The boy went through a door and into what looked like a room full of parcels, but Moist could see an open doorway at the far end, and a hint of banister. He speeded up, and the floor disappeared from under his feet.
The light vanished. He was briefly and horribly aware of dry letters all around him, falling with him. He landed on more letters, choking as dry, ancient mail piled up about him. For a moment, through the rain of paper, he caught a glimpse of a dusty window half covered with letters, and then he was submerged again. The heap under him began to move, slipping down and sideways. There was the crack of what could have been a door being burst off its hinges and the sideways flow increased noticeably. He struck out madly for the surface in time for his head to hit the top of a door jamb and then the current dragged him under.
Helpless now, tumbling in the river of paper, Moist dimly felt the jolt as a floor gave way. The mail poured through, taking him with it and slamming him into another drift of envelopes. Sight disappeared as thousands of letters thudded down on top of him, and then sound died, too.
Darkness and silence squeezed him in a fist.
Moist von Lipwig knelt with his head resting on his arms. There was air here but it was warm and stale and wouldn’t last long. He couldn’t move more than a finger.
He could die here. He would die here. There must be tons of mail around him.
‘I commend my soul to any god who can find it,’ he mumbled, in the stifling air.
A line of blue danced across his inner vision.
It was handwriting. But it spoke.
‘Dear Mother, I have arived safely and found good lodgings at… .
The voice sounded like a country boy but it had a… a
—and as it ran on another line also began to write across the dark, crisply and neatly:
Dear Sir, I have the honour to inform you that I am the sole executer of the estate of the late Sir Davie Thrill, of The Manor, Mixed Blessings, and it appears that you are the sole… .’
The voice continued in words so clipped that you could hear the shelves full of legal books behind the desk, but a third line was beginning.
Dear Mrs Clarck, I much regret to inform you that in an engagement with the enemy yesterday your husband, C. Clark, fought valiantly but was…
And then they all wrote at once. Voices in their dozens, their hundreds, their thousands, filled his ears and squiggled across his inner vision. They didn’t shout, they just unrolled the words until his head was full of sound, which formed new words, just as all the instruments of an orchestra tinkle and scrape and blast to produce one climax—
Moist tried to scream, but envelopes filled his mouth.
And then a hand closed on his leg and he was in the air and upside down.
‘Ah, Mr Lipvig!’ boomed the voice of Mr Pump. ‘You Have Been Exploring! Welcome To Your New Office!’
Moist spat out paper and sucked air into stinging lungs.
‘They’re… alive!’ he gasped. ‘They’re all
‘I Am Happy For You, Mr Lipvig,’ said Pump, turning him the right way up and wading waist deep across the room, while behind them more mail trickled through a hole in the ceiling.
‘You don’t understand! They talk! They want… ’ Moist hesitated. He could still hear the whispering in his head. He said, as much to himself as for the benefit of the golem, ‘It’s as though they want to be… read.’
‘That Is The Function Of A Letter,’ said Pump calmly. ‘You Will See That I Have Almost Cleared Your Apartment.’
‘Listen, they’re just paper! And they
‘Yes,’ rumbled the golem ponderously. ‘This Place Is A Tomb Of Unheard Words. They Strive To Be Heard.’
‘Oh, come on! Letters are just paper. They can’t
‘I Am Just Clay, And I Listen,’ said Pump, with the same infuriating calm.
‘Yes, but you’ve got added mumbo-jumbo—’
The red fire rose behind Pump’s eyes as he turned to stare at Moist.
‘I went… backwards in time, I think,’ Moist mumbled, backing away. ‘In… my head. That’s how Sideburn died. He fell down stairs that weren’t there in the past. And Mr Ignavia died of fright. I’m sure of it! But I was inside the letters! And there must have been a… a hole in the floor, or something, and that… I fell, and I… ’ He stopped. ‘This place needs a priest, or a wizard. Someone who understands this kind of stuff. Not me!’
The golem scooped up two armfuls of the mail that had so recently entombed his client.
‘You Are The Postmaster, Mr Lipvig,’ he said.
‘That’s just Vetinari’s trick! I’m no postman, I’m just a fraud—’
‘Mr Lipwig?’ said a nervous voice from the doorway behind him. He turned and saw the boy Stanley, who flinched at his expression.
‘Yes?’ snapped Moist. ‘What the hell do you— What do you want, Stanley? I’m a little busy right now.’
