'Now would be a very good time for you to go and vithit her,' said Igor firmly. 'Do not athk me why. Goodbye, dear Mrthth Glowbury. I thall remember your liver with fondneth.' Now it was ten minutes to six. 'If You Leave Now, Mr Lipvig, You Will Be Just In Time For The Race,' the golem rumbled, from the corner. 'This is work of civic importance, Mr Pump,' said Moist severely, reading another letter. 'I am showing rectitude and attention to duty.'
'Yes, Mr Lipvig.' He let it go on until ten minutes past the hour, because it'd take five minutes to get to the square, at a nonchalant saunter. With the golem lumbering beside him, in something approaching the antithesis of both nonchalance and sauntering, he left the Post Office behind. The crowd in the square parted at his approach, and there were cheers and some laughter when people saw the broomstick over his shoulder. It had stars painted on it, therefore it must be a magic broomstick. Of such beliefs are fortunes made. Find The Lady, Find The Lady . . . there was a science to it, in a way. Of course, it helped if you found out how to hold three cards in a loose stack; that was really the key. Moist had learned to be good at that, but he had found mere mechanical tricks a bit dull, a bit beneath him. There were other ways, ways to mislead, to distract, to anger. Anger was always good. Angry people made mistakes. There was a space in the centre of the square, round the stagecoach on which Leadpipe Jim sat proudly. The horses gleamed, the coach-work sparkled in the torchlight. But the group standing around the coach sparkled rather less. There were a couple of people from the Trunk, several wizards and, of course, Otto Chriek the iconographer. They turned and welcomed Moist with expressions ranging from relief to deep suspicion. 'We were considering disqualification, Mr Lipwig,' said Ridcully, looking severe. Moist handed the broom to Mr Pump. 'I do apologize, Arch-chancellor,' he said. 'I was checking some stamp designs and completely lost track of time. Oh, good evening, Professor Pelc'
The Professor of Morbid Bibliomancy gave him a big grin and held up a jar. 'And Professor Goitre,' he said. 'The old chap thought he'd like to see what all the fuss is about.'
'And this is Mr Pony of the Grand Trunk,' said Ridcully. Moist shook hands with the engineer. 'Mr Gilt not with you?' he said, winking. 'He's, er, watching from his coach,' said the engineer, looking nervously at Moist. 'Well, since you are both here, Mr Stibbons will hand you each a copy of the message,' said the Archchancellor. 'Mr Stibbons?' Two packages were handed over. Moist undid his, and burst out laughing. 'But it's a book!' said Mr Pony. 'It'll take all night to code. And there's diagrams!' Okay, let's begin, thought Moist, and moved like a cobra. He snatched the book from the startled Pony, thumbed through it quickly, grabbed a handful of pages and ripped them out, to a gasp from the crowd. 'There you are, sir,' he said, handing the pages back. 'There is your message! Pages 79 to 128. We'll deliver the rest of the book and the recipient can put your pages in later, if they arrive!' He was aware of Professor Pelc glaring at him, and added: 'And I'm sure it can be repaired very neatly!' It was a stupid gesture but it was big and loud and funny and cruel and if Moist didn't know how to get the attention of a crowd he didn't know anything. Mr Pony backed away, clutching the stricken chapter. 'I didn't mean—' he tried, but Moist interrupted with: 'After all, we've got a big coach for such a small book.'
'It's just that pictures take time to code—' Mr Pony protested. He wasn't used to this sort of thing. Machinery didn't answer back. Moist allowed a look of genuine concern to cross his face. 'Yes, that does seem unfair,' he said. He turned to Ponder Stibbons. 'Don't you think that's unfair, Mr Stibbons?' The wizard looked puzzled. 'But once they've coded it it'll only take them a couple of hours to get it to Genua!' he said. 'Nevertheless, I must insist,' said Moist. 'We don't want an unfair advantage. Stand down, Jim,' he called up to the coachman. 'We're going to give the clacks a head start.' He turned to Ponder and Mr Pony with an expression of innocent helpfulness. 'Would an hour be all right, gentlemen?' The crowd exploded. Gods, I'm good at this, Moist thought. I want this moment to go on for ever . . . 'Mr Lipwig!' a voice called out. Moist scanned the faces, and spotted the caller. 'Ah, Miss Sacharissa. Pencil at the ready?'
'Are you seriously telling us you'll wait while the Grand Trunk prepares their message?' she said. She was laughing. 'Indeed,' said Moist, grasping the lapels of his gleaming jacket. 'We in the Post Office are fair- minded people. May I take this opportunity to tell you about our new Green Cabbage stamp, by the way?'
'Surely you're going too far, Mr Lipwig?'
'All the way to Genua, dear lady! Did I mention the gum is cabbage-flavoured?' Moist couldn't have stopped himself now for hard money. This was where his soul lived: dancing on an avalanche, making the world up as he went along, reaching into people's ears and changing their minds. For this he offered glass as diamonds, let the Find The Lady cards fly under his fingers, stood smiling in front of clerks examining fake bills. This was the feeling he craved, the raw naked excitement of pushing the envelope—
Reacher Gilt was moving through the crowd, like a shark among minnows. He gave Moist a carefully neutral look, and turned to Mr Pony. 'Is there some problem, gentlemen?' he said. 'It's getting late.' In a silence punctuated by chuckles from the crowd, Pony tried to explain, in so far as he now had any grip of what was going on. 'I see,' said Gilt. 'You are pleased to make fun of us, Mr Lipwig? Then allow me to say that we of the Grand Trunk will not take it amiss if you should leave now. I think we can spare you a couple of hours, eh?'
'Oh, certainly,' said Moist. 'If it will make you feel any better.'
'Indeed it will,' said Gilt gravely. 'It would be best, Mr Lipwig, if you were a long way away from here.' Moist heard the tone, because he was expecting it. Gilt was being reasonable and statesmanlike, but his eye was a dark metal ball and there was the harmonic of murder in his voice. And then Gilt said: 'Is Mr Groat well, Mr Lipwig? I was sorry to hear of the attack.'
'Attack, Mr Gilt? He was hit by falling timber,' said Moist. And that question entitles you to no mercy at all, no matter what. 'Ah? Then I was misinformed,' said Gilt. 'I shall know not to listen to rumours in future.'
'I shall pass on your good wishes to Mr Groat,' said Moist. Gilt raised his hat. 'Goodbye, Mr Lipwig. I wish you the best of luck in your gallant attempt. There are some dangerous people on the road.' Moist raised his own hat and said: 'I intend to leave them behind very soon, Mr Gilt.' There, he thought. We've said it all, and the nice lady from the newspaper thinks we're good chums or, at least, just business rivals being stiffly polite to each other. Let's spoil the mood. 'Goodbye, ladies and gentlemen,' he said. 'Mr Pump, be so good as to put the broom on the coach, would you?'
'Broom?' said Gilt, looking up sharply. 'That broom? The one with stars on it? You're taking a broomstick?'
'Yes. It will come in handy if we break down,' said Moist. 'I protest, Archchancellor!' said Gilt, spinning round. 'This man intends to fly to Genua!'
'I have no such intention!' said Moist. 'I resent the allegation!'
'Is this why you appear so confident?' snarled Gilt. And it was a snarl, there and then, a little sign of a crack appearing. A broomstick could travel fast enough to blow your ears off. It wouldn't need too many towers to break down, and heavens knew they broke down all the time, for a broomstick to beat the clacks to Genua, especially since it could fly direct and wouldn't have to follow the big dog-leg the coach road and the Grand Trunk took. The Trunk would have to be really unlucky, and the person flying the broom would be really frozen and probably really dead, but a broomstick could fly from Ankh- Morpork to Genua in a day. That might just do it. Gilt's face was a mask of glee. Now he knew what Moist intended. Round and round she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows . . . It was the heart of any scam or fiddle. Keep the punter uncertain or, if he is certain, make him certain of the wrong thing. 'I demand that no broomstick is taken on the coach!' said Gilt to the Archchancellor, which was not a good move. You didn't demand anything from wizards. You requested. 'If Mr Lipwig is not confident in his equipment,' Gilt went on, 'I suggest he concedes right now!'
'We'll be travelling alone on some dangerous roads,' said Moist. 'A broomstick might be essential.'
'However, I am forced to agree with this . . . gentleman,' said Ridcully, with some distaste. 'It would not look right, Mr Lipwig.' Moist threw up his hands. 'As you wish, sir, of course. It is a blow. May I request even-handed treatment, though?'
'Your meaning?' said the wizard. 'There is a horse stationed at each tower to be used when the tower breaks down,' said Moist. 'That is normal practice!' snapped Gilt. 'Only in the mountains,' said Moist calmly. 'And even then only at the most isolated towers. But today, I suspect, there's one at every tower. It's a pony express, Archchancellor, with apologies to Mr Pony. They could easily beat our coach without sending a word of code.'
'You can't possibly be suggesting that we'd take the message all the way on horseback!' said Gilt. 'You were suggesting I'd fly,' said Moist. 'If Mr Gilt is not confident in his equipment, Archchancellor, I suggest he concedes now.' And there it was, a shadow on Gilt's face. He was more than just irate now; he'd passed into the calm, limpid waters of utter, visceral fury. 'So let's agree that this isn't a test of horses against broomsticks,' said Moist. 'It's stagecoach against clacks tower. If the stage breaks down, we repair the stage. If a tower breaks down, you repair the tower.'
'That seems fair, I must say,' said Ridcully. 'And I so rule. However, I must take Mr Lipwig aside to issue a word of warning.' The Archchancellor put his arm round Moist's shoulders and led him round the coach. Then he leaned down until their faces were a few inches apart. 'You are aware, are you, that painting a few stars on a perfectly ordinary broomstick doesn't mean it will get airborne?' he said. Moist looked into a pair of milky blue eyes that were as innocent as a child's, particularly a child who is trying hard to look innocent. 'My goodness, doesn't it?' he said. The wizard patted him on the shoulder. 'Best to leave things as they are, I feel,' he said happily. Gilt smiled at Moist as they returned. It was just too much to resist, so Moist didn't. Raise the stakes. Always push your luck, because no one else would push it for you. “Would you care for a little personal wager, Mr Gilt?' he said. 'Just to make it . . . interesting?' Gilt handled it well, if you couldn't read the tells, the little signs . . . 'Dear me, Mr Lipwig, do the gods approve of gambling?' he said, and gave a short laugh. 'What is life but a lottery, Mr Gilt?' said Moist. 'Shall we say . . . one hundred thousand dollars?' That did it. That was the last straw. He saw something snap inside Reacher Gilt. 'One hundred thousand? Where would you lay your hands on that kind of money, Lipwig?'
'Oh, I just place them together, Mr Gilt. Doesn't everyone know that?' said Moist, to general amusement. He gave the chairman his most insolent smile. 'And where will you lay your hands on one hundred thousand dollars?'
'Hah. I accept the wager! We shall see who laughs tomorrow,' said Gilt bluntly. 'I'll look forward to it,' said Moist. And now I have you in the hollow of my hand, he thought to himself. The hollow of my hand. You're enraged, now. You're making wrong decisions. You're walking the plank.
He climbed up on to the coach and turned to the crowd. 'Genua, ladies and gentlemen. Genua or bust!'
'Someone will!' yelled a wag in the crowd. Moist bowed, and, as he straightened up, looked into the face of Adora Belle Dearheart. 'Will you marry me, Miss Dearheart?' he shouted. There was an 'Oooh' from the crowd, and Sacharissa turned her head like a cat seeking the next mouse. What a shame the paper had only one front page, eh? Miss Dearheart blew a smoke ring. 'Not yet,' she said calmly. This got a mixture of cheers and boos. Moist waved, jumped down beside the driver and said: 'Hit it, Jim.' Jim cracked his whip for the sound of the thing, and the coach moved away amidst cheering. Moist looked back, and made out Mr Pony pushing determinedly through the crowd in the direction of the Tump Tower. Then he sat back and looked at the streets, in the light of the coach lamps. Perhaps it was the gold working its way in from outside. He could feel something filling him, like a mist. When he moved his hand, he was sure that it left a trail of flecks in the air. He was still flying. 'Jim, do I look all right?' he said. 'Can't see much of you in this light, sir,' said the coachman. 'Can I ask a question?'
'Go ahead, please.'
'Why'd you give those bastards just those middle pages?'
'Two reasons, Jim. It makes us look good and makes them look like whiny kids. And the other is, it's the bit with all the colour illustrations. I hear it takes ages to code one of those.'
'You're so sharp you'll cut yourself, Mr Lipwig! Eh? Damn straight!'