In which our hero discovers the world of pins - The Greengrocer’s

Apostrophe - S.W.A.L.K. - The path of Fate - The Golem Lady - The

Business of Business and the Nature of Freedom Once Again Discussed -

Clerk Brian shows enthusiasm

 

Rise And Shine, Mr Lipvig. Your Second Day As Postmaster!’

Moist opened one crusted eye and glared at the golem.

‘Oh, so you’re an alarm clock too?’ he said. ‘Aargh. My tongue. It feels like it was caught in a mousetrap.’

He half crawled, half rolled across the bed of letters and managed to stand up just outside the door.

‘I need new clothes,’ he said. ‘And food. And a toothbrush. I’m going out, Mr Pump. You are to stay here. Do something. Tidy the place up. Get rid of the graffiti on the walls, will you? At least we can make the place look clean!’

‘Anything You Say, Mr Lipvig.’

‘Right!’ said Moist, and strode off, for one stride, and then yelped.

‘Be Careful Of Your Ankle, Mr Lipvig,’ said Mr Pump.

‘And another thing!’ said Moist, hopping on one leg. ‘How can you follow me? How can you possibly know where I am?’

‘Karmic Signature, Mr Lipvig,’ said the golem.

‘And that means what, exactly?’ Moist demanded.

‘It Means I Know Exactly Where You Are, Mr Lipvig.’

The pottery face was impassive. Moist gave up.

He limped out into what, for this city, was a fresh new morning. There had been a touch of frost overnight, just enough to put some zest into the air and give him an appetite. The leg still hurt, but at least he didn’t need the crutch today.

Here was Moist von Lipwig walking through the city. He’d never done that before. The late Albert Spangler had, and so had Mundo Smith and Edwin Streep and half a dozen other personas that he’d donned and discarded. Oh, he’d been Moist inside (what a name, yes, he’d heard every possible joke), but they had been on the outside, between him and the world.

Edwin Streep had been a work of art. He’d been a lack-of-confidence trickster, and needed to be noticed. He was so patently, obviously bad at running a bent Find The Lady game and other street scams that people positively queued up to trick the dumb trickster and walked away grinning . . . right up to the point when they tried to spend the coins they’d scooped up so quickly.

There’s a secret art to forgery, and Moist had discovered it: in a hurry, or when excited, people will complete the forgery by their own cupidity. They’ll be so keen to snatch the money from the obvious idiot that their own eyes fill in all the little details that aren’t quite there on the coins they so quickly pocket. All you needed to do was hint at them.

But that was just for starters. Some customers never even discovered that they’d put fake coins in their purse, thus revealing to the incompetent Streep in which pocket they kept it. Later on they learned that Streep might be rubbish with a deck of cards but also that this lack was more than made up for by his exceptional skill as a pickpocket.

Now Moist felt like a peeled prawn. He felt as though he’d stepped out naked. And yet, still, no one was taking any notice. There were no cries of’Hey, you’, no shouts of’That’s him!’ He was just another face in the crowd. It was a strange new feeling. He’d never really had to be himself before.

He celebrated by buying a street directory from the Guild of Merchants, and had a coffee and a bacon sandwich while he thumbed, greasily, through it for the list of bars. He didn’t find what he was looking for there but he did find it in the list of hairdressers, and grinned when he did so. It was nice to be right.

He also found a mention of Dave’s Pin Exchange, up in Dolly Sisters, in an alley between a house of negotiable affection and a massage parlour. It bought and sold pins to pin fanciers.

Moist finished his coffee with a look on his face which those who knew him well, a group consisting in fact of absolutely nobody, would have recognized as the formation of a plan. Ultimately, everything was all about people. If he was going to be staying here for a while, he’d make himself comfortable.

He went for a walk to the self-styled ‘Home of Acuphilia!!!’

It was like lifting an unregarded stone and finding a whole new world. Dave’s Pin Exchange was the kind of small shop where the owner knows every single one of his customers by name. It was a wonderful world, the world of pins. It was a hobby that could last you a lifetime. Moist knew this because he expended one dollar on Pins by J. Lanugo Owlsbury, apparently the last word on the subject. Everyone had their funny little ways, Moist conceded, but he wasn’t entirely at home among people who, if they saw a pin-up, would pay attention to the pins. Some of the customers browsing the book racks {Mis-draws, Double Pointers and Flaws, Pins of Uberwald and Genua, First Steps in Pins, Adventures in Acuphilia . . . ) and staring covetously at the rack of pins laid out under glass had an intensity of expression that frightened him. They looked a bit like Stanley. They were all male. Clearly, women weren’t natural ‘pinheads’.

He found Total Pins on the bottom rack. It had a smudgy, home-produced look, and the print was small and dense and lacked such subtleties as paragraphs and, in many cases, punctuation. The common comma had looked at Stanley’s expression and decided not to disturb him.

When Moist put the little magazine on the counter the shop’s owner, a huge bearded man with dreadlocks, a pin through his nose, a beer belly belonging to three other people and the words ‘Death or Pins’ tattooed on a bicep, picked it up and tossed it back down dismissively.

‘Sure about that, sir?’ he said. ‘We’ve got Pins Monthly, New Pins, Practical Pins, Modern Pins, Pins Extra, Pins International, Talking Pins, Pins World, World Pins, World of Pins, Pins and Pinneries . . .’ Moist’s attention wandered off for a while but came back in time to catch ‘. . . the Acuphile Digest, Extreme Pins, $itfte! - that’s from Uberwald, very good if you collect foreign pins - Beginning Pins -that’s a part-work, sir, with a new pin every week - Pin Times and’ - here the big man winked - ‘Back Alley Pins’

‘I noticed that one,’ said Moist. ‘It has lots of pictures of young women in leather.’

‘Yes, sir. But, to be fair, they’re generally holding pins. So, then . . . it’s still Total Pins for you, is it?’ he added, as if giving a fool one last chance to repent of his folly.

‘Yes,’ said Moist. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.’ Dave scratched his stomach thoughtfully. ‘It’s just that the editor is a bit . . . a bit . . .’

‘A bit what?’ said Moist.

‘Well, we think he’s a bit weird about pins, to tell you the truth.’

Moist looked around the shop. ‘Really?’ he said.

Moist went to a nearby cafe and leafed through the magazine. One of the skills of his previous life had been an ability to pick up just enough about anything to sound like an expert, at least to nonexperts. Then he returned to the shop.

Everyone had their levers. Often it was greed. Greed was a reliable old standby. Sometimes it was pride. That was Groat’s lever. He desperately wanted promotion; you could see it in his eyes. Find the lever, and then it was plain sailing.

Stanley, now, Stanley . . . would be easy.

Big Dave was examining a pin under a microscope when Moist returned to the shop. The rush hour for pin buying must have been nearly over, because there were only a few laggards ogling the pins under glass, or thumbing through the racks.

Moist sidled over to the counter and coughed.

‘Yes, sir?’ said Big Dave, looking up from his work. ‘Back again, eh? They get to you, don’t they? Seen anything you like?’

‘A packet of pre-perforated pin papers and a tenpenny lucky dip bag, please,’ said Moist loudly. The other customers looked up for a moment as Dave pulled the packets off their rack, and then looked down again.

Moist leaned over the counter. ‘I was wondering,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘if you’d got anything a bit . . . you know . . . sharper?’

The big man gave him a carefully blank look. ‘How d’you mean, sharper?’ he said.

‘You know,’ said Moist. He cleared his throat. ‘More . . . pointed.’

The doorbell jangled as the last of the customers, sated on pins for one day, stepped out. Dave watched them go and then turned his attention back to Moist.

‘A bit of a connoisseur, are we, sir?’ he said, winking.

‘A serious student,’ said Moist. ‘Most of the stuff here, well . . .’

‘I don’t touch nails,’ said Dave sharply. ‘Won’t have ‘em in the shop! I’ve got a reputation to think about! Little kids come in here, you know!’

‘Oh no! Strictly pins, that’s me!’ said Moist hastily.

‘Good,’ said Dave, relaxing. ‘As it happens, I might have one or two items for the genuine collector.’ He nodded towards a beaded curtain at the back of the shop. ‘Can’t put everything on display, not with youngsters around, you know how it is . . .’

Moist followed him through the clashing curtain and into the crowded little room behind, where Dave, after looking around con-spiratorially, pulled a small black box off a shelf and flipped it open under Moist’s nose.

‘Not something you find every day, eh?’ said Dave.

Gosh, it’s a pin, thought Moist, but said ‘Wow!’ in a tone of well-crafted genuine surprise.

A few minutes later he stepped out of the shop, fighting an impulse to turn his collar up. That was the problem with certain kinds of insanity. They could strike at any time. After all, he’d just spent AM$70 on a damn pin!

He stared at the little packets in his hand and sighed. As he carefully put them in his jacket pocket, his hand touched something papery.

Oh, yes. The S.W.A.L.K. letter. He was about to shove it back when his eye caught sight of the ancient street sign opposite: Lobbin Clout. And as his gaze moved down it also saw, over the first shop in the narrow street:

 

NO.1 A. PARKER & SON’S

GREENGROCER’S

HIGH CLAS’S FRUIT AND VEGETABLE’S

 

Well, why not deliver it? Hah! He was the postmaster, wasn’t he? What harm could it do?

He slipped into the shop. A middle-aged man was introducing fresh carrots, or possibly carrot’s, into the life of a bulky woman with a big shopping bag and hairy warts.

‘Mr Antimony Parker?’ said Moist urgently.

‘Be with you in ju’st one moment, s’ir, I’m ju’st—’ the man began.

‘I just need to know if you are Mr Antimony Parker, that’s all,’ said Moist. The woman turned to glare at the intruder, and Moist gave her a smile so winning that she blushed and wished just for a moment she’d worn make-up today.

‘Thats’ father,’ said the greengrocer. ‘He’s out the back, tackling a difficult cabbage—’

‘This is his,’ said Moist. ‘Postal delivery’ He put the envelope on the counter and walked quickly out of the shop.

Shopkeeper and customer stared down at the pink envelope.

‘S’.W.A.L.K?’ said Mr Parker.

‘Ooh, that takes me back, Mr Parker,’ said the woman. ‘In my day we used to put that on our letters when we were courting. Didn’t you? Sealed With A Loving Kiss. There was S.W.A.L.K., and L.A.N.C.R.E. and . . .’ she lowered her voice and giggled, ‘K.L.A.T.C.H., of course. Remember?’

‘All that pas’sed me by, Mrs Goodbody,’ said the greengrocer stiffly. ‘And if it mean’s young men are s’ending our dad pink envelope’s with ‘swalk on them, I’m thankful for that. Modern time’s, eh?’ He turned and raised his voice. ‘Father!’

 

Well, that was a good deed for the day, Moist thought. Or a deed, in any case.

It looked as though Mr Parker had managed to acquire some sons, one way or another. Still, it was . . . odd to think of all those letters heaped in that old building. You could imagine them as little packets of history. Deliver them, and history went one way. But if you dropped them in the gap between the floorboards, it went the other.

Ha. He shook his head. As if one tiny choice by someone unimportant could make that much difference! History had to be a bit tougher than that. It all sprang back eventually, didn’t it? He was sure he’d read something, somewhere. If it wasn’t like that, no one would ever dare do anything.

He stood in the little square where eight roads met, and chose to go home via Market Street. It was as good a way as any other.

 

When he was sure that both Stanley and the golem were busy on the mail mountains, Mr Groat crept away through the labyrinth of corridors. Bundles of letters were stacked so high and tightly that it was all he could do to squeeze through, but at last he reached the shaft of the old hydraulic elevator, long disused. The shaft had been filled up with letters.

However, the engineer’s ladder was still clear, and that at least went up to the roof. Of course, there was the fire escape outside, but that was outside, and Groat was not over-keen on going outside at the best of times. He inhabited the Post Office like a very small snail in a very large shell. He was used to gloom.

Now, slowly and painfully, his legs shaking, he climbed up through the floors of mail and forced open the trapdoor at the top.

He blinked and shuddered in the unfamiliar sunlight, and hauled himself out on to the flat roof.

He’d never really liked doing this, but what else could he have done? Stanley ate like a bird and Groat mostly got by on tea and biscuits, but it all cost money, even if you went round the markets just as they closed up, and somewhere in the past, decades ago, the pay had stopped arriving. Groat had been too frightened to go up to the palace to find out why. He was afraid that if he asked for money he’d be sacked. So he’d taken to renting out the old pigeon loft. Where was the harm in that? All the pigeons had joined their feral brethren years ago, and a decent shed was not to be sneezed at in this city, even if it did whiff a bit. There was an outside fire escape and everything. It was a little palace compared to most lodgings.

Besides, these lads didn’t mind the smell, they said. They were pigeon fanciers. Groat wasn’t sure what that entailed, except that they had to use a little clacks tower to fancy them properly. But they paid up, that was the important thing.

He skirted the big rainwater tank for the defunct lift and sidled around the rooftops to the shed, where he knocked politely.

‘It’s me, lads. Just come about the rent,’ he said.

The door was opened and he heard a snatch of conversation: ‘. . . the linkages won’t stand it for more than thirty seconds . . .’

‘Oh, Mr Groat, come on in,’ said the man who had opened the door. This was Mr Carlton, the one with the beard a dwarf would be proud of, no, two dwarfs would be proud of. He seemed more sensible than the other two, although this was not hard.

Groat removed his hat. ‘Come about the rent, sir,’ he repeated, peering around the man. ‘Got a bit o’ news, too. Just thought I’d better mention, lads, we’ve got a new postmaster. If you could be a bit careful for a while? A nod’s as good as a wink, eh?’

‘How long’s this one going to last, then?’ said a man who was sitting on the floor, working on a big metal drum full of what, to Mr Groat, appeared to be very complicated clockwork. ‘You’ll push him off the roof by Saturday, right?’

‘Now, now, Mr Winton, there’s no call to make fun of me like that,’ said Groat nervously. ‘Once he’s been here a few weeks and got settled in I’ll kind of . . . hint that you’re here, all right? Pigeons getting on okay, are they?’ He peered around the loft. Only one pigeon was visible, hunched up high in a corner.

‘They’re out for exercise right now,’ said Winton.

‘Ah, right, that’d be it, then,’ said Groat.

‘Anyway, we’re a bit more interested in woodpeckers at the moment,’ said Winton, pulling a bent metal bar out of the drum. ‘See, Alex? I told you, it’s bent. And two gears are stripped bare . . .’

“Woodpeckers?’ said Groat.

There was a certain lowering of the temperature, as if he’d said the wrong thing.

‘That’s right, woodpeckers,’ said a third voice.

‘Woodpeckers, Mr Emery?’ The third pigeon fancier always made Groat nervous. It was the way his eyes were always on the move, as if he was trying to see everything at once. And he was always holding a tube with smoke coming out of it, or another piece of machinery. They all seemed very interested in tubes and cogwheels, if it came to that. Oddly enough, Groat had never seen them holding a pigeon. He didn’t know how pigeons were fancied, but he’d assumed that it had to be close up.

‘Yes, woodpeckers,’ said the man, while the tube in his hand changed colour from red to blue. ‘Because . . .’ and here he appeared to stop and think for a moment, ‘we’re seeing if they can be taught to . . . oh, yes, tap out the message when they get there, see? Much better than messenger pigeons.’

‘Why?’ said Groat.

Mr Emery stared at the whole world for a moment. ‘Because . . . they can deliver messages in the dark?’ he said.

‘Well done,’ murmured the man dismantling the drum.

‘Ah, could be a lifesaver, I can see that,’ said Groat. ‘Can’t see it beating the clacks, though!’

‘That’s what we want to find out,’ said Winton.

‘But we’d be very grateful if you didn’t tell anyone about this,’ said Carlton quickly. ‘Here’s your three dollars, Mr Groat. We wouldn’t want other people stealing our idea, you see.’

‘Lips are sealed, lads,’ said Groat. ‘Don’t you worry about it. You can rely on Groat.’

Carlton was holding the door open. ‘We know we can. Goodbye, Mr Groat.’

Groat heard the door shut behind him as he walked back across the roof. Inside the shed, there seemed to be an argument starting; he heard someone say, ‘What did you have to go and tell him that for?’

That was a bit hurtful, someone thinking that he couldn’t be trusted. And, as he eased his way down the long ladder, Groat wondered if he ought to have pointed out that woodpeckers wouldn’t fly in the dark. It was amazing that bright lads like them hadn’t spotted this flaw. They were, he thought, a bit gullible.

 

A hundred feet down and a quarter of a mile away as the woodpecker flies during daylight, Moist followed the path of destiny.

Currently, it was leading him through a neighbourhood that was on the downside of whatever curve you hoped you’d bought your property on the upside of. Graffiti and rubbish were everywhere here. They were everywhere in the city, if it came to that, but elsewhere the garbage was better quality rubbish and the graffiti were close to being correctly spelled. The whole area was waiting for something to happen, like a really bad fire.

And then he saw it. It was one of those hopeless little shop fronts that house enterprises with a lifetime measured in days, like Giant Clearance Sale!!! of socks with two heels each, tights with three legs and shirts with one sleeve, four feet long. The window was boarded over, but just visible behind the graffiti above it were the words: The Golem Trust.

Moist pushed open the door. Glass crunched under his feet.

A voice said, ‘Hands where I can see them, mister!’

He raised his hands cautiously, while peering into the gloom. There was definitely a crossbow being wielded by a dim figure. Such light as had managed to get round the boards glinted off the tip of the bolt.

‘Oh,’ said the voice in the dark, as if mildly annoyed that there was no excuse to shoot anybody. ‘All right, then. We had visitors last night.’

‘The window?’ said Moist.

‘It happens about once a month. I was just sweeping it up.’ There was the scratch of a match, and a lamp was lit. ‘They don’t generally attack the golems themselves, not now there’s free ones around. But glass doesn’t fight back.’

The lamp was turned up, revealing a tall young woman in a tight grey woollen dress, with coal-black hair plastered down so that she looked like a peg doll and forced into a tight bun at the back. There was a slight redness to her eyes that suggested she had been crying.

‘You’re lucky to have caught me,’ she said. ‘I’d only come in to make sure nothing’s been taken. Are you here to sell or to hire? You can put your hands down now,’ she added, placing the crossbow under the counter.

‘Sell or hire?’ said Moist, lowering his hands with care.

‘A golem,’ she said, in a talking-to-the-hard-of-thinking voice. ‘We are the Go-lem Trust. We buy or hire go-lems. Do you want to sell a go-lem or hire a go-lem?’

‘Nei-ther,’ said Moist. ‘I’ve got a go-lem. I mean, one is work-ing for me.’

‘Really? Where?’ said the woman. ‘And we can probably speed up a little, I think.’

‘At the Post Office.’

‘Oh, Pump 19,’ said the woman. ‘He said it was government service.’

‘We call him Mister Pump,’ said Moist primly.

‘Really? And do you get a wonderful warm charitable feeling when you do?’

‘Pardon? What?’ said Moist, bewildered. He wasn’t sure if she was managing the trick of laughing at him behind her frown.

The woman sighed. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit snappish this morning. A brick landing on your desk does that to you. Let’s just say they don’t see the world in the same way as we do, okay? They’ve got feelings, in their own way, but they’re not like ours. Anyway . . . how can I help you, Mr . . . ?’

‘Von Lipwig,’ said Moist, and added: ‘Moist von Lipwig,’ to get the worst over with. But the woman didn’t even smile.

‘Lipwig, small town in Near Uberwald,’ she said, picking up a brick from the broken glass and debris on her desk, regarding it critically, and then turning to the ancient filing cabinet behind her and filing it under B. ‘Chief export: its famous dogs, of course, second most important export its beer, except during the two weeks of Sektober-fest, when it exports . . . second-hand beer, probably?’

‘I don’t know. We left when I was a kid,’ said Moist. ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s just a funny name.’

‘Try Adora Belle Dearheart some time,’ said the woman.

‘Ah. That’s not a funny name,’ said Moist.

‘Quite,’ said Adora Belle Dearheart. ‘I now have no sense of humour whatsoever. Well, now that we’ve been appropriately human towards one another, what exactly was it you wanted?’

‘Look, Vetinari has sort of lumbered me with Mr— with Pump 19 as an . . . an assistant, but I don’t know how to treat . . .’ Moist sought in the woman’s eyes for some clue as to the politically correct term, and plumped for ‘him.’

‘Huh? Just treat him normally.’

‘You mean normally for a human being, or normally for a pottery man filled with fire?’

To Moist’s astonishment Adora Belle Dearheart took a packet of cigarettes out of a desk drawer and lit one. She mistook his expression, and proffered the pack.

‘No, thanks,’ he said, waving it away. Apart from the occasional old lady with a pipe, he’d never seen a woman smoke before. It was . . . strangely attractive, especially since, as it turned out, she smoked a cigarette as if she had a grudge against it, sucking the smoke down and blowing it out almost immediately.

‘You’re getting hung up about it all, right?’ she said. When Ms Dearheart wasn’t smoking she held the cigarette at shoulder height, the elbow of her left arm cupped in her right hand. There was a definite feel about Adora Belle Dearheart that a lid was only barely holding down an entire womanful of anger.

‘Yes! I mean—’ Moist began.

‘Hah! It’s just like the Campaign for Equal Heights and all that patronizing stuff they spout about dwarfs and why we shouldn’t use terms like “small talk” and “feeling small”. Golems don’t have any of our baggage about “who am I, why am I here”, okay? Because they know. They were made to be tools, to be property, to work. Work is what they do. In a way, it’s what they are. End of existential angst.’

Ms Dearheart inhaled and then blew out the smoke in one nervous movement. ‘And then stupid people go around calling them “persons of clay” and “Mr Spanner” and so on, which they find rather strange. They understand about free will. They also understand that they don’t have it. Mind you, once a golem owns himself, it’s a different matter.’

‘Own? How does property own itself?’ said Moist. ‘You said they were—’

‘They save up and buy themselves, of course! Freehold is the only path to freedom they’ll accept. Actually, what happens is that the free golems support the Trust, the Trust buys golems whenever it can, and the new golems then buy themselves from the Trust at cost. It’s working well. The free golems earn twenty-four/eight and there’s more and more of them. They don’t eat, sleep, wear clothes or understand the concept of leisure. The occasional tube of ceramic cement doesn’t cost much. They’re buying more golems every month now, and paying my wages, and the iniquitous rent the landlord of this dump is charging because he knows he’s renting to golems. They never complain, you know. They pay whatever’s asked. They’re so patient it could drive you nuts.’

Tube of ceramic cement, thought Moist. He tried to fix that thought in case it came in useful, but some mental processes were fully occupied with the growing realization of how well some women could look in a severely plain dress.

‘Surely they can’t be damaged, can they?’ he managed.

‘Certainly they can! A sledgehammer on the right spot would really mess one up. Owned golems will just stand there and take it. But the Trust golems are allowed to defend themselves, and when someone weighing a ton snatches a hammer out of your hand you have to let go really quickly.’

‘I think Mr Pump is allowed to hit people,’ said Moist.

‘Quite possibly. A lot of the frees are against that, but others say a tool can’t be blamed for the use to which it’s put,’ said Ms Dearheart. ‘They debate it a lot. For days and days.’

No rings on her fingers, Moist noted. What kind of attractive girl works for a bunch of clay men?

‘This is all fascinating? he said. ‘Where can I find out more?’

‘We do a pamphlet,’ said almost-certainly-Miss Dearheart, pulling open a drawer and flipping a thin booklet on to the desk. ‘It’s five pence.’

The title on the cover was Common Clay.

Moist put down a dollar. ‘Keep the change,’ he said.

‘No!’ said Miss Dearheart, fumbling for coins in the drawer. ‘Didn’t you read what it said over the door?’

‘Yes. It said “SmasH The Barstuds”,’ said Moist.

Miss Dearheart put a hand to her forehead wearily. ‘Oh, yes. The painter hasn’t been yet. But underneath that . . . look, it’s on the back of the pamphlet . . .’

, Moist read, or at least looked at.

‘It’s one of their own languages,’ she said. ‘It’s all a bit . . . mystic. Said to be spoken by angels. It translates as “By Our Own Hand, Or None”. They’re fiercely independent. You’ve no idea.’

She admires them, Moist thought. Whoo-ee. And . . . angels?

‘Well, thank you,’ he said. ‘I’d better be going. I’ll definitely . . . well, thank you, anyway.’

‘What are you doing at the Post Office, Mr von Lipwig?’ said the woman, as he opened the door.

‘Call me Moist,’ said Moist, and a bit of his inner self shuddered. ‘I’m the new postmaster.’

‘No kidding?’ said Miss Dearheart. ‘Then I’m glad you’ve got Pump 19 with you. The last few postmasters didn’t last long, I gather.’

‘I think I heard something about that,’ said Moist cheerfully. ‘It sounds as though things were pretty bad in the olden days.’

Miss Dearheart’s brow wrinkled. ‘Olden days?’ she said. ‘Last month was olden days?’

 

Lord Vetinari stood looking out of his window. His office had once had a wonderful view of the city and, technically, it still did, although now the roofline was a forest of clacks towers, winking and twinkling in the sunlight. On the Tump, the old castle mound across the river, the big tower, one end of the Grand Trunk that wound more than two thousand miles across the continent to Genua, glittered with semaphore.

It was good to see the lifeblood of trade and commerce and diplomacy pumping so steadily, especially when you employed clerks who were exceptionally good at decryption. White and black by day, light and dark by night, the shutters stopped only for fog and snow.

At least, until the last few months. He sighed, and went back to his desk.

There was a file open. It contained a report from Commander Vimes of the City Watch, with a lot of exclamation marks. It also contained a more measured report from clerk Alfred, and Lord Vetinari had circled the section headed ‘The Smoking Gnu’.

There was a gentle knock at the door and the clerk Drumknott came in like a ghost.

‘The gentlemen from the Grand Trunk semaphore company are all here now, sir,’ he said. He laid down several sheets of paper covered in tiny, intricate lines. Vetinari gave the shorthand a cursory glance.

‘Idle chitchat?’ he said.

‘Yes, my lord. One might say excessively so. But I am certain that the mouth of the speaking tube is quite invisible in the plasterwork, my lord. It’s hidden in a gilt cherub most cunningly, sir. Clerk Brian has built it into its cornucopia, which apparently collects more sounds and can be swivelled to face whoever—’

‘One does not have to see something to know that it is there, Drumknott.’ Vetinari tapped the paper. ‘These are not stupid men. Well, some of them, at least. You have the files?’

Drumknott’s pale face bore for a moment the pained expression of a man forced to betray the high principles of filing.

‘In a manner of speaking, my lord. We actually have nothing substantial about any of the allegations, we really haven’t. We’re running a Concludium in the Long Gallery, but it’s all hearsay, sir, I’m afraid. There’s . . . hints, here and there, but really we need something more solid . . .’

‘There will be an opportunity,’ said Vetinari. Being an absolute ruler today was not as simple as people thought. At least, it was not simple if your ambitions included being an absolute ruler tomorrow. There were subtleties. Oh, you could order men to smash down doors and drag people off to dungeons without trial, but too much of that sort of thing lacked style and anyway was bad for business, habit-forming and very, very dangerous for your health. A thinking tyrant, it seemed to Vetinari, had a much harder job than a ruler raised to power by some idiot vote-yourself-rich system like democracy. At least they could tell the people he was their fault.

‘. . . we would not normally have started individual folders at this time,’ Drumknott was agonizing. ‘You see, I’d merely have referenced them on the daily—’

‘Your concern is, as ever, exemplary,’ said Vetinari. ‘I see, however, that you have prepared some folders.’

‘Yes, my lord. I have bulked some of them out with copies of clerk Harold’s analysis of pig production in Genua, sir.’ Drumknott looked unhappy as he handed over the card folders. Deliberate misfiling ran fingernails down the blackboard of his very soul.

‘Very good,’ said Vetinari. He put them on his desk, pulled another folder out of a desk drawer to place on top of them, and moved some other papers to cover the small pile. ‘Now please show our visitors in.’

‘Mr Slant is with them, my lord,’ said the clerk.

Vetinari smiled his mirthless smile. ‘How surprising.’

‘And Mr Reacher Gilt,’ Drumknott added, watching his master carefully.

‘Of course,’ said Vetinari.

When the financiers filed in a few minutes later the conference table at one end of the room was clear and gleaming, except for a paper pad and the pile of files. Vetinari himself was standing at the window again.

‘Ah, gentlemen. So kind of you to come for this little chat,’ he said. ‘I was enjoying the view.’

He turned round sharply, and confronted a row of puzzled faces, except for two. One was grey and belonged to Mr Slant, who was the most renowned, expensive and certainly the oldest lawyer in the city. He had been a zombie for many years, although apparently the change in habits between life and death had not been marked. The other face belonged to a man with one eye and one black eye-patch, and it smiled like a tiger.

‘It’s particularly refreshing to see the Grand Trunk back in operation,’ said Vetinari, ignoring that face. T believe it was shut down all day yesterday. I was only thinking to myself that it was such a shame, the Grand Trunk being so vital to us all, and so regrettable that there’s only one of it. Sadly, I understand the backers of the New Trunk are now in disarray, which, of course, leaves the Grand Trunk operating in solitary splendour and your company, gentlemen, unchallenged. Oh, what am I thinking of? Do be seated, gentlemen.’

He gave Mr Slant another friendly smile as he took his seat.

‘I don’t believe I know all these gentlemen,’ he said.

Mr Slant sighed. ‘My lord, let me present Mr Greenyham of Ankh-Sto Associates, who is the Grand Trunk Company’s treasurer, Mr Nutmeg of Sto Plains Holdings, Mr Horsefry of the Ankh-Morpork Mercantile Credit Bank, Mr Stowley of Ankh Futures (Financial Advisers) and Mr Gilt—’

‘—all by himself,’ said the one-eyed man calmly.

‘Ah, Mr Reacher Gilt,’ said Vetinari, looking directly at him. ‘I’m so . . . pleased to meet you at last.’

‘You don’t come to my parties, my lord,’ said Gilt.

‘Do excuse me. Affairs of state take up so much of my time,’ said Lord Vetinari brusquely.

‘We should all make time to unwind, my lord. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, as they say.’

Several of the assembly paused in their breathing when they heard this, but Vetinari merely looked blank.

‘Interesting,’ he said.

He riffled through the files and opened one of them. ‘Now, my staff have prepared some notes for me, from information publicly available down at the Barbican,’ he said to the lawyer. ‘Directorships, for example. Of course, the mysterious world of finance is a closed, aha, ledger to me, but it seems to me that some of your clients work, as it were, for each other?’

‘Yes, my lord?’ said Slant.

‘Is that normal?’

‘Oh, it is quite common for people with particular expertise to be on the board of several companies, my lord.’

‘Even if the companies are rivals?’ said Vetinari.

There were smiles from around the table. Most of the financiers settled a little more easily in their chairs. The man was clearly a fool about business matters. What did he know about compound interest, eh? He’d been classically educated. And then they remembered his education had been at the Assassins’ Guild School, and stopped smiling. But Mr Gilt stared intently at Vetinari.

‘There are ways - extremely honourable ways - of assuring confidentiality and avoiding conflicts of interest, my lord,’ said Mr Slant.

‘Ah, this would be . . . what is it now . . . the glass ceiling?’ said Lord Vetinari brightly.

‘No, my lord. That is something else. I believe you may be thinking about the “Agatean Wall”,’ said Mr Slant smoothly. ‘This carefully and successfully ensures that there will be no breach of confidentiality should, for example, one part of an organization come into possession of privileged information which could conceivably be used by another department for unethical gain.’

‘This is fascinating! How does it work, exactly?’ said Vetinari.

‘People agree not to do it,’ said Mr Slant.

‘I’m sorry? I thought you said there is a wall—’ said Vetinari.

‘That’s just a name, my lord. For agreeing not to do it.’

‘Ah? And they do? How wonderful. Even though in this case the invisible wall must pass through the middle of their brains?’

‘We have a Code of Conduct, you know!’ said a voice.

All eyes except those belonging to Mr Slant turned to the speaker, who had been fidgeting in his chair. Mr Slant was a long-time student of the Patrician, and when his subject appeared to be a confused civil servant asking innocent questions it was time to watch him closely.

‘I’m very glad to hear it, Mr . . . ?’ Vetinari began.

‘Crispin Horsefry, my lord, and I don’t like the tone of your questioning!’

For a moment it seemed that even the chairs themselves edged away from him. Mr Horsefry was a youngish man, not simply running to fat but vaulting, leaping and diving towards obesity. He had acquired at thirty an impressive selection of chins, and now they wobbled with angry pride.*

 

* It is wrong to judge by appearances. Despite his expression, which was that of a piglet having a bright idea, and his mode of speech, which might put you in mind of a small, breathless, neurotic but ridiculously expensive dog, Mr Horsefry might well have been a kind, generous and pious man In the same way, the man climbing out of your window in a stripy jumper, a mask and a great hurry might merely be lost on the way to a fancy-dress party, and the man in the wig and robes at the focus of the courtroom might only be a transvestite who wandered in out of the rain Snap judgements can be so unfair.

 

‘I do have a number of other tones,’ said Lord Vetinari calmly.

Mr Horsefry looked around at his colleagues, who were somehow, suddenly, on the distant horizon.

‘I just wanted to make it clear that we’ve done nothing wrong,’ he muttered. ‘That’s all. There is a Code of Conduct.’

‘I’m sure I’ve not suggested that you have done anything wrong,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘However, I shall make a note of what you tell me.’

He pulled a sheet of paper towards him and wrote, in a careful copperplate hand, ‘Code of Conduct’. The shifting of the paper exposed a file marked ‘Embezzlement’. The title was of course upside down to the rest of the group and, since presumably it was not intended to be read by them, they read it. Horsefry even twisted his head for a better view.

‘However,’ Vetinari went on, ‘since the question of wrongdoing has been raised by Mr Horsefry,’ and he gave the young man a brief smile, ‘I am sure you are aware of talk suggesting a conspiracy amongst yourselves to keep rates high and competition non-existent.’ The sentence came out fast and smooth, like a snake’s tongue, and the swift flick on the end of it was: ‘And, indeed, some rumours about the death of young Mr Dearheart last month.’

A stir among the semicircle of men said that the shoe had been dropped. It wasn’t a welcome shoe, but it was a shoe they had been expecting and it had just gone thud.

‘An actionable falsehood,’ said Slant.

‘On the contrary, Mr Slant,’ said Vetinari, ‘merely mentioning to you the existence of a rumour is not actionable, as I am sure you are aware.’

‘There is no proof that we had anything to do with the boy’s murder,’ snapped Horsefry.

‘Ah, so you too have heard people saying he was murdered?’ said Vetinari, his eyes on Reacher Gilt’s face. ‘These rumours just fly around, don’t they . . .’

‘My lord, people talk,’ said Slant wearily. ‘But the facts are that Mr Dearheart was alone in the tower. No one else went up or down. His safety line was apparently not clipped to anything. It was an accident, such as happens often. Yes, we know people say his fingers were broken, but with a fall of that distance, hitting the tower on the way, can that really be surprising? Alas, the Grand Trunk Company is not popular at the moment and so these scurrilous and baseless accusations are made. As Mr Horsefry pointed out, there is no evidence whatsoever that what happened was anything more than a tragic accident. And, if I may speak frankly, what exactly is the purpose of calling us here? My clients are busy men.’

Vetinari leaned back and placed his fingers together.

‘Let us consider a situation in which some keen and highly inventive men devise a remarkable system of communication,’ he said. ‘What they have is a kind of passionate ingenuity, in large amounts. What they don’t have is money. They are not used to money. So they meet some . . . people, who introduce them to other people, friendly people, who for, oh, a forty per cent stake in the enterprise give them the much-needed cash and, very important, much fatherly advice and an introduction to a really good firm of accountants. And so they proceed, and soon money is coming in and money is going out but somehow, they learn, they’re not quite as financially stable as they think and really do need more money. Well, this is all fine because it’s clear to all that the basic enterprise is going to be a money tree one day, and does it matter if they sign over another fifteen per cent? It’s just money. It’s not important in the way that shutter mechanisms are, is it? And then they find out that yes, it is. It is everything. Suddenly the world’s turned upside down, suddenly those nice people aren’t so friendly any more, suddenly it turns out that those bits of paper they signed in a hurry, were advised to sign by people who smiled all the time, mean that they don’t actually own anything at all, not patents, not property, nothing. Not even the contents of their own heads, indeed. Even any ideas they have now don’t belong to them, apparently. And somehow they’re still in trouble about money. Well, some run and some hide and some try to fight, which is foolish in the extreme, because it turns out that everything is legal, it really is. Some accept low-level jobs in the enterprise, because one has to live and in any case the enterprise even owns their dreams at night. And yet actual illegality, it would appear, has not taken place. Business is business.’

Lord Vetinari opened his eyes. The men around the table were staring at him.

‘Just thinking aloud,’ he said. ‘I am sure you will point out that this is not the business of the government. I know Mr Gilt will. However, since you acquired the Grand Trunk at a fraction of its value, I note that breakdowns are increasing, the speed of messages has slowed down and the cost to customers has risen. Last week the Grand Trunk was closed for almost three days. We could not even talk to Sto Lat! Hardly “As Fast as Light”, gentlemen.’

‘That was for essential maintenance—’ Mr Slant began.

‘No, it was for repairs,’ snapped Vetinari. ‘Under the previous management the system shut down for an hour every day. That was for maintenance. Now the towers run until they break down. What do you think you are doing, gentlemen?’

‘That, my lord, and with respect, is none of your business.’

Lord Vetinari smiled. For the first time that morning, it was a smile of genuine pleasure.

‘Ah, Mr Reacher Gilt, I was wondering when we’d hear from you. You have been so uncharacteristically silent. I read your recent article in the Times with great interest. You are passionate about freedom, I gather. You used the word “tyranny” three times and the word “tyrant” once.’

‘Don’t patronize me, my lord,’ said Gilt. ‘We own the Trunk. It is our property. You understand that? Property is the foundation of freedom. Oh, customers complain about the service and the cost, but customers always complain about such things. We have no shortage of customers at whatever cost. Before the semaphore, news from Genua took months to get here, now it takes less than a day. It is affordable magic. We are answerable to our shareholders, my lord. Not, with respect, to you. It is not your business. It is our business, and we will run it according to the market. I hope there are no tyrannies here. This is, with respect, a free city.’

‘Such a lot of respect is gratifying,’ said the Patrician. ‘But the only choice your customers have is between you and nothing.’

‘Exactly,’ said Reacher Gilt calmly. ‘There is always a choice. They can ride a horse a few thousand miles, or they can wait patiently until we can send their message.’

Vetinari gave him a smile that lasted as long as a lightning flash.

‘Or fund and build another system,’ he said. ‘Although I note that every other company that has lately tried to run a clacks system in opposition has failed quite quickly, sometimes in distressing circumstances. Falls from the tops of clacks towers, and so on.’

‘Accidents do happen. It is most unfortunate,’ said Mr Slant stiffly.

‘Most unfortunate,’ Vetinari echoed. He pulled the paper towards him once again, dislodging the files slightly, so that a few more names were visible, and wrote ‘Most unfortunate’.

‘Well, I believe that covers everything,’ he said. ‘In fact, the purpose of this meeting was to tell you formally that I am, at last, reopening the Post Office as planned. This is just a courtesy announcement, but I felt I should tell you because you are, after all, in the same business. I believe the recent string of accidents is now at an en—’

Reacher Gilt chuckled. ‘Sorry, my lord? Did I understand you correctly? You really intend to continue with this folly, in the face of everything? The Post Office? When we all know that it was a lumbering, smug, overstaffed, overweight monster of a place? It barely earned its keep! It was the very essence and exemplar of public enterprise!’

‘It never made much of a profit, it is true, but in the business areas of this city there were seven deliveries a day,’ said Vetinari, cold as the depths of the sea.

‘Hah! Not at the end!’ said Mr Horsefry. ‘It was bloody useless!’

‘Indeed. A classic example of a corroded government organization dragging on the public purse,’ Gilt added.

‘Too true!’ said Mr Horsefry. ‘They used to say that if you wanted to get rid of a dead body you should take it to the Post Office and it’d never be seen again!’

‘And was it?’ said Lord Vetinari, raising an eyebrow.

‘Was what?’

‘Was it seen again?’

There was a sudden hunted look in Mr Horsefry’s eyes. ‘What? How would I know?’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘It was a joke. Ah, well.’ He shuffled the papers. ‘Unfortunately the Post Office came to be seen not as a system for moving the mail efficiently, to the benefit and profit of all, but as a money box. And so it collapsed, losing both mail and money. A lesson for us all, perhaps. Anyway, I have high hopes of Mr Lipwig, a young man full of fresh ideas. A good head for heights, too, although I imagine he will not be climbing any towers.’

‘I do hope this resurrection will not prove to be a drain on our taxes,’ said Mr Slant.

‘I assure you, Mr Slant, that apart from the modest sum necessary to, as it were, prime the pump, the postal service will be self-supporting as, indeed, it used to be. We cannot have a drag on the public purse, can we? And now, gentlemen, I am conscious that I am keeping you from your very important business. I do trust that the Trunk will be back in commission very shortly’

As they stood up, Reacher Gilt leaned across the table and said: ‘May I congratulate you, my lord?’

‘I am delighted that you feel inclined to congratulate me on anything, Mr Gilt,’ said Vetinari. ‘To what do we owe this unique occurrence?’

‘This, my lord,’ said Gilt, gesturing to the little side table on which had been set the rough-hewn piece of stone. ‘Is this not an original Hnaflbaflsniflwhifltafl slab? Llamedos bluestone, isn’t it? And the pieces look like basalt, which is the very devil to carve. A valuable antique, I think.’

‘It was a present to me from the Low King of the Dwarfs,’ said Vetinari. ‘It is, indeed, very old.’

‘And you have a game in progress, I see. You’re playing the dwarf side, yes?’

‘Yes. I play by clacks against an old friend in Uberwald,’ said Vetinari. ‘Happily for me, your breakdown yesterday has given me an extra day to think of my next move.’

Their eyes met. Reacher Gilt laughed hugely. Vetinari smiled. The other men, who badly needed to laugh, laughed too. See, we’re all friends, we’re like colleagues really, nothing bad is going to happen.

The laughter died away, a little uneasily. Gilt and Vetinari maintained smiles, maintained eye contact.

‘We should play a game,’ said Gilt. ‘I have a rather nice board myself. I play the troll side, for preference.’

‘Ruthless, initially outnumbered, inevitably defeated in the hands of the careless player?’ said Vetinari.

‘Indeed. Just as the dwarfs rely on guile, feint and swift changes of position. A man can learn all of an opponent’s weaknesses on that board,’ said Gilt.

‘Really?’ said Vetinari, raising his eyebrows. ‘Should he not be trying to learn his own?’

‘Oh, that’s just Thud! That’s easy!’ yapped a voice.

Both men turned to look at Horsefry, who had been made perky by sheer relief.

‘I used to play it when I was a kid,’ he burbled. ‘It’s boring. The dwarfs always win!’

Gilt and Vetinari shared a look. It said: while I loathe you and every aspect of your personal philosophy to a depth unplumbable by any line, I’ll credit you at least with not being Crispin Horsefry.

‘Appearances are deceptive, Crispin,’ said Gilt jovially. ‘A troll player need never lose, if he puts his mind to it.’

‘I know I once got a dwarf stuck up my nose and Mummy had to get it out with a hairpin,’ said Horsefry, as if this was a source of immense pride.

Gilt put his arm round the man’s shoulders. ‘That’s very interesting, Crispin,’ he said. ‘Do you think it’s likely to happen again?’

Vetinari stood at the window after they had left, watching the city below. After a few minutes, Drumknott drifted in.

‘There was a brief exchange in the ante-room, my lord,’ he said.

Vetinari didn’t turn round, but held up a hand. ‘Let me see . . . I imagine one of them started saying something like “Do you think he—” and Slant very quickly shushed him? Mr Horsefry, I suspect.’

Drumknott glanced at the paper in his hand. ‘Almost to the word, my lord.’

‘It takes no great leap of the imagination,’ sighed Lord Vetinari. ‘Dear Mr Slant. He’s so . . . dependable. Sometimes I really think that if he was not already a zombie it would be necessary to have him turned into one.’

‘Shall I order a Number One Investigation on Mr Gilt, my lord?’

‘Good heavens, no. He is far too clever. Order it on Mr Horsefry.’

‘Really, sir? But you did say yesterday that you believed him to be no more than a greedy fool.’

A nervous fool, which is useful. He’s a venal coward and a glutton. I’ve watched him sit down to a meal of pot au feu with white beans, and that was an impressive sight, Drumknott, which I will not easily forget. The sauce went everywhere. Those pink shirts he wears cost more than a hundred dollars, too. Oh, he acquires other people’s money, in a safe and secret and not very clever way. Send . . . yes, send clerk Brian.’

‘Brian, sir?’ said Drumknott. ‘Are you sure? He’s wonderful at devices, but quite inept on the street. He’ll be seen.’

‘Yes, Drumknott. I know. I would like Mr Horsefry to become a little . . . more nervous.’

‘Ah, I see, sir.’

Vetinari turned back to the window. ‘Tell me, Drumknott,’ he said, ‘would you say I’m a tyrant?’

‘Most certainly not, my lord,’ said Drumknott, tidying the desk.

‘But of course that’s the problem, is it not? Who will tell the tyrant he is a tyrant?’

‘That’s a tricky one, my lord, certainly,’ said Drumknott, squaring up the files.

‘In his Thoughts, which I have always considered fare badly in translation, Bouffant says that intervening in order to prevent a murder is to curtail the freedom of the murderer and yet that freedom, by definition, is natural and universal, without condition,’ said Vetinari. ‘You may recall his famous dictum: “If any man is not free, then I too am a small pie made of chicken”, which has led to a considerable amount of debate. Thus we might consider, for example, that taking a bottle from a man killing himself with drink is a charitable, nay, praiseworthy act, and yet freedom is curtailed once more. Mr Gilt has studied his Bouffant but, I fear, failed to understand him. Freedom may be mankind’s natural state, but so is sitting in a tree eating your dinner while it is still wriggling. On the other hand, Freidegger, in Modal Contextities, claims that all freedom is limited, artificial and therefore illusory, a shared hallucination at best. No sane mortal is truly free, because true freedom is so terrible that only the mad or the divine can face it with open eyes. It overwhelms the soul, very much like the state he elsewhere describes as Vonallesvolkommenunverstandlichdasdaskeit. What position would you take here, Drumknott?’

‘I’ve always thought, my lord, that what the world really needs are filing boxes which are not so flimsy,’ said Drumknott, after a moment’s pause.

‘Hmm,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘A point to think about, certainly.’

He stopped. On the carven decorations over the room’s fireplace a small cherub began to turn, with a faint squeaking noise. Vetinari raised an eyebrow at Drumknott.

‘I shall have a word with clerk Brian immediately, my lord,’ said the clerk.

‘Good. Tell him it’s time he got out into the fresh air more.’