‘Keen?’ said Anghammarad.

She sighed. ‘Another tough one, Mr Moist. It’s as bad as “dull”. The closest I can come is: you will satisfy the imperative to perform the directed action.’

‘Yes,’ said the golem. ‘The Messages Must Be Delivered. That Is Written On My Chem.’

‘And that’s the scroll in his head that gives a golem his instructions,’ said Miss Dearheart. ‘In Anghammarad’s case it’s a clay tablet. They didn’t have paper in those days.’

‘You really used to deliver messages for kings?’ said Groat.

‘Many Kings,’ said Anghammarad. ‘Many Empires. Many Gods. Many Gods. All Gone. All Things Go.’ The golem’s voice got deeper, as if he was quoting from memory. ‘Neither Deluge Nor Ice Storm Nor The Black Silence Of The Netherhells Shall Stay These Messengers About Their Sacred Business. Do Not Ask Us About Sabre-Tooth Tigers, Tar Pits, Big Green Things With Teeth Or The Goddess Czol’

‘You had big green things with teeth back then?’ said Tropes.

‘Bigger. Greener. More Teeth,’ rumbled Anghammarad.

‘And the goddess Czol?’ said Moist.

‘Do Not Ask.’

There was a thoughtful silence. Moist knew how to break it.

‘And you will decide if he is a postman?’ he said softly.

The postmen went into a brief huddle, and then Groat turned back to Moist.

‘He’s a postman and a half, Mr Lipwig. We never knew. The lads say - well, it’d be an honour, sir, an honour to work with him. I mean, it’s like… it’s like history, sir. It’s like… well… ’

‘I always said the Order goes back a long way, didn’t I?’ said Jimmy Tropes, aglow with pride. ‘There was postmen back inna dawn o’ time! When they hears we’ve got a member who goes all that way back the other secret societies are gonna be as green as… as… ’

‘Something big with teeth?’ Moist suggested.

‘Right! And no problem with his chums neither, if they can take orders,’ said Groat generously.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said Moist. And now all that remains’ - he nodded to Stanley, who held up two big tins of royal blue paint - ‘is their uniform.’

By general agreement Anghammarad was given the unique rank of Extremely Senior Postman. It seemed… fair.

Half an hour later, still tacky to the touch, each one accompanied by a human postman, the golems took to the streets. Moist watched heads turn. The afternoon sunlight glinted off royal blue and Stanley, gods bless him, had found a small pot of gold paint too. Frankly, the golems were impressive. They gleamed.

You had to give people a show. Give them a show, and you were halfway to where you wanted to be.

A voice behind him said: ‘The Postman came down like a wolf on the fold / His cohorts all gleaming in azure and gold… ’

Just for a moment, a flicker of time, Moist thought: I’ve been made, she knows. Somehow, she knows. Then his brain took over. He turned to Miss Dearheart.

‘When I was a kid I always thought that a cohort was a piece of armour, Miss Dearheart,’ he said, giving her a smile. ‘I used to imagine the troops sitting up all night, polishing them.’

‘Sweet,’ said Miss Dearheart, lighting a cigarette. ‘Look, I’ll get you the rest of the golems as soon as possible. There may be trouble, of course. The Watch will be on your side, though. There’s a free golem in the Watch and they rather like him, although here it doesn’t much matter what you’re made of when you join the Watch because Commander Vimes will see to it that you become solid copper through and through. He’s the most cynical bastard that walks under the sun.’

‘Yow think he’s cynical?’ said Moist.

‘Yes,’ she said, blowing smoke. ‘As you suspect, that’s practically a professional opinion. But thank you for hiring the boys. I’m not sure they understand what “liking” something means, but they like to work. And Pump 19 seems to hold you in some regard.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I personally think you are a phoney.’

‘Yes, I expect you do,’ said Moist. Ye gods, Miss Dearheart was hard work. He’d met women he couldn’t charm, but they’d been foothills compared to the icy heights of Mount Dearheart. It was an act. It had to be. It was a game. It had to be.

He pulled out his packet of stamp designs. ‘What do you think of these, Miss D— Look, what do your friends call you, Miss Dearheart?’

And in his head Moist said to himself I don’t know just as the woman said: ‘I don’t know. What’s this? You carry your etchings with you to save time?’

So it was a game, and he was invited to play.

‘They will be copper-engraved, I hope,’ he said meekly. ‘They’re my designs for the new stamps.’ He explained about the stamps idea, while she looked at the pages.

‘Good one of Vetinari,’ she said. ‘They say he dyes his hair, you know. What’s this one? Oh, the Tower of Art… how like a man. A dollar, eh? Hmm. Yes, they’re quite good. When will you start using them?’

‘Actually, I was planning to slip along to Teemer and Spools while the lads are out now and discuss the engraving,’ said Moist.

‘Good. They’re a decent firm,’ she said. ‘Sluice 23 is turning the machinery for them. They keep him clean and don’t stick notices on him. I go and check on all the hired golems every week. The frees are very insistent on that.’

‘To make sure they’re not mistreated?’ said Moist.

‘To make sure they’re not forgotten. You’d be amazed at how many businesses in the city have a golem working somewhere on the premises. Not the Grand Trunk, though,’ she added. ‘I won’t let them work there.’

There was an edge to that statement.

‘Er… why not?’ said Moist.

‘There’s some shit not even a golem should work in,’ said Miss Dearheart, in the same steel tone. ‘They are moral creatures.’

O-kay, thought Moist, bit of a sore point there, then?

His mouth said: ‘Would you like to have dinner tonight?’ For just the skin of a second, Miss Dearheart was surprised, but not half as surprised as Moist. Then her natural cynicism reinflated.

‘I like to have dinner every night. With you? No. I have things to do. Thank you for asking.’

‘No problem,’ said Moist, slightly relieved.

The woman looked around the echoing hall. ‘Doesn’t this place give you the creeps? You could perhaps do something with some floral wallpaper and a fire-bomb.’

‘It’s all going to be sorted out,’ said Moist quickly. ‘But it’s best to get things moving as soon as possible. To show we’re in business.’

They watched Stanley and Groat, who were patiently sorting at the edge of a pile, prospectors in the foothills of the postal mountain. They were dwarfed by the white hillocks.

‘It will take you for ever to deliver them, you know,’ said Miss Dearheart, turning to go.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Moist.

‘But that’s the thing about golems,’ added Miss Dearheart, standing in the doorway. The light caught her face oddly. ‘They’re not frightened of “for ever”. They’re not frightened of anything.’

Mr Spools, in his ancient office smelling of oil and ink, was impressed by this strange young man in the golden suit and winged hat.

‘You certainly know your papers, Mr Lipwig,’ he said, as Moist thumbed through the samples. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet a customer who does. Always use the right paper for the job, that’s what I say.’

‘The important thing is to make stamps hard to forge,’ said Moist, leafing through the samples. ‘On the other hand, it mustn’t cost us anything like a penny to produce a penny stamp!’

‘Watermarks are your friend there, Mr Lipwig,’ said Mr Spools.

‘Not impossible to fake, though,’ said Moist, and then added, ‘so I’ve been told.’