#groat

Gold Glove Winner

ALCS MVP

WS MVP

It was a good rain. Raindrops were having trouble falling because there was too much rain in the way. It was a rain that had been removed from other climates for unnecessary roughness, and the wind had swept it into a biblical event. All in all, it had the general effect that Morpork was getting hosed down, and Ankh was receiving the spray. Considering the fact that the Cattle Market was on the side of the city being hosed down, this would’ve constituted an act of warfare in times gone past.

Postmaster General Tolliver Groat pulled the golden collar of his jacket to keep out the chill as he shambled up the fire escape. Moist had tried to talk Groat into getting the suit fit when he promoted him, but he wouldn’t have it. This was the shape of the suit when the Post Office was restored to its former glory, and therefore it was sacrament. Tailoring it was out of the question. He had to wrap a belt twice around his waist to get the pants to fit, and then he had to roll up the legs so he wouldn’t trod on the backs of them.

He hauled himself out onto the flat roof and sidled across the slick shingles to the pigeon loft. When he opened the door, a blast of wet wind caught it and threw it open. The ancient structure shuddered with the impact.

Groat thrust a lantern into the darkness. “Allo, lads!” he yelled against the storm. “Just come about the rent-”

The pigeon loft was empty. Even the smell of pigeons was gone.

Groat stared. In the cobwebby corners of his mind, a neuron made a juddering start, dislodging a memory. Oh...yes, that’s right, the lads had left some years ago. Something about moving to the, er...the watchamacallit, big tower thingy, lots of lights, something like that. How’d he forget that?

He eased himself back down the stairs. It had been getting worse, he had to admit. It was his age. Despite his best efforts, he’d managed to catch up with it. And really, this was no way for a Postmaster to be, bones creaking, brain leaking, stranded on a rooftop in the middle of a storm. Maybe it was time to go over to the Palace, have a very serious conversation with Mister Lipwig, and then settle down in some letter-sorting office some-

He was briefly aware of the sudden, soggy gust of wind catching his overlarge jacket and billowing it out like a sail. He felt his shoes scuff across the wet shingles, felt his legs fly up from underneath him, felt the sudden weightlessness and-

There was a short, ugly pause.

There was a short, terrible noise.

There was a long, ugly silence.

TOLLIVER GROAT?

Groat looked up into the ivory face and frowned. “Oh come on, this isn’t fair. I took my medicines, didn’t I?”

I’M AFRAID TO SAY THAT THERE IS NO MEDICATION TO PREVENT FALLING FIVE STORIES TO THE GROUND. Death seemed to consider this. BESIDE COMMON SENSE, I SUPPOSE.

Groat pushed himself up. “Yeah, rub it in, why don’t you.” He looked back and sighed. It had been a nice suit. It was shameful the way his body was leaking over it.

DON’T MISUNDERSTAND ME. I MUST SAY, YOU DID AN EXCELLENT JOB OF WARDING ME OFF FOR SO LONG. I’M VERY IMPRESSED.

“Oh - well, thanks. It’s clean living, that’s the ticket.”

THE SULPHUR IN YOUR SOCKS WAS A GOOD TOUCH.

Groat puffed upward with a warm bubble of pride. “It was, wasn’t it?”

Broad Way was fading around them. Groat could just see a brass blur hover over his body for a moment before all light winked out. He squinted at it. “Here, was that Young Vimes?”

YES.

“Good. Good lad, very sherbert. Won’t leave me out in the rain all night. That’s one less thing to worry about.”

IT IS JUST AS WELL. YOU HAVE REACHED THE PLACE WHERE THERE ARE NO THINGS TO-

Death cut off so suddenly that Groat worried something had gone wrong. SHERBERT?

Groat waved a hand. “Dimwell slang. Lemon sherbert, smart. He’s a smart man, that’s what I’m saying.”

OH, Death said.

And now they were in a desert of black sand. The only thing dividing the sky from the earth were the stars.

“So you’re here to return me to sender, are you?” Groat said.

When he looked up, Death was already turning translucent. YOU WERE THE POSTMASTER, TOLLIVER GROAT. I BELIEVE IT IS YOUR DUTY TO DELIVER. The billiard-ball face vanished. The afterimage of its eyes were pressed against Groat’s eyelids for a moment, and then even those faded away.

Groat sighed. “Fair enough.” Oh indeed, he’d deliver. First Groat to ever be Postmaster General! First Groat to see the Post Office reborn! The thought of the look on his ancestors’ faces when he arrived was tantalizing in the extreme.