'The sunshine will do it good,' said Moist, taking him gently in tow. 'Trust me.'

Chapter 13

Gladys Does It For Herself — To the House of Mirth — The history of Mr Bent — Usefulness of clowns as nurses is questioned — Owlswick gets an angel — The golden secret (not exactly dragon magic) — The return of the teeth — Vetinari looks ahead — The Bank Triumphant — The Glooper's little gift — How to spoil a perfect day

ON THE FIRST DAY of the rest of his life Moist von Lipwig woke up, which was nice given that on any particular day a number of people do not, but woke up alone, which was less pleasing.

It was 6 a.m., and the fog seemed glued to the windows, so thick that it should have contained croutons. But he liked these moments, before the fragments of yesterday reassembled themselves.

Hold on, this wasn't the suite, was it? This was his room in the Post Office, which had all the luxury and comfort that you would normally associate with the term 'civil service issue'.

A piece of yesterday fell into place. Oh yes, Vetinari had ordered the bank shut while his clerks looked at everything this time. Moist wished them luck with the late Sir Joshua's special cupboard…

There was no Mr Fusspot, which was a shame. You don't appreciate an early-morning slobber until it's gone. And there was no Gladys, either, which was worrying.

She didn't turn up while he was getting dressed, either, and there was no copy of the Times on his desk. His suit needed pressing, too.

He eventually found her pushing a trolley of mail in the sorting room. The blue dress had gone, to be replaced by a grey one which, by the nascent standard of golem dressmaking, looked quite smart.

'Good morning, Gladys,' Moist ventured. 'Any chance of some pressed trouser?'

'There Is Always A Warm Iron In The Postmen's Locker Room, Mr Lipwig.'

'Oh? Ah. Right. And, er… the Times?

'Four Copies Are Delivered To Mr Groat's Office Every Morning, Mr Lipwig,' said Gladys reproachfully.

'I suppose a sandwich is totally out of—'

'I Really Must Get On With My Duties, Mr Lipwig,' said the golem reproachfully.

'You know, Gladys, I can't help thinking that there's something different about you,' said Moist.

'Yes! I Am Doing It For Myself,' said Gladys, her eyes glowing.

'Doing what, exactly?'

'I Have Not Ascertained This Yet, But I Am Only Ten Pages Into The Book.'

'Ah. You've been reading a new book? But not one by Lady Deirdre Waggon, I'll wager.'

'No, Because She Is Out Of Touch With Modern Thought. I Laugh With Scorn.'

'Yes, I imagine she would be,' said Moist thoughtfully. 'And I expect Miss Dearheart gave you said book?'

'Yes. It Is Entitled Why Men Get Under Your Feet By Releventia Flout,' said Gladys earnestly.

And we start out with the best of intentions, thought Moist: find 'em out, dig 'em up, make 'em free. But we don't know what we're doing, or what we're doing it to.

'Gladys, the thing about books… well, the thing… I mean, just because it's written down, you don't have to… that is to say, it doesn't mean it's… what I'm getting at is that every book is—'

He stopped. They believe in words. Words give them life. I can't tell her that we just throw them around like jugglers, we change their meaning to suit ourselves…

He patted Gladys on the shoulder. 'Well, read them all and make up your own mind, eh?'

'That Was Very Nearly Inappropriate Touching, Mr Lipwig.'

Moist started to laugh, and stopped at the sight of her grave expression.

'Er, only for Ms Flout, I expect,' he said, and went to grab a Times before they were all stolen.

It must have been another bittersweet day for the editor. After all, there can only be one front page. In the end he'd stuffed in everything: the 'I do believe it is pineapple' line, plus picture, with the dripping Lavishes in the background, and, oh yes, here was Pucci's speech, in detail. It was wonderful. And she'd gone on and on. It was all perfectly clear from her point of view: she was right and everyone was silly. She was so in love with her own voice that the watchmen had to write down their official caution on a piece of paper and hold it up in front of her before they towed her away, still talking…

And someone had got a picture of Cosmo's ring catching the sunlight. It was near perfect surgery, they said down at the hospital, and had probably saved his life, they said, and how had Moist known what to do, they said, when the entirety of Moist's relevant medical knowledge was that a finger shouldn't have green mushrooms growing on it—

The paper was twitched out of his hands.

'What have you done with Professor Flead?' Adora Belle demanded. 'I know you've done something! Don't lie.'

'I haven't done anything!' Moist protested, and checked the wording. Yes, technically true.

'I've been to the Department of Post-Mortem Communications, you know!'

'And what did they say?'

'I don't know! There was a squid blocking the door! But you've done something, I know it! He told you the secret of getting through to the golems, didn't he?'

'No.' Absolutely true. Adora Belle hesitated.

'He didn't?'

'No. I got some extra vocabulary, but that's no secret.'

'Will it work for me?'

'No.' Currently true.

'They'd only take orders from a man? I bet that's it!'

'I don't think so.' True enough.

'So there is a secret?'

'It's not really a secret. Flead told us. He just didn't know it was a secret.' True.

'It's a word?'

'No.' True.

'Look, why won't you tell me? You know you can trust me!'

'Well, yes. Of course. But can I trust you if someone holds a knife to your throat?'

'Why should they do that?'

Moist sighed. 'Because you'll know how to command the biggest army there has ever been! Did you look around outside? Didn't you see all the coppers? They turned up right after the hearing!'

'What coppers?'

'Those trolls re-laying the cobbles? How often do you see that happening? The line of cabs that aren't interested in passengers? The battalion of beggars? And the coach yard around the back is full of hangers-on, lounging about and watching the windows. Those coppers. It's called a stake-out, and I'm the meat—'

There was a knock at the door. Moist recognized it; it sought to alert without disturbing.

'Come in, Stanley,' he said. The door opened.

'It's me, sir,' said Stanley, who went through life with the care of a man reading a manual translated from a foreign language.

'Yes, Stanley.'

'Head of Stamps, sir,' said Stanley.

'Yes, Stanley?'

'Lord Vetinari is in the coach yard, sir, inspecting the new automatic pick-up mechanism. He says there is no rush, sir.'

'He says there is no rush,' said Moist to Adora Belle.

'We'd better hurry, then?'

'Exactly.'

'Remarkably like a gibbet,' said Lord Vetinari, while behind him coaches rumbled in and out.

'It will allow a fast coach to pick up mailbags without slowing,' said Moist. 'That means letters going from small country offices can travel express without slowing the coach. It could save a few minutes on a long run.'

'And of course if I let you have some of the golem horses the coaches might travel at a hundred miles an hour, I'm told, and I wonder if those glowing eyes could see even through this murk.'

'Possibly, sir. But in fact I already have all the golem horses,' said Moist.

Vetinari gave him a cool look, and then said: 'Hah! And you also have all your ears. What exchange rate are we discussing?'

'Look, it's not that I want to be Lord of the Golems—' Moist began.

'On the way, please. Do join me in my coach,' said Vetinari.