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'Is this necessary, Mr Groat?' sighed Moist. 'I was appointed postmaster, you know.'
'Appointed, yes. Accepted, not yet, sir. Proof of posting is not proof of delivery, sir.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Can't tell secrets to an Unfranked Man, sir,' said Groat piously. 'You've done well to get this far, sir.'
'Oh, all right,' said Moist, trying to sound jovial. 'What's the worst that can happen, eh?' Groat was silent. 'I said—' Moist began. 'I was just working that out, sir,' said Groat. 'Let's see . . . yes, sir. The worst that can happen is you lose all your fingers on one hand, are crippled for life, and break half the bones in your body. Oh, and then they don't let you join. But don't you worry about a thing, sir, not a thing!' Up ahead, a voice boomed: 'Who brings the Unfranked Man?' Beside Moist, Groat cleared his throat and, when he spoke, his voice actually shook. 'I, probationary Senior Postman Tolliver Groat, do bring the Unfranked Man.'
'You did say that about the bones to frighten me, right?' hissed Moist. 'And does he stand in the Gloom of Night?' the voice demanded. 'He does now, Worshipful Master!' shouted Groat happily, and whispered to the hooded Moist, 'Some of the old boys are really happy about you getting the sign back.'
'Good. Now, these broken bones you mentioned—'
'Then let him walk the Walk!' the unseen voice commanded. 'We're just going to walk forward, sir. Easy does it,' Groat whispered urgently. 'That's it. Stop here.'
'Look,' said Moist, 'all that stuff . . . that was just to scare me, right?'
'You leave it to me, sir,' Groat whispered. 'But listen, the—' Moist began, and had a mouthful of hood. 'Let him don the Boots!' the voice went on. Amazing how you can hear the capital letters, Moist thought, trying not to choke on the cloth. 'Pair of boots right in front of you, sir,' came Groat's hoarse whisper. 'Put 'em on. No problem, sir.'
'Pff! Yes, but listen—'
'The boots, sir, please!' Moist removed his shoes, very clumsily, and slid his feet into the invisible boots. They turned out to be as heavy as lead. 'The Walk of the Unfranked Man is Heavy,' the booming voice intoned. 'Let him continue!' Moist took another step forward, trod on something which rolled, stumbled headlong and felt a stab of agony as his shins hit metal.
'Postmen,' the booming voice demanded again, 'what is the First Oath?' Voices sang out from the darkness, in chorus: 'Strewth, would you bleedin' credit it? Toys, prams, garden tools . . . they don't care what they leaves out on the path on these dark mornings!'
'Did the Unfranked Man cry out?' the voice said. I think I've broken my chin, Moist thought, as Groat dragged him to his feet. I think I've broken my chin! The old man hissed: 'Well done, sir,' and then raised his voice to add for the benefit of the unseen watchers: 'He crydeth out not, Worshipful Master, but was resolute!'
'Then give unto him the Bag!' boomed the distant voice. Moist was beginning to loathe it. Unseen hands put a strap round Moist's neck. When they let go, the weight on it bent him double. 'The Postman's Bag is Heavy, but soon it shall be Light!' echoed off the walls. No one had said anything about pain, Moist thought. Well, actually they had, but they didn't say they meant it— 'On we go, sir,' Groat urged, invisible at his side. 'This is the Postman's Walk, remember!' Moist edged forward, very carefully, and felt something rattle away. 'He trod not upon the Roller Skate, Worshipful Master!' Groat reported to the invisible watchers. Moist, aching but heartened, tried two more hesitant steps, and there was another rattle as something bounced off his boot. 'The Carelessly Abandoned Beer Bottle impeded him not!' Groat yelled triumphantly. Emboldened, Moist essayed a further step, trod on something slippery, and felt his foot head off and up without him. He landed heavily on his back, his head thumping on the floor. He was sure he heard his own skull crack. 'Postmen, what is the Second Oath?' the echoing voice commanded. 'Dogs! I tell you, there's no such thing as a good one! If they don't bite they all crap! It's as bad as stepping on machine oil!' Moist got to his knees, head spinning. 'That's right, that's right, you keeps goin'!' hissed Groat, grabbing his elbow. 'You get through, come rain or shine!' He lowered his voice even further. 'Remember what it says on the building!'
'Mrs Cake?' Moist mumbled, and then thought: was it rain or snow? Or sleet? He heard movement and hunched over the heavy bag as the water drenched him and an over-enthusiastic bucket bounced off his head. Rain, then. He straightened up just in time to feel biting coldness slither down the back of the neck, and nearly screamed. 'That was ice cubes,' Groat whispered. 'Got 'em from the mortuary but don't you worry, sir, they was hardly used . . . best we can do for snow, this time of year. Sorry! Don't you worry about a thing, sir!'
'Let the Mail be tested!' bellowed the all-commanding voice. Groat's hand plunged into the bag while Moist staggered in a circle, and he raised a letter triumphantly. 'I, probationary Senior— Oh, excuse me just a tick, Worshipful Master . . .' Moist felt his head being pulled down to the level of Groat's mouth, and the old man whispered: 'Was that probationary or full Senior Postman, sir?'
'What? Oh, full, yes, full!' said Moist, as iced water filled his shoes. 'Definitely!'
'I, Senior Postman Groat, do declare the mail to be as dry as a bone, Worshipful Master!' shouted Groat triumphantly. This time the cracked voice of authority held a hint of gleeful menace. 'Then let him . . . deliver it!
In the stifling gloom of the hood, Moist's sense of danger barred the door and hid in the cellar. This was where the unseen chanters leaned forward. This was where it stopped being a game. 'I haven't actually written anything down, mark you,' he began, swaying. 'Careful now, careful,' hissed Groat, ignoring him. 'Nearly there! There's a door right in front of you, there's a letter box— Could he take a breather, Worshipful Master? He caught his head a nasty crack—'
'A breather, Brother Groat? So's you can give him another hint or two, maybe?' said the presiding voice, with scorn. 'Worshipful Master, the rituals says that the Unfranked Man is allowed a—' Groat protested. 'This Unfranked Man walketh alone! On his tod, Tolliver Groat! He doesn't want to be a Junior Postman, oh no, nor even a Senior Postman, not him! He wants to achieve the rank of Postmaster all in one go! We're not playing Postman's Knock here, Junior Postman Groat! You talked us into this! We are not mucking about! He's got to show he's worth it!'
'That's Senior Postman Groat, thank you so very much!' Groat yelled. 'You ain't a proper Senior Postman, Tolliver Groat, not if he fails the test!'
'Yeah? And who says you're Worshipful Master, George Aggy? You're only Worshipful Master 'cos you got first crack at the robes!' The Worshipful Master's voice become a little less commanding. 'You're a decent bloke, Tolliver, I'll give you that, but all this stuff you spout about a real postmaster turning up one day and making it all better is just . . . silly! Look at this place, will you? It's had its day. We all have. But if you're going to be pig-headed, we'll do it according to the book of rules!'
'Right, then!' said Groat. 'Right, then!' echoed the Worshipful Master. A secret society of postmen, Moist thought. I mean, why? Groat sighed, and leaned closer. 'There's going to be a bloody row after we're finished,' he hissed to Moist. 'Sorry about this, sir. Just post the letter. I believe in you, sir!' He stepped back. In the dark night of the hood, stunned and bleeding, Moist shuffled forward, arms outstretched. His hands found the door, and ran across it in a vain search for the slot. Eventually they found it a foot above the ground. Okay, okay, ram a damn letter in there and get this stupid pantomime over with. But it wasn't a game. This wasn't one of those events where everyone knew that old Harry just had to mouth the right words to be the latest member of the Loyal Order of Chair Stuffers. There were people out there taking it seriously. Well, he just had to post a letter through a slot, didn't he? How hard could that b— Hold on, hold on . . . wasn't one of the men who'd led him down here missing the tips of his fingers on one hand? Suddenly, Moist was angry. It even sheared through the pain from his chin. He didn't have to do this! At least, he didn't have to do it like this. It would be a poor lookout if he wasn't a better player of les buggeures risibles than this bunch of old fools! He straightened up, stifling a groan, and pulled off the hood. There was still darkness all around him, but it was punctuated by the glow from the doors of a dozen or so dark lanterns. '
'ere, 'e's taken the hood off!' someone shouted. 'The Unfranked Man may choose to remain in darkness,' said Moist. 'But the Postman loves the Light.' He pitched the voice right. It was the key to a thousand frauds. You had to sound right, sound like you knew what you were doing, sound like you were in charge. And, while he'd spoken gibberish, it was authentic gibberish.
The door of a lantern opened a little wider and a plaintive voice said, '
'ere, I can't find that in the book. Where's he supposed to say that?' You had to move quickly, too. Moist wrapped the hood round his hand and levered up the flap of the letter box. With his other hand he grabbed a random letter out of the bag, flicked it through the slot and then pulled his makeshift glove away. It ripped as though cut by shears. 'Postmen, what is the Third Oath?' shouted Groat triumphantly. 'All together, lads: Strewth, what do they make these flaps out of, razor blades?' There was a resentful silence. 'He never had 'is 'ood on,' muttered a robed figure. 'Yes he did! He wrapped it round his hand! Tell me where it says he can't do that!' screamed Groat. 'I told you! He's the One we've been waiting for!'
'There's still the final test,' said the Worshipful Master. 'What final test are you goin' on about, George Aggy? He delivered the mail!' Groat protested. 'Lord Vetinari appointed him postmaster and he's walked the Walk!'
'Vetinari? He's only been around five minutes! Who's he to say who's postmaster? Was his father a postman? No! Or his grandfather? Look at the men he's been sending! You said they were sneaky devils who didn't have a drop of Post Office ink in their blood!'
'I think this one might be able to—' Groat began. 'He can take the ultimate test,' said the Worshipful Master sternly. 'You know what that is.'
