Going Postal

expensive stuff!” he breathed.
    “Yes, it’s the hint of wild garlic that does it,” said Moist. “But perhaps I should wait until Deacon—”
    The priest grabbed the letter and the jar.
    “No, no, I can see you are in a hurry,” he said. “I’ll do it right away. It’s probably a request for help, yes?”
    “Yes, I’d like Offler to let the light of his eyes and the gleam on his teeth shine on my colleague Tolliver Groat, who is in the Lady Sybil Hospital,” said Moist.
    “Oh, yes,” said the acolyte, relieved, “we often do this sort of—”
    “And I would also like one hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Moist went on. “Ankh-Morpork dollars preferred, of course, but other reasonably hard currencies would be acceptable.”

    T HERE WAS A CERTAIN spring in his step as Moist walked back to the ruin of the Post Office. He’d sent letters to Offler, Om, and Blind Io, all important gods, and also to Anoia, a minor goddess of Things That Stick In Drawers. * She had no temple and was handled by a jobbing priestess in Cable Street, but Moist had a feeling that by the end of the day Anoia was destined for higher things. He only picked her because he liked the name.
    He’d leave it about an hour. Gods worked fast, didn’t they?
    The Post Office was no better by gray daylight. About half of the building was still standing. Even with tarpaulins, the area under cover was small and dank. People were milling around, uncertain of what to do.
    He’d tell them.
    The first person he saw was George Aggy, heading for him in a high-speed hobble.
    “Terrible thing, sir, terrible thing, I came as soon as—” he began.
    “Good to see you, George. How’s the leg?”
    “What? Oh, feels fine, sir. Glows in the dark, but on the other hand that’s a great saving in candles. What are we—”
    “You’re my deputy while Mr. Groat’s in hospital,” said Moist. “How many postmen can you muster?”
    “About a dozen, sir, but what shall we—”
    “Get the mail moving, Mr. Aggy! That’s what we do. Tell everyone that today’s special is Pseudopolis for 10p, guaranteed! Everyone else can get on with cleaning up. There’s still some roof left. We’re open, as usual. More open than usual.”
    “But—” Aggy’s words failed him, and he waved at the debris. “All this?”
    “Neither rain nor fire, Mr. Aggy!” said Moist sharply.
    “Doesn’t say that on the motto, sir,” said Aggy.
    “It will by tomorrow. Ah, Jim…”
    The coachman bore down on Moist, his enormous driving cape flapping.
    “It was bloody Gilt, wasn’t it!” he growled. “Arson around! What can we do for you, Mr. Lipwig?”
    “Can you still run a service to Pseudopolis today?” said Moist.
    “Yes,” said Jim. “Harry and the lads got all the horses out as soon as they smelled smoke, and only lost one coach. We’ll help you, damn right about that, but the Trunk is running okay. You’ll be wasting your time.”
    “You provide the wheels, Jim, and I’ll give them something to carry,” said Moist. “We’ll have a bag for you at ten.”
    “You’re very certain, Mr. Lipwig,” said Jim, putting his head to one side.
    “An angel came and told me in my sleep,” said Moist.
    Jim grinned. “Ah, that’d be it, then. An angel, eh? A very present help in times of trouble, or so I’m given to understand.”
    “So I believe,” said Moist, and went up to the drafty, smoke-blackened three-walled cave that was the wreckage of his office. He brushed off the ash from the chair, reached into his pocket, and put the Smoking Gnu’s letter on his desk.
    The only people who could know when a clacks tower would break down must work for the company, right? Or used to work for it, more likely. Hah. That’s how things happened.
    That bank in Sto Lat, for example. He’d never have been able to forge those bills if that bent clerk hadn’t sold him that old ledger with all the signatures in it. That had been a good day.
    The Grand Trunk mustn’t just make enemies, it must mass-produce them. And now this Smoking Gnu wanted to help him. Outlaw signalers. Think of all the secrets they’d know…
    He’d kept an ear open for clock chimes, and it was gone a quarter to nine now. What would they do? Blow up a tower? But people worked in the towers. Surely not…
    “Oh, Mr. Lipwig!”
    It is not often that a wailing woman rushes into a room and throws herself at a man. It had never happened to Moist before. Now it happened, and it seemed