Going Postal

came down like a wolf on the fold ,
His cohorts all gleaming in azure and gold…
    Just for a moment, a flicker of time, Moist thought: I’ve been made, she knows. Somehow, she knows . Then his brain took over. He turned to Miss Dearheart.
    “When I was a kid, I always thought that a cohort was a piece of armor, Miss Dearheart,” he said, giving her a smile. “I used to imagine the troops sitting up all night, polishing them.”
    “Sweet,” said Miss Dearheart, lighting a cigarette. “Look, I’ll get you the rest of the golems as soon as possible. There may be trouble, of course. The Watch will be on your side, though. There’s a free golem in the Watch and they rather like him, although here it doesn’t much matter what you’re made of when you join the Watch, because Commander Vimes will see to it that you become solid copper through and through. He’s the most cynical bastard that walks under the sun.”
    “ You think he’s cynical—” said Moist.
    “Yes,” she said, blowing smoke. “As you suspect, that’s practically a professional opinion. But thank you for hiring the boys. I’m not sure they understand what ‘liking’ something means, but they like to work. And Pump 19 seems to hold you in some regard.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I personally think you are a phoney.”
    “Yes, I expect you do,” said Moist. Ye gods, Miss Dearheart was hard work. He’d met women he couldn’t charm, but they’d been foothills compared to the icy heights of Mt. Dearheart. It was an act. It had to be. It was a game. It had to be.
    He pulled out his packet of stamp designs.
    “What do you think of these, Miss D—look, what do your friends call you, Miss Dearheart?”
    And in his head Moist said to himself, I don’t know , just as the woman said: “I don’t know. What’s this? You carry your etchings with you to save time?”
    So it was a game, and he was invited to play.
    “They will be copper-engraved, I hope,” he said meekly. “They’re my designs for the new stamps.” He explained about the stamps idea, while she looked at the pages.
    “Good one of Vetinari,” she said. “They say he dyes his hair, you know. What’s this one? Oh, the Tower of Art…how like a man. A dollar, eh? Hmm. Yes, they’re quite good. When will you use them?”
    “Actually, I was planning to slip along to Teemer and Spools while the lads are out now, and discuss the engraving,” said Moist.
    “Good. They’re a decent firm,” she said. “Sluice 23 is turning the machinery for them. They keep him clean and don’t stick notices on him. I go and check on all the hired golems every week. The Frees are very insistent on that.”
    “To make sure they’re not mistreated?” said Moist.
    “To make sure they’re not forgotten. You’d be amazed at how many businesses in the city have a golem working somewhere on the premises. Not the Grand Trunk, though,” she added. “I won’t let them work there.”
    There was an edge to that statement.
    “Er…why not?” said Moist.
    “There’s some shit not even a golem should work in,” said Miss Dearheart, in the same steel tone. “They are moral creatures.”
    O-kay , thought Moist, bit of a sore point there, then?
    His mouth said: “Would you like to have dinner tonight?” For just the skin of a second, Miss Dearheart was surprised, but not half as surprised as Moist. Then her natural cynicism reinflated.
    “I like to have dinner every night. With you? No. I have things to do. Thank you for asking.”
    “No problem,” said Moist, slightly relieved.
    The woman looked around the echoing hall. “Doesn’t this place give you the creeps? You could perhaps do something with some floral wallpaper and a firebomb.”
    “It’s all going to be sorted out,” said Moist quickly. “But it’s best to get things moving as soon as possible. To show we’re in business.”
    They watched Stanley and Groat, who were patiently sorting at the edge of a pile, prospectors in the foothills of the postal mountain. They were dwarfed by the white hillocks.
    “It will take you forever to deliver them, you know,” said Miss Dearheart, turning to go.
    “Yes, I know,” said Moist.
    “But that’s the thing about golems,” added Miss Dearheart, standing in the doorway. The light caught her face oddly. “They’re not frightened of ‘forever.’ They’re not frightened of anything .”

CHAPTER 7
    Tomb of Words
The Invention of the hole • Mr. Lipwig speaks out
• The