Going Postal

they’d say, ‘Stone the crows, Tolliver, are you telling us you never got further than Junior Postman, what kind of Groat are you?’ and my face will be red and I will be knee-deep in the ignominy. Dun’t matter that I’ve been runnin’ this place for years , oh no. You got to have that gold button!”
    He stared at the fire, and somewhere in his matted beard a smile struggled to get out.
    “He can try walking the Walk,” he said. “No one can argue if he walks the Walk. An’ then I can tell him everything! So it’ll be all right! An’ if he don’t walk to the end, then he ain’t postmaster material anyway! Stanley? Stanley! ”
    Stanley awoke from a dream of pins.
    “Yes, Mr. Groat?”
    “Got a few errands for you to run, lad.” And if he ain’t postmaster material , Groat added in the privacy of his creaking brain, I’ll die a junior postman…

    I T WAS HARD to knock at a door while trying desperately not to make a sound, and in the end Crispin Horsefry gave up on the second aim and just swung on the doorknocker.
    The sound echoed through the empty street, but no one came to the window. No one in this select street would have come to the window even if a murder was going on. At least in the poorer districts people would have come out to watch, or join in.
    The door opened.
    “Good evening, thur—”
    Horsefry pushed past the stumpy figure and into the dark hallway, waving frantically to the servant to close the door.
    “Shut it, man, shut it! I may have been followed—good grief, you’re an Igor aren’t you? Gilt can afford an Igor?”
    “Well done, thur!” said the Igor. He peered out into the early-evening darkness. “All clear, thur.”
    “Shut the door, for gods’ sakes!” moaned Horsefry. “I must see Mr. Gilt!”
    “The marthter isth having one of hith little thoireeth, thur,” said Igor. “I will thee if he can be dithturbed.”
    “Are any of the others here? Have they—what’s a thwawreath?”
    “A little get-together, thur,” said Igor, sniffing. The man reeked of drink.
    “A soiree?”
    “Exactly tho, thur,” said Igor impassively. “May I take your highly notitheable, long, hooded cloak, thur? And be tho kind ath to follow me into the withdrawing room…”
    And suddenly Horsefry was alone in a big room full of shadows and candlelight and staring eyes, with the door closing behind him.
    The eyes belonged to the portraits in the big, dusty frames that filled the walls, edge to edge. Rumor was that Gilt had bought them outright, and not only the pictures; it was said that he bought all the rights in the long-dead as well, deed-polled their names, and thus equipped himself with a proud pedigree overnight. That was slightly worrying, even for Horsefry; everyone lied about their ancestors, and that was fair enough. Buying them was slightly disconcerting, but this dark, original stylishness was so very Reacher Gilt.
    A lot of rumors had begun concerning Reacher Gilt, just as soon as people had noticed him and started asking, “Who is Reacher Gilt? What kind of a name is Reacher, anyway?” He threw big parties, that was certain. They were the kind of parties that entered urban mythology (was it true about the chopped liver? Were you there? What about the time when he brought in a troll stripper and three people jumped out of the window? Were you there? And that story about the bowl of sweets? Were you there? Did you see it? Was is true? Were you there? ). Half of Ankh-Morpork had been, apparently, drifting from table to buffet to dance floor to gaming tables, every guest seemingly followed by a silent and obliging waiter with a laden drinks tray. Some said he owned a gold mine, others swore that he was a pirate. And he certainly looked like a pirate, with his long, curly black hair, pointed beard, and eyepatch. He was even said to have a parrot. Certainly the piracy rumor might explain the apparently bottomless fortune and the fact that no one, absolutely no one, knew anything about him prior to his arrival in the city. Perhaps he’d sold his past, people joked, just like he’d bought himself a new one.
    He was certainly piratical in his business dealings, Horsefry knew. Some of the things—
    “ Twelve and a half percent! Twelve and a half percent! ”
    When he was sure that he hadn’t in fact had the heart attack he had been expecting all day, Horsefry crossed the room, swaying just like a man who’s had a little drink or two to steady his nerves, and