Going Postal

shielded your eyes, dropped to your knees, and screamed, ‘Yes, yes, thank you, I am not worthy, glory be, may your teeth be picked clean by birds, hallelujah, rattle your drawers’ and similar phrases, to the general concern of people nearby, and you then stood up with your hands outstretched and shouted, ‘One hundred and fifty thousand dollars, buried in a field! Thank you, thank you, I shall fetch it immediately!’ Whereupon you wrested a shovel from one of the men helping to clear the debris of the building and began to walk with some purpose out of the city.”
    “Really?” said Moist. “It’s all a bit of a blank.”
    “I’m sure it is,” said Vetinari, nodding. “You will probably be quite surprised to know that a number of people followed you, Mr. Lipwig? Including Mr. Pump and two members of the City Watch?”
    “Good heavens, did they?”
    “Quite. For several hours. You stopped to pray on a number of occasions. We must assume it was for the guidance, which led your footsteps, at last, to a small wood among the cabbage fields.”
    “It did? I’m afraid it’s all rather a blur,” said Moist.
    “I understand you dug like a demon, according to the Watch. And I note that a number of reputable witnesses were there when your shovel struck the lid of the chest. I understand the Times will be carrying a picture in the next edition.”
    Moist said nothing. It was the only way to be sure.
    “Any comments, Mr. Lipwig?”
    “No, my lord, not really.”
    “Hmm. About three hours ago, I had the senior priests of three of the major religions in this office, along with a rather bewildered freelance priestess who I gather handles the worldly affairs of Anoia on an agency basis. They all claim that it was their god or goddess who told you where the gold was. You don’t happen to remember which one it was, do you?”
    “I sort of felt the voice rather than heard it,” said Moist carefully.
    “Quite so,” said Vetinari. “Incidentally, they all felt that their temples should get a tithe of the money,” he added. “Each.”
    “Sixty thousand dollars?” said Moist, sitting up. “That’s not right!”
    “I commend the speed of your mental arithmetic in your shaken state. No lack of clarity there , I’m glad to see,” said Vetinari. “I would advise you to donate fifty thousand, split four ways. It is, after all, in a very public and very definite and incontrovertible way, a gift from the gods. Is this not a time for reverential gratitude?”
    There was a lengthy pause, and then Moist raised a finger and managed, against all the odds, a cheerful smile. “Sound advice, my lord. Besides, a man never knows when he might need a prayer.”
    “Exactly,” said Lord Vetinari. “It is less than they demanded but more than they expect, and I did point out to them that the remainder of the money was all going to be used for the civic good. It is going to be used for the civic good, isn’t it, Mr. Lipwig?”
    “Oh, yes. Indeed!”
    “That is just as well, since currently it’s sitting in Commander Vimes’s cells.” Vetinari looked down at Moist’s trousers. “I see you still have mud all over your lovely golden suit, Postmaster. Fancy all that money being buried in a field. And you can still remember nothing about how you got there?”
    Vetinari’s expression was getting on Moist’s nerves. You know , he thought. I know you know. You know I know you know. But I know you can’t be certain, not certain.
    “Well…there was an angel,” he said.
    “Indeed? Any particular kind?”
    “The kind you only get one of, I think,” said Moist.
    “Ah, good . Well then, it all seems very clear to me,” said Vetinari, sitting back. “It is not often a mortal man achieves such a moment of glorious epiphany, but I am assured by the priests that such a thing could happen, and who should know better than they? Anyone even suggesting that the money was in some way…obtained in some wrong fashion will have to argue with some very turbulent priests and also, I assume, find their kitchen drawers quite impossible to shut. Besides, you are donating money to the city”—he held up his hand when Moist opened his mouth, and went on—“that is, the Post Office, so the notion of private gain does not arise. There appears to be no owner for the money, although so far, of course, nine hundred and thirty-eight people would like me to believe it belongs to them. Such is life in Ankh-Morpork. So, Mr. Lipwig, you