Going Postal

around. People were scribbling everywhere, even holding the notepaper up against walls. The stamps, penny and two-penny, were shifting fast. At the other end of the hall, the golems were sorting the endless mountains of mail…
    In fact, in a small way, the place was bustling.
    You should’ve seen it, sir, you should’ve seen it!
    “Lipwig, are yer?”
    He snapped out of a dream of chandeliers to see a thickset man in front of him. Recognition took a moment, and then said that this was the owner of Hobson’s Livery Stable, at once the most famous and notorious such establishment in the city. It was probably not the hive of criminal activity that popular rumor suggested, although the huge establishment often seemed to contain grubby-looking men with not much to do apart from sit around and squint at people. And he was employing an Igor, everyone knew, which of course was sensible when you had such a high veterinary overhead, but you heard stories… *
    “Oh, hello, Mr. Hobson,” said Moist.
    “Seems yer think I hire tired old horses, sir, do you?” said Willie Hobson. His smile was not entirely friendly. A nervous Stanley stood behind him. Hobson was big and heavyset, but not exactly fat; he was probably what you’d get if you shaved a bear.
    “I have ridden some that—” Moist began, but Hobson raised a hand.
    “Seems yer want fizz,” said Hobson. His smile widened. “Well, I always give the customer what I want, you know that. So I’ve brought yer Boris.”
    “Oh yes?” said Moist. “And he’ll get me to Sto Lat, will he?”
    “Oh, at the very least, sir,” said Hobson. “Good horseman, are yer?”
    “When it comes to riding out of town, Mr. Hobson, there’s no one faster.”
    “That’s good, sir, that’s good,” said Hobson, in the slow voice of someone carefully urging the prey toward the trap. “Boris does have a few faults, but I can see a skilled horseman like you should have no trouble. Ready, then? He’s right outside. Got a man holding him.”
    It turned out that there were, in fact, four men holding the huge black stallion in a network of ropes, while it danced and lunged and kicked and tried to bite. A fifth man was lying on the ground. Boris was a killer.
    “Like I said, sir, he’s got a few faults, but no one could call him a…now, what was it…oh, yeah, a feagued-up old screw. Still want a horse with fizz?” Hobson’s grin said it all: This is what I do to snooty buggers who try to mess me around. Let’s see you try to ride this one, Mister-I-Know-All-About-Horses!
    Moist looked at Boris, who was trying to trample the fallen man, and at the watching crowd. Damn the gold suit. If you were Moist von Lipwig, there was only one thing to do now, and that was raise the stakes.
    “Take his saddle off,” he said.
    “You what?” said Hobson.
    “Take his saddle off, Mr. Hobson,” said Moist firmly. “This bag’s quite heavy, so let’s lose the saddle.”
    Hobson’s smile remained, but the rest of his face tried to sidle away from it.
    “Had all the kids you want, have yer?” he said.
    “Just give me a blanket and a bellyband, Mr. Hobson.”
    Now Hobson’s smile vanished completely. This was going to look too much like murder. “You might want to think again, sir,” he said. “Boris took a couple of fingers off a man last year. He’s a trampler, too, and a snaffler, and a scraper, and he’ll horlock if he can get away with it. He’s got demons in him, and that’s a fact.”
    “Will he run?”
    “Not so much run as bolt, sir. Born evil, that one,” said Hobson. “You need a crowbar to get him round corners, too. Look, sir, fair play to yer for a game ’un, but I’ve got plenty of other—”
    Hobson flinched as Moist gave him a special grin. “ You chose him, Mr. Hobson. I’ll ride him. I’d be grateful if you could get your gentlemen to point him up Broadway for me while I go and conclude a few items of business.”
    Moist went into the building, ran up the stairs to his office, shut the door, crammed his handkerchief in his mouth, and whimpered gently for a few seconds, until he felt better. He’d ridden bareback a few times, when things had been really hot, but Boris had the eyes of a crazy thing.
    But back off now and he’d be…just a fool in a shiny suit. You had to give them a show, an image, something to remember. All he had to do was stay until he left the city and then find a suitable bush to jump off into. Yes, that’d do. And then