(no subject)
Somewhere between the 28th time The Lady trumped him in strip poker and the twentieth wallet he stole on the streets of Ankh-Morpork, Moist realized that he was not, in fact, having fun. After becoming fifty dollars richer, having a brief, normal* cup of tea with Stanley and Grout, and studiously avoiding the looming structure of the University all day long, Moist settled back in the chair in his office and close his eyes.
"You've an appointment with the Patrician tomorrow, Postmaster," Grout was saying, looking down at what may have been a clipboard. A new poultice on Grout's nose was fizzing and giving off thin, purple steam. In the near midnight light, it was faintly mystical. "Concerning the new Mint, of course."
Moist opened his eyes, "Tomorrow being Monday, isn't it?"
"Yessir."
"Hmmm..." Moist murmured, looking out at the city. He really had missed it, once. "Well, if I am here, I shall certainly be there, Mr. Grout."
"Oh, you're quite the comedian, Postmaster," Grout said, waving one gnarled finger at him. "You's know better than to miss a meeting with the Patrician, sir."
"I do." However, a transdimensional island may not.
"And you've a luncheon with the Clacks board, as well. With Miss Dearheart." Never have a set of eyebrows been more suggestive. Moist actually flinched.
"Yes. That as well. Now, Mr. Grout, I'm going to close my eyes for a little while." Mr Grout nodded and started to leave. "And Mr Grout? You're very good at your job. I'm sure your Grandad will agree."
Grout looked as if he was about to cry. "...Thank you, sir."
Moist grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Only the truth, Senior Postman. Now, off with you. The night coach from Genua's due in any minute."
"Yessir."
When he was alone and could hear the city quite clearly, he looked up at the sooty ceiling and nodded. He maybe heard the clicking of dice.
"Okay," he whispered, just before the clocks in the city started ringing in midnight. "Okay..."
And five minutes into the ringing, Moist blinked. His body felt heavy and unused, but he stretched greatly, spine lifting off the bed. He reached out, caressing Duo’s cheek where he sat crouched by the bed.
“….hey,” he whispered.
* for a given definition of normal.
"You've an appointment with the Patrician tomorrow, Postmaster," Grout was saying, looking down at what may have been a clipboard. A new poultice on Grout's nose was fizzing and giving off thin, purple steam. In the near midnight light, it was faintly mystical. "Concerning the new Mint, of course."
Moist opened his eyes, "Tomorrow being Monday, isn't it?"
"Yessir."
"Hmmm..." Moist murmured, looking out at the city. He really had missed it, once. "Well, if I am here, I shall certainly be there, Mr. Grout."
"Oh, you're quite the comedian, Postmaster," Grout said, waving one gnarled finger at him. "You's know better than to miss a meeting with the Patrician, sir."
"I do." However, a transdimensional island may not.
"And you've a luncheon with the Clacks board, as well. With Miss Dearheart." Never have a set of eyebrows been more suggestive. Moist actually flinched.
"Yes. That as well. Now, Mr. Grout, I'm going to close my eyes for a little while." Mr Grout nodded and started to leave. "And Mr Grout? You're very good at your job. I'm sure your Grandad will agree."
Grout looked as if he was about to cry. "...Thank you, sir."
Moist grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Only the truth, Senior Postman. Now, off with you. The night coach from Genua's due in any minute."
"Yessir."
When he was alone and could hear the city quite clearly, he looked up at the sooty ceiling and nodded. He maybe heard the clicking of dice.
"Okay," he whispered, just before the clocks in the city started ringing in midnight. "Okay..."
And five minutes into the ringing, Moist blinked. His body felt heavy and unused, but he stretched greatly, spine lifting off the bed. He reached out, caressing Duo’s cheek where he sat crouched by the bed.
“….hey,” he whispered.
* for a given definition of normal.