he can come back at a week’s notice. A lot of the older wizards are opting for it now. Very refreshing, they say, just like a sabbatical. Only longer.”
“Where do they go?”
“No one’s sure, exactly, but you can hear the sounds of cutlery,” said Pelc, and raised the jar to his mouth.
“Excuse me, Professor Goitre? Can you by any chance recall what happened to the chandeliers in the Post Office?”
Moist was expecting a tinny little voice to reply, but a sprightly if elderly voice a few inches away from his ear said: “What? Oh! Yes indeed! One ended up in the Opera House and the other was acquired by the Assassins’ Guild. Here comes the pudding trolley! Good-bye!”
“Thank you, Professor,” said Pelc solemnly. “All is well here—”
“Fat lot I care!” said the disembodied voice. “Be off, please, we’re eating!”
“There you have it, then,” said Pelc, putting the wizard doll back in the jar and screwing the lid on. “The Opera House and the Assassins’ Guild. Might be quite hard to get them back, I fancy.”
“Yes, I think I shall put that off for a day or two,” said Moist, stepping out of the door. “Dangerous people to tangle with.”
“Indeed,” said the professor, shutting the door behind them, which was the signal for the buzz of conversation to start up again. “I understand some of those sopranos can kick like a mule.”
MOIST DREAMED of bottled wizards, all shouting his name.
In the best traditions of awaking from a nightmare, the voices gradually became one voice, which turned out to be the voice of Mr. Pump, who was shaking him.
“Some of them were covered in jam!” Moist shouted, and then focused. “What?”
“Mr. Lipvig, You Have An Appointment With Lord Vetinari.”
This sunk in and sounded worse than wizards in jars. “I don’t have any appointment with Vetinari! Er…do I?”
“He Says You Do, Mr. Lipvig,” said the golem. “Therefore, You Do. We’ll Leave By The Coach Yard. There Is A Big Crowd Outside The Front Doors.”
Moist stopped with his trousers halfway on. “Are they angry? Are any of them carrying buckets of tar? Feathers of any kind?”
“I Do Not Know. I Have Been Given Instructions. I Am Carrying Them Out. I Advise You To Do The Same.”
Moist was hustled out into the back streets, where some shreds of mist were still floating.
“What time is this, for heaven’s sake?” he complained.
“A Quarter To Seven, Mr. Lipvig.”
“That’s still nighttime! Doesn’t the man ever sleep? What’s so important that I’ve got to be dragged out of my nice warm pile of letters?”
THE CLOCK in Lord Vetinari’s anteroom didn’t tick right. Sometimes the tick was just a fraction late, sometimes the tock was early. Occasionally, one or the other didn’t happen at all. This wasn’t really noticeable until you’d been in there for five minutes, by which time small but significant parts of the brain were going crazy.
Moist was not good at early mornings in any case. That was one of the advantages of a life of crime; you didn’t have to get up until other people had got the streets aired.
The clerk Drumknott glided in on hushed feet, so soundlessly that he came as a shock. He was one of the most silent people Moist had ever encountered.
“Would you like some coffee, Postmaster?” he said quietly.
“Am I in trouble, Mr. Drumknott?”
“I wouldn’t care to say, sir. Have you read the Times this morning?”
“The paper? No. Oh…” Moist’s mind ran back furiously over yesterday’s interview. He hadn’t said anything wrong, had he? It had all been good, positive stuff, hadn’t it? Vetinari wanted people to use the post, didn’t he?
“We always get a few copies straight off the press,” said Drumknott. “I shall fetch you one.”
He returned with the paper. Moist unfolded it, took in the front page in one moment of agony, read a few sentences, put his hand over his eyes, and said, “Oh, gods.”
“Did you notice the cartoon, Postmaster?” said Drumknott innocently.