Going Postal

the semaphore now.”
    “But our ciphers are very well—”
    “I do not trust the semaphore now,” Gryle repeated.
    “Very well.”
    “Description,” said Gryle,
    “No one seems to remember what he looks like,” said Gilt. “But he always wears a big golden hat, with wings, and he has an apartment in the building.”
    For a moment, something flickered around Gryle’s thin lips. It was a smile, panicking at finding itself in such an unfamiliar place.
    “Can he fly?” he said.
    “Alas, he doesn’t seem inclined to venture into high places,” said Gilt.
    Gryle stood up.
    “I will do this tonight.”
    “Good man. Or, rather—”
    “Understood,” said Gryle.

CHAPTER 9
    Bonfire
“Slugger” and “Leadpipe” • Gladys pulls it off
• The Hour of the Dead • Irrational fear of dental
spinach • “A proper brawl doesn’t just happen”
• How the trunk was stolen • The etiquette of knives
• Stanley’s Little Moment • Face to face • Fire
    T HE MAIL COACHES had survived the decline and fall of the Post Office because they had to. Horses needed to be fed. But in any case, the coaches had always carried passengers. The halls went silent, the chandeliers disappeared along with everything else, even things that were nailed down, but out back in the big yard the coach service flourished. The coaches weren’t exactly stolen, and weren’t exactly inherited…they just drifted into the possession of the coach people.
    Then, according to Groat, who regarded himself as the custodian of all Post Office knowledge, the other coach drivers had been bought out by Big Jim “Still Standing” Upwright with the money he won betting on himself in a bare-knuckle contest against Harold “The Hog” Boots, and was now run by his sons Harry “Slugger” Upwright and Little Jim “Leadpipe” Upwright.
    Moist could see that a careful approach was going to be required.
    The hub, or nerve center, of the coach business was a big shed next to the stable. It smelled—no, it stank of—no, it fugged of—horses, leather, veterinary medicine, bad coal, brandy, and cheap cigars. That’s what a fug was. You could have cut cubes out of the air and sold it for cheap building material.
    When Moist entered, a huge man, made practically hemispherical by multiple layers of waistcoats and overcoats, was warming his backside in front of the roaring stove. Another man of very much the same shape was leaning over the shoulder of a clerk, both of them concentrating on some paper.
    Some staffing debate had obviously been in progress, because the man by the fire was saying, “Well, then, if he’s sick put young Alfred on the evening run and—”
    He stopped when he saw Moist, and then said, “Yes, sir? What can we do for you?”
    “Carry my mailbags,” said Moist.
    They stared at him, and then the man who’d been toasting his bottom broke into a grin. Jim and Harry Upwright might have been twins. They were big men, who looked as though they’d been built out of pork and fat bacon.
    “Are you this shiny new postmaster we’ve been hearing about?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Yeah, well, your man was already here,” said the toaster. “Went on and on about how we should do this and do that, never said anything about the price!”
    “A price?” said Moist, spreading out his hands and beaming. “Is that all this is about? Easily done. Easily done.”
    He turned, opened the door, and shouted: “Okay, Gladys!”
    There was some shouting in the darkness of the yard, and then the creak of timber.
    “What the hell did you do?” said the spherical man.
    “My price is this,” said Moist. “You agree to carry my mail, and you won’t have another wheel dragged off that mail coach out there. I can’t say fairer than that, okay?”
    The man lumbered forward, growling, but the other coachman grabbed his coat.
    “Steady there, Jim,” he said. “He’s gov’ment and he’s got golems working for ’im.”
    On cue, Mr. Pump stepped into the room, bending to get through the doorway. Jim scowled at him.
    “That don’t frighten me!” said Jim. “They ain’t allowed to hurt folks!”
    “Wrong,” said Moist. “Probably dead wrong.”
    “Then we’ll call the Watch on yer,” said Harry Upwright, still holding back his brother. “All proper and official. How d’you like that?”
    “Good, call the Watch,” said Moist. “And I shall tell them I’m recovering stolen property.” He raised his voice.