Going Postal

looked torn between exultation and despair. “But we’ve only got a bunch of old men, sir! They’re pretty spry, I’ll grant you, but…well, you’ve got to learn to walk before you try to run, sir!”
    “No!” Moist’s fist thumped the table. “Never say that, Tolliver! Never! Run before you walk! Fly before you crawl! Keep moving forward! You think we should try to get a decent mail service in the city. I think we should try to send letters anywhere in the world! Because if we fail, I’d rather fail really hugely. All or nothing, Mr. Groat!”
    “Wow, sir!” said Groat.
    Moist grinned his bright, sunny smile. It very nearly reflected off his suit.
    “Let’s get busy. We’re going to need more staff, Postal Inspector Groat. A lot more staff. Smarten up, man. The Post Office is back!”
    “Yessir!” said Groat, drunk on enthusiasm. “We’ll…we’ll do things that are quite new, in interestin’ ways!”
    “You’re getting the hang of it already,” said Moist, rolling his eyes.

    T EN MINUTES LATER , the Post Office received its first delivery.
    It was Senior Postman Bates, blood streaming down his face. He was helped into the office by two Watch officers, carrying a makeshift stretcher.
    “Found him wandering in the street, sir,” said one of them. “Sergeant Colon, sir, at your service.”
    “What happened to him?” said Moist, horrified.
    Bates opened his eyes. “Sorry, sir,” he murmured, “I held on tight, but they belted me over the bonce with a big thing!”
    “Coupla toughs jumped him,” said Sergeant Colon. “They threw his bag in the river, too.”
    “Does that normally happen to postmen?” said Moist. “I thought—oh, no…”
    The new, painfully slow arrival was Senior Postman Aggy, dragging one leg because it had a bulldog attached to it.
    “Sorry about this, sir,” he said, limping forward, “I think my official trousers is torn. I stunned the bugger with my bag, sir, but they’re a devil to get to let go.” The bulldog’s eyes were shut; it appeared to be thinking of something else.
    “Good job you’ve got your armor, eh?” said Moist.
    “Wrong leg, sir. But not to worry. I’m nat’rally impervious around the calfy regions. It’s all the scar tissue, sir, you could strike matches on it. Jimmy Tropes is in trouble, though. He’s up a tree in Hide Park.”

    M OIST VON L IPWIG strode up Market Street, face set with grim purpose. The boards were still up on The Golem Trust, but they had attracted another layer of graffiti. The paint on the door was burned and bubbled, too.
    He opened the door, and instinct made him duck. He felt the crossbow bolt zip between the wings of his hat.
    Miss Dearheart lowered the bow. “My gods, it’s you! I thought for a second sun had appeared in the sky!”
    Moist rose cautiously as she laid the bow aside.
    “We had a fire bomb last night,” she said by way of explanation for attempting to shoot him in the head.
    “How many golems are for hire right now, Miss Dearheart?” said Moist.
    “Huh? Oh…about…a dozen or so—”
    “Fine. I’ll take them. Don’t bother to wrap them up. I want them down at the Post Office as soon as possible.”
    “What?” Miss Dearheart’s normal expression of perpetual annoyance returned. “Look, you can’t just walk in, snap your fingers, and order a dozen people like this—”
    “ They think they’re property!” said Moist. “That’s what you told me.”
    They glared at one another. Then Miss Dearheart fumbled distractedly in a filing tray.
    “I can let you ha— employ four right now,” she said. “That’d be Doors I, Saw 20, Campanile 2, and…Anghammarad. Only Anghammarad can talk at the moment, the Frees haven’t helped the others yet—”
    “Helped?”
    Miss Dearheart shrugged. “A lot of the cultures that built golems thought tools shouldn’t talk. They have no tongues.”
    “And the Trust gives them some extra clay, eh?” said Moist cheerfully.
    She gave him a look. “It’s a bit more mystical than that,” she said solemnly.
    “Well, dumb is okay so long as they’re not stupid,” said Moist, trying to look serious. “This Anghammarad’s got a name? Not just a description?”
    “A lot of the very old ones have. Tell me, what do you want them to do?” said the woman.
    “Be postmen,” said Moist.
    “Working in public?”
    “I don’t think you can have secret postmen,” said Moist, briefly seeing shadowy figures skulking from door to door.