'Best not to argue,' said Moist, turning to go. 'See to Mr Groat, will you?' Miss Dearheart looked down at the old man's bloodstained shirt. 'But it looks as though some creature tried to—' she began. 'Something fell on him,' said Moist shortly. 'That couldn't cause—'
'Something fell on him', said Moist. 'That's 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.'
'That's what happened, was it?' said Miss Dearheart. 'That's 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. They'll clump around and there won't 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, wasn't it? Oh, you could tell, could you? That's a skill of yours, is it? Funny thing, we can tell sometimes, too. You've 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 didn't, it wouldn't be fun any more. If he didn't risk at least a tiny bit of life and a smidgen of limb, he just wouldn't be able to carry on being him. Had he just thought that? Oh, gods. He'd lost it. He'd never been sure how he'd got it, but it had gone. That's what happened if you took wages. And hadn't his grandfather warned him to keep away from women as neurotic as a shaved monkey? Actually he hadn't, his interest lying mainly with dogs and beer, but he should have done. The vision of Mr Groat's 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 didn't sound like a vampire. They weren't 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 couldn't hear the letters any more. Sorry, he thought. I did my best. It wasn't my fault . . . What now? At least he could get his box out of his office. He didn't 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, didn't he? Something like that couldn't be allowed to burn. He could come back for the box, right? But the suit . . . the suit was necessary. There was no sign of Tiddles. He must have got out, yes? Didn't cats leave sinking ships? Or was it rats? Wouldn't the cats follow the rats? Anyway, smoke was coming up between the floorboards and drifting down from the upper floors, and this wasn't the time to hang around. He'd 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 hadn't. 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, weren't they? There was probably another way out . . . bound to be . . . Moist didn't 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, didn't they? And they were cool and safe and— —just the place where you'd 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, she'd said. And Stanley had hit 'a big bird' with a sackful of pins. Stanley the Vampire Slayer, with a bag of pins. You wouldn't believe it, unless you'd seen him in one of what Mr Groat called his 'little moments'. You probably couldn't kill a vampire with pins . . . And after a thought like that is when you realize that however hard you try to look behind you,
there's a behind you, behind you, where you aren't 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 machine's room, Tiddles was visible too. He was crouched under the engine. 'That's a very cat thing you're 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? He'd never done it. Cats never figured in grandfather's 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 wasn't 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: don't turn round slowly to look. It's there all right. Not the cat. Damn the cat. It's something else. He stood upright and took a two-handed grip on the wooden stake. It's 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. Don't 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 Gryle's 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 they'd hunted flying squirrels. It didn't 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 weren't many of the feral ones, even in Uberwald, but Moist knew the advice passed on by people who'd survived them. Keep away from the mouth - those teeth are vicious. Don't attack the chest; the flight muscles there are like armour. They're not strong but they've got sinews like steel cables and the long reach of those arm bones'll 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.
Gryle came forward, head bobbing as he strutted. There was nowhere else for Moist to go, so he tossed aside the wood and held up his hands. 'All right, I give in,' he said. 'Just make it quick, okay?' The creature kept looking at the golden suit; they had a magpie's eye for glitter. 'I'm going somewhere afterwards,' said Moist helpfully. Gryle hesitated. He was hurt, disorientated and had eaten pigeons that were effluent on wings. He wanted to get out of here and up into the cool sky. Everything was too complicated here. There were too many targets, too many smells. For a banshee, everything was in the pounce, when teeth, claws and bodyweight all bore down at once. Now, bewildered, he strutted back and forth, trying to deal with the situation. There was no room to fly, nowhere else to go, the prey was standing there . . . instinct, emotion and some attempt at rational thought all banged together in Gryle's overheated head. Instinct won. Leaping at things with your claws out had worked for a million years, so why stop now? He threw his head back, screamed, and sprang. So did Moist, ducking under the long arms. That wasn't programmed into the banshee's responses: the prey should be huddled, or running away. But Moist's shoulder caught him in the chest. The creature was as light as a child. Moist felt a claw slash into his arm as he hurled the thing on to the Sorting Engine, and flung himself to the floor. For one horrible moment he thought it was going to get up, that he'd missed the wheel, but as the enraged Mr Gryle shifted there was a sound like . . . . . . gloop . . . . . . followed by silence. Moist lay on the cool flagstones until his heart slowed down to the point where he could make out individual beats. He was aware, as he lay there, that something sticky was dripping down the side of the machine. He arose slowly, on unsteady legs, and stared at what had become of the creature. If he'd been a hero, he would have taken the opportunity to say, 'That's what I call sorted!' Since he wasn't a hero, he threw up. A body doesn't work properly when significant bits are not sharing the same space-time frame as the rest of it, but it does look more colourful. Then, clutching at his bleeding arm, Moist knelt down and looked under the engine for Tiddles. He had to come back with the cat, he thought muzzily. It was just something that had to happen. A man who rushes into a burning building to rescue a stupid cat and comes out carrying the cat is seen as a hero, even if he is a rather dumb one. If he comes out sans cat he's a twit. A muffled thunder above them suggested that part of the building had fallen down. The air was roasting. Tiddles backed away from Moist's hand. 'Listen,' Moist growled. 'The hero has to come out with the cat. The cat doesn't have to be alive—' He lunged, grabbed Tiddles and dragged the cat out. 'Right,' he said, and picked up the suit hanger in his other hand. There were a few blobs of banshee on it, but, he thought light-headedly, he could probably find something to remove them. He lurched out into the corridor. There was a wall of fire at both ends, and Tiddles chose this moment to sink all four sets of claws into his arm. 'Ah,' said Moist. 'Up until now it was going so well—'
'Mr Lipvig! Are You All Right, Mr Lipvig?'
What golems removed from a fire was, in fact, the fire. They took out of a burning property everything that was burning. It was curiously surgical. They assembled at the edge of the fire and deprived it of anything to burn, herded it, cornered it, and stamped it to death. Golems could wade through lava and pour molten iron. Even if they knew what fear was, they wouldn't find it in a mere burning building. Glowing rubble was hauled away from the steps by red-hot hands. Moist stared up into a landscape of flame but also, in front of it, Mr Pump. He was glowing orange. Specks of dust and dirt on his clay flashed and sparkled. 'Good To See You, Mr Lipvig!' he boomed cheerfully, tossing a crackling beam aside. 'We Have Cleared A Path To The Door! Move With Speed!'
'Er . . . thank you!' shouted Moist, above the roar of the flames. There was a path, dragged clear of debris, with the open door beckoning calmly and coolly at the end of it. Away towards the far end of the hall other golems, oblivious of the pillars of flame, were calmly throwing burning floorboards out through a hole in the wall. The heat was intense. Moist lowered his head, clutched the terrified cat to his chest, felt the back of his neck begin to roast and scampered forward. From then on, it became all one memory. The crashing noise high above. The metallic boom. The golem Anghammarad looking up, with his message glowing yellow on his cherry-red arm. Ten thousand tons of rainwater pouring down in deceptive slow motion. The cold hitting the glowing golem . . . . . . the explosion . . . Flames died. Sound died. Light died. ANGHAMMARAD. Anghammarad looked at his hands. There was nothing there except heat, furnace heat, blasting heat that nevertheless made the shapes of fingers. ANGHAMMARAD , a hollow voice repeated. 'I Have Lost My Clay,' said the golem. YES, said Death, THAT IS STANDARD. YOU ARE DEAD. SMASHED. EXPLODED INTO A MILLION PIECES. 'Then Who Is This Doing The Listening?' EVERYTHING THERE WAS ABOUT YOU THAT ISN'T CLAY. 'Do You Have A Command For Me?' said the remains of Anghammarad, standing up. NOT NOW. YOU HAVE REACHED THE PLACE WHERE THERE ARE NO MORE ORDERS. 'What Shall I Do?' I BELIEVE YOU HAVE FAILED TO UNDERSTAND MY LAST COMMENT. Anghammarad sat down again. Apart from the fact that there was sand rather than ooze underfoot, this place reminded him of the abyssal plain. GENERALLY PEOPLE LIKE TO MOVE ON, Death hinted. THEY LOOK FORWARD TO AN AFTERLIFE. 'I Will Stay Here, Please.' HERE? THERE'S NOTHING TO DO HERE, said Death. 'Yes, I Know,' said the ghost of the golem. 'It Is Perfect. I Am Free.'
At two in the morning it began to rain. Things could have been worse. It could have rained snakes. It could have rained acid. There was still some roof, and some walls. That meant there was still some building. Moist and Miss Dearheart sat on some warm rubble outside the locker room, which was more or less the only room that could still be properly described as one. The golems had stamped out the last of the fire, shored things up and then, without a word, had gone back to not being a hammer until sunset. Miss Dearheart held a half-melted bronze band in her hand, and turned it over and over. 'Eighteen thousand years,' she whispered. 'It was the rainwater tank,' mumbled Moist, staring at nothing. 'Fire and water,' muttered Miss Dearheart. 'But not both!'
'Can't you . . . rebake him, or something?' It sounded hopeless even as Moist said it. He'd seen the other golems scrabbling in the rubble. 'Not enough left. Just dust, mixed up with everything else,' said Miss Dearheart. 'All he wanted to do was be useful.' Moist looked at the remains of the letters. The flood had washed the black slurry of their ashes into every corner. All they wanted to do was be delivered, he thought. At a time like this, sitting on the sea bed for nine thousand years seemed quite attractive. 'He was going to wait until the universe comes round again. Did you know that?'
'You told me, yes,' said Moist. There's no stink more sorrowful than the stink of wet, burnt paper, Moist thought. It means: the end. 'Vetinari won't rebuild this place, you know,' Miss Dearheart went on. 'Gilt will get people to make a fuss if he tries it. Waste of city funds. He's got friends. People who owe him money and favours. He's good at that sort of people.'
'It was Gilt who had this place torched,' said Moist. 'He was shocked to see me back in the restaurant. He thought I'd be here.'
'You'll never be able to prove it.' Probably not, Moist agreed, in the sour, smoke-addled hollow of his head. The Watch had turned up with more speed than Moist had found usual amongst city policemen. They had a werewolf with them. Oh, probably most people would have thought it was just a handsome dog, but grow up in Uberwald with a grandfather who bred dogs and you learned to spot the signs. This one had a collar, and snuffled around while the embers were still smoking, and found something extra to scent in the pall of steaming ashes. They'd dug down, and there had been an awkward interview. Moist had handled it as well as he could manage, in the circumstances. The key point was never to tell the truth. Coppers never believed what people told them in any case, so there was no point in giving them extra work. 'A winged skeleton?' Moist had said, with what surely sounded like genuine surprise. 'Yes, sir. About the size of a man, but very . . . damaged. I could even say mangled. I wonder if you know anything about it?' This watchman was a captain. Moist hadn't been able to make him out. His face gave nothing away that he didn't want to let go of. Something about him suggested that he already knew the answers but was asking the questions for the look of the thing. 'Perhaps it was an extra large pigeon? They're real pests in this building,' Moist had said. 'I doubt it, sir. We believe it to have been a banshee, Mr Lipwig,' said the captain patiently. 'They're very rare.'
'I thought they just screamed on the rooftops of people who are going to die,' said Moist.
'The civilized ones do, sir. The wild ones cut out the middle man. Your young man said he hit something?'
'Stanley did say something about, oh, something flying around,' said Moist. 'But I thought it was simply—'
'—an extra large pigeon. I see. And you've no idea how the fire started? I know you use safety lamps in here.'
'Probably spontaneous combustion in the letter piles, I'm afraid,' said Moist, who'd had time to think about this one. 'No one has been behaving oddly?'
'In the Post Office, captain, it's very hard to tell. Believe me.'
'No threats made, sir? By anyone you may have upset, perhaps?'
'None at all.' The captain had sighed and put away his notebook. 'I'll have a couple of men watching the building overnight, nevertheless,' he'd said. 'Well done for saving the cat, sir. That was a big cheer you got when you came out. Just one thing, though, sir . . .'
'Yes, captain?'
'Why would a banshee - or possibly a giant pigeon - attack Mr Groat?' And Moist thought: the hat . . . 'I have no idea,' he said. 'Yes, sir. I'm sure you haven't,' said the captain. 'I'm sure you haven't. I'm Captain Ironfoundersson, sir, although most people call me Captain Carrot. Don't hesitate to contact me, sir, if anything occurs to you. We are here for your protection.' And what would you have done against a banshee? Moist had thought. You suspect Gilt. Well done. But people like Gilt don't bother with the law. They never break it, they just use people who do. And you'll never find anything written down, anywhere. Just before the captain had turned to go Moist was sure that the werewolf had winked at him. Now, with the rain drifting in and hissing where the stones were still warm, Moist looked around at the fires. There were still plenty of them, where the golems had dumped the rubble. This being Ankh-Morpork, people of the night had risen like the mists and gathered around them for warmth. This place would need a fortune spent on it. Well? He knew where to lay his hands on plenty of money, didn't he? He didn't have much use for it. It had only ever been a way of keeping score. But then this would all end, because it had belonged to Albert Spangler and the rest of them, not to an innocent postmaster. He took off his golden hat and looked at it. An avatar, Pelc had said. The human embodiment of a god. But he wasn't a god, he was just a conman in a golden suit, and the con was over. Where was the angel now? Where were the gods when you needed them? The gods could help. The hat glinted in the firelight, and parts of Moist's brain sparkled. He didn't breathe as the thought emerged, in case it took fright, but it was so simple. And something that no honest man would ever have thought of . . . 'What we need,' he said, 'is . . .'
came forward, head bobbing as he strutted. There was nowhere else for Moist to go, so he tossed aside the wood and held up his hands. 'All right, I give in,' he said. 'Just make it quick, okay?' The creature kept looking at the golden suit; they had a magpie's eye for glitter. 'I'm going somewhere afterwards,' said Moist helpfully. Gryle hesitated. He was hurt, disorientated and had eaten pigeons that were effluent on wings. He wanted to get out of here and up into the cool sky. Everything was too complicated here. There were too many targets, too many smells. For a banshee, everything was in the pounce, when teeth, claws and bodyweight all bore down at once. Now, bewildered, he strutted back and forth, trying to deal with the situation. There was no room to fly, nowhere else to go, the prey was standing there . . . instinct, emotion and some attempt at rational thought all banged together in Gryle's overheated head. Instinct won. Leaping at things with your claws out had worked for a million years, so why stop now? He threw his head back, screamed, and sprang. So did Moist, ducking under the long arms. That wasn't programmed into the banshee's responses: the prey should be huddled, or running away. But Moist's shoulder caught him in the chest. The creature was as light as a child. Moist felt a claw slash into his arm as he hurled the thing on to the Sorting Engine, and flung himself to the floor. For one horrible moment he thought it was going to get up, that he'd missed the wheel, but as the enraged Mr Gryle shifted there was a sound like . . . . . . gloop . . . . . . followed by silence. Moist lay on the cool flagstones until his heart slowed down to the point where he could make out individual beats. He was aware, as he lay there, that something sticky was dripping down the side of the machine. He arose slowly, on unsteady legs, and stared at what had become of the creature. If he'd been a hero, he would have taken the opportunity to say, 'That's what I call sorted!' Since he wasn't a hero, he threw up. A body doesn't work properly when significant bits are not sharing the same space-time frame as the rest of it, but it does look more colourful. Then, clutching at his bleeding arm, Moist knelt down and looked under the engine for Tiddles. He had to come back with the cat, he thought muzzily. It was just something that had to happen. A man who rushes into a burning building to rescue a stupid cat and comes out carrying the cat is seen as a hero, even if he is a rather dumb one. If he comes out sans cat he's a twit. A muffled thunder above them suggested that part of the building had fallen down. The air was roasting. Tiddles backed away from Moist's hand. 'Listen,' Moist growled. 'The hero has to come out with the cat. The cat doesn't have to be alive—' He lunged, grabbed Tiddles and dragged the cat out. 'Right,' he said, and picked up the suit hanger in his other hand. There were a few blobs of banshee on it, but, he thought light-headedly, he could probably find something to remove them. He lurched out into the corridor. There was a wall of fire at both ends, and Tiddles chose this moment to sink all four sets of claws into his arm. 'Ah,' said Moist. 'Up until now it was going so well—'
'Mr Lipvig! Are You All Right, Mr Lipvig?'
What golems removed from a fire was, in fact, the fire. They took out of a burning property everything that was burning. It was curiously surgical. They assembled at the edge of the fire and deprived it of anything to burn, herded it, cornered it, and stamped it to death. Golems could wade through lava and pour molten iron. Even if they knew what fear was, they wouldn't find it in a mere burning building. Glowing rubble was hauled away from the steps by red-hot hands. Moist stared up into a landscape of flame but also, in front of it, Mr Pump. He was glowing orange. Specks of dust and dirt on his clay flashed and sparkled. 'Good To See You, Mr Lipvig!' he boomed cheerfully, tossing a crackling beam aside. 'We Have Cleared A Path To The Door! Move With Speed!'
'Er . . . thank you!' shouted Moist, above the roar of the flames. There was a path, dragged clear of debris, with the open door beckoning calmly and coolly at the end of it. Away towards the far end of the hall other golems, oblivious of the pillars of flame, were calmly throwing burning floorboards out through a hole in the wall. The heat was intense. Moist lowered his head, clutched the terrified cat to his chest, felt the back of his neck begin to roast and scampered forward. From then on, it became all one memory. The crashing noise high above. The metallic boom. The golem Anghammarad looking up, with his message glowing yellow on his cherry-red arm. Ten thousand tons of rainwater pouring down in deceptive slow motion. The cold hitting the glowing golem . . . . . . the explosion . . . Flames died. Sound died. Light died. ANGHAMMARAD. Anghammarad looked at his hands. There was nothing there except heat, furnace heat, blasting heat that nevertheless made the shapes of fingers. ANGHAMMARAD , a hollow voice repeated. 'I Have Lost My Clay,' said the golem. YES, said Death, THAT IS STANDARD. YOU ARE DEAD. SMASHED. EXPLODED INTO A MILLION PIECES. 'Then Who Is This Doing The Listening?' EVERYTHING THERE WAS ABOUT YOU THAT ISN'T CLAY. 'Do You Have A Command For Me?' said the remains of Anghammarad, standing up. NOT NOW. YOU HAVE REACHED THE PLACE WHERE THERE ARE NO MORE ORDERS. 'What Shall I Do?' I BELIEVE YOU HAVE FAILED TO UNDERSTAND MY LAST COMMENT. Anghammarad sat down again. Apart from the fact that there was sand rather than ooze underfoot, this place reminded him of the abyssal plain. GENERALLY PEOPLE LIKE TO MOVE ON, Death hinted. THEY LOOK FORWARD TO AN AFTERLIFE. 'I Will Stay Here, Please.' HERE? THERE'S NOTHING TO DO HERE, said Death. 'Yes, I Know,' said the ghost of the golem. 'It Is Perfect. I Am Free.'
At two in the morning it began to rain. Things could have been worse. It could have rained snakes. It could have rained acid. There was still some roof, and some walls. That meant there was still some building. Moist and Miss Dearheart sat on some warm rubble outside the locker room, which was more or less the only room that could still be properly described as one. The golems had stamped out the last of the fire, shored things up and then, without a word, had gone back to not being a hammer until sunset. Miss Dearheart held a half-melted bronze band in her hand, and turned it over and over. 'Eighteen thousand years,' she whispered. 'It was the rainwater tank,' mumbled Moist, staring at nothing. 'Fire and water,' muttered Miss Dearheart. 'But not both!'