‘Good. They’re a decent firm,’ she said. ‘Sluice 23 is turning the machinery for them. They keep him clean and don’t stick notices on him. I go and check on all the hired golems every week. The frees are very insistent on that.’
‘To make sure they’re not mistreated?’ said Moist.
‘To make sure they’re not forgotten. You’d be amazed at how many businesses in the city have a golem working somewhere on the premises. Not the Grand Trunk, though,’ she added. ‘I won’t let them work there.’
There was an edge to that statement.
‘Er… why not?’ said Moist.
‘There’s some shit not even a golem should work in,’ said Miss Dearheart, in the same steel tone. ‘They are moral creatures.’
O-kay, thought Moist, bit of a sore point there, then?
His mouth said: ‘Would you like to have dinner tonight?’ For just the skin of a second, Miss Dearheart was surprised, but not half as surprised as Moist. Then her natural cynicism reinflated.
‘I like to have dinner every night. With you? No. I have things to do. Thank you for asking.’
‘No problem,’ said Moist, slightly relieved.
The woman looked around the echoing hall. ‘Doesn’t this place give you the creeps? You could perhaps do something with some floral wallpaper and a fire-bomb.’
‘It’s all going to be sorted out,’ said Moist quickly. ‘But it’s best to get things moving as soon as possible. To show we’re in business.’
They watched Stanley and Groat, who were patiently sorting at the edge of a pile, prospectors in the foothills of the postal mountain. They were dwarfed by the white hillocks.
‘It will take you for ever to deliver them, you know,’ said Miss Dearheart, turning to go.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Moist.
‘But that’s the thing about golems,’ added Miss Dearheart, standing in the doorway. The light caught her face oddly. ‘They’re not frightened of “for ever”. They’re not frightened of anything.’
Mr Spools, in his ancient office smelling of oil and ink, was impressed by this strange young man in the golden suit and winged hat.
‘You certainly know your papers, Mr Lipwig,’ he said, as Moist thumbed through the samples. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet a customer who does. Always use the right paper for the job, that’s what I say.’
‘The important thing is to make stamps hard to forge,’ said Moist, leafing through the samples. ‘On the other hand, it mustn’t cost us anything like a penny to produce a penny stamp!’
‘Watermarks are your friend there, Mr Lipwig,’ said Mr Spools.
‘Not impossible to fake, though,’ said Moist, and then added, ‘so I’ve been told.’
‘Oh, we know all the tricks, Mr Lipwig, don’t you worry about that!’ said Mr Spools. ‘We’re up to scratch, oh yes! Chemical voids, thaumic shadows, timed inks, everything. We do paper and engraving and even printing for some of the leading figures in the city, although of course I am not at liberty to tell you who they are.’
He sat back in his worn leather chair and scribbled in a notebook for a moment.
‘Well, we could do you twenty thousand of the penny stamps, uncoated stock, gummed, at two dollars a thousand plus setup,’ said Mr Spools. ‘Ten pence less for ungummed. You’ll have to find someone to cut them out, of course.’
‘Can’t you do that with some kind of machine?’ said Moist.
‘No. Wouldn’t work, not with things as small as this. Sorry, Mr Lipwig.’
Moist pulled a scrap of brown paper out of his pocket and held it up. ‘Do you recognize this, Mr Spools?’
‘What, is that a pin paper?’ Mr Spools beamed. ‘Hah, that takes me back! Still got my old collection in the attic. I’ve always thought it must be worth a bob or two if only—’
‘Watch this, Mr Spools,’ said Moist, gripping the paper carefully. Stanley was almost painfully precise in placing his pins; a man with a micrometer couldn’t have done it better.
Gently, the paper tore down the line of holes. Moist looked at Mr Spools and raised his eyebrows.
‘It’s all about holes,’ he said. ‘It ain’t nothing if it ain’t got a hole… ’
Three hours went past. Foremen were sent for. Serious men in overalls turned things on lathes, other men soldered things together, tried them out, changed this, reamed that, then dismantled a small hand press and built it in a different way. Moist loitered on the periphery of all this, clearly bored, while the serious men fiddled, measured things, rebuilt things, tinkered, lowered things, raised things and, eventually, watched by Moist and Mr Spools, tried out the converted press officially—
Chonk…
It felt to Moist that everyone was holding their breath so hard that the windows were bending inwards. He reached down, eased the sheet of little perforated squares off the board, and lifted it up.
He tore off one stamp.
