Going Postal

tidied up, made sure the larder was stocked, washed the dishes, and took exactly what you were owed from the petty-cash box.
    Shame, really. It had been a pretty good job. Gilt hadn’t expected him to do much, and Igor had enjoyed terrorizing the other servants. Most of them, anyway.
    “It’s so sad you’re going, Mr. Igor,” said Mrs. Glowbury, the cook. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “You’ve been a real breath of fresh air.”
    “Can’t be helped, Mrthth Glowbury,” said Igor. “I shall mithth your thteak and kidney pie, and no mithtake. It doth my heart to good to thee a woman who can really make thomething out of leftoverth.”
    “I’ve knitted you this, Mr. Igor,” said the cook, hesitantly proffering a small, soft package. Igor opened it with care and unfolded a red-and-white-striped balaclava.
    “I thought it would help keep your bolt warm,” said Mrs. Glowbury, blushing.
    Igor agonized for a moment. He liked and respected the cook. He’d never seen a woman handle sharp knives so skillfully. Sometimes you had to forget the Code of the Igors.
    “Mrthth Glowbury, you did thay you had a thithter in Quirm?” he said.
    “That’s right, Mr. Igor.”
    “Now would be a very good time for you to go and vithit her,” said Igor firmly. “Do not athk me why. Goodbye, dear Mrthth Glowbury. I thall remember your liver with fondnethth.”

    N OW IT WAS ten minutes to six.
    “If You Leave Now, Mr. Lipvig, You Will Be Just In Time For The Race,” the golem rumbled from the corner.
    “This is work of civic importance, Mr. Pump,” said Moist severely, reading another letter. “I am showing rectitude and attention to duty.”
    “Yes, Mr. Lipvig.”
    He let it go on until ten minutes past the hour, because it’d take five minutes to get to the square, at a nonchalant saunter. With the golem lumbering beside him, in something approaching the antithesis of either nonchalance or sauntering, he left the Post Office behind.
    The crowd in the square parted at his approach, and there were cheers and some laughter when people saw the broomstick over his shoulder. It had stars painted on it, therefore it must be a magic broomstick. Of such beliefs are fortunes made.
    Find the Lady, Find the Lady…there was a science to it, in a way. Of course, it helped if you found out how to hold three cards in a loose stack, that was really the key. Moist had learned to be good at that, but he had found mere mechanical tricks a bit dull, a bit beneath him. There were other ways, ways to mislead, to distract, to anger. Anger was always good. Angry people made mistakes.
    There was a space in the center of the square, around the stagecoach on which Leadpipe Jim sat proudly. The horses gleamed, the coachwork sparkled in the torchlight. But the group standing around the coach sparkled rather less.
    There were a couple of people from the Trunk, several wizards, and, of course, Otto Chriek the iconographer. They turned and welcomed Moist with expressions ranging from relief to deep suspicion.
    “We were considering disqualification, Mr. Lipwig,” said Ridcully, looking severe.
    Moist handed the broom to Mr. Pump. “I do apologize, Archchancellor,” he said. “I was checking some stamp designs and completely lost track of time. Oh, good evening, Professor Pelc.”
    The Professor of Morbid Bibliomancy gave him a big grin and held up a jar. “And Professor Goitre,” he said. “The old chap thought he’d like to see what all the fuss is about.”
    “And this is Mr. Pony of the Grand Trunk,” said Ridcully. Moist shook hands with the engineer. “Mr. Gilt not with you?” he said, winking.
    “He’s, er, watching from his coach,” said the engineer, looking nervously at Moist.
    “Well, since you are both here, Mr. Stibbons will hand you both a copy of the message,” said the Archchancellor. “Mr. Stibbons?”
    Two packages were handed over. Moist undid his, and burst out laughing.
    “But it’s a book!” said Mr. Pony. “It’ll take all night to code. And there’s diagrams!”
    Okay, let’s dance , thought Moist, and moved like a cobra. He snatched the book from the startled Pony, thumbed through it quickly, grabbed a handful of pages and ripped them out, to a gasp from the crowd.
    “There you are, sir,” he said, handing the pages over. “There is your message! Pages seventy-nine to one hundred twenty-eight. We’ll deliver the rest of the book, and the recipient can put your pages in later,