Making Money - Terry Pratchett [28]
There was a dainty knock at the door, and Gladys entered. She bore with extreme care a plate of ham sandwiches, made very, very thin, as only Gladys could make them, which was to put one ham between two loaves and bring her shovel-sized hand down on it very hard.
“I Anticipated That You Would Have Had No Lunch, Postmaster,” she rumbled.
“Thank you, Gladys,” said Moist, mentally shaking himself.
“And Lord Vetinari Is Downstairs,” Gladys went on. “He Says There Is No Rush.”
The sandwich stopped an inch from Moist’s lips.
“He’s in the building?”
“Yes, Mr. Lipwig.”
“Wandering about by himself?” said Moist, horror mounting.
“Currently He Is In The Blind Letter Office, Mr. Lipwig.”
“What is he doing there?”
“Reading The Letters, Mr. Lipwig.”
No rush, thought Moist grimly. Oh, yes. Well, I’m going to finish my sandwiches that the nice lady golem has made for me.
“Thank you, Gladys,” he said.
When she was gone, Moist took a pair of tweezers out of his desk drawer, opened the sandwich, and began to disembowel it of the bone fragments caused by Gladys’s drop-hammer technique.
It was a little over three minutes later that the golem reappeared, and stood patiently in front of the desk.
“Yes, Gladys?” said Moist.
“His Lordship Desired Me To Inform You That There Is Still No Rush.”
Moist ran downstairs and Lord Vetinari was indeed sitting in the Blind Letter Office with his boots on a desk, a sheaf of letters in his hand, and a smile on his face.
“Ah, Lipwig,” he said, waving the grubby envelopes. “Wonderful stuff! Better than the crossword! I like this one: ‘Duzbuns Hopsit pfarmerrsc.’ I’ve put the correct address underneath.” He passed the letter over to Moist.
He had written: “K. Whistler, Baker, 3 Pigsty Hill.”
“There are three bakeries in the city that could be said to be opposite a pharmacy,” said Vetinari, “but Whistler does those rather good curly buns that regrettably look as though a dog has just done his business on your plate and somehow managed to add a blob of icing.”
“Well done, sir,” said Moist weakly. At the other end of the room, Frank and Dave, who spent all their time deciphering the illegible, misspelled, misdirected, or simply insane mail that sleeted through the Blind Letter Office every day, were watching Vetinari in shock and awe. In the corner, Drumknott appeared to be brewing tea.
“I think it is just a matter of getting into the mind of the writer,” Vetinari went on, looking at a letter covered with grubby fingerprints and what looked like the remains of someone’s breakfast. He added: “In some cases, I imagine, there is a lot of room.”
“Frank and Dave manage to sort out five out of every six,” said Moist.
“They are veritable magicians,” said Vetinari. He turned to the men, who smiled nervously and backed away, leaving the smiles hanging awkwardly in the air, as protection. He added: “But I think it is time for their tea break?”
The two looked at Drumknott, who was pouring tea into two cups.
“Somewhere else?” Vetinari suggested.
No express delivery had ever moved faster than Frank and Dave. When the door had shut behind them, Vetinari went on: “You have looked around the bank? Your conclusions?”
“I think I’d rather stick my thumb in a mincing machine than get involved with the Lavish family,” said Moist. “Oh, I could probably do things with it, and the Mint needs a good shaking. But the bank needs to be run by someone who understands banks.”
“People who understand banks got it into the position it is in now,” said Vetinari. “And I did not become ruler of Ankh-Morpork by understanding the city. Like banking, the city is depressingly easy to understand. I have remained ruler by getting the city to understand me.”
“I understood you, sir, when you said something about angels, remember? Well, it worked. I am a reformed character and I will act like one.”
“Even as far as the goldish chain?” said Vetinari, as Drumknott handed him a cup of tea.
“Damn right!”
“Mrs. Lavish was very impressed with