Going Postal (Discworld 33)

'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.'

Chapter Four

A Sign Dark Clerks and dead Postmasters - A Werewolf in the Watch - The wonderful pin - Mr Lipwig reads letters that are not there — Hugo the hairdresser is surprised — Mr Parker buys fripperies — The Nature of Social Untruths - Princess in the Tower - A man is not dead while his name is still spoken.'

'Ntow Then, Mr Lipvig, What Good Will Violence Do?' Mr Pump rumbled. He rocked on his huge feet as Moist struggled in his grip. Groat and Stanley were huddled at the far end of the locker room. One of Mr Groat's natural remedies was bubbling over on to the floor, where the boards were staining purple. 'They were all accidents, Mr Lipwig! All accidents!' Groat babbled. 'The Watch was all over the place by the fourth one! They were all accidents, they said!'

'Oh, yes!' screamed Moist. 'Four in five weeks, eh? I bet that happens all the time around here! Ye gods, I've been done up good and brown! I'm dead, right? Just not lying down yet! Vetinari? There's a man who knows how to save the price of a rope! I'm done for!'