Going Postal

Reacher Gilt, wincing occasionally as the aches from three days of being carried by a golem made themselves felt, listened in mounting puzzlement to the angelic theories of Lord Vetinari.

‘. . . brings me on to my point, Mr Gilt. The Royal Mint needs an entirely new approach. Frankly, it’s moribund and not at all what we need in the Century of the Anchovy. Yet there is a way forward. In recent months Mr Lipwig’s celebrated stamps have become a second currency in this city. So light, so easy to carry, you can even send them through the post! Fascinating, Mr Gilt. At last people are loosening their grip on the idea that money should be shiny. Do you know that a typical one penny stamp may change hands up to twelve times before being affixed to an envelope and redeemed? What the Mint needs to see it through is a man who understands the dream of currency. There will be a salary and, I believe, a hat.’

‘You are offering me a job ?’

‘Yes, Mr Stippler,’ said Vetinari. ‘And, to show the sincerity of my offer, let me point out the door behind you. If at any time in this interview you feel you wish to leave, you have only to step through it and you will never hear from me again… ’

Some little time later the clerk Drumknott padded into the room. Lord Vetinari was reading a report on the previous night’s secret meeting of the Thieves’ Guild inner inner council.

He tidied up the trays quite noiselessly, and then came and stood by Vetinari.

‘There are ten overnights off the clacks, my lord,’ he said. ‘It’s good to have it back in operation.’

‘Indeed yes,’ said Vetinari, not looking up. ‘Otherwise how in the world would people be able to find out what we want them to think? Any foreign mail?’

‘The usual packets, my lord. The Uberwald one has been most deftly tampered with.’

‘Ah, dear Lady Margolotta,’ said Vetinari, smiling.

‘I’ve taken the liberty of removing the stamps for my nephew, my lord,’ Drumknott went on.

‘Of course,’ said Vetinari, waving a hand.

Drumknott looked around the office and focused on the slab where the little stone armies were endlessly in combat. ‘Ah, I see you have won, my lord,’ he said.

‘Yes. I must make a note of the gambit.’

‘But Mr Gilt, I notice, is not here… ’

Vetinari sighed. ‘You have to admire a man who really believes in freedom of choice,’ he said, looking at the open doorway. ‘Sadly, he did not believe in angels.’