‘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
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
‘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
‘. . . 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
‘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.
