Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [78]
Moist risked another glance at the terrible page. Perhaps in unconscious self-defense his gaze had skipped over the cartoon, which showed two ragged street urchins. One of them was holding a strip of penny stamps. The text below read:
First Urchin (having acquired some of the newly minted “stampings”): “’Ere, ’ave you seen Lord Vetinari’s backside?”
Second Urchin: “Nah, and I wouldn’t lick it for a penny, neiver!”
Moist’s face went waxen.
“He’s seen this?” he croaked.
“Oh, yes, sir.”
Moist stood up quickly. “It’s still early,” he said. “Mr. Trooper is probably still on duty. If I run he can probably fit me in. I’ll go right away. That will be okay, won’t it? I’ll cut out the paperwork. I don’t want to be a burden to anyone, I’ll even—”
“Now, now, Postmaster,” said Drumknott, pushing him gently back into his chair, “don’t distress yourself unduly. In my experience, his lordship is a…complex man. It is not wise to anticipate his reactions.”
“You mean you think I’m going to live?”
Drumknott screwed up his face in thought, and stared at the ceiling for a moment.
“Hmm, yes. Yes, I think you might,” he said.
“I mean, in the fresh air? With everything attached?”
“Quite probably, sir. You may go in now, sir.”
Moist tiptoed into the Patrician’s office.
Only Lord Vetinari’s hands were visible on either side of the Times. Moist reread the headlines with dull horror.
We Don’t Break Down, Postmaster Vows
Amazing Attack on Clacks
Pledges: We’ll Deliver Anywhere
Using Remarkable New “Stamps”
That was the main story. It was alongside a smaller story, which nevertheless drew the eye. The headline was:
Grand Trunk
Down Again:
Continent
Cut Off
…and at the bottom, in a heavier typeface to show it was meant to be lighthearted, under the headline
“History Cannot Be Denied”
…were a dozen stories about the things that had happened when the ancient post turned up. There was the rumpus that had turned into a fracas; Mr. Parker and his bride-to-be; and others, too. The post had changed unremarkable lives in small ways. It was like cutting a window into history and seeing what might have been.
That seemed to be the entirety of the front page, except for a story about the Watch hunting for the “mystery killer” who had mauled some banker to death in his house. They were baffled, it said. That cheered Moist up a little; if their infamous werewolf officer couldn’t sniff out a bloody murderer, then maybe they wouldn’t find Moist when the time came. A brain could surely beat a nose.
Lord Vetinari seemed oblivious to Moist’s presence, and Moist wondered what effect a polite cough might have.
At which point, the newspaper rustled.
“It says here in the Letters column,” said the voice of the Patrician, “that the phrase ‘stick it up your jumper’ is based on an ancient Ephebian saying that is at least two thousand years old, thus clearly predating jumpers but not, presumably, the act of sticking.” He lowered the paper and looked at Moist over the top of it. “I don’t know if you happen to be following this interesting little etymological debate?”
“No, sir,” said Moist. “If you remember, I spent the past six weeks in a condemned cell.”
His Lordship put down the paper, steepled his fingers, and looked at Moist over the top of them.
“Ah, yes. So you did, Mr. Lipwig. Well, well, well.”
“Look, I’m really sor—” Moist began.
“Anywhere in the world? Even to the gods? Our postmen don’t break down so easily? History is not to be denied? Very impressive, Mr. Lipwig. You have made quite a splash,” said Vetinari, smiling, “as the fish said to the man with the lead weight tied to his feet.”
“I didn’t exactly say—”
“In my experience, Miss Cripslock tends to write down exactly what one says,” Vetinari observed. “It’s a terrible thing when journalists do that. It spoils the fun. One feels instinctively that it’s cheating, somehow. And I gather you are selling promissory notes, too?”
“What?”
“The stamps, Mr. Moist. A promise to carry a penny’s worth of mail. A promise that must be kept. Do come