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“Murdering conniving bastard of a weasel” was acceptable, however.
I shall remember that, Miss Maccalariat.
Very good, Postmaster. Miss Maccalariat turned on her heel and went back to haranguing someone for not using blotting paper. Moist handed the paper to Miss Dearheart. Hes going to walk away with it, he said. Hes just throwing words around. The Trunks too big to fail. Too many investors. Hell get more money, keep the system going just this side of disaster, then let it collapse. Buy it up then via another company, maybe, at a knock-down price.
Id suspect him of anything, said Miss Dearheart. But you sound very certain.
Thats what Id do, said Moist, er . . . if I was that kind of person. Its the oldest trick in the book. You get the punt— you get others so deeply involved that they dont dare fold. Its the dream, you see? They think if they stay in itll all work out. They darent think its all a dream. You use big words to tell them its going to be jam tomorrow and they hope. But theyll never win. Part of them knows that, but the rest of them never listens to it. The house always wins.
Why do people like Gilt get away with it?
I just told you. Its because people hope. Theyll believe that someone will sell them a real diamond for a dollar. Sorry.
Do you know how I came to work for the Trust? said Miss Dearheart. Because clay people are easier to deal with? Moist thought. They dont cough when you talk to them? No, he said. I used to work in a bank in Sto Lat. The Cabbage Growers Co-operative—
Oh, the one on the town square? With the carved cabbage over the door? said Moist, before he could stop himself. You know it? she said. Well, yes. I went past it, once . . . Oh no, he thought, as his mind ran ahead of the conversation, oh, please, no . . . It wasnt a bad job, said Miss Dearheart. In our office we had to inspect drafts and cheques. Looking for forgeries, you know? And one day I let four through. Four fakes! It cost the bank two thousand dollars. They were cash drafts, and the signatures were perfect. I got sacked for that. They said they had to do something, otherwise the customers would lose confidence. Its not fun, having people think you might be a crook. And thats what happens to people like us. People like Gilt always get away with it. Are you all right?
Hmm? said Moist. You look a bit . . . off colour. That had been a good day, Moist thought. At least, up until now it had been a good day. Hed been quite pleased with it at the time. You werent supposed ever to meet the people afterwards. Gods damn Mr Pump and his actuarial concept of murder! He sighed. Oh well, it had come to this. Hed known it would. Him and Gilt, arm-wrestling to see who was the biggest bastard. This is the country edition of the Times, he said. They dont go to press with the city edition for another ninety minutes, in case of late-breaking news. I think I can wipe the smile off his face, at least.
What are you going to do? said Miss Dearheart. Moist adjusted the winged hat. Attempt the impossible, he said.
Chapter Twelve
The Woodpecker The Challenge — Moving Mountains - The Many Uses of Cabbage — The Board Debates - Mr Lipwig on his Knees - The Smoking Gnu - The Way of the Woodpecker It was the next morning. Something prodded Moist. He opened his eyes, and stared along the length of a shiny black cane, past the hand holding the silver Deaths head knob and into the face of Lord Vetinari. Behind him, the golem smouldered in the corner. Pray, dont get up, said the Patrician. I expect you have had a busy night?
Sorry, sir, said Moist, forcing himself upright. Hed fallen asleep at his desk again; his mouth tasted as though Tiddles had slept in it. Behind Vetinaris head he could see Mr Groat and Stanley, peering anxiously round the door. Lord Vetinari sat down opposite him, after dusting some ash off a chair. You have read this mornings Times, he said. I was there when it was printed, sir. Moists neck seemed to have developed extra bones. He tried to twist his head straight. Ah, yes. Ankh-Morpork to Genua is about two thousand miles, Mr Lipwig. And you say you can get a message there faster than the clacks. You have issued that as a challenge. Most intriguing! Yes, sir.
Even the fastest coach takes almost two months, Mr Lipwig, and Im given to understand that if you travelled non-stop your kidneys would be jolted out of your ears.
Yes, sir. I know that, said Moist, yawning. It would be cheating, you know, to use magic Moist yawned again. I know that too, sir.
Did you ask the Archchancellor of Unseen University before you suggested that he should devise the message for this curious race? Lord Vetinari demanded, unfolding the newspaper. Moist caught sight of the headlines: THE RACE IS ON! Flying Postman vs. Grand Trunk No, my lord. I said the message should be prepared by a well-respected citizen of great probity, such as the Archchancellor, sir.
Well, hes hardly likely to say no now, is he? said Vetinari. Id like to think so, sir. Gilt wont be able to bribe him, at least.
Hmm. Vetinari tapped the floor once or twice with his cane. Would it surprise you to know that the feeling in the city this morning is that youll win? The Trunk has never been out of commission for longer than a week, a clacks message can get to Genua in a few hours and yet, Mr
Lipwig, people think you can do this. Dont you find that amazing?
Er . . .
But, of course, you are the man of the moment, Mr Lipwig, said Vetinari, suddenly jovial. You are the golden messenger! His smile was reptilian. I do hope you know what you are doing. You do know what you are doing, dont you, Mr Lipwig?
Faith moves mountains, my lord, said Moist. There are a lot of them between here and Genua, indeed, said Lord Vetinari. You say in the paper that youll leave tomorrow night?
Thats right. The weekly coach. But on this run we wont take paying passengers, to save weight. Moist looked into Vetinaris eyes. You wouldnt like to give me some little clue? said the Patrician. Best all round if I dont, sir, said Moist. I suppose the gods havent left an extremely fast magical horse buried somewhere nearby, have they?
Not that Im aware, sir, said Moist earnestly. Of course, you never know until you pray.
No-o, said Vetinari. Hes trying the penetrating gaze, Moist thought. But we know how to deal with that, dont we? We let it pass right through. Gilt will have to accept the challenge, of course, said Vetinari. But he is a man of . . . ingenious resource. That seemed to Moist to be a very careful way of saying murderous bastard. Once away, he let it pass. His lordship stood up. Until tomorrow night, then, he said. No doubt there will be some little ceremony for the newspapers?
I havent actually planned that, sir, said Moist. No, of course you havent, said Lord Vetinari, and gave him what could only be called . . . a look. Moist got very much the same look from Jim Upwright, before the man said: Well, we can put out the word and call in some favours and well get good horses at the post houses, Mr Lipwig, but we only go as far as Bonk, you know? Then youll have to change. The Genua Express is pretty good, though. We know the lads.
You sure you want to hire the whole coach? said Harry, as he rubbed down a horse. Itll be expensive, cos well have to put on another for the passengers. Its a popular run, that one.
Just the mail in that coach, said Moist. And some guards.
Ah, you think youll be attacked? said Harry, squeezing the towel bone dry with barely an effort. What do you think? said Moist. The brothers looked at one another. Ill drive it, then, said Jim. They dont call me Leadpipe for nothing.
Besides, I heard there were bandits up in the mountains, said Moist. Used to be, said Jim. Not as many now.
Thats something less to worry about, then, said Moist. Dunno, said Jim. We never found out what wiped them out. Always remember that the crowd which applauds your coronation is the same crowd that will applaud your beheading. People like a show.
People like a show . . . . . . and so mail was coming in for Genua, at a dollar a time. A lot of mail. It was Stanley who explained. He explained several times, because Moist had a bit of a blind spot on this one. People are sending envelopes with stamps inside envelopes to the coach office in Genua so that the
first envelope can be sent back in the second envelope, was the shape of explanation that finally blew on some sparks in Moists brain. They want the envelopes back? he said. Why?
Because theyve been used, sir.
That makes them valuable?
Im not sure how, sir. Its like I told you, sir. I think some people think that theyre not real stamps until theyve done the job they were invented to do, sir. Remember the first printing of the one penny stamps that we had to cut out with scissors? An envelope with one of those on is worth two dollars to a collector.
Two hundred times more than the stamp?
Thats how its going sir, said Stanley, his eyes sparkling. People post letters to themselves just to get the stamp, er, stamped, sir. So theyve been used.
Er . . . Ive got a couple of rather crusty handkerchiefs in my pocket, said Moist, mystified. Do you think people might want to buy them at two hundred times what they cost?
No, sir! said Stanley. Then why should—
Theres a lot of interest, sir. I thought we could do a whole set of stamps for the big guilds, sir. All the collectors would want them. What do you think?
Thats a very clever idea, Stanley, said Moist. Well do that. The one for the Seamstresses Guild might have to go inside a plain brown envelope, eh? Haha! This time it was Stanley who looked perplexed. Sorry, sir? Moist coughed. Oh, nothing. Well, I can see youre learning fast, Stanley. Some things, anyway. Er . . . yes, sir. Er . . . I dont want to push myself forward, sir—
Push away, Stanley, push away, said Moist cheerfully. Stanley pulled a small paper folder out of his pocket, opened it, and laid it reverentially in front of Moist. Mr Spools helped me with some of it, he said. But I did a lot. It was a stamp. It was a yellowy-green colour. It showed - Moist peered - a field of cabbages, with some buildings on the horizon. He sniffed. It smelled of cabbages. Oh, yes. Printed with cabbage ink and using gum made from broccoli, sir, said Stanley, full of pride. A Salute to the Cabbage Industry of the Sto Plains, sir. I think it might do very well. Cabbages are so popular, sir. You can make so many things out of them!
Well, I can see that—
Theres cabbage soup, cabbage beer, cabbage fudge, cabbage cake, cream of cabbage—
Yes, Stanley, I think you—
—pickled cabbage, cabbage jelly, cabbage salad, boiled cabbage, deep-fried cabbage—
Yes, but now can—
—fricassee of cabbage, cabbage chutney, Cabbage Surprise, sausages—
Sausages?
Filled with cabbage, sir. You can make practically anything with cabbage, sir. Then theres—
Cabbage stamps, said Moist, terminally. At fifty pence, I note. You have hidden depths, Stanley.
I owe it all to you, Mr Lipwig! Stanley burst out. I have put the childish playground of pins right behind me, sir! The world of stamps, which can teach a young man much about history and geography as well as being a healthy, enjoyable, engrossing and thoroughly worthwhile hobby that will give him an interest that will last a lifetime, has opened up before me and—
Yes, yes, thank you! said Moist. —and Im putting thirty dollars into the pot, sir. All my savings. Just to show we support you. Moist heard all the words, but had to wait for them to make sense. Pot? he said at last. You mean like a bet?