He pulled himself up, keening softly in agony, and hopped along the alley, using the wall for support. The inn’s stables were round the back; all he had to do was pull himself up on to a horse, any horse—

‘Mr Lipwig?’ a big voice bellowed.

Oh, gods, it was a troll, it sounded like a troll, a big one too, he didn’t know you got any down here outside the cities—

‘You Can’t Run And You Can’t Hide, Mr Lipwig!’

Hold on, hold on, he hadn’t given his real name to anyone in this place, had he? But all this was background thinking. Someone was after him, therefore he would run. Or hop.

He risked a look behind him when he reached the back gate to the stables. There was a red glow in his room. Surely they weren’t torching the place over a matter of a few dollars? How stupid! Everyone knew that if you got lumbered with a good fake you palmed it off on to some other sucker as soon as possible, didn’t they? There was no helping some people.

His horse was alone in the stable, and seemed unimpressed to see him. He got the bridle on, while hopping on one foot. There was no point in bothering with a saddle. He knew how to ride without a saddle. Hell, once he’d ridden without pants, too, but luckily all the tar and feathers helped him stick to the horse. He was the world champion at leaving town in a hurry.

He went to lead the horse out of the stall, and heard the clink.

He looked down, and kicked some straw away.

There was a bright yellow bar, joining two short lengths of chain with a yellow shackle attached, one for each foreleg. The only way this horse would go anywhere was by hopping, just like him.

They’d clamped it. They’d bloody clamped it…

‘Oh, Mr Lipppppwig!’ The voice boomed out across the stable yard. ‘Do You Want To Know The Rules, Mr Lipwig?’

He looked around in desperation. There was nothing in here to use as a weapon and in any case weapons made him nervous, which was why he’d never carried one. Weapons raised the ante far too high. It was much better to rely on a gift for talking his way out of things, confusing the issue and, if that failed, some well-soled shoes and a cry of ‘Look, what’s that over there?’

But he had a definite feeling that while he could talk as much as he liked, out here no one was going to listen. As for speeding away, he’d just have to rely on hop.

There was a yard broom and a wooden feed bucket in the corner. He stuck the head of the broom under his armpit to make a crutch and grabbed the bucket handle as heavy footsteps thudded towards the stable door. When the door was pushed open he swung the bucket as hard as he could, and felt it shatter. Splinters filled the air. A moment later there was the thump of a heavy body hitting the ground.

Moist hopped over it and plunged unsteadily into the dark.

Something as tough and hard as a shackle snapped round his good ankle. He hung from the broom handle for a second, and then collapsed.

‘I Have Nothing But Good Feelings Towards You, Mr Lipwig!’ boomed the voice cheerfully.

Moist groaned. The broom must have been kept as an ornament, because it certainly hadn’t been used much on the accumulations in the stable yard. On the positive side, this meant he had fallen into something soft. On the negative side, it meant that he had fallen into something soft.

Someone grabbed a handful of his coat and lifted him bodily out of the muck.

‘Up We Get, Mr Lipwig!’

‘It’s pronounced Lipvig, you moron,’ he moaned. ‘A v, not a w!’

‘Up Ve Get, Mr Lipvig!’ said the booming voice, as his broom/ crutch was pushed under his arm.

‘What the hell are you?’ Lipwig managed.

‘I Am Your Parole Officer, Mr Lipvig!’

Moist managed to turn round, and looked up, and then up again, into a gingerbread man’s face with two glowing red eyes in it. When it spoke, its mouth was a glimpse into an inferno.

‘A golem? You’re a damn golem ?’

The thing picked him up in one hand and slung him over its shoulder. It ducked into the stables and Moist, upside down with his nose pressed against the terracotta of the creature’s body, realized that it was picking up his horse in its other hand. There was a brief whinny.

‘Ve Must Make Haste, Mr Lipvig! You Are Due In Front Of Lord Vetinari At Eight O’clock! And At Vork By Nine!’

Moist groaned.

‘Ah, Mr Lipwig . Regrettably, we meet again,’ said Lord Vetinari.

It was eight o’clock in the morning. Moist was swaying. His ankle felt better, but it was the only part of him that did.

‘It walked all night!’ he said. ‘All damn night! Carrying a horse as well!’

‘Do sit down , Mr Lipwig,’ said Vetinari, looking up from the table and gesturing wearily to the chair. ‘By the way, “it” is a “he”. An honorific in this case, clearly, but I have great hopes of Mr Pump.’

Moist saw the glow on the walls as, behind him, the golem smiled.

Vetinari looked down at the table again, and seemed to lose interest in Moist for a moment. A slab of stone occupied most of the table. Little carved figurines of dwarfs and trolls covered it. It looked like some kind of game.

‘Mr Pump?’ said Moist.

‘Hmm?’ said Vetinari, moving his head to look at the board from a slightly different viewpoint.

Moist leaned towards the Patrician, and jerked a thumb in the direction of the golem.

‘That’ , he said, ‘is Mr Pump?’

‘No,’ said Lord Vetinari, leaning forward likewise and suddenly, completely and disconcertingly focusing on Moist. ‘He… is Mr Pump. Mr Pump is a government official. Mr Pump does not sleep. Mr Pump does not eat. And Mr Pump, Postmaster General, does not stop .’

‘And that means what, exactly?’

‘It means that if you are thinking of, say, finding a ship headed for Fourecks, on the basis that Mr Pump is big and heavy and travels only at walking pace, Mr Pump will follow you. You have to sleep. Mr Pump does not. Mr Pump does not breathe. The deep abyssal plains of the oceans present no barrier to Mr Pump. Four miles an hour is six hundred and seventy-two miles in a week. It all adds up. And when Mr Pump catches you—’

‘Ah, now,’ said Moist, holding up a finger. ‘Let me stop you there. I know golems are not allowed to hurt people!’

Lord Vetinari raised his eyebrows. ‘Good heavens, wherever did you hear that?’

‘It’s written on… something inside their heads! A scroll, or something. Isn’t it?’ said Moist, uncertainty rising.

‘Oh, dear.’ The Patrician sighed. ‘Mr Pump, just break one of Mr Lipwig’s fingers, will you? Neatly, if you please.’

‘Yes, Your Lordship.’ The golem lumbered forward.

‘Hey! No! What?’ Moist waved his hands wildly and knocked game pieces tumbling. ‘Wait! Wait! There’s a rule ! A golem mustn’t harm a human being or allow a human being to come to harm!’

Lord Vetinari raised a finger. ‘Just wait one moment, please, Mr Pump. Very well, Mr Lipwig, can you remember the next bit?’

‘The next bit? What next bit?’ said Moist. ‘There isn’t a next bit!’

Lord Vetinari raised an eyebrow. ‘Mr Pump?’ he said.

‘“… Unless Ordered To Do So By Duly Constituted Authority”,’ said the golem.

‘I’ve never heard that bit before!’ said Moist.

‘Haven’t you?’ said Lord Vetinari, in apparent surprise. ‘I can’t imagine who would fail to include it. A hammer can hardly be allowed to refuse to hit the nail on the head, nor a saw to make moral judgements about the nature of the timber. In any case, I employ Mr Trooper the hangman, whom of course you have met, and the City Watch, the regiments and, from time to time… other specialists, who are fully entitled to kill in their own defence or in protection of the city and its interests.’ Vetinari started to pick up the fallen pieces and replace them delicately on the slab. ‘Why should Mr Pump be any different just because he is made of clay? Ultimately, so are we all. Mr Pump will accompany you to your place of work. The fiction will be that he is your bodyguard, as befits a senior government official. We alone will know that he has… additional instructions. Golems are highly moral creatures by nature, Mr Lipwig, but you may find their morality a shade… old-fashioned?’