Going Postal

Suit.”
    “I liked that suit! At least you could have saved it for dusters, or something.”
    “I’m Sorry, Sir, I’d Assumed That Dusters Had Been Saved For Your Suit. But In Any Case, I Obeyed Your Order, Sir.”
    Moist paused. “What order?” he said suspiciously.
    “Last Night You Asked Me To Obtain A Suit Fit For A Postmaster, Sir. You Gave Me Very Precise Instructions,” said the golem. “Fortunately My Colleague Stitcher 22 Was Working At The Theatrical Costumers. It Is Hanging On The Door.”
    And the golem had even found a mirror. It wasn’t very big, but it was big enough to show Moist that if he was dressed any sharper he’d cut himself as he walked.
    “Wow,” he breathed. “El Dorado or what?”
    The suit was a cloth of gold, or whatever actors used instead. Moist was about to protest, but second thoughts intervened quickly.
    Good suits helped. A smooth tongue was not much help in rough trousers. And people would notice the suit, not him. He’d certainly be noticed in this suit; it’d light up the street, people would have to shade their eyes to look at him. And, apparently, he’d asked for this.
    “It’s very…” He hesitated. The only word was: “…fast. I mean, it looks as if it’s about to speed away at any moment!”
    “Yes, Sir. Stitcher 22 Has A Skill. Note Also The Gold Shirt And Tie. To Match The Hat, Sir.”
    “Er, you couldn’t get him to knock up something a little more somber, could you?” said Moist, covering his eyes to stop himself being blinded by his own lapels. “For me to wear when I don’t want to illuminate distant objects?”
    “I Shall Do So Immediately, Sir.”
    “Well,” Moist said, blinking in the light of his sleeves. “Let’s speed the mail, then, shall we?”
    The formerly retired postmen were waiting in the hall, in a space cleared from last night’s maildrop. They all wore uniforms, although since no two uniforms were exactly alike, they were not, in fact, uniform, and therefore not technically uniforms. The caps all had peaks, but some were high-domed and some were soft, and the old men themselves had ingrown their clothes, too, so that jackets hung like drape coats and trousers looked like concertinas. And, as is the wont of old men, they wore their medals and the determined looks of those ready for the final combat.
    “Delivery ready for inspection, sah!” said Postal Inspector Groat, standing at attention so hard that sheer pride had lifted his feet a full inch off the floor.
    “Thank you. Er…right.”
    Moist wasn’t sure what he was inspecting, but he did his best. Wrinkled face after wrinkled face stared back at him.
    The medals, he realized, weren’t all for military service. The Post Office had medals of its own. One was a golden dog’s head, worn by a little man with a face like a pack of weasels.
    “What’s this, er—” he began.
    “Senior Postman George Aggy, sir. The badge? Fifteen bites and still standin’, sir!” said the man proudly.
    “Well, that is a…a…a lot of bites, isn’t it…”
    “Ah, but I foxed ’em after number nine, sir, and got meself a tin leg, sir!”
    “You lost your leg?” said Moist, horrified.
    “No, sir. Bought a bit of ol’ armor, didn’t I?” said the wizened man, grinning artfully. “Does m’heart to hear their teeth squeaking, sir!”
    “Aggy, Aggy…” Moist mused, and then memory sparked. “Weren’t you—”
    “I’m the Worshipful Master, sir,” said Aggy. “I hope you won’t take last night the wrong way, sir. We all used to be like young Tolliver, sir, but we gave up hope, sir. No hard feelings?”
    “No, not,” said Moist, rubbing the back of his head.
    “And I’d like to add my own message of congratulations as chairman of the Ankh-Morpork Order of Postal Workers Benevolent & Friendly Society,” Aggy went on.
    “Er…thank you,” said Moist. “And who are they, exactly?”
    “That was us last night, sir,” said Aggy, beaming.
    “But I thought you were a secret society!”
    “Not secret, sir. Not exactly secret. More…ignored, you might say. These days it’s just about pensions and making sure your ol’ mates get a proper funeral when they’re Returned to Sender, really.”
    “Well done,” said Moist vaguely, which seemed to cover everything. He stood back and cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, this is it. If we want the Post Office back in business, we must start by delivering the old mail. It is a sacred trust. The mail gets through.