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'I ain't telling you again, young Tolly, you just shut your mouth! Well, Mister Postmaster? Will you face the postman's greatest challenge? Will you face . . .' the voice paused for effect and just in case there might be a few bars of portentous music, 'the Enemy at the Gate?'
'Face it and o'ercome it, if you demand it!' said Moist. The fool had called him Postmaster! It was working! Sound as if you're in charge and they start to believe it! Oh, and 'o'er' had been a good touch, too. 'We do! Oh yes, we do!' chorused the robed postmen. Groat, a bearded shadow in the gloom, took Moist's hand and, to his amazement, shook it. 'Sorry about this, Mr Lipwig,' he said. 'Din't expect this at all. They're cheating. But you'll be fine. You just rely on Senior Postman Groat, sir.' He drew his hand away, and Moist felt something small and cold in his palm. He closed his fist over it. Didn't expect it at all?'
'Right, Postmaster,' said the Worshipful Master. 'This is a simple test. All you have to do, right, is still be standing here, on your feet, in one minute's time, all right? Run for it, lads!' There was a swishing of robes and scurrying of feet and a distant door slammed. Moist was left standing in silent, pigeon-smelling gloom. What other test could there be? He tried to remember all the words on the front of the building. Trolls? Dragons? Green things with teeth? He opened his hand to see what it was that Groat had slipped him. It looked very much like a whistle. Somewhere in the darkness a door opened, and shut again. It was followed by the distant sound of paws moving purposefully. Dogs. Moist turned and ran down the hall to the plinth, and scrambled on to it. It wouldn't be much of a problem for large dogs, but at least it would put their heads at kicking height. Then there was a bark, and Moist's face broke into a smile. You only ever needed to hear that bark once. It wasn't a particularly aggressive one, because it was made by a mouth capable of
crushing a skull. You didn't need too much extra advertising when you could do that. News got around. This was going to be . . . ironic. They'd actually got hold of Lipwigzers! Moist waited until he could see the eyes in the lantern light before hesaid,'Schlat!' The dogs stopped, and stared at Moist. Clearly, they were thinking, something is wrong here. He sighed, and slipped down off the pedestal. 'Look,' he said, placing a hand on each rump and exerting downward pressure. 'One fact everyone knows is that no female Lipwigzers have ever been let out of the country. That keeps the breed price high . . . Schlat! I said! . . . and every puppy is trained to Lipwigzian commands! This is the old country talking, boys! Schlat!' The dogs sat down instantly. 'Good boys,' said Moist. It was true what people like his grandfather said: once you got past their ability to bite through a whole leg in one go, they were very nice animals. He cupped his hands and shouted: 'Gentlemen? It's safe for you to come in now!' The postmen would be listening, that was certain. They'd be waiting for snarls and screams. The distant door opened. 'Come forward!' snapped Moist. The dogs turned to look at the huddle of approaching postmen. They growled, too, in one long, uninterrupted rumble. Now he could see the mysterious Order clearly. They were robed, of course, because you couldn't have a secret order without robes. They had pushed the hoods back now, and each man* was wearing a peaked cap with a bird skeleton wired to it. * Women are always significantly under-represented in secret orders. 'Now, sir, we knew Tolliver'd slip you the dog whistle—' one of them began, looking nervously at the Lipwigzers. 'This?' said Moist, opening his hand. 'I didn't use it. It only makes 'em angry.' The postmen stared at the sitting dogs. 'But you got 'em to sit—' one began. 'I can get them to do other things,' said Moist levelly. 'I just have to say the word.'
'Er . . . there's a couple of lads outside with muzzles, if it's all the same to you, sir,' said Groat, as the Order backed away. 'We're heridititerrilyly wary of dogs. It's a postman thing.'
'I can assure you that the control my voice has over them at the moment is stronger than steel,' said Moist. This was probably garbage, but it was good garbage. The growl from one of the dogs had taken on the edge it tended to get just before the creature became a tooth-tipped projectile. 'Vodit!' shouted Moist. 'Sorry about this, gentlemen,' he added. 'I think you make them nervous. They can smell fear, as you probably know.'
'Look, we're really sorry, all right?' said the one whose voice suggested to Moist that he had been the Worshipful Master. 'We had to be sure, all right?'
'I'm the postmaster, then?' said Moist. 'Absolutely, sir. No problem at all. Welcome, O Postmaster!' Quick learner, Moist thought. 'I think I'll just—' he began, as the double doors opened at the other end of the hall. Mr Pump entered, carrying a large box. It should be quite hard to open a big pair of doors while carrying something in both hands, but not if you're a golem. They just walk at them. The doors can
choose to open or try to stay shut, it's up to them. The dogs took off like fireworks. The postmen took off in the opposite direction, climbing on to the dais behind Moist with commendable speed for such elderly men. Mr Pump plodded forward, crushing underfoot the debris of the Walk. He rocked as the creatures struck him, and then patiently put down the box and picked up the dogs by the scruff of their necks. 'There Are Some Gentlemen Outside With Nets And Gloves And Extremely Thick Clothing, Mr Lipvig,' he said. 'They Say They Work For A Mr Harry King. They Want To Know If You Have Finished With These Dogs.'
'Harry King?' said Moist. 'He's a big scrap merchant, sir,' said Groat. 'I expect the dogs was borrowed off of him. He turns 'em loose in his yards at night.'
'No burglar gets in, eh?'
'I think he's quite happy if they get in, sir. Saves having to feed the dogs.'
'Hah! Please take them away, Mr Pump,' said Moist. Lipwigzers! It had been so easy. As they watched the golem turn round with a whimpering dog under each arm, he added: 'Mr King must be doing well, then, to run Lipwigzers as common guard dogs!'
'Lipwigzers? Harry King? Bless you, sir, old Harry wouldn't buy posh foreign dogs when he can buy crossbreeds, not him!' said Groat. 'Probably a bit of Lipwigzer in 'em, I dare say, probably the worst bits. Hah, a purebred Lipwigzer prob'ly wouldn't last five minutes against some of the mongrels in our alleys. Some of'em has got crocodile in 'em.' There was a moment of silence and then Moist said, in a faraway voice: 'So . . . definitely not imported purebreds, you think?'
'Bet your life on it, sir,' said Groat cheerfully. 'Is there a problem, sir?'
'What? Urn . . . no. Not at all.'
'You sounded a bit disappointed, sir. Or something.'
'No. I'm fine. No problem.' Moist added, thoughtfully: 'You know, I really have got to get some laundry done. And perhaps some new shoes . . .' The doors swung open again to reveal, not the return of the dogs, but Mr Pump once more. He picked up the box he'd left and headed on towards Moist. 'Well, we'll be off,' said the Worshipful Master. 'Nice to have met you, Mr Lipwig.'
'That's it?' said Moist. 'Isn't there a ceremony or something?'
'Oh, that's Tolliver, that is,' said the Worshipful Master. 'I like to see the old place still standing, really I do, but it's all about the clacks these days, isn't it? Young Tolliver thinks it can all be got going again, but he was just a lad when it all broke down. You can't fix some things, Mr Lipwig. Oh, you can call yourself postmaster, but where'd you start to get this lot back working? It's an old fossil, sir, just like us.'
'Your Hat, Sir,' said Pump. 'What?' said Moist, and turned to where the golem was standing by the dais, patiently, with a hat in his hands. It was a postman's peaked hat, in gold, with golden wings. Moist took it, and saw how the gold was just paint, cracked and peeling, and the wings were real dried pigeon wings and almost crumbled to the touch. As the golem had held it up in the light it had gleamed like something from some ancient tomb. In Moist's hands, it crackled and smelled of attics and shed golden flakes. Inside the brim, on a stained label, were the words 'Boult & Locke, Military and Ceremonial Outfitters, Peach Pie Street, A-M. Size: 7 1/4. 'There Is A Pair Of Boots With Wings, Too,' said Mr Pump, 'And Some Sort Of Elasticated—'
'Don't bother about that bit!' said Groat excitedly. 'Where did you find that stuff? We've been
looking everywhere! For years!'
'It Was Under The Mail In The Postmaster's Office, Mr Groat.'
'Couldn't have been, couldn't have been!' Groat protested. 'We've sifted through there dozens of times! I seen every inch o' carpet in there!'
'A lot of mail, er, moved about today,' said Moist. 'That Is Correct,' said the golem. 'Mr Lipvig Came Through The Ceiling.'
'Ah, so he found it, eh?' said Groat triumphantly. 'See? It's all coming true! The prophecy!'
'There is no prophecy, Tolliver,' said the Worshipful Master, shaking his head sadly. 'I know you think there is, but wishing that someone will come along and sort this mess out one day is not the same as a prophecy. Not really.'
'We've been hearing the letters talking again!' said Groat. 'They whisper in the night. We have to read them the Regulations to keep 'em quiet. Just like the wizard said!'
'Yes, well, you know what we used to say: you do have to be mad to work here!' said the Worshipful Master. 'It's all over, Tolliver. It really is. The city doesn't even need us any more.'
