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'Yes, but I've sent that name before. Several times. Upline and downline. Just a name, no message or anything!' She had a sense that something was wrong, but she went on: 'I know a U at the end means it has to be turned round at the end of the line, and an N means Not Logged.' This was showing off, but she'd spent hours reading the cypher book. 'So it's just a name, going up and down all the time! Where's the sense in that?' Something was really wrong. Roger was still working his line, but he was staring ahead with a thunderous expression. Then Grandad said: 'Very clever, Princess. You're dead right.'
'Hah!' said Roger. 'I'm sorry if I did something wrong,' said the girl meekly. 'I just thought it was strange. Who's John Dearheart?'
'He . . . fell off a tower,' said Grandad. 'Hah!' said Roger, working his shutters as if he suddenly hated them. 'He's dead?' said Princess. 'Well, some people say—' Roger began. 'Roger!' snapped Grandad. It sounded like a warning. 'I know about Sending Home,' said Princess. 'And I know the souls of dead linesmen stay on the Trunk.'
'Who told you that?' said Grandad. Princess was bright enough to know that someone would get into trouble if she was too specific. 'Oh, I just heard it,' she said airily. 'Somewhere.'
'Someone was trying to scare you,' said Grandad, looking at Roger's reddening ears. It hadn't sounded scary to Princess. If you had to be dead, it seemed a lot better to spend your time flying between the towers than lying underground. But she was bright enough, too, to know when to drop a subject. It was Grandad who spoke next, after a long pause broken only by the squeaking of the new shutter bars. When he did speak, it was as if something was on his mind. 'We keep that name moving in the Overhead,' he said, and it seemed to Princess that the wind in the shutter arrays
above her blew more forlornly, and the everlasting clicking of the shutters grew more urgent. 'He'd never have wanted to go home. He was a real linesman. His name is in the code, in the wind in the rigging and the shutters. Haven't you ever heard the saying “A man's not dead while his name is still spoken”?'
Chapter Five
Lost in the Post In which Stanley experiences the joy of sacks - Mr Groat's ancestral fears - Horsefry is worried - Reacher Gilt, a man of Society - The Stairway of Letters - Mailslide! - Mr Lipwig Sees It - Hoodwinked - The Postman's Walk - The Hat Stanley polished his pins. He did so with a look of beatific concentration, like a man dreaming with his eyes open. The collection sparkled on the folded strips of brown paper and the rolls of black felt that made up the landscape of the true pinhead's world. Beside him was his large desktop magnifying glass and, by his feet, a sack of miscellaneous pins bought last week from a retiring needlewoman. He was putting off the moment of opening it to savour it all the more. Of course, it'd almost certainly turn out to be full of everyday brassers, with maybe the occasional flathead or line flaw, but the thing was, you never knew. That was the joy of sacks. You never knew. Non-collectors were woefully unconcerned about pins, treating them as if they were no more than thin pointy bits of metal for sticking things to other things. Many a wonderful pin of great worth had been found in a sack of brassers. And now he had a No. 3 Broad-headed 'Chicken' Extra Long, thanks to kind Mr Lipwig. The world shone like the pins so neatly ranged on the felt rolled out in front of him. He might smell faintly of cheese, and have athlete's foot extending to the knee, but just now Stanley soared through glittering skies on wings of silver. Groat sat by the stove, chewing his fingernails and muttering to himself. Stanley paid no attention, since pins were not the subject. '. . . appointed, right? Never mind what the Order says! He can promote anyone, right? That means I get the extra gold button on m'sleeve and the pay, right? None of the others called me Senior Postman! And when all's said and done, he delivered a letter. Had the letter, saw the address, delivered it just like that! Maybe he has got postman's blood! And he got them metal letters put back! Letters again, see? That's a sign, sure enough. Hah, he can read words that ain't there!' Groat spat out a fragment of fingernail, and frowned. 'But . . . then he'll want to know about the New Pie. Oh yeah. But . . . it'd be like scratching at a scab. Could be bad. Very bad. But . . . hah, the way he got them letters back for us . . . very good. Maybe it's true that one day we'll get a true postmaster again, just like they say. “Yea, he will tread the Abandoned Roller Skates beneath his Boots, and Lo! the Dogs of the World will Break their Teeth upon Him.” And he did show us a sign, right? Okay, it was over a posh haircut shop for ladies, but it was a sign, you can't argue with that. I mean, if it was obvious, anyone could show it to us.' Another sliver of fingernail hit the side of the glowing stove, where it sizzled. 'And I ain't getting any younger, that's a fact. Probationary, though, that's not good, that's not good. What'd happen if I popped my clogs tomorrow, eh? I'd stand there before my forefathers, and they'd say “Art thou Senior Postal Inspector Groat?” and I'd say no, and they'd say “Art thou then Postal Inspector Groat?” and I'd say not as such, and they'd say “Then surely thou art Senior Postman Groat?” and I'd say not in point of fact, and they'd say “Stone the crows, Tolliver, are you telling us you never got further than Junior Postman? What kind of Groat are you?” and my face will be red and I will be knee deep in the ignominy. Dun't matter that I've been runnin' this place for years, oh no. You got to have that gold button!' He stared at the fire, and somewhere in his matted beard a smile struggled to get out.
'He can try walking the Walk,' he said. 'No one can argue if he walks the Walk. An' then I can tell him everything! So it'll be all right! An' if he don't walk to the end, then he ain't postmaster material anyway! Stanley? Stanley!' Stanley awoke from a dream of pins. 'Yes, Mr Groat?'
'Got a few errands for you to run, lad.' And if he ain't postmaster material, Groat added in the privacy of his creaking brain, I'll die a junior postman . . . It was hard to knock at a door whilst trying desperately not to make a sound, and in the end Crispin Horsefry gave up on the second aim and just swung on the doorknocker. The noise echoed through the empty street, but no one came to their window. No one in this select street would have come to the window even if a murder was going on. At least in the poorer districts people would have come out to watch, or join in. The door opened. 'Good evening, thur—' Horsefry pushed past the stumpy figure and into the dark hallway, waving frantically to the servant to close the door. 'Shut it, man, shut it! I may have been followed— Good grief, you're an Igor, aren't you? Gilt can afford an Igor?'
'Well done, thur!' said the Igor. He peered out into the early evening darkness. 'All clear, thur.'
'Shut the door, for gods' sakes!' moaned Horsefry. 'I must see Mr Gilt!'
'The marthter ith having one of hith little thoireeth, thur,' said Igor. 'I will thee if he can be dithturbed.'
'Are any of the others here? Have they— What's a thwawreath?'
'A little get-together, thur,' said Igor, sniffing. The man reeked of drink. 'A soiree?'
'Exactly tho, thur,' said Igor impassively. 'May I take your highly notitheable long hooded cloak, thur? And be tho kind ath to follow me into the withdrawing room . . .' And suddenly Horsefry was alone in a big room full of shadows and candlelight and staring eyes, with the door closing behind him. The eyes belonged to the portraits in the big dusty frames that filled the walls, edge to edge. Rumour was that Gilt had bought them outright, and not only the pictures; it was said that he'd bought all the rights in the long dead as well, deed-polled their names, and thus equipped himself with a proud pedigree overnight. That was slightly worrying, even for Horsefry. Everyone lied about their ancestors, and that was fair enough. Buying them was slightly disconcerting, but in its dark, original stylishness it was so very Reacher Gilt. A lot of rumours had begun concerning Reacher Gilt, just as soon as people had noticed him and started asking, “Who is Reacher Gilt? What kind of a name is Reacher, anyway?' He threw big parties, that was certain. They were the kind of parties that entered urban mythology (Was it true about the chopped liver? Were you there? What about the time when he brought in a troll stripper and three people jumped out of the window? Were you there? And that story about the bowl of sweets? Were you there? Did you see it? Was it true? Were you there?) Half of Ankh-Morpork had been, it seemed, drifting from table to buffet to dance floor to gaming tables, every guest seemingly followed by a silent and obliging waiter with a laden drinks tray. Some said he owned a gold mine, others swore that he was a pirate. And he certainly looked like a pirate, with his long curly black hair, pointed beard and eyepatch. He was even said to have a parrot. Certainly the piracy rumour might explain the apparently bottomless fortune and the fact that no one, absolutely no one, knew anything about him prior to his arrival in the city. Perhaps he'd sold his past, people joked, just like he'd bought himself a new one.
He was certainly piratical in his business dealing, Horsefry knew. Some of the things— 'Twelve and a half per cent! Twelve and a half per cent!' When he was sure that he hadn't in fact had the heart attack he had been expecting all day, Horsefry crossed the room, swaying just like a man who's had a little drink or two to steady his nerves, and lifted the dark red cloth that, it turned out, concealed the parrot cage. It was in fact a cockatoo, and danced frantically up and down its perch. 'Twelve and a half per cent! Twelve and a half per cent!' Horsefry grinned. 'Ah, you've met Alphonse,' said Reacher Gilt. 'And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Crispin?' The door swung slowly behind him into its felt-lined frame, shutting out the sound of distant music. Horsefry turned, the brief moment of amusement evaporating instantly into the fearful turmoil of his soul. Gilt, one hand in the pocket of a beautiful smoking jacket, gave him a quizzical look. 'I'm being spied on, Readier!' Horsefry burst out. “Vetinari sent one of—'
'Please! Sit down, Crispin. I think you require a large brandy.' He wrinkled his nose. 'Another large brandy, should I say?'
'I wouldn't say no! Had to have a little snifter, you know, just to calm m'nerves! What a day I've had!' Horsefry plumped down into a leather armchair. 'Did you know there was a watchman on duty outside the bank almost all afternoon?'
'A fat man? A sergeant?' said Gilt, handing him a glass. 'Fat, yes. I didn't notice his rank.' Horsefry sniffed. 'I've never had anything to do with the Watch.'
'I, on the other hand, have,' said Gilt, wincing to see very fine brandy drunk in the way Horsefry was drinking it. 'And I gather that Sergeant Colon is in the habit of loitering near large buildings not in case they are stolen, but in fact simply because he enjoys a quiet smoke out of the wind. He is a clown, and not to be feared.'
'Yes, but this morning one of the revenue officers came to see that old fool Cheeseborough—'
'Is that unusual, Crispin?' said Gilt soothingly. 'Let me top up your glass there . . .'
'Well, they come once or twice a month,' Horsefry conceded, thrusting out the empty brandy glass. 'But—'
'Not unusual, then. You're shying at flies, my dear Crispin.'
'Vetinari is spying on me!' Horsefry burst out. 'There was a man in black spying on the house this evening! I heard a noise and I looked out and I could see him standing in the corner of the garden!'
'A thief, perhaps?'
'No, I'm fully paid up with the Guild! I'm sure someone was in the house this afternoon, too. Things were moved in my study. I'm worried, Reacher! I'm the one who stands to lose here! If there's an audit—'
'You know there won't be, Crispin.' Gilt's voice was like honey. 'Yes, but I can't get my hands on all the paperwork, not yet, not until old Cheeseborough retires. And Vetinari's got lots of little, you know, what are they called . . . clerks, you know, who do nothing but look at li'l bits of paper! They'll work it out, they will! We bought the Grand Trunk wi' its own money!' Gilt patted him on the shoulder. 'Calm yourself, Crispin. Nothing is going to go wrong. You think about money in the old-fashioned way. Money is not a thing, it is not even a process. It is a kind of shared dream. We dream that a small disc of common metal is worth the price of a substantial meal. Once you wake up from that dream, you can swim in a sea of money.'
The voice was almost hypnotic, but Horsefry's terror was driving him on. His forehead glistened. 'Then Greenyham's pissing in it!' he snapped, his little eyes aglint with desperate malice. 'You know that tower widdershins of Lancre that was giving all that trouble a coupla months ago? When we were tol' it was all due to witches flying into the towers? Hah! It w's only a witch the firs' time! Then Greenyham bribed a couple of the new men in the tower to call in a breakdown, and one of them rode like hell for the downstream tower and sen' him the Genua market figures a good two hours before everyone else got them! That's how he cornered dried prawns, you know. And dried fish maw and dried ground shrimp. It's not the firs' time he's done it, either! The man is coining it!' Gilt looked at Horsefry, and wondered whether killing him now would be the best option. Vetinari was clever. You didn't stay ruler of a fermenting mess of a city like this one by being silly. If you saw his spy, it was a spy he wanted you to see. The way you'd know that Vetinari was keeping an eye on you would be by turning round very quickly and seeing no one at all. Godsdamn Greenyham, too. Some people had no grasp, no grasp at all. They were so . . . small. Using the clacks like that was stupid, but allowing a bottom-feeder like Horsefry to find out about it was indefensible. It was silly. Silly small people with the arrogance of kings, running their little swindles, smiling at the people they stole from, and not understanding money at all. And stupid, pig-like Horsefry had come running here. That made it a little tricky. The door was soundproofed, the carpet was easily replaceable and, of course, Igors were renowned for their discretion, but almost certainly someone unseen had watched the man walk in and therefore it was prudent to ensure that he walked out. 'Y'r a goo' man, Reacher Gilt,' Horsefry hiccuped, waving the brandy glass unsteadily now that it was almost empty again. He put it down on a small table with the exaggerated care of a drunk, but since it was the wrong one of three images of the table sliding back and forth across his vision the glass smashed on the carpet. 'Sor'
