Going Postal

like a mule.”

    M OIST DREAMED of bottled wizards, all shouting his name.
    In the best traditions of awaking from a nightmare, the voices gradually became one voice, which turned out to be the voice of Mr. Pump, who was shaking him.
    “Some of them were covered in jam!” Moist shouted, and then focused. “What?”
    “Mr. Lipvig, You Have An Appointment With Lord Vetinari.”
    This sunk in and sounded worse than wizards in jars. “I don’t have any appointment with Vetinari! Er…do I?”
    “He Says You Do, Mr. Lipvig,” said the golem. “Therefore, You Do. We’ll Leave By The Coach Yard. There Is A Big Crowd Outside The Front Doors.”
    Moist stopped with his trousers halfway on. “Are they angry? Are any of them carrying buckets of tar? Feathers of any kind?”
    “I Do Not Know. I Have Been Given Instructions. I Am Carrying Them Out. I Advise You To Do The Same.”
    Moist was hustled out into the back streets, where some shreds of mist were still floating.
    “What time is this, for heaven’s sake?” he complained.
    “A Quarter To Seven, Mr. Lipvig.”
    “That’s still nighttime! Doesn’t the man ever sleep? What’s so important that I’ve got to be dragged out of my nice warm pile of letters?”

    T HE CLOCK in Lord Vetinari’s anteroom didn’t tick right. Sometimes the tick was just a fraction late, sometimes the tock was early. Occasionally, one or the other didn’t happen at all. This wasn’t really noticeable until you’d been in there for five minutes, by which time small but significant parts of the brain were going crazy.
    Moist was not good at early mornings in any case. That was one of the advantages of a life of crime; you didn’t have to get up until other people had got the streets aired.
    The clerk Drumknott glided in on hushed feet, so soundlessly that he came as a shock. He was one of the most silent people Moist had ever encountered.
    “Would you like some coffee, Postmaster?” he said quietly.
    “Am I in trouble, Mr. Drumknott?”
    “I wouldn’t care to say, sir. Have you read the Times this morning?”
    “The paper? No. Oh…” Moist’s mind ran back furiously over yesterday’s interview. He hadn’t said anything wrong, had he? It had all been good, positive stuff, hadn’t it? Vetinari wanted people to use the post, didn’t he?
    “We always get a few copies straight off the press,” said Drumknott. “I shall fetch you one.”
    He returned with the paper. Moist unfolded it, took in the front page in one moment of agony, read a few sentences, put his hand over his eyes, and said, “Oh, gods.”
    “Did you notice the cartoon, Postmaster?” said Drumknott innocently. “It may be thought quite droll.”
    Moist risked another glance at the terrible page. Perhaps in unconscious self-defense his gaze had skipped over the cartoon, which showed two ragged street urchins. One of them was holding a strip of penny stamps. The text below read:
First Urchin (having acquired some of the newly minted “stampings”): “’Ere, ’ave you seen Lord Vetinari’s backside?”
Second Urchin: “Nah, and I wouldn’t lick it for a penny, neiver!”
    Moist’s face went waxen.
    “He’s seen this?” he croaked.
    “Oh, yes , sir.”
    Moist stood up quickly. “It’s still early,” he said. “Mr. Trooper is probably still on duty. If I run he can probably fit me in. I’ll go right away. That will be okay, won’t it? I’ll cut out the paperwork. I don’t want to be a burden to anyone, I’ll even—”
    “Now, now, Postmaster,” said Drumknott, pushing him gently back into his chair, “don’t distress yourself unduly. In my experience, his lordship is a… complex man. It is not wise to anticipate his reactions.”
    “You mean you think I’m going to live ?”
    Drumknott screwed up his face in thought, and stared at the ceiling for a moment.
    “Hmm, yes. Yes, I think you might,” he said.
    “I mean, in the fresh air? With everything attached?”
    “Quite probably, sir. You may go in now, sir.”
    Moist tiptoed into the Patrician’s office.
    Only Lord Vetinari’s hands were visible on either side of the Times . Moist reread the headlines with dull horror.

    We Don’t Break Down, Postmaster Vows
Amazing Attack on Clacks
Pledges: We’ll Deliver Anywhere
Using Remarkable New “Stamps”

    That was the main story. It was alongside a smaller story, which nevertheless drew the eye. The headline was:

    Grand Trunk
Down Again:
Continent
Cut Off

    …and