Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [80]
“Yes, yes, thank you, Acting Postmaster, thank you, that’s enough, thank you,” said Moist, trying to pull away. “Please get up, Mr. Groat. Mr. Groat, please!”
“Can I wear the wingéd hat while you’re gone, sir?” Groat pleaded. “It’d mean such a lot, sir—”
“I’m sure it would, Mr. Groat, but not today. Today, the hat flies to Sto Lat.”
Groat stood up. “Should it really be you that takes the mail, sir?”
“Who else? Golems can’t move fast enough, Stanley is…well, Stanley, and the rest of you gentlemen are ol—rich in years.” Moist rubbed his hands together. “No argument, Acting Postmaster Groat! Now—let’s sell some stamps!”
The doors were open, and the crowd flocked in. Vetinari had been right. If there was any action, the people of Ankh-Morpork liked to be a part of it. Penny stamps flowed over makeshift counter. After all, the reasoning went, for a penny you got something worth a penny, right? After all, even if it was a joke, it was as safe as buying money! And envelopes came the other way. People were actually writing letters in the Post Office. Moist made a mental note: envelopes with a stamp already on, and a sheet of folded paper inside them: Instant Letter Kit, Just Add Ink! That was an important rule of any game: always make it easy for people to give you money.
To his surprise, although he realized it shouldn’t have been, Drumknott elbowed his way through the crowd with a small but heavy leather package, sealed with a wax seal bearing the city crest and a “V.” It was addressed to the mayor of Sto Lat.
“Government business,” he announced pointedly, as he handed it over.
“Do you want to buy any stamps for it?” said Moist, taking the packet.
“What do you think, Postmaster?” asked the clerk.
“I definitely think government business travels free,” said Moist.
“Thank you, Mr. Lipwig. The Lord likes a fast learner.”
Other mail for Sto Lat did get stamped, though. A lot of people had friends or business there. Moist looked around. People were scribbling everywhere, even holding the notepaper up against walls. The stamps, penny and two-penny, were shifting fast. At the other end of the hall, the golems were sorting the endless mountains of mail…
In fact, in a small way, the place was bustling.
You should’ve seen it, sir, you should’ve seen it!
“Lipwig, are yer?”
He snapped out of a dream of chandeliers to see a thickset man in front of him. Recognition took a moment, and then said that this was the owner of Hobson’s Livery Stable, at once the most famous and notorious such establishment in the city. It was probably not the hive of criminal activity that popular rumor suggested, although the huge establishment often seemed to contain grubby-looking men with not much to do apart from sit around and squint at people. And he was employing an Igor, everyone knew, which of course was sensible when you had such a high veterinary overhead, but you heard stories…*
“Oh, hello, Mr. Hobson,” said Moist.
“Seems yer think I hire tired old horses, sir, do you?” said Willie Hobson. His smile was not entirely friendly. A nervous Stanley stood behind him. Hobson was big and heavyset, but not exactly fat; he was probably what you’d get if you shaved a bear.
“I have ridden some that—” Moist began, but Hobson raised a hand.
“Seems yer want fizz,” said Hobson. His smile widened. “Well, I always give the customer what I want, you know that. So I’ve brought yer Boris.”
“Oh yes?” said Moist. “And he’ll get me to Sto Lat, will he?”
“Oh, at the very least, sir,” said Hobson. “Good horseman, are yer?”
“When it comes to riding out of town, Mr. Hobson, there’s no one faster.”
“That’s good, sir, that’s good,” said Hobson, in the slow voice of someone carefully urging the prey toward the trap. “Boris does have a few faults, but I can see a skilled horseman like you should have no trouble. Ready, then? He’s right outside. Got a man holding him.”
It turned out