Going Postal

I thought he said—”
    “Yeah, yeah, Anghammarad got there too late and was swept away by the ferocious tidal wave, and the island sank.”
    “So…?” said Moist.
    “So what?” said Miss Dearheart.
    “So…he doesn’t think that delivering it now might be a bit on the tardy side?”
    “No. He doesn’t. You’re not seeing it like a golem. They believe the universe is doughnut-shaped.”
    “Would that be a ring doughnut or a jam doughnut?” said Moist.
    “Ring, definitely, but don’t push for further culinary details, because I can see you’ll try to make a joke of it. They think it has no start or finish. We just keep going round and round, but we don’t have to make the same decisions every time.”
    “Like getting an angel the hard way,” said Moist.
    “What do you mean?” said Miss Dearheart.
    “Er…he’s waiting until the whole tidal-wave business comes around again and this time he’ll get there earlier and do it right?”
    “Yes. Don’t point out all the flaws in the idea. It works for him.”
    “He’s going to wait for millions and millions of years?” said Moist.
    “ That’s not a flaw, not to a golem. That’s only a matter of time. They don’t get bored. They repair themselves and they’re very hard to shatter. They survive under the sea or in red-hot lava. He might be able to do it, who knows? In the meantime, he keeps himself busy. Just like you, Mr. Lipwig. You’ve been very busy—”
    She froze, staring over his shoulder. He saw her right hand scrabble frantically among the cutlery and grab a knife.
    “That bastard has just walked into the place!” she hissed. “Reacher Gilt! I’ll just kill him and join you for the pudding…”
    “You can’t do that!” hissed Moist.
    “Oh? Why not?”
    “You’re using the wrong knife! That’s for the fish! You’ll get into trouble!”
    She glared at him, but her hand relaxed, and something like a smile appeared on her face.
    “They don’t have a knife for stabbing rich, murdering bastards?” she said.
    “They bring it to the table when you order one,” said Moist urgently. “Look, this isn’t the Drum, they don’t just throw the body into the river! They’ll call the Watch! Get a grip. Not on the knife! And get ready to run.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I forged his signature on Grand Trunk notepaper to get us in here, that’s why.”
    Moist turned to look around at the great man in the flesh for the first time. He was great, a bear-shaped man, in a frock coat big enough for two, and a gold-braid waistcoat. And he had a cockatoo on his shoulder, although a waiter was hurrying forward with a shiny brass perch and, presumably, the seed-and-nut menu.
    There was a party of well-dressed people with Gilt, and as they progressed across the room the whole place began to revolve around the big man, gold being very dense and having a gravity all of its own. Waiters bustled and groveled and did unimportant things with an air of great importance, and it was probably only a matter of minutes before one of them told Gilt that his other guests had been seated. But Moist was scanning the rest of the room for the—ah, there they were, two of them. What was it about hired muscle that made it impossible to get a suit to fit?
    One was watching the door, one was watching the room, and without a shadow of a doubt there was at least one in the kitchen.
    —and, yes, the maître d’ was earning his tip by assuring the great man that his friends had been duly looked after—
    —the big head, with its leonine mane, turned to stare at Moist’s table—
    —Miss Dearheart murmured, “Oh gods, he’s coming over!”—
    —and Moist stood up. The hired fists had shifted position. They wouldn’t actually do anything in here, but nor would anyone else be worried if he was escorted out with speed and firmness for a little discussion in some alley somewhere. Gilt was advancing between the tables, leaving his puzzled guests behind.
    This was a job for people skills, or diving through the window. But Gilt would have to be at least marginally polite. People were listening.
    “Mr. Reacher Gilt?” said Moist.
    “Indeed, sir,” said Gilt, grinning without a trace of humor. “But you appear to have me at a disadvantage.”
    “I do hope not, sir,” said Moist.
    “It appears that I asked the restaurant to retain a table for you, Mr.…Lipwig?”
    “Did you, Mr. Gilt?” said Moist, with what he knew was remarkably persuasive innocence.