Going Postal

at all. They were so… small .
    Using the clacks like that was stupid, but allowing a bottom-feeder like Horsefry to find out about it was indefensible. It was silly . Silly small people with the arrogance of kings, running their little swindles, smiling at the people they stole from, and not understanding money at all.
    And stupid, piglike Horsefry had come running here. That made it a little tricky. The door was soundproofed, and the carpet was easily replaceable, and, of course, Igors were renowned for their discretion, but almost certainly someone unseen had watched the man walk in, and therefore it was prudent to ensure that he walked out.
    “Y’r a goo’ man, Reacher Gilt,” Horsefry hiccuped, waving the brandy glass unsteadily now that it was almost empty again. He put it down onto a small table with the exaggerated care of a drunk, but since it was the wrong one of three images of the table sliding back and forth across his vision, the glass smashed on the carpet.
    “Sor’ ’bout that,” he slurred. “Y’r a goo’ man, so I’m goin’ to gi’ you this. Can’t keep it inna house, can’t keep it, not wi’ Vetininararari’s spies onto me. Can’t burn it neither, ’sgot everything in it. All the little…transactions. Ver’ important. Can’t trust the others, they hate me. You take care of it, eh?”
    He pulled out a battered red journal and proffered it unsteadily. Gilt took it and flicked it open.
    His eye ran down the entries.
    “You wrote everything down, Crispin?” he said. “Why?”
    Crispin looked apalled.
    “Got to keep records, Reacher,” he said. “Can’t cover y’ tracks if you don’t know where y’left ’em. Then…can put it all back, see, hardly a crime at all.” He tried to tap the side of his nose, and missed.
    “I shall look after it with great care, Crispin,” said Gilt. “You were very wise to bring it to me.”
    “That means a lot t’me, Reacher,” said Crispin, now heading for the maudlin stage. “You take me seriossoussly, not like Greenyham and his pals. I take the risks, then they treat me like drit, I mean dirt. Bloody goo’ chap, you are. S’funny, y’know, you havin’ a Igor, bloody goo’ chap like you, ’cos”—he belched hugely—”’cos I heard that Igors only worked for mad chaps. Tot’ly bonkers chaps, y’know, and vampires and whatnot, people who’re a few pennies short of a picnic. Nothing against your man, mark you, he looks a bloody fine fellow, ahahaha, several bloody fine fellows…”
    Reacher Gilt pulled him up gently. “You’re drunk, Crispin,” he said. “And too talkative. Now, what I’m going to do is call Igor—”
    “Yeth, thur?” said Igor behind him. It was the kind of service few could afford.
    “—and he’ll take you home in my coach. Make sure you deliver him safely to his valet, Igor. Oh, and when you done that could you locate my colleague Mr. Gryle? Tell him I have a little errand for him. Good night, Crispin.” Gilt patted the man on a wobbly cheek. “And don’t worry . Tomorrow you’ll find all these little worries will have just…disappeared.”
    “Ver’ good chap,” Horsefry mumbled happily, “f’r a foreigner…”

    I GOR TOOK C RISPIN home. By that time the man had reached the “jolly drunk” stage and was singing the kind of song that’s hilarious to rugby players and children under the age of eleven, and getting him into his house must have awoken the neighbors, especially when he kept repeating the verse about the camel.
    The Igor drove back home, put the coach away, saw to the horse, and went to the little pigeon loft behind the house. These were big, plump pigeons, not the diseased roofrats of the city, and he selected a particularly fat one, expertly slipped a silver message ring around its leg, and tossed it up into the night.
    Ankh-Morpork pigeons were quite bright, for pigeons. Stupidity had a limited life in this city. This one would soon find Mr. Gryle’s rooftop lodgings, but it annoyed Igor that he never got his pigeons back.

    O LD ENVELOPES rose up in drifts as Moist strode angrily, and sometimes waded angrily, through the abandoned rooms of the Post Office. He was in the mood to kick holes in walls. He was trapped. Trapped. He’d done his best, hadn’t he? Perhaps there really was a curse on this place. “Groat” would be a good name for it—
    He pushed open a door and found himself in the big coach yard, around which the Post Office was bent like the