Going Postal

like that?”
    “What are you intending to do?” Miss Dearheart demanded.
    “It’s better if you don’t know. It really is. I know what I’m doing, Spike. But you shouldn’t.”
    “Well, there’s a big box of papers,” said Miss Dearheart uncertainly. “I suppose I could just sort of…leave it in here while I’m tidying up…”
    “Good.”
    “But can I trust you?”
    “On this? My gods, no! Your father trusted Gilt, and look at what happened! I wouldn’t trust me if I was you. But I would if I was me.”
    “The funny thing is, Mr. Lipwig, that I find myself trusting you all the more when you tell me how untrustworthy you are,” said Miss Dearheart.
    Moist sighed. “Yes, I know, Spike. Wretched, isn’t it. It’s a people thing. Could you fetch the box, please?”
    She did so, with a puzzled frown.
    It took all afternoon, and even then Moist wasn’t sure, but he’d filled a small notebook with scribbles. It was like looking for piranhas in a river choked with weeds. There were a lot of bones on the bottom. But, although sometimes you thought you’d glimpsed a flash of silver, you could never be sure you’d seen a fish. The only way to be sure was to jump in.

    B Y HALF PAST FOUR , Sator Square was packed.
    The wonderful thing about the golden suit and the hat with wings was that, if Moist took them off, he wasn’t him anymore. He was just a nondescript person in unmemorable clothes and a face you might vaguely think you’d seen before.
    He wandered through the crowd, heading toward the Post Office. No one gave him a second glance. Most didn’t bother with a first glance.
    In a way he’d never realized until now, he was alone. He’d always been alone. It was the only way to be safe.
    The trouble was, he missed the golden suit. Everything was an act, really. But the Man in the Golden Suit was a good act. He didn’t want to be a person you forgot, someone who was one step above a shadow. Underneath the wingéd hat, he could perform miracles or, at least, make it appear that miracles had been performed, which is nearly as good.
    He’d have to perform one in an hour or two, that was certain.
    Oh well…
    He went around the back of the Post Office, and was about to slip inside when a figure in the shadow said, “Pissed!”
    “I suspect you meant ‘psst’?” said Moist. Sane Alex stepped out of the shadows; he was wearing his old Grand Trunk donkey-jacket and a huge helmet with horns on.
    “We’re running slow with the canvas—” he began.
    “Why the helmet?” said Moist.
    “It’s a disguise,” said Alex.
    “A big horned helmet?”
    “Yes. It makes me so noticeable that no one will suspect I’m trying not to be noticed, so they won’t bother to notice me.”
    “Only a very intelligent man would think of something like that,” said Moist carefully. “What’s happening?”
    “We need more time,” said Alex.
    “What? The race starts at six!”
    “It won’t be dark enough. We won’t be able to get the sails up until half past at least! We’ll be spotted if we poke our head over the parapet before then!”
    “Oh, come on! The other towers are too far away!”
    “People on the road aren’t,” said Alex.
    “Blast!” Moist had forgotten about the road. All it would take later was someone saying he’d seen people on the old wizarding tower…
    “Listen, we’ve got it all ready to raise,” said Alex, watching his face. “We can work fast when we’re up there. We just need half an hour of darkness, maybe a few minutes more.”
    Moist bit his lip. “Okay. I can do that, I think. Now get back there and help them. But don’t start until I get there, understand? Trust me!”
    I’m saying that a lot , he thought after the man had hurried away. I just hope they will .
    He went up to his office. The golden suit was on its hanger. He put it on.
    There was work to do. It was dull, but it had to be done. So he did it.
    At half past five the floorboards creaked as Mr. Pump walked into the room, dragging a broomstick behind him.
    “Soon It Will Be Time For The Race, Mr. Lipvig,” he said.
    “I must finish a few things,” said Moist. “There’s letters here from builders and architects, oh, and someone wants me to cure their warts…I really have to deal with the paperwork, Mr. Pump.”

    I N THE PRIVACY of Reacher Gilt’s kitchen, Igor very carefully wrote a note. There were niceties to be observed, after all. You didn’t just leg it like a thief in the night. You