Round about the seventh family, a watchman started taking a distant interest, so the man in dusty black made a show of taking the last name and address and strolled into an alley. He tossed the broken iconograph back on the pile of junk where he had found it - it was a cheap one and the imps had long since evaporated - and was about to set off across the fields when he saw the newspaper being bowled along by the wind.
To a man travelling on his wits, a newspaper was a useful treasure. Stuck down your shirt, it kept the wind off your chest. You could use it to light fires. For the fastidious, it saved a daily resort to dockweed, burdock or other broad-leaved plants. And, as a last resort, you could read it.
This evening, the breeze was getting up. He gave the front page of the paper a cursory glance and tucked it under his vest.
His teeth tried to tell him something, but he never listened to them. A man could go mad, listening to his teeth.
When he got back to the Post Office, Moist looked up the Lavish family in Whom's Whom. They were indeed what was known as 'old money', which meant that it had been made so long ago that the black deeds which had originally filled the coffers were now historically irrelevant. Funny, that: a brigand for a father was something you kept quiet about, but a slave-taking pirate for a great-great-great-grandfather was something to boast of over the port. Time turned the evil bastards into rogues, and rogue was a word with a twinkle in its eye and nothing to be ashamed of.
They'd been rich for centuries. The key players in the current crop of Lavishes, apart from Topsy, were first her brother-in-law Marko Lavish and his wife Capricia Lavish, daughter of a famous trust fund. They lived in Genua, as far away from other Lavishes as possible, which was a very Lavish thing to do. Then there were Topsy's stepchildren, the twins Cosmo and Pucci, who had, the story ran, been born with their little hands around one another's throat, like true Lavishes. There were also plenty more cousins, aunts and genetic hangers-on, all watching one another like cats. From what he'd heard, the family business was traditionally banking, but the recent generations, buoyed by a complex network of long-term investments and ancient trust funds, had diversified into disinheriting and suing one another, apparently with great enthusiasm and a commendable lack of mercy. He recalled pictures of them in the Times's society pages, getting in or out of sleek black coaches and not smiling very much, in case the money escaped.
There was no mention of Topsy's side of the family. They were Turvys, apparently not grand enough to be Whoms. Topsy Turvy... there was a music-hall sound to it, and probably Moist could believe that.
Moist's in-tray had been topped up in his absence. It was all unimportant stuff, and really didn't need anything from him, but it was this newfangled carbon paper that was the trouble. He got copies of everything, and they took up time.
It wasn't that he wasn't good at delegating. He was extremely good at delegating. But the talent requires people on the other end of the chain to be good at being delegated on to. They weren't. Something about the Post Office discouraged original thinking. The letters went in the slots, okay? There was no room for people who wanted to experiment with sticking them in their ear, up the chimney or down the privy. It'd do them good to -
He spotted the pink flimsy clacks amongst the other stuff and tugged it out quickly.
It was from Spike!
He read:
Success. Returning day after tomorrow. All will be revealed . S.
Moist put it down carefully. Obviously she'd missed him terribly and was desperate to see him again, but she was stingy about spending Golem Trust money. Also, she'd probably run out of cigarettes.
Moist drummed his fingers on the desk. A year ago he'd asked Adora Belle Dearheart to be his wife, and she'd explained that in fact he was going to be her husband.
It was going to be... well, it was going to be some time in the near future, when Mrs Dearheart finally lost patience with her daughter's busy schedule and arranged the wedding herself.
But he was a nearly married man, however you looked at it. And nearly married men didn't get mixed up with the Lavish family. A nearly married man was steadfast and dependable and always ready to hand his nearly wife an ashtray. He had to be there for his oneday children, and make sure they slept in a well-ventilated nursery.
He smoothed out the message.
And he would stop the night climbing, too. Was it grown up? Was it sensible? Was he a tool of Vetinari? No!
But a memory stirred. Moist got up and went over to his filing cabinet, which he normally avoided at all costs.
Under 'Stamps' he found the little report he'd had two months ago from Stanley Howler, the Head of Stamps. It noted in passing the continued high sales of one- and two-dollar stamps, which was higher than even Stanley had expected. Maybe 'stamp money' was more prevalent than he'd thought. After all, the government backed it, right? It was even easy to carry. He'd have to check on exactly how much they -
There was a dainty knock at the door, and Gladys entered. She bore with extreme care a plate of ham sandwiches, made very, very thin the way only Gladys could make them, which was to put one ham between two loaves and bring her shovel-sized hand down on it very hard.
'I Anticipated That You Would Have Had No Lunch, Postmaster,' she rumbled.
'Thank you, Gladys,' said Moist, mentally shaking himself.
'And Lord Vetinari Is Downstairs,' Gladys went on. 'He Says There Is No Rush.'
The sandwich stopped an inch from Moist's lips. 'He's in the building?'
'Yes, Mr Lipwig.'
'Wandering about by himself?' said Moist, horror mounting.
'Currently He Is In The Blind Letter Office, Mr Lipwig.'
'What's he doing there?'