Going Postal

Pump,” he said. “And then I have a few things to do. In the meantime, can you please find me a broomstick? A proper birch besom? And then paint some stars on the handle?”

    T HE MAKESHIFT counters were crowded when Moist came down, but the bustle stopped when he entered the hall. Then a cheer went up. He nodded and waved, and was immediately surrounded by people waving envelopes. He did his best to sign them all.
    “A lot o’ extra mail for Genua, sir!” Mr. Groat exulted, pushing his way through the crowd. “Never seen a day like it, never!”
    “Jolly good, well done,” Moist murmured.
    “And the mail for the gods has gone right up, too!” Groat continued.
    “Pleased to hear it. Mr. Groat,” said Moist.
    “We’ve got the first Sto Lat stamps, sir!” said Stanley, waving a couple of sheets above his head. “The early sheets are covered in flaws, sir!”
    “I’m very happy for you,” said Moist. “But I’ve got to go and prepare a few things.”
    “Aha, yes!” said Mr. Groat, winking. “‘A few things,’ eh? Just as you say, sir. Stand aside, please, postmaster coming through!”
    Groat more or less pushed customers out of the way as Moist, trying to avoid the people who wanted him to kiss babies or were trying to grab a scrap of his suit for luck, made it out into the fresh air.
    Then he kept to the back streets, and found a place that did a very reasonable double sausage, egg, bacon, and fried slice, in the hope that food could replace sleep.
    It was all getting out of hand. People were putting out bunting and setting up stalls in Sator Square. The huge floating crowd that was the street population of Ankh-Morpork ebbed and flowed around the city, and tonight it would contract to form a mob in the square, and could be sold things.
    Finally he plucked up his courage and headed for the Golem Trust. It was closed. A bit more graffiti had been added to the strata that now covered the boarded-up window. It was just above knee-level and said, in crayon, Golms are Made of poo. It was good to see the fine old traditions of idiot bigotry being handed down in a no-good-at-all kind of way.
    Dolly Sisters , he thought wildly, staying with an aunt. Did she ever mention the aunt’s name?
    He ran in that direction.
    Dolly Sisters had once been a village, before the sprawl had rolled over it; its residents still considered themselves apart from the rest of the city, with their own customs—Dog Turd Monday, Up Needles All—and almost their own language. Moist didn’t know it at all. He pushed his way through the narrow lanes, looking around desperately for—what? A column of smoke?
    Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea…
    He reached the house eight minutes later, and hammered on the door. To his relief, she opened it, and stared at him.
    She said: “How?”
    He said: “Tobacconists. Not many women around here have a hundred-a-day habit.”
    “Well, what do you want, Mister Clever?”
    “If you help me, I can take Gilt for everything he’s got,” said Moist. “Help me. Please? On my honor as a totally untrustworthy man?”
    That at least got a brief smile, to be replaced almost immediately by the default expression of deep suspicion. Then some inner struggle resolved itself.
    “You’d better come into the parlor,” she said, opening the door all the way.
    That room was small, dark, and crowded with respectability. Moist sat on the edge of a chair, trying not to disturb anything, while he strained to hear women’s voices along the hallway. Then Miss Dearheart slipped in and shut the door behind her.
    “I hope this is all right with your family,” said Moist. “I—”
    “I told them we were courting,” said Miss Dearheart. “That’s what parlors are for. The tears of joy and hope in my mother’s eyes were a sight to see. Now, what do you want?”
    “Tell me about your father,” said Moist. “I’ve got to know how the Grand Trunk was taken over. Have you still got any paperwork?”
    “It won’t do any good. A lawyer looked at them and said it would be very hard to make a case—”
    “I intend to appeal to a higher court,” said Moist.
    “I mean, we can’t prove a lot of things, not actually prove— ” Miss Dearheart protested.
    “I don’t have to,” said Moist.
    “The lawyer said it would take months and months of work to—” she went on, determined to find a snag.
    “I’ll make someone else pay for it,” said Moist. “Have you got books? Ledgers? Anything