Going Postal

Archchancellor!” said Gilt, spinning around. “This man intends to fly to Genua!”
    “I have no such intention!” said Moist. “I resent the allegation!”
    “Is this why you appear so confident?” snarled Gilt. And it was a snarl, there and then, a little sign of a crack appearing.
    A broomstick could travel fast enough to blow your ears off. It wouldn’t need too many towers to break down, and heavens knew they broke down all the time, for a broomstick to beat the clacks to Genua, especially since it could fly directly and wouldn’t have to follow the big dog-leg the coach road and the Grand Trunk took. The Trunk would have to be really unlucky, and the person flying the broom would be really frozen and probably really dead, but even in a day a broomstick could fly from Ankh-Morpork to Genua. That might just do it.
    Gilt’s face was a mask of glee. Now he knew what Moist intended.
    Round and round she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows…
    It was the heart of any scam or fiddle. Keep the punter uncertain, or, if he is certain, make him certain of the wrong thing.
    “I demand that no broomstick is taken by the coach!” said Gilt to the Archchancellor, which was not a good move. You didn’t demand anything from wizards. You requested . “If Mr. Lipwig is not confident in his equipment,” Gilt went on, “I suggest he concedes right now!”
    “We’ll be traveling alone on some dangerous roads,” said Moist. “A broomstick might be essential.”
    “However, I am forced to agree with this…gentleman,” said Ridcully, with some distaste. “It would not look right , Mr. Lipwig.”
    Moist threw up his hands. “As you wish, sir, of course. It is a blow. May I request even-handed treatment, though?”
    “Your meaning?” said the wizard.
    “There is a horse stationed at each tower to be used when the tower breaks down,” said Moist.
    “That is normal practice!” snapped Gilt.
    “Only in the mountains,” said Moist calmly. “And even then only in the most isolated towers. But today, I suspect, there’s one at every tower. It’s a pony express, Archchancellor, apologies to Mr. Pony. They could easily beat our coach without sending a word of code.”
    “You can’t possibly be suggesting that we’d take a message all the way on horseback!” said Gilt.
    “You were suggesting I’d fly,” said Moist. “If Mr. Gilt is not confident in his equipment, Archchancellor, I suggest he concedes now.”
    And there it was, a shadow on Gilt’s face. He was more than just irate now; he’d passed into the calm, limpid waters of utter, visceral fury.
    “So let’s agree that this isn’t a test of horses against broomsticks,” said Moist. “It’s stagecoach against clacks tower. If the stage breaks down, we repair the stage. If a tower breaks down, you repair the tower.”
    “That seems fair, I must say,” said Ridcully. “And I so rule. However, I must take Mr. Lipwig aside to issue a word of warning.”
    The Archchancellor put his arm around Moist’s shoulders and led him around the coach. Then he leaned down until their faces were a few inches apart.
    “You are aware, are you, that painting a few stars on a perfectly ordinary broomstick doesn’t mean it will get airborne?” he said.
    Moist looked into a pair of milky-blue eyes that were as innocent as a child’s, particularly a child who is trying hard to look innocent.
    “My goodness, doesn’t it?” he said.
    The wizard patted him on the shoulder. “Best to leave things as they are, I feel,” he said happily.
    Gilt smiled at Moist as they returned.
    It was just too much to resist, so Moist didn’t. Raise the stakes. Always push your luck, because no one else would push it for you.
    “Would you care for a little personal wager, Mr. Gilt?” he said. “Just to make it…interesting?”
    Gilt handled it well, if you couldn’t read the tells, the little signs…
    “Dear me, Mr. Lipwig, do the gods approve of gambling?” he said, and gave a short laugh.
    “What is life but a lottery, Mr. Gilt?” said Moist. “Shall we say…one hundred thousand dollars?”
    That did it. That was the last straw. He saw something snap inside Reacher Gilt.
    “One hundred thousand? Where would you lay your hands on that kind of money, Lipwig?”
    “Oh, I just place them together, Mr. Gilt. Doesn’t everyone know that?” said Moist, to general amusement. He gave the chairman his most insolent smile. “And where will you lay your hands on