Anyone who wants to send a letter to Genua,’ said Moist. ‘They’ll buy three, eventually. But for now I’m dropping the price to one dollar.’
‘One dollar! That’s thousands of miles, sir!’ Groat protested.
‘Yep. Sounds like a bargain, right?’
Groat looked torn between exultation and despair. ‘But we’ve only got a bunch of old men, sir! They’re pretty spry, I’ll grant you, but… well, you’ve got to learn to walk before you try to run, sir!’
‘No!’ Moist’s fist thumped the table. ‘Never say that, Tolliver! Never! Run before you walk! Fly before you crawl! Keep moving forward! You think we should try to get a decent mail service in the city. I think we should try to send letters anywhere in the world! Because if we fail, I’d rather fail really hugely. All or nothing, Mr Groat!’
‘Wow, sir!’ said Groat.
Moist grinned his bright, sunny smile. It very nearly reflected off his suit.
‘Let’s get busy. We’re going to need more staff, Postal Inspector Groat. A lot more staff. Smarten up, man. The Post Office is back!’
‘Yessir!’ said Groat, drunk on enthusiasm. ‘We’ll… we’ll do things that are quite new, in interestin’ ways!’
‘You’re getting the hang of it already,’ said Moist, rolling his eyes.
Ten minutes later, the Post Office received its first delivery.
It was Senior Postman Bates, blood streaming down his face. He was helped into the office by two Watch officers, carrying a makeshift stretcher.
‘Found him wandering in the street, sir,’ said one of them. ‘Sergeant Colon, sir, at your service.’
‘What happened to him?’ said Moist, horrified.
Bates opened his eyes. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he murmured. ‘I held on tight, but they belted me over the bonce with a big thing!’
‘Coupla toughs jumped him,’ said Sergeant Colon. ‘They threw his bag in the river, too.’
‘Does that normally happen to postmen?’ said Moist. ‘I thought— Oh, no… ’
The new, painfully slow arrival was Senior Postman Aggy, dragging one leg because it had a bulldog attached to it.
‘Sorry about this, sir,’ he said, limping forward. ‘I think my official trousers is torn. I stunned the bugger with my bag, sir, but they’re a devil to get to let go.’ The bulldog’s eyes were shut; it appeared to be thinking of something else.
‘Good job you’ve got your armour, eh?’ said Moist.
‘Wrong leg, sir. But not to worry. I’m nat’rally imp-ervious around the calfy regions. It’s all the scar tissue, sir, you could strike matches on it. Jimmy Tropes is in trouble, though. He’s up a tree in Hide Park.’
Moist von Lipwig strode up Market Street, face set with grim purpose. The boards were still up on the Golem Trust, but had attracted another layer of graffiti. The paint on the door was burnt and bubbled, too.
He opened the door, and instinct made him duck. He felt the crossbow bolt zip between the wings of his hat.
Miss Dearheart lowered the bow. ‘My gods, it’s you! For a minute I thought a second sun had appeared in the sky!’
Moist rose cautiously as she laid the bow aside.
‘We had a fire-bomb last night,’ she said, by way of explanation for attempting to shoot him in the head.
‘How many golems are for hire right now, Miss Dearheart?’ said Moist.
‘Huh? Oh… about… a dozen or so—’
‘Fine. I’ll take them. Don’t bother to wrap them up. I want them down at the Post Office as soon as possible.’
‘What?’ Miss Dearheart’s normal expression of perpetual annoyance returned. ‘Look, you can’t just walk in, snap your fingers and order a dozen
‘
They glared at one another. Then Miss Dearheart fumbled distractedly in a filing tray.
‘I can let you ha—
‘Helped?’
Miss Dearheart shrugged. ‘A lot of the cultures that built golems thought tools shouldn’t talk. They have no tongues.’
‘And the Trust gives them some extra clay, eh?’ said Moist cheerfully.
She gave him a look. ‘It’s a bit more mystical than that,’ she said solemnly.
‘Well, dumb is okay so long as they’re not stupid,’ said Moist, trying to look serious. ‘This Anghammarad’s got a name? Not just a description?’
‘A lot of the very old ones have. Tell me, what do you want them to do?’ said the woman.
‘Be postmen,’ said Moist.
‘Working in public?’
‘I don’t think you can have secret postmen,’ said Moist, briefly seeing shadowy figures skulking from door to door. ‘Anything wrong with that?’
‘Well… no. Certainly not! It’s just that people get a bit nervous, and set fire to the shop. I’ll bring them down as soon as possible.’ She paused. ‘You do understand that owned golems have to have a day off every week? You did read the pamphlet, didn’t you?’
‘Er… time off?’ said Moist. ‘What do they need time off for? A hammer doesn’t get time off, does it?’
