‘Now, sir, we
‘This?’ said Moist, opening his hand. ‘I didn’t use it. It only makes ‘em angry.’
The postmen stared at the sitting dogs.
‘But you got ‘em to sit—’ one began.
‘I can get them to do other things,’ said Moist levelly. ‘I just have to say the word.’
‘Er… there’s a couple of lads outside with muzzles, if it’s all the same to you, sir,’ said Groat, as the Order backed away. ‘We’re heridititerrilyly wary of dogs. It’s a postman thing.’
‘I can assure you that the control my voice has over them at the moment is stronger than steel,’ said Moist. This was probably garbage, but it was
The growl from one of the dogs had taken on the edge it tended to get just before the creature became a tooth-tipped projectile.
‘Vodit!’ shouted Moist. ‘Sorry about this, gentlemen,’ he added. ‘I think you make them nervous. They can smell fear, as you probably know.’
‘Look, we’re really sorry, all right?’ said the one whose voice suggested to Moist that he had been the Worshipful Master. ‘We had to be sure, all right?’
‘I’m the postmaster, then?’ said Moist.
‘Absolutely, sir. No problem at all. Welcome, O Postmaster!’
Quick learner, Moist thought.
‘I think I’ll just—’ he began, as the double doors opened at the other end of the hall.
Mr Pump entered, carrying a large box. It should be quite hard to open a big pair of doors while carrying something in both hands, but not if you’re a golem. They just walk at them. The doors can choose to open or try to stay shut, it’s up to them.
The dogs took off like fireworks. The postmen took off in the opposite direction, climbing on to the dais behind Moist with commendable speed for such elderly men.
Mr Pump plodded forward, crushing underfoot the debris of the Walk. He rocked as the creatures struck him, and then patiently put down the box and picked up the dogs by the scruff of their necks.
‘There Are Some Gentlemen Outside With Nets And Gloves And Extremely Thick Clothing, Mr Lipvig,’ he said. ‘They Say They Work For A Mr Harry King. They Want To Know If You Have Finished With These Dogs.’
‘Harry King?’ said Moist.
‘He’s a big scrap merchant, sir,’ said Groat. ‘I expect the dogs was borrowed off of him. He turns ‘em loose in his yards at night.’
‘No burglar gets in, eh?’
‘I think he’s quite happy if they get
‘Hah! Please take them away, Mr Pump,’ said Moist. Lipwigzers! It had been so easy.
As they watched the golem turn round with a whimpering dog under each arm, he added: ‘Mr King must be doing well, then, to run Lipwigzers as common guard dogs!’
‘Lipwigzers? Harry King? Bless you, sir, old Harry wouldn’t buy posh foreign dogs when he can buy crossbreeds, not him!’ said Groat. ‘Probably a bit of Lipwigzer in ‘em, I dare say, probably the worst bits. Hah, a purebred Lipwigzer prob’ly wouldn’t last five minutes against some of the mongrels in our alleys. Some of’em has got
There was a moment of silence and then Moist said, in a faraway voice: ‘So… definitely not imported purebreds, you think?’
‘Bet your life on it, sir,’ said Groat cheerfully. ‘Is there a problem, sir?’
‘What? Urn… no. Not at all.’
‘You sounded a bit disappointed, sir. Or something.’
‘No. I’m fine. No problem.’ Moist added, thoughtfully: ‘You know, I really have
The doors swung open again to reveal, not the return of the dogs, but Mr Pump once more. He picked up the box he’d left and headed on towards Moist.
‘Well, we’ll be off,’ said the Worshipful Master. ‘Nice to have met you, Mr Lipwig.’
‘That’s it?’ said Moist. ‘Isn’t there a ceremony or something?’
‘Oh, that’s Tolliver, that is,’ said the Worshipful Master. ‘I like to see the old place still standing, really I do, but it’s all about the clacks these days, isn’t it? Young Tolliver thinks it can all be got going again, but he was just a lad when it all broke down. You can’t fix some things, Mr Lipwig. Oh, you can call yourself postmaster, but where’d you start to get this lot back working? It’s an old fossil, sir, just like us.’
‘Your Hat, Sir,’ said Pump.
‘What?’ said Moist, and turned to where the golem was standing by the dais, patiently, with a hat in his hands.
It was a postman’s peaked hat, in gold, with golden wings. Moist took it, and saw how the gold was just paint, cracked and peeling, and the wings were real dried pigeon wings and almost crumbled to the touch. As the golem had held it up in the light it had gleamed like something from some ancient tomb. In Moist’s hands, it crackled and smelled of attics and shed golden flakes. Inside the brim, on a stained label, were the words ‘Boult & Locke, Military and Ceremonial Outfitters, Peach Pie Street, A-M. Size: 7 1/4.
‘There Is A Pair Of Boots With Wings, Too,’ said Mr Pump, ‘And Some Sort Of Elasticated—’
