Going Postal полностью

‘But, of course, you are the man of the moment, Mr Lipwig,’ said Vetinari, suddenly jovial. ‘You are the golden messenger!’ His smile was reptilian. ‘I do hope you know what you are doing. You do know what you are doing, don’t you, Mr Lipwig?’

‘Faith moves mountains, my lord,’ said Moist.

‘There are a lot of them between here and Genua, indeed,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘You say in the paper that you’ll leave tomorrow night?’

‘That’s right. The weekly coach. But on this run we won’t take paying passengers, to save weight.’ Moist looked into Vetinari’s eyes.

‘You wouldn’t like to give me some little clue?’ said the Patrician.

‘Best all round if I don’t, sir,’ said Moist.

‘I suppose the gods haven’t left an extremely fast magical horse buried somewhere nearby, have they?’

‘Not that I’m aware, sir,’ said Moist earnestly. ‘Of course, you never know until you pray.’

‘No-o,’ said Vetinari. He’s trying the penetrating gaze, Moist thought. But we know how to deal with that, don’t we? We let it pass right through.

‘Gilt will have to accept the challenge, of course,’ said Vetinari. ‘But he is a man of… ingenious resource.’

That seemed to Moist to be a very careful way of saying ‘murderous bastard’. Once away, he let it pass.

His lordship stood up. ‘Until tomorrow night, then,’ he said. ‘No doubt there will be some little ceremony for the newspapers?’

‘I haven’t actually planned that, sir,’ said Moist.

‘No, of course you haven’t,’ said Lord Vetinari, and gave him what could only be called… a look.

Moist got very much the same look from Jim Upwright, before the man said: ‘Well, we can put out the word and call in some favours and we’ll get good horses at the post houses, Mr Lipwig, but we only go as far as Bonk, you know? Then you’ll have to change. The Genua Express is pretty good, though. We know the lads.’

‘You sure you want to hire the whole coach?’ said Harry, as he rubbed down a horse. ‘It’ll be expensive, ‘cos we’ll have to put on another for the passengers. It’s a popular run, that one.’

‘Just the mail in that coach,’ said Moist. ‘And some guards.’

‘Ah, you think you’ll be attacked?’ said Harry, squeezing the towel bone dry with barely an effort.

‘What do you think?’ said Moist.

The brothers looked at one another.

‘I’ll drive it, then,’ said Jim. ‘They don’t call me Leadpipe for nothing.’

‘Besides, I heard there were bandits up in the mountains,’ said Moist.

‘Used to be,’ said Jim. ‘Not as many now.’

‘That’s something less to worry about, then,’ said Moist.

‘Dunno,’ said Jim. ‘We never found out what wiped them out.’

Always remember that the crowd which applauds your coronation is the same crowd that will applaud your beheading. People like a show.

People like a show…

… and so mail was coming in for Genua, at a dollar a time. A lot of mail.

It was Stanley who explained. He explained several times, because Moist had a bit of a blind spot on this one.

‘People are sending envelopes with stamps inside envelopes to the coach office in Genua so that the first envelope can be sent back in the second envelope,’ was the shape of explanation that finally blew on some sparks in Moist’s brain.

‘They want the envelopes back?’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘Because they’ve been used, sir.’

‘That makes them valuable?’

‘I’m not sure how, sir. It’s like I told you, sir. I think some people think that they’re not real stamps until they’ve done the job they were invented to do, sir. Remember the first printing of the one penny stamps that we had to cut out with scissors? An envelope with one of those on is worth two dollars to a collector.’

‘Two hundred times more than the stamp?’

‘That’s how it’s going sir,’ said Stanley, his eyes sparkling. ‘People post letters to themselves just to get the stamp, er, stamped, sir. So they’ve been used.’

‘Er… I’ve got a couple of rather crusty handkerchiefs in my pocket,’ said Moist, mystified. ‘Do you think people might want to buy them at two hundred times what they cost?’

‘No, sir!’ said Stanley.

‘Then why should—’

‘There’s a lot of interest, sir. I thought we could do a whole set of stamps for the big guilds, sir. All the collectors would want them. What do you think?’

‘That’s a very clever idea, Stanley,’ said Moist. ‘We’ll do that. The one for the Seamstresses’ Guild might have to go inside a plain brown envelope, eh? Haha!’

This time it was Stanley who looked perplexed. ‘Sorry, sir?’

Moist coughed. ‘Oh, nothing. Well, I can see you’re learning fast, Stanley.’ Some things, anyway.

‘Er… yes, sir. Er… I don’t want to push myself forward, sir—’

‘Push away, Stanley, push away,’ said Moist cheerfully.

Stanley pulled a small paper folder out of his pocket, opened it, and laid it reverentially in front of Moist.

‘Mr Spools helped me with some of it,’ he said. ‘But I did a lot.’

It was a stamp. It was a yellowy-green colour. It showed - Moist peered - a field of cabbages, with some buildings on the horizon.

He sniffed. It smelled of cabbages. Oh, yes.