Going Postal

the building and slammed the door.
    “I’ve had enough of this!” he said. “Enough of dark comments and mutterings, do you understand? What’s going on here? What went on here? You tell me right now or—”
    The little man’s eyes were full of fear. This is not me , Moist thought. This is not the way. People skills, eh?
    “You tell me right now, Senior Postman Groat!” he snapped.
    The old man’s eyes widened. “Senior postman?”
    “I am the postmaster in this vicinity, yes?” said Moist. “That means I can promote, yes? Senior postman, indeed. On probation, of course. Now, will you tell me what—”
    “Don’t you hurt Mr. Groat, sir!” said a ringing voice behind Moist.
    Groat looked past Moist into the gloom and said: “It’s all right, Stanley, there’s no need for that, we don’t want a Little Moment.” To Moist he whispered: “Best you put me down gently, sir… ”
    Moist did so, with exaggerated care, and turned around.
    The boy was standing behind him with a glazed look on his face and the big kettle raised.
    “You mustn’t hurt Mr. Groat, sir,” he said hoarsely.
    Moist pulled a pin out of his lapel. “Of course not, Stanley. By the way, is this a genuine Clayfeather Medium Sharp?”
    Stanley dropped the kettle, suddenly oblivious to everything but the inch of silvery steel between Moist’s fingers. One hand was already pulling out his magnifying glass.
    “Let me see, let me see,” he said in a level, thoughtful voice. “Oh, yes. Ha. No, sorry. It’s an easy mistake to make. Look at the marks on the shoulder, here. See? And the head was never coiled. This is machine-made. Probably by one of the Happily Brothers. Short run, I imagine. Hasn’t got their sigil, though. Could have been done by a creative apprentice. Not worth much, I’m afraid, unless you find someone who specializes in the minutia of the Happily Pinnery.”
    “I’ll, er, just make a cup of tea, shall I?” said Groat, picking up the kettle as it rolled backwards and forwards on the floor. “Well done again, Mr. Moist. Er… Senior Postman Groat, right?”
    “Off you go with, yes, probationary Senior Postman Groat, Stanley,” said Moist as kindly as he could manage. He looked up and added sharply: “I just want to talk to Mr. Pump here.”
    Stanley looked around at the golem, who was right behind him. It was astonishing how quietly a golem could move; he’d crossed the floor like a shadow and now stood with one still fist raised like the wrath of gods.
    “Oh, I didn’t see you standing there, Mr. Pump,” said Stanley cheerfully. “Why is your hand up?”
    The holes in the golem’s face bathed the boy in red light.
    “I…Wanted To Ask The Postmaster A Question?” said the golem slowly.
    “Oh. All right,” said Stanley, as if he hadn’t been about to brain Moist a moment before. “Do you want your pin back, Mr. Moist?” he added, and when Moist waved him away he went on, “All right, I’ll put it in next month’s charity pin auction.”
    When the door had shut behind him, Moist looked up at the golem’s impassive face.
    “You lied to him. Are you allowed to lie, Mr. Pump?” he said. “And you can lower that arm, by the way.”
    “I Have Been Instructed As To The Nature Of Social Untruths, Yes.”
    “You were going to smash his brains out!” said Moist.
    “I Would Have Endeavored Not To,” the golem rumbled. “However, I Cannot Allow You To Come To Inappropriate Harm. It Was A Heavy Kettle.”
    “You can’t do that, you idiot!” said Moist, who’d noticed the use of “inappropriate.”
    “I Should Have Let Him Kill You?” said the golem. “It Would Not Have Been His Fault. His Head Is Not Right.”
    “It’d be even less right if you walloped it. Look, I sorted it out!”
    “Yes,” Pump said. “You Have A Talent. It Is A Pity You Misuse It.”
    “Do you understand anything I’m saying?” shouted Moist. “You can’t just go around killing people!”
    “Why Not? You Do.” The golem lowered his arm.
    “What?” Moist. “I do not! Who told you that?”
    “I Worked It Out. You Have Killed Two Point Three Three Eight People,” said the golem calmly.
    “I have never laid a finger on anyone in my life, Mr. Pump. I may be—all the things you know I am, but I am not a killer! I have never so much as drawn a sword!”
    “No, You Have Not. But You Have Stolen, Embezzled, Defrauded, And Swindled Without Discrimination, Mr. Lipvig. You Have Ruined Businesses And