Going Postal

was a bright yellow bar, joining two short lengths of chain with a yellow shackle attached, one for each leg. The only way this horse would go anywhere was by hopping, just like him.
    They’d clamped it. They’d bloody clamped it…
    “Oh, Mr. Lipppppwig!” the voice boomed out across the stable yard. “Do You Want To Know The Rules , Mr. Lipwig?”
    He looked around in desperation. There was nothing in here to use as a weapon, and in any case weapons made him nervous, which was why he’d never, ever carried one. Weapons raised the ante far too high. It was much better to rely on a gift for talking his way out of things, confusing the issue, and, if that failed, some well-soled shoes and a cry of “Look, what’s that over there?”
    But he had a definite feeling that while he could talk as much as he liked, out here no one was going to listen. As for speeding away, he’d just have to rely on hop.
    There was a yard broom and a wooden feed bucket in the corner. He stuck the head of the broom under his armpit to make a crutch, and grabbed the bucket handle as heavy footsteps thudded toward the stable door. When the door was pushed open, he swung the bucket as hard as he could, and felt it shatter. Splinters filled the air. A moment later, there was the thump of a heavy body hitting the ground.
    Moist hopped over it and plunged unsteadily into the dark.
    Something as tough and hard as a shackle snapped around his good ankle. He hung from the broom handle for a second, and then collapsed.
    “I Have Nothing But Good Feelings Toward You, Mr. Lipwig!” boomed the voice cheerfully.
    Moist groaned. The broom must have been kept as an ornament, because it certainly hadn’t been used much on the accumulations in the stable yard. On the positive side, this meant he had fallen into something soft. On the negative side, it meant that he had fallen into something soft.
    Someone grabbed a handful of his coat and lifted him bodily out of the muck.
    “Up We Get, Mr. Lipwig!”
    “It’s pronounced Lipvig, you moron,” he moaned. “A V, not a W!”
    “Up Ve Get, Mr. Lipvig!” said the booming voice as his broom/crutch was pushed under his arm.
    “What the hell are you?” Lipwig managed.
    “I Am Your Parole Officer, Mr. Lipvig!”
    Moist managed to turn around, and looked up, and then up again, into a gingerbread man’s face with two glowing red eyes in it. When it spoke, its mouth was a glimpse into an inferno.
    “A golem? You’re a damn golem ?”
    The thing picked him up in one hand and slung him over its shoulder. It ducked into the stables and Moist, upside down with his nose pressed against the terra-cotta of the creature’s body, realized that it was picking up his horse in its other hand. There was a brief whinny.
    “Ve Must Make Haste, Mr. Lipvig! You Are Due In Front Of Lord Vetinari At Eight O’clock! And At Vork By Nine!”
    Moist groaned.

    “A H , M R. L IPWIG . Regrettably, we meet again,” said Lord Vetinari.
    It was eight o’clock in the morning. Moist was swaying. His ankle felt better, but it was the only part of him that did.
    “It walked all night!” he said. “All damn night! Carrying a horse as well!”
    “Do sit down , Mr. Lipwig,” said Vetinari, looking up from the table and gesturing wearily to the chair. “By the way, ‘it’ is a ‘he.’ An honorific in this case, clearly, but I have great hopes of Mr. Pump.”
    Moist saw the glow on the walls as, behind him, the golem smiled.
    Vetinari looked down at the table again, and seemed to lose interest in Moist for a moment. A slab of stone occupied most of the table. Little carvings of dwarfs and trolls covered it. It looked like some kind of game.
    “ Mr. Pump?” said Moist.
    “Hmm?” said Vetinari, moving his head to look at the board from a slightly different viewpoint.
    Moist leaned toward the Patrician and jerked a thumb in the direction of the golem.
    “ That ,” he said, “is Mr. Pump?”
    “No,” said Lord Vetinari, leaning forward likewise and suddenly, completely and disconcertingly, focusing on Moist. “ He… is Mr. Pump. Mr. Pump is a government official. Mr. Pump does not sleep. Mr. Pump does not eat. And Mr. Pump, Postmaster General, does not stop .”
    “And that means what, exactly?”
    “It means that if you are thinking of, say, finding a ship headed for Fourecks, on the basis that Mr. Pump is big and heavy and travels only at walking pace, Mr. Pump will follow you. You have to sleep. Mr. Pump