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'You really used to deliver messages for kings?' said Groat. 'Many Kings,' said Anghammarad. 'Many Empires. Many Gods. Many Gods. All Gone. All Things Go.' The golem's voice got deeper, as if he was quoting from memory. 'Neither Deluge Nor Ice Storm Nor The Black Silence Of The Netherhells Shall Stay These Messengers About Their Sacred Business. Do Not Ask Us About Sabre-Tooth Tigers, Tar Pits, Big Green Things With Teeth Or The Goddess Czol'
'You had big green things with teeth back then?' said Tropes. 'Bigger. Greener. More Teeth,' rumbled Anghammarad. 'And the goddess Czol?' said Moist. 'Do Not Ask.' There was a thoughtful silence. Moist knew how to break it. 'And you will decide if he is a postman?' he said softly. The postmen went into a brief huddle, and then Groat turned back to Moist. 'He's a postman and a half, Mr Lipwig. We never knew. The lads say - well, it'd be an honour, sir, an honour to work with him. I mean, it's like . . . it's like history, sir. It's like . . . well . . .'
'I always said the Order goes back a long way, didn't I?' said Jimmy Tropes, aglow with pride. 'There was postmen back inna dawn o' time! When they hears we've got a member who goes all that way back the other secret societies are gonna be as green as . . . as . . .'
'Something big with teeth?' Moist suggested. 'Right! And no problem with his chums neither, if they can take orders,' said Groat generously. 'Thank you, gentlemen,' said Moist. And now all that remains' - he nodded to Stanley, who held up two big tins of royal blue paint - 'is their uniform.' By general agreement Anghammarad was given the unique rank of Extremely Senior Postman. It seemed . . . fair. Half an hour later, still tacky to the touch, each one accompanied by a human postman, the golems took to the streets. Moist watched heads turn. The afternoon sunlight glinted off royal blue and Stanley, gods bless him, had found a small pot of gold paint too. Frankly, the golems were impressive. They gleamed. You had to give people a show. Give them a show, and you were halfway to where you wanted to be. A voice behind him said: 'The Postman came down like a wolf on the fold / His cohorts all gleaming in azure and gold . . .' Just for a moment, a flicker of time, Moist thought: I've been made, she knows. Somehow, she knows. Then his brain took over. He turned to Miss Dearheart. 'When I was a kid I always thought that a cohort was a piece of armour, Miss Dearheart,' he said, giving her a smile. 'I used to imagine the troops sitting up all night, polishing them.'
'Sweet,' said Miss Dearheart, lighting a cigarette. 'Look, I'll get you the rest of the golems as soon as possible. There may be trouble, of course. The Watch will be on your side, though. There's a free golem in the Watch and they rather like him, although here it doesn't much matter what you're made of when you join the Watch because Commander Vimes will see to it that you become solid copper through and through. He's the most cynical bastard that walks under the sun.'
'Yow think he's cynical?' said Moist.
'Yes,' she said, blowing smoke. 'As you suspect, that's practically a professional opinion. But thank you for hiring the boys. I'm not sure they understand what “liking” something means, but they like to work. And Pump 19 seems to hold you in some regard.'
'Thank you.'
'I personally think you are a phoney.'
'Yes, I expect you do,' said Moist. Ye gods, Miss Dearheart was hard work. He'd met women he couldn't charm, but they'd been foothills compared to the icy heights of Mount Dearheart. It was an act. It had to be. It was a game. It had to be. He pulled out his packet of stamp designs. 'What do you think of these, Miss D— Look, what do your friends call you, Miss Dearheart?' And in his head Moist said to himself I don't know just as the woman said: 'I don't know. What's this? You carry your etchings with you to save time?' So it was a game, and he was invited to play. 'They will be copper-engraved, I hope,' he said meekly. 'They're my designs for the new stamps.' He explained about the stamps idea, while she looked at the pages. 'Good one of Vetinari,' she said. 'They say he dyes his hair, you know. What's this one? Oh, the Tower of Art . . . how like a man. A dollar, eh? Hmm. Yes, they're quite good. When will you start using them?'
'Actually, I was planning to slip along to Teemer and Spools while the lads are out now and discuss the engraving,' said Moist. 'Good. They're a decent firm,' she said. 'Sluice 23 is turning the machinery for them. They keep him clean and don't stick notices on him. I go and check on all the hired golems every week. The frees are very insistent on that.'
'To make sure they're not mistreated?' said Moist. 'To make sure they're not forgotten. You'd be amazed at how many businesses in the city have a golem working somewhere on the premises. Not the Grand Trunk, though,' she added. 'I won't let them work there.' There was an edge to that statement. 'Er . . . why not?' said Moist. 'There's some shit not even a golem should work in,' said Miss Dearheart, in the same steel tone. 'They are moral creatures.' O-kay, thought Moist, bit of a sore point there, then? His mouth said: 'Would you like to have dinner tonight?' For just the skin of a second, Miss Dearheart was surprised, but not half as surprised as Moist. Then her natural cynicism reinflated. 'I like to have dinner every night. With you? No. I have things to do. Thank you for asking.'
'No problem,' said Moist, slightly relieved. The woman looked around the echoing hall. 'Doesn't this place give you the creeps? You could perhaps do something with some floral wallpaper and a fire-bomb.'
'It's all going to be sorted out,' said Moist quickly. 'But it's best to get things moving as soon as possible. To show we're in business.' They watched Stanley and Groat, who were patiently sorting at the edge of a pile, prospectors in the foothills of the postal mountain. They were dwarfed by the white hillocks. 'It will take you for ever to deliver them, you know,' said Miss Dearheart, turning to go. 'Yes, I know,' said Moist. 'But that's the thing about golems,' added Miss Dearheart, standing in the doorway. The light caught her face oddly. 'They're not frightened of “for ever”. They're not frightened of anything.'
Chapter Seven
Tomb of Words The Invention of the Hole - Mr Lipwig Speaks Out — The Wizard in a Jar - A discussion of Lord Vetinari's back side — A Promise to Deliver — Mr Hobson's Boris Mr Spools, in his ancient office smelling of oil and ink, was impressed by this strange young man in the golden suit and winged hat. 'You certainly know your papers, Mr Lipwig,' he said, as Moist thumbed through the samples. 'It's a pleasure to meet a customer who does. Always use the right paper for the job, that's what I say.'
'The important thing is to make stamps hard to forge,' said Moist, leafing through the samples. 'On the other hand, it mustn't cost us anything like a penny to produce a penny stamp!'
'Watermarks are your friend there, Mr Lipwig,' said Mr Spools. 'Not impossible to fake, though,' said Moist, and then added, 'so I've been told.'
'Oh, we know all the tricks, Mr Lipwig, don't you worry about that!' said Mr Spools. 'We're up to scratch, oh yes! Chemical voids, thaumic shadows, timed inks, everything. We do paper and engraving and even printing for some of the leading figures in the city, although of course I am not at liberty to tell you who they are.' He sat back in his worn leather chair and scribbled in a notebook for a moment. 'Well, we could do you twenty thousand of the penny stamps, uncoated stock, gummed, at two dollars a thousand plus setup,' said Mr Spools. 'Ten pence less for ungummed. You'll have to find someone to cut them out, of course.'
'Can't you do that with some kind of machine?' said Moist. 'No. Wouldn't work, not with things as small as this. Sorry, Mr Lipwig.' Moist pulled a scrap of brown paper out of his pocket and held it up. 'Do you recognize this, Mr Spools?'
'What, is that a pin paper?' Mr Spools beamed. 'Hah, that takes me back! Still got my old collection in the attic. I've always thought it must be worth a bob or two if only—'
'Watch this, Mr Spools,' said Moist, gripping the paper carefully. Stanley was almost painfully precise in placing his pins; a man with a micrometer couldn't have done it better. Gently, the paper tore down the line of holes. Moist looked at Mr Spools and raised his eyebrows. 'It's all about holes,' he said. 'It ain't nothing if it ain't got a hole . . .' Three hours went past. Foremen were sent for. Serious men in overalls turned things on lathes, other men soldered things together, tried them out, changed this, reamed that, then dismantled a small hand press and built it in a different way. Moist loitered on the periphery of all this, clearly bored, while the serious men fiddled, measured things, rebuilt things, tinkered, lowered things, raised things and, eventually, watched by Moist and Mr Spools, tried out the converted press officially— Chonk . . . It felt to Moist that everyone was holding their breath so hard that the windows were bending inwards. He reached down, eased the sheet of little perforated squares off the board, and lifted it up.
He tore off one stamp. The windows snapped outwards. People breathed again. There wasn't a cheer. These weren't men to cheer and whoop at a job well done. Instead, they lit their pipes and nodded to one another. Mr Spools and Moist von Lipwig shook hands over the perforated paper. 'The patent is yours, Mr Spools,' said Moist. 'You're very kind, Mr Lipwig. Very kind indeed. Oh, here's a little souvenir . . .' An apprentice had bustled up with a sheet of paper. To Moist's astonishment, it was already covered with stamps - ungummed, unperforated, but perfect miniature copies of his drawing for the one penny stamp. 'Iconodiabolic engraving, Mr Lipwig!' said Spools, seeing his face. 'No one can say we're behind the times! Of course there'll be a few little flaws this time round, but by early next week we'll—'
'I want penny and twopenny ones tomorrow, Mr Spools, please,' said Moist firmly. 'I don't need perfect, I want quick.'
'My word, you're hot off the mark, Mr Lipwig!'
'Always move fast, Mr Spools. You never know who's catching up!'
'Hah! Yes! Er . . . good motto, Mr Lipwig. Nice one,' said Mr Spools, grinning uncertainly. 'And I want the fivepennies and one dollars the day after, please.'
'You'll scorch your boots, Mr Lipwig!' said Spools. 'Got to move, Mr Spools, got to fly!' Moist hurried back to the Post Office as fast as decently possible, feeling slightly ashamed. He liked Teemer and Spools. He liked the kind of business where you could actually speak to the man whose name was over the door; it meant it probably wasn't run by crooks. And he liked the big, solid, unflappable workmen, recognizing in them all the things he knew he lacked, like steadfastness, solidarity and honesty. You couldn't lie to a lathe or fool a hammer. They were good people, and quite unlike him . . . One way in which they were quite unlike him was that none of them, right now, probably had wads of stolen paper stuffed into their jacket. He really shouldn't have done it, he really shouldn't. It was just that Mr Spools was a kind and enthusiastic man and the desk had been covered with examples of his wonderful work, and when the perforation press was being made people had been bustling around and not really paying Moist much attention and he'd . . . tidied up. He couldn't help himself. He was a crook. What did Vetinari expect? The postmen were arriving back as he walked into the building. Mr Groat was waiting for him with a worried smile on his face. 'How's it going, Postal Inspector?' said Moist cheerfully. 'Pretty well, sir, pretty well. There's good news, sir. People have been giving us letters to post, sir. Not many yet and some of them are a bit, er, jokey, but we got a penny off'f them every time. That's seven pence, sir,' he added proudly, proffering the coins. 'Oh boy, we eat tonight!” said Moist, taking the coins and pocketing the letters. 'Sorry, sir?'
'Oh, nothing, Mr Groat. Well done. Er . . . you said there was good news. Is there any of the other sort, perhaps . . . ?'
'Um . . . some people didn't like getting their mail, sir.'
