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'You'll feel better for a nice cup o' bismuth and brimstone tea, sir,' Groat quavered. 'I've got the kettle boiling—'
'A cup of tea is not going to be sufficient!' Moist got a grip on himself, or at least began to act as if he had, and took a deep, theatrical breath. 'Okay, okay, Mr Pump, you can let go now.' The golem released his grip. Moist straightened up. 'Well, Mr Groat?' he said. 'Looks like you're genuine after all, then,' the old man said. 'One of the dark clerks wouldn't have gone bursar like that. We thought you was one of his lordship's special gentlemen, see.' Groat fussed around the kettle. 'No offence, but you've got a bit more colour than the average penpusher.'
'Dark clerks?' said Moist, and then recollection dawned. 'Oh . . . do you mean those stocky little men in black suits and bowler hats?'
'The very same. Scholarship boys at the Assassins' Guild, some of 'em. I heard that they can do some nasty things when they've a mind.'
'I thought you called them penpushers?'
'Yeah, but I didn't say where, heehee.' Groat caught Moist's expression and coughed. 'Sorry, didn't mean it, just my little joke. We reckon the last new postmaster we had, Mr Whobblebury, he was a dark clerk. Can't hardly blame him, with a name like that. He was always snooping around.'
'And why do you think that was?' said Moist. 'Well, Mr Mutable, he was the first, decent chap, he fell down into the big hall from the fifth floor, smack, sir, smack on to the marble. Head first. It was a bit . . . splashy, sir.' Moist glanced at Stanley, who was starting to tremble. 'Then there was Mr Sideburn. He fell down the back stairs and broke his neck, sir. Excuse me, sir, it's eleven forty-three.' Groat walked over to the door and opened it, Tiddles walked through, Groat shut the door again. 'At three in the morning, it was. Right down five flights. Broke just about every bone you could break, sir.'
'You mean he was wandering around without a light?'
'Dunno, sir. But I know about the stairs. The stairs have lamps burning all night, sir. Stanley fills them every day, regular as Tiddles.'
'Use those stairs a lot, then, do you?' said Moist. 'Never, sir, except for the lamps. Nearly everywhere on that side is bunged up with mail. But it's a Post Office Regulation, sir.'
'And the next man?' said Moist, a little hoarsely. 'Another accidental fall?'
'Oh, no, sir. Mr Ignavia, that was his name. They said it was his heart. He was just lyin' dead on the fifth floor, dead as a doorknob, face all contorted like he'd seen a ghost. Natural causes, they said. Werrrl, the Watch was all over the place by then, you may depend on it. No one had been near him, they said, and there was not a mark on him. Surprised you didn't know about all this, sir. It was in the paper.' Except you don't get much chance to keep up with the news in a condemned cell, Moist thought. 'Oh yes?' he said. 'And how would they know no one had been near him?' Groat leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. 'Everyone knows there's a werewolf in the Watch and one of them could bloody nearly smell what colour clothes someone was wearing.'
'A werewolf,' said Moist, flatly. 'Yes. Anyway, the one before him—'
'A werewolf.'
'That's what I said, sir,' said Groat. 'A damn werewolf.'
'Takes all sorts to make a world, sir. Anyway—'
'A werewolf.' Moist awoke from the horror. 'And they don't tell visitors?'
'Now, how'd they do that, sir?' said Groat, in a kindly voice. 'Put it on a sign outside? “Welcome To Ankh-Morpork, We Have A Werewolf”, sir? The Watch's got loads of dwarfs and trolls and a golem - a free golem, savin' your presence, Mr Pump - and a couple of gnomes and a zombie . . . even a Nobbs.'
was it?' said Lord Vetinari, raising an eyebrow. 'Was what?'
'Was it seen again?' There was a sudden hunted look in Mr Horsefry's eyes. 'What? How would I know?'
'Oh, I see,' said Lord Vetinari. 'It was a joke. Ah, well.' He shuffled the papers. 'Unfortunately the Post Office came to be seen not as a system for moving the mail efficiently, to the benefit and profit of all, but as a money box. And so it collapsed, losing both mail and money. A lesson for us all, perhaps. Anyway, I have high hopes of Mr Lipwig, a young man full of fresh ideas. A good head for heights, too, although I imagine he will not be climbing any towers.'
'I do hope this resurrection will not prove to be a drain on our taxes,' said Mr Slant. 'I assure you, Mr Slant, that apart from the modest sum necessary to, as it were, prime the pump, the postal service will be self-supporting as, indeed, it used to be. We cannot have a drag on the public purse, can we? And now, gentlemen, I am conscious that I am keeping you from your very important business. I do trust that the Trunk will be back in commission very shortly' As they stood up, Reacher Gilt leaned across the table and said: 'May I congratulate you, my lord?'
'I am delighted that you feel inclined to congratulate me on anything, Mr Gilt,' said Vetinari. 'To
what do we owe this unique occurrence?'
'This, my lord,' said Gilt, gesturing to the little side table on which had been set the rough-hewn piece of stone. 'Is this not an original Hnaflbaflsniflwhifltafl slab? Llamedos bluestone, isn't it? And the pieces look like basalt, which is the very devil to carve. A valuable antique, I think.'
'It was a present to me from the Low King of the Dwarfs,' said Vetinari. 'It is, indeed, very old.'
'And you have a game in progress, I see. You're playing the dwarf side, yes?'
'Yes. I play by clacks against an old friend in Uberwald,' said Vetinari. 'Happily for me, your breakdown yesterday has given me an extra day to think of my next move.' Their eyes met. Reacher Gilt laughed hugely. Vetinari smiled. The other men, who badly needed to laugh, laughed too. See, we're all friends, we're like colleagues really, nothing bad is going to happen. The laughter died away, a little uneasily. Gilt and Vetinari maintained smiles, maintained eye contact. 'We should play a game,' said Gilt. 'I have a rather nice board myself. I play the troll side, for preference.'
'Ruthless, initially outnumbered, inevitably defeated in the hands of the careless player?' said Vetinari. 'Indeed. Just as the dwarfs rely on guile, feint and swift changes of position. A man can learn all of an opponent's weaknesses on that board,' said Gilt. 'Really?' said Vetinari, raising his eyebrows. 'Should he not be trying to learn his own?'
'Oh, that's just Thud! That's easy!' yapped a voice. Both men turned to look at Horsefry, who had been made perky by sheer relief. 'I used to play it when I was a kid,' he burbled. 'It's boring. The dwarfs always win!' Gilt and Vetinari shared a look. It said: while I loathe you and every aspect of your personal philosophy to a depth unplumbable by any line, I'll credit you at least with not being Crispin Horsefry. 'Appearances are deceptive, Crispin,' said Gilt jovially. 'A troll player need never lose, if he puts his mind to it.'
