Going Postal

said—you want to know what they said, sir?”
    “Hmm. Oh, yes. I’m all agog, Tolliver.” Moist’s eyes were scanning the strange letter over and over again.
    “They said, ‘Yeah, right,’” said Groat, a beacon of righteous indignation.
    “I wonder if Mr. Trooper can still fit me in…” mused Moist, staring at the ceiling.
    “Sorry, sir?”
    “Oh, nothing. I suppose I’d better go and talk to them. Go and find Mr. Pump, will you? And tell him to bring a couple of other golems. I want to…impress people.”

    I GOR OPENED the front door in answer to the knock.
    There was no one there. He stepped outside and looked up and down the street.
    There was no one there.
    He stepped back inside, closing the door behind him—and no one was standing in the hall, his black cloak dripping rain, removing his wide, flat-brimmed hat.
    “Ah, Mither Gryle, thur,” Igor said to the tall figure, “I thhould have known it wath you.”
    “Reacher Gilt asked for me,” said Gryle. It was more a breath than a voice.
    The clan of the Igors had any tendency to shuddering bred out of it generations ago.
    This was just as well. Igor felt uneasy in the presence of Gryle and his kind.
    “The marthter ith expecting—” he began.
    But there was no one there.
    It wasn’t magic, and Gryle wasn’t a vampire. Igors could spot these things. It was just that there was nothing spare about him—spare flesh, spare time, or spare words. It was impossible to imagine Gryle collecting pins, or savoring wine, or even throwing up after a bad pork pie. The picture of him cleaning his teeth or sleeping completely failed to form in the mind. He gave the impression of restraining himself, with difficulty, from killing you.
    Thoughtfully, Igor went down to his little room off the kitchen and checked that his little leather bag was packed, just in case.
    In his study, Reacher Gilt poured a small brandy. Gryle looked around him with eyes that seemed not at home with the limited vistas of a room.
    “And for yourself?” said Gilt.
    “Water,” said Gryle.
    “I expect you know what this is about?”
    “No.” Gryle was not a man for small talk or, if it came to it, any talk at all.
    “You’ve read the newspapers?”
    “Do not read.”
    “You know about the Post Office.”
    “Yes.”
    “How, may I ask?”
    “There is talk.”
    Gilt accepted that. Mr. Gryle had a special talent, and if that came as a package with funny little ways, then so be it. Besides, he was trustworthy, a man without middle grounds. He’d never blackmail you, because such an attempt would be the first move in a game that would almost certainly end in death for somebody ; if Mr. Gryle found himself in such a game he’d kill right now, without further thought, in order to save time, and assumed that anyone else would, too. Presumably he was insane, by the usual human standards, but it was hard to tell; the phrase “differently normal” might do instead. After all, Gryle could probably defeat a vampire within ten seconds, and had none of a vampire’s vulnerabilities, except perhaps an inordinate fondness for pigeons. He’d been a real find.
    “And you have found out nothing about Mr. Lipwig?” Gilt said.
    “No. Father dead. Mother dead. Raised by grandfather. Sent away to school. Bullied. Ran away. Vanished,” said the tall figure.
    “Hmm. I wonder where he’s been all this time? Or who he has been?”
    Gryle didn’t waste breath on rhetorical questions.
    “He is…a nuisance.”
    “Understood.” And that was the charm. Gryle did understand. He seldom needed an order, you just had to state the problem. The fact that it was Gryle that you were stating it to went a long way toward ensuring what the solution was likely to be.
    “The Post Office building is old and full of paper. Very dry paper,” said Gilt. “It would be regrettable if the fine old place caught fire.”
    “Understood.”
    And that was another thing about Gryle. He really did not talk much. He especially did not talk about old times, and all the other little solutions he had provided for Reacher Gilt. And he never said things like “What do you mean?” He understood.
    “Require one thousand, three hundred dollars,” he said.
    “Of course,” Gilt said. “I will clacks it to your account in—”
    “Will take cash,” said Gryle.
    “Gold? I don’t keep that much around!” said Gilt. “I can get in a few days, of course, but I thought you preferred—”
    “I do not trust