Going Postal

Page 34

 

  It was a gentle snow of letters. Some landed still burning, fountaining out of the column of crackling fire that had already broken through the Post Office roof. Some were blackened ashes on which sparks travelled in mockery of the dying ink. Some - many - had sailed up and over the city unscathed, zigzagging down gently like communications from an excessively formal sort of god. Moist tore off his jacket as he pushed through the crowd. The people probably got out, said Miss Dear heart, clattering along beside him. Do you really think so? said Moist. Really? No. Not if Gilt set this up. Sorry, Im not very good at being comforting any more. Moist paused, and tried to think. The flames were coming out of the roof at one end of the building. The main door and the whole left side looked untouched. But fire was sneaky stuff, he knew. It sat there and smouldered until you opened the door to see how it was getting on, and then the fire caught its breath and your eyeballs got soldered to your skull. Id better go in, he said. Er . . . you wouldnt care to say “No, no, dont do it, youre being far too brave!” would you? he added. Some people were organizing a bucket chain from a nearby fountain; it would be as effective as spitting at the sun. Miss Dearheart caught a burning letter, lit a cigarette with it, and took a drag. No, no, dont do it, youre being far too brave! she said. How was that for you? But if you do, the left side looks pretty clear. Watch out, though. There are rumours Gilt employs a vampire. One of the wild ones.

  Ah. Fire kills them, doesnt it? said Moist, desperate to look on the bright side. It kills everybody, Mr Lipwig, said Miss Dearheart. It kills everybody. She grabbed him by the ears and gave him a big kiss on the mouth. It was like being kissed by an ashtray, but in a good way. On the whole, Id like you to come out of there, she said quietly. Are you sure you wont wait? The boys will be here in a minute—

  The golems? Its their day off!

  They have to obey their chem, though. A fire means humans are in danger. Theyll smell it and be here in minutes, believe me. Moist hesitated, looking at her face. And people were watching him. He couldnt not go in there, it wouldnt fit in with the persona. Gods damn Vetinari! He shook his head, turned, and ran towards the doors. Best not to think about it. Best not to think about being so dumb. Just feel the front door . . . quite cool. Open it gently . . . a rush of air, but no explosion. The big hall, lit with flame . . . but it was all above him, and if he weaved and dodged he could make it to the door that led down to the locker room. He kicked it open. Stanley looked up from his stamps. Hello, Mr Lipwig, he said. I kept calm. But I think Mr Groat is ill. The old man was lying on the bed, and ill was too jolly a word. What happened to him? said Moist, lifting him gently. Mr Groat was no weight at all. It was like a big bird, but I frightened it off, said Stanley. I hit it in the mouth with a sack of pins. I . . . had a Little Moment, sir.

  Well, that ought to do it, said Moist. Now, can you follow me?

  Ive got all the stamps, said Stanley. And the cashbox. Mr Groat keeps them under his bed for safety. The boy beamed. And your hat, too. I kept calm.

  Well done, well done, said Moist. Now, stick right behind me, okay?

  What about Mr Tiddles, Mr Lipwig? said Stanley, suddenly looking worried. Somewhere outside in the hall there was a crash, and the crackle of the fire grew distinctly louder. Who? Mr Tidd— the cat? To hell with— Moist stopped, and readjusted his mouth. Hell be

  outside, you can bet on it, eating a toasted rat and grinning. Come on, will you?

  But hes the Post Office cat! said Stanley. Hes never been outside! Ill bet he has now, thought Moist. But there was that edge in the boys voice again. Lets get Mr Groat out of here, okay, he said, easing his way through the door with the old man in his arms, and then Ill come back for Tidd— A burning beam dropped on to the floor halfway across the hall, and sent sparks and burning envelopes spiralling upwards into the main blaze. It roared, a wall of flame, a fiery waterfall in reverse, up through the other floors and out through the roof. It thundered. It was fire let loose and making the most of it. Part of Moist von Lipwig was happy to let it happen. But a new and troublesome part was thinking: I was making it work. It was all moving forward. The stamps were really working. It was as good as being a criminal without the crime. It had been fun. Come on, Stanley! Moist snapped, turning away from the horrible sight and the fascinating thought. The boy followed, reluctantly, calling for the damn cat all the way to the door. The air outside struck like a knife, but there was a round of applause from the crowd and then a flash of light that Moist had come to associate with eventual trouble. Good eefning, Mr Lipvig! said the cheery voice of Otto Chriek. My vord, if ve vant news, all ve have to do is follow you! Moist ignored him and shouldered his way to Miss Dearheart who, he noticed, was not beside herself with worry. Is there a hospice in this city? he said. A decent doctor, even?

  Theres the Lady Sybil Free Hospital, said Miss Dearheart. Is it any good?

  Some people dont die.

  That good, eh? Get him there right now! Ive got to go back in for the cat!

  You are going to go back in there for a cat?

  Its Mr Tiddles, said Stanley primly. He was born in the Post Office.

  Best not to argue, said Moist, turning to go. See to Mr Groat, will you? Miss Dearheart looked down at the old mans bloodstained shirt. But it looks as though some creature tried to— she began. Something fell on him, said Moist shortly. That couldnt cause—

  Something fell on him, said Moist. Thats what happened. She looked at his face. All right, she agreed. Something fell on him. Something with big claws.

  No, a joist with lots of nails in it, something like that. Anyone can see that.

  Thats what happened, was it? said Miss Dearheart. Thats exactly what happened, said Moist, and strode away before there were any more questions. No point in getting the Watch involved in this, he thought, hurrying towards the doors. Theyll clump around and there wont be any answers for them and in my experience watchmen always like to arrest somebody. What makes you think it was Reacher Gilt, Mr . . . Lipwig, wasnt it? Oh, you could tell, could you? Thats a skill of yours, is it? Funny thing, we can tell sometimes, too. Youve got a very familiar face, Mr Lipwig. Where are you from? No, there was no point in getting friendly with the Watch. They might get in the way. An upper window exploded outwards, and flames licked along the edge of the roof; Moist

  ducked into the doorway as glass rained down. As for Tiddles . . . well, he had to find the damn cat. If he didnt, it wouldnt be fun any more. If he didnt risk at least a tiny bit of life and a smidgen of limb, he just wouldnt be able to carry on being him. Had he just thought that? Oh, gods. Hed lost it. Hed never been sure how hed got it, but it had gone. Thats what happened if you took wages. And hadnt his grandfather warned him to keep away from women as neurotic as a shaved monkey? Actually he hadnt, his interest lying mainly with dogs and beer, but he should have done. The vision of Mr Groats chest kept bumping insistently against his imagination. It looked as though something with claws had taken a swipe at him, and only the thick uniform coat prevented him from being opened like a clam. But that didnt sound like a vampire. They werent messy like that. It was a waste of good food. Nevertheless, he picked up a piece of smashed chair. It had splintered nicely. And the good thing about a stake through the heart was that it also worked on non-vampires. More ceiling had come down in the hall, but he was able to dodge between the debris. The main staircase was at this end and completely untouched, although smoke lay on the floor like a carpet; at the other end of the hall, where the mountains of old mail had been, the blaze still roared. He couldnt hear the letters any more. Sorry, he thought. I did my best. It wasnt my fault . . . What now? At least he could get his box out of his office. He didnt want that to burn. Some of those chemicals would be quite hard to replace. The office was full of smoke but he dragged the box out from under his desk and then spotted the golden suit on its hanger. He had to take it, didnt he? Something like that couldnt be allowed to burn. He could come back for the box, right? But the suit . . . t
he suit was necessary. There was no sign of Tiddles. He must have got out, yes? Didnt cats leave sinking ships? Or was it rats? Wouldnt the cats follow the rats? Anyway, smoke was coming up between the floorboards and drifting down from the upper floors, and this wasnt the time to hang around. Hed looked everywhere sensible; there was no sense in being where a ton of burning paper could drop on your head. It was a good plan and it was only spoiled when he spotted the cat, down in the hall. It was watching him with interest. Tiddles! bellowed Moist. He wished he hadnt. It was such a stupid name to shout in a burning building. The cat looked at him, and trotted away. Cursing, Moist hurried after it, and saw it disappear down into the cellars. Cats were bright, werent they? There was probably another way out . . . bound to be . . . Moist didnt even look up when he heard the creaking of wood overhead, but ran forward and went down the steps five at a time. By the sound of it, a large amount of the entire building smashed on to the floor just behind him, and sparks roared down the cellar passage, burning his neck. Well, there was no going back, at least. But cellars, now, they had trapdoors and coal shutes and things, didnt they? And they were cool and safe and— —just the place where youd go to lick your wounds after being smashed in the mouth with a sackful of pins, right? An imagination is a terrible thing to bring along. A vampire, shed said. And Stanley had hit a big bird with a sackful of pins. Stanley the Vampire Slayer, with a bag of pins. You wouldnt believe it, unless youd seen him in one of what Mr Groat called his little moments. You probably couldnt kill a vampire with pins . . . And after a thought like that is when you realize that however hard you try to look behind you,

  theres a behind you, behind you, where you arent looking. Moist flung his back to the cold stone wall, and slithered along it until he ran out of wall and acquired a doorframe. The faint blue glow of the Sorting Engine was just visible. As Moist peered into the machines room, Tiddles was visible too. He was crouched under the engine. Thats a very cat thing youre doing there, Tiddles, said Moist, staring at the shadows. Come to Uncle Moist. Please? He sighed, and hung the suit on an old letter rack, and crouched down. How were you supposed to pick up a cat? Hed never done it. Cats never figured in grandfathers Lipwigzer kennels, except as an impromptu snack. As his hand drew near Tiddles, the cat flattened its ears and hissed. Do you want to cook down here? said Moist. No claws, please. The cat began to growl, and Moist realized that it wasnt looking directly at him. Good Tiddles, he said, feeling the terror begin to rise. It was one of the prime rules of exploring in a hostile environment: do not bother about the cat. And, suddenly, the environment was a lot more hostile. Another important rule was: dont turn round slowly to look. Its there all right. Not the cat. Damn the cat. Its something else. He stood upright and took a two-handed grip on the wooden stake. Its right behind me, yes? he thought. Bloody well bloody right bloody behind me! Of course it is! How could things be otherwise? The feeling of fear was almost the same as the feeling he got when, say, a mark was examining a glass diamond. Time slowed a little, every sense was heightened, and there was a taste of copper in his mouth. Dont turn round slowly. Turn round fast. He spun, screamed and thrust. The stake met resistance, which yielded only slightly. A long pale face grinned at him in the blue light. It showed rows of pointy teeth. Missed both my hearts, said Mr Gryle, spitting blood. Moist jumped back as a thin clawed hand sliced through the air, but kept the stake in front of him, jabbing with it, holding the thing off . . . Banshee, he thought. Oh, hell . . . Only when he moved did Gryles leathery black cape swing aside briefly to show the skeletal figure beneath; it helped if you knew that the black leather was wing. It helped if you thought of banshees as the only humanoid race that had evolved the ability to fly, in some lush jungle somewhere where theyd hunted flying squirrels. It didnt help, much, if you knew why the story had grown up that hearing the scream of the banshee meant that you were going to die. It meant that the banshee was tracking you. No good looking behind you. It was overhead. There werent many of the feral ones, even in Uberwald, but Moist knew the advice passed on by people whod survived them. Keep away from the mouth - those teeth are vicious. Dont attack the chest; the flight muscles there are like armour. Theyre not strong but theyve got sinews like steel cables and the long reach of those arm bonesll mean it can slap your silly head right off— Tiddles yowled and backed further under the Sorting Engine. Gryle slashed at Moist again, and came after him as he backed away. —but their necks snap easily if you can get inside their reach, and they have to shut their eyes when they scream.