Going Postal

one .
    “No one has been behaving oddly?”
    “In the Post Office, Captain, it’s very hard to tell. Believe me .”
    “No threats made, sir? By anyone you might have upset, perhaps? ”
    “None at all .”
    The captain had sighed and put away his notebook .
    “I’ll have a couple of men watching the building overnight, nevertheless,” he said. “Well done for saving the cat, sir. That was a big cheer you got when you came out. Just one thing, though, sir… ”
    “Yes, Captain? ”
    “Why would a banshee—or possibly a giant pigeon—attack Mr. Groat? ”
    And Moist thought: The hat…
    “I have no idea,” he said.
    “Yes, sir. I’m sure you haven’t,” said the captain. “I’m sure you haven’t. I’m Captain Ironfoundersson, sir, although most people call me Captain Carrot. Don’t hesitate to contact me, sir, if anything occurs to you. We are here for your protection .”
    And what would you have done against a banshee? Moist had thought. You suspect Gilt. Well done. But people like Gilt don’t bother with the law. They never break it, they just use people who do. And you’ll never find anything written down, anywhere .
    Just before the captain turned to go, Moist was sure that the werewolf winked at him .
    Now, with the rain drifting in and hissing where the stones were still warm, Moist looked around at the fires. There were still plenty of them, where the golems had dumped the rubble. This being Ankh-Morpork, people of the night had risen like the mists and gathered around them for warmth.
    This place would need a fortune spent on it. Well? He knew where to lay his hands on plenty of money, didn’t he? He didn’t have much use for it. It has only ever been a way of keeping score. But then this would all end, because it had belonged to Albert Spangler and the rest of them, not to an innocent postmaster.
    He took off his golden hat and looked at it. An avatar, Pelc had said. The human embodiment of a god. But he wasn’t a god, he was just a con man in a golden suit, and the con was over. Where was the angel now? Where were the gods when you needed them?
    The gods could help .
    The hat glinted in the firelight, and parts of Moist’s brain sparkled. He didn’t breathe as the thought emerged, in case it took flight, but it was so simple . And something that no honest man would ever have thought of…
    “What we need is,” he said, “is…”
    “Is what?” said Miss Dearheart.
    “Is music!” declared Moist. He stood up and cupped his hands. “Hey, you people! Any banjo players out there? A fiddle, maybe? I’ll give a one-dollar stamp, highly collectible, to anyone who can pick out a waltz tune. You know, one-two-three, one-two-three?”
    “Have you gone completely mad?” said Miss Dearheart. “You’re clearly—”
    She stopped, because a shabbily dressed man had tapped Moist on the shoulder.
    “I can play the banjo,” he said, “and my friend Humphrey here can blow the harmonica something cruel. The fee will be a dollar, sir. Coin, please, if it’s all the same to you, on account of how I can’t write and don’t know anyone who can read.”
    “My lovely Miss Dearheart,” said Moist, smiling madly at her. “Do you have any other name? Some pet name or nickname, some delightful little diminutive you don’t mind being called?”
    “Are you drunk?” she demanded.
    “Unfortunately, no,” said Moist. “But I’d like to be. Well, Miss Dearheart? I even rescued my best suit!”
    She was clearly taken aback, but an answer escaped before natural cynicism could bar the door. “My brother used to call me…er…”
    “Yes?”
    “Killer,” said Miss Dearheart. “But he meant it in a nice way. Don’t you even think about using it.”
    “How about Spike?”
    “ Spike? We-ell, I could live with Spike,” said Miss Dearheart. “So you will, too. But this is not the time for dancing—”
    “On the contrary, Spike,” said Moist, beaming in the firelight, “this is just the time. We’ll dance, and then we’ll get things cleaned up ready for opening time, get the mail delivery working again, order the rebuilding of the building, and have everything back the way it was. Just watch me.”
    “You know, perhaps it is true that working for the Post Office drives people mad,” said Miss Dearheart. “Just where will you get the money to have this place rebuilt?”
    “The gods will provide,” said Moist. “Trust me on this.”
    She peered at him.
    “You’re