Going Postal

at the bottom, in a heavier typeface to show it was meant to be lighthearted, under the headline

    “History Cannot Be Denied”

    …were a dozen stories about the things that had happened when the ancient post turned up. There was the rumpus that had turned into a fracas; Mr. Parker and his bride-to-be; and others, too. The post had changed unremarkable lives in small ways. It was like cutting a window into history and seeing what might have been.
    That seemed to be the entirety of the front page, except for a story about the Watch hunting for the “mystery killer” who had mauled some banker to death in his house. They were baffled, it said. That cheered Moist up a little; if their infamous werewolf officer couldn’t sniff out a bloody murderer, then maybe they wouldn’t find Moist when the time came. A brain could surely beat a nose.
    Lord Vetinari seemed oblivious to Moist’s presence, and Moist wondered what effect a polite cough might have.
    At which point, the newspaper rustled.
    “It says here in the Letters column,” said the voice of the Patrician, “that the phrase ‘stick it up your jumper’ is based on an ancient Ephebian saying that is at least two thousand years old, thus clearly predating jumpers but not, presumably, the act of sticking.” He lowered the paper and looked at Moist over the top of it. “I don’t know if you happen to be following this interesting little etymological debate?”
    “No, sir,” said Moist. “If you remember, I spent the past six weeks in a condemned cell.”
    His Lordship put down the paper, steepled his fingers, and looked at Moist over the top of them.
    “Ah, yes. So you did, Mr. Lipwig. Well, well, well.”
    “Look, I’m really sor—” Moist began.
    “Anywhere in the world? Even to the gods? Our postmen don’t break down so easily? History is not to be denied? Very impressive, Mr. Lipwig. You have made quite a splash,” said Vetinari, smiling, “as the fish said to the man with the lead weight tied to his feet.”
    “I didn’t exactly say—”
    “In my experience, Miss Cripslock tends to write down exactly what one says,” Vetinari observed. “It’s a terrible thing when journalists do that. It spoils the fun. One feels instinctively that it’s cheating, somehow. And I gather you are selling promissory notes, too?”
    “What?”
    “The stamps , Mr. Moist. A promise to carry a penny’s worth of mail. A promise that must be kept. Do come and look at this.” He stood up and walked across to the window, where he beckoned. “Do come, Mr. Lipwig.”
    Fearing that he might be hurled down onto the cobbles, Moist nevertheless did so.
    “See the big clacks tower over there on the Tump?” said Vetinari, gesturing. “Not much activity on the Grand Trunk this morning. Problems on a tower out on the plains, I gather. Nothing is getting to Sto Lat and beyond. But now, if you look down.”
    It took Moist a moment to understand what he was seeing, and then—
    “That’s a queue outside the Post Office?” he said.
    “ Yes , Mr. Lipwig,” said Vetinari, with dark glee. “For stamps, as advertised. Ankh-Morpork citizens have an instinct for, you might say, joining in the fun. Go to it, Mr. Lipwig. I’m sure you’re full of ideas. Don’t let me detain you.”
    Lord Vetinari returned to his desk and picked up the paper.
    It’s right there on the front page , Moist thought, he can’t have not seen it…
    “Er…about the other thing…” he ventured, staring at the cartoon.
    “What other thing would that be?” said Lord Vetinari.
    There was a moment’s silence.
    “Er…nothing, really,” said Moist. “I’ll be off, then.”
    “Indeed you will, Postmaster. The mail must get through, must it not?”
    Vetinari listened to distant doors shut, and then went and stood at the window until he saw a golden figure hurry across the courtyard.
    Drumknott came and tidied up the “Out” tray.
    “Well done, sir,” he said quietly.
    “Thank you, Drumknott.”
    “I see Mr. Horsefry has passed away, sir.”
    “So I understand, Drumknott.”

    T HERE WAS A STIR in the crowd as Moist crossed the street. To his unspeakable relief he saw Mr. Spools, standing with one of the serious men from his printery. Spools hurried over to him.
    “I, er, have several thousand of both of the, er, items,” he whispered, pulling out a package from under his coat. “Pennies and two-pennies. They’re not the best we can do but I thought you might be in want