Going Postal

their blood!”
    “I think this one might be able to—” Groat began.
    “He can take the ultimate test,” said the Worshipful Master sternly. “You know what that is.”
    “It’ll be murder!” said Groat. “You can’t—”
    “I ain’t telling you again, young Tolly, you just shut your mouth! Well, Mister Postmaster? Will you face the postman’s greatest challenge? Will you face”—the voice paused for effect and just in case there might be a few bars of portentous music—“The Enemy At The Gate?”
    “Face it and o’ercome it, if you demand it!” said Moist. The fool had called him postmaster! It was working! Sound as if you’re in charge and they start to believe it! Oh, and “o’er” had been a good touch, too.
    “We do! Oh yes, we do!” chorused the robed postmen.
    Groat, a bearded shadow in the gloom, took Moist’s hand and, to his amazement, shook it.
    “Sorry about this, Mr. Lipwig,” he said. “Din’t expect this at all. They’re cheating. But you’ll be fine. You just rely on Senior Postman Groat, sir.”
    He drew his hand away, and Moist felt something small and cold in his palm. He closed his fist over it. Didn’t expect it at all ?
    “Right, Postmaster ,” said the Worshipful Master. “This is a simple test. All you have to do, right, is still be standing here, on your feet, in one minute’s time, all right? Run for it, lads!”
    There was a swishing of robes and scurrying of feet, and a distant door slammed. Moist was left standing in silent, pigeon-smelling gloom.
    What other test could there be? He tried to remember all the words on the front of the building. Trolls? Dragons? Green things with teeth? He opened his hand to see what it was that Groat had slipped him.
    It looked very much like a whistle.
    Somewhere in the darkness, a door opened and shut again. It was followed by the distant sound of paws moving purposefully.
    Dogs .
    Moist turned and ran down to the hall to the plinth, and scrambled onto it. It wouldn’t be much of a problem for large dogs, but at least it would put their heads at kicking height.
    Then there was a bark, and Moist’s face broke into a smile. You only ever needed to hear that bark once. It wasn’t a particularly aggressive one, because it was made by a mouth capable of crushing a skull. You didn’t need too much extra advertising when you could do that. News got around.
    This was going to be…ironic. They’d actually got hold of Lipwigzers!
    Moist waited until he could see the eyes in the lantern light before he said, “ Schlat! ”
    The dogs stopped and stared at Moist. Clearly, they were thinking, Something is wrong here .
    He sighed and slipped down off the pedestal.
    “Look,” he said, placing a hand on each rump and exerting downward pressure. “One fact everyone knows is that no female Lipwigzers have ever been let out of the country. That keeps the breed price high… Schlat! I said!…and every puppy is trained to Lipwigzian commands! This is the old country talking, boys! Schlat! ”
    The dogs sat down instantly.
    “Good boys,” said Moist. It was true what people like his grandfather said: Once you put aside their ability to bite through a whole leg in one go, they were very nice animals.
    He cupped his hands and shouted: “Gentlemen? It’s safe for you to come in now!” The postmen would be listening, that was certain. They’d be waiting for snarls and screams.
    The distant door opened.
    “Come forward!” snapped Moist. The dogs turned to look at the huddle of approaching postmen. They growled, too, in one long, uninterrupted rumble.
    Now he could see the mysterious order clearly. They were robed, of course, because you couldn’t have a secret order without robes. They had pushed the hoods back now, and each man * was wearing a peaked cap with a bird skeleton wired to it.
    “Now, sir, we knew Tolliver’d slip you the dog whistle—” one of them began, looking nervously at the Lipwigzers.
    “This?” said Moist, opening his hand. “I didn’t use it. It only makes ’em angry.”
    The postmen stared at the sitting dogs.
    “But you got ’em to sit—” one began.
    “I can get them to do other things,” said Moist levelly. “I just have to say the word.”
    “Er…there’s a couple of lads outside with muzzles, if it’s all the same to you, sir,” said Groat, as The Order backed away. “We’re heridititerrilyly wary of dogs. It’s a postman thing.”
    “I can assure you that the control