by P. G. Bell
“We sort of bumped into each other,” said Suzy. “I’m just helping out for a bit.”
“Well, I’m very glad you are,” said Gertrude. “The Impossible Postal Service is like a family, and it’s been shrinking for far too long. It’s good to have you with us, Suzy.” Gertrude’s smile returned, wise and reassuring, and Suzy found it easy to smile back.
The commotion of the crowd died away suddenly, and they both turned to see the knot of old trolls opening up, leaving one individual in the center. His skin was ruddy and liver-spotted, and his nose was as sharp as a pickax blade. He held aloft a fine gold chain, from which dangled a small key.
Wilmot’s eyes lit up. “Mr. Trellis? Can you help us?”
“Aye,” the old troll said. “I’ve got one. I’ve got a Fact of Entry in the vault.”
“Marvelous,” said Gertrude. “The Postmaster and his staff are very short of time, so the rest of you, please make your good-byes.” She beamed at Wilmot and Suzy for a second. “While I fetch the bus.”
* * *
The “bus” was a large cable car, which rose from beneath the rest home with much creaking and grinding of gears. It looked to Suzy’s eyes like a converted railway carriage, its peeling burgundy paint revealing old wood beneath, and its few surviving windows all rattling as it hauled itself level with the balcony outside the lounge.
Suzy, Wilmot, and Mr. Trellis were standing on the balcony, hugging themselves against the cool wind picking at their clothes. Behind them, Dorothy and the remainder of the Old Guard had their faces pressed against the windows, watching them.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” Suzy whispered to Wilmot as Gertrude waved from the driver’s cabin.
“Oh yes,” he said, waving back. “Grandpa Honks built it. It was one of his proudest achievements.”
“And how long ago was that?” she asked.
“D’you know, I’m not sure,” he said, reaching out to open the bus door. The handle came off in his hand. “It just needs a bit of spit and polish,” he said with a smile that didn’t look as confident as he probably wanted it to.
The door swung open, and Mr. Trellis sprang aboard. The bus groaned and dipped under his weight. Suzy made a conscious effort not to look down as she stepped over the narrow gap from the balcony—she didn’t want to be reminded of the fathomless depths of the canyon beneath her—and looked up instead. The cable to which the bus was attached was an outlying branch of a thick web, pulled in an ugly cat’s cradle between the largest buildings under the bridge. There seemed to be some complex system of joints connecting them, and she even saw what looked like traffic lights at some of the larger intersections. What few vehicles she could see looked like antique roller-coaster trains slung beneath the cables, rattling past at some speed.
She took a seat beside Wilmot and prayed that the bus wouldn’t be traveling that fast.
“All aboard?” called Gertrude.
“All present and correct,” Wilmot said. He pulled the door shut after him, and Suzy noticed that he fastened it with a length of string around a nail.
With another screech of cold metal the bus swung into motion, rising in fits and starts up the cable. Suzy watched the rest home drop out of sight below them, the Old Guard clustered at the windows, waving them off.
“I’m so glad you got to meet them,” said Wilmot. “They’re a great bunch. A lot of them were friends with my dad and grandpa.”
“Yes, they were very nice,” she said, glad of the opportunity to take her mind off their climb. Mr. Trellis gave her a gummy smile from the seat opposite.
“Working as a postie was the greatest adventure of my life,” he said. “The places I saw! The people I met! You’re going to love it, lass.”
“Uh, thank you,” Suzy said, trying not to stare at her reflection, horribly distorted, in the steel plate screwed to the old troll’s scalp.
“Spotted this, eh?” He grinned and rapped his knuckles against it. “I got this delivering a birthday card to the princess of Upelstäht.”
The bus rode over a set of pulleys with a jarring shake that rattled the windows again.
“A birthday card?” said Suzy. “It doesn’t sound that dangerous.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be,” he said, “but she’d been kidnapped by her uncle, the archduke, who was holding her at the summit of the palace clock tower. You know how these royals are. Anyway, it was quite a climb, and when he saw me coming, he panicked and came at me with his sword.”
“That’s terrible,” said Suzy, horrified. “How could he do that to you for delivering a card?”
“Oh, he didn’t. The silly oaf tripped over his own feet and plunged to his death. But once the princess opened the card and realized there wasn’t any birthday money in it, she threw a tantrum and pushed me off the tower.”
Suzy was speechless.
“Luckily, the archduke broke my fall.”
“That’s horrible,” she said.
“I can’t hold it against her. She was only three.” The troll cackled. “Of course, then there’s the time I lost my leg to a giant clam in the swamps of Grununda.” He tugged at his trouser leg, revealing yet more shining steel beneath.
“I don’t like to cut you short, Mr. Trellis,” Gertrude said, “but we’re nearly there.”
Suzy looked out the window and saw Gertrude was right. They were close under the curve of the bridge, the jumble of the Underside spread out around them.
A few seconds later, the bus rose into an opening in the stone. Iron girders and patches of old brickwork slid past the windows as they climbed back up through the superstructure. Suzy caught glimpses of more abandoned spaces, of dormant machinery and half-hidden passages, before they finally emerged into daylight. Muted and grubby though it was, it was positively blinding after the twilight of the Underside.
The bus ground to a noisy halt, and Gertrude applied the hand brake. “The Overside,” she called. “Everybody off.”
18
THE VAULT OF SECRETS
Wilmot led their small procession into the post office. The mean-faced receptionist was still behind her desk and glared at them disapprovingly as they approached. Suzy glared back, hoping the fussy little creature wouldn’t cause them any more delays.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist said, as though she didn’t already know.
Wilmot gave her his best smile and nudged Mr. Trellis.
“What?” the old troll said, startled. “Oh yes. Hello!” He stepped forward and slapped a hand down on the desk. The receptionist shrank back from it a little. “Bertrum Trellis, former postie. I’ve got a little something in the vault.”
The receptionist sniffed. “Do you have your key?”
Mr. Trellis reached into his shirt and pulled out the length of chain with the key on the end of it. “Will this do?”
The receptionist looked from the key to Mr. Trellis to the rest of the group. “Do you know the way?”
“Perfectly well, thank you,” said Gertrude, holding her head high and sweeping past the desk. Suzy couldn’t help taking a small amount of satisfaction in the receptionist’s obvious annoyance, before setting off in pursuit.
“That receptionist must be new,” Wilmot said, grinning as he trotted alongside Suzy. “Otherwise she’d have been nicer to Mom.”
“Why?” said Suzy.
“Because I used to work here,” said Gertrude. “People knew me.”
“She’s being modest,” said Wilmot. “She didn’t just work here. She was in charge.”
“What?” said Suzy. “Of the post office?”
“Of everything,” said Wilmot, beaming with pride. “She was Postmistress General. When most of her best posties retired, she founded the rest home to look after them. Everyone here called her Her Majesty. But only behind her back, of course.”
“As if I couldn’t hear them,” said Gertrude with a knowing smile.
They reached a tall pair of polished bronze doors. An elderly troll in a postal un
iform was slumped on a stool in front of them, snoring gently.
“Who’s that?” Suzy whispered.
“The Post Provost Marshal,” Wilmot whispered back. “Very prestigious. Very well respected.”
Mr. Trellis walked forward and kicked the old troll’s stool away, sending him crashing to the floor on his backside. “Wake up, Derrick, you great wazzock,” he said.
“Intruders! Villains! Pirates!” The Post Provost Marshal hobbled to his feet and pulled a small truncheon from his belt, but didn’t seem entirely sure in which direction he should be facing. “You won’t sneak past me!”
“A herd of woolly mammoths could sneak past you,” said Mr. Trellis. “Now, let us in.”
Derrick blinked heavily and peered at Mr. Trellis through rheumy eyes. “Is that you, Bertrum? What are you doing topside?”
Mr. Trellis removed the chain from around his neck and held up the key.
Derrick lowered the truncheon. “You mean, you’ve finally come for it?”
“I have,” said Mr. Trellis. “The Postmaster here’s on urgent business.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Derrick was suddenly businesslike. Suzy had expected him to have to unlock the huge bronze doors, but they swung open easily when he gave them a shove. “We lost the key a while back,” he said, by way of explanation, as he led them inside. “But it’s been so long since anyone wanted anything from in here, we figured no one’s going to try to break in. And I’m always on guard.”
Mr. Trellis cackled. “Making money in your sleep, more like.” He paused and looked around the vault. “They’ve redecorated. I like the statues.”
Suzy followed his gaze. The vault was tall, its ceiling half-hidden in shadow. Rows of small, square iron lockers filled the walls, and twin rows of columns formed a central aisle down the length of the room. The spaces between them were filled with ancient-looking statues, all standing at attention, broadswords raised in front of their faces. Suzy couldn’t help but be reminded of the stone figures at the Obsidian Tower and tried not to look too closely at these as Derrick led them down the aisle to a locker near the back of the room.
“Box number 82517, if memory serves,” he announced.
“Sounds about right,” said Mr. Trellis, inserting the key in the lock. It turned with a satisfying click.
Suzy and the others leaned forward to watch as he opened the box, reached in, and withdrew a small glass sphere about the same size as Frederick’s snow globe.
“What’s that?” asked Suzy.
“A NeuroGlobe,” said Wilmot. “It holds memories, and lets you share them with others.” Suzy leaned in for a closer look and saw that the NeuroGlobe was full of tiny brass cogs and wheels, slowly ticking around like the workings of an old watch. They passed a fine thread of crackling red energy between them—it looked like a neon caterpillar burrowing in and out of the clockwork.
“Is that the memory?” she asked, pointing at the thread.
“It is,” said Mr. Trellis, holding the globe up to the light. “D’you know which memory?”
“Don’t tell us!” cried Suzy. Mr. Trellis laughed.
“A long time ago, I was standing alone on top of the Mountains of Madness, when the wind whispered in my ear and offered me something extraordinary in exchange for my sanity.” He tapped the sphere. “This is my record of what it offered me, and I don’t mind telling you, I was tempted. But it’s yours now.” He handed it to Wilmot, who took it reverently in both hands. “Make good use of it.”
“Thank you,” said Wilmot. “We will.”
But before he could secure it in his pocket, a great commotion reached them from the corridor outside, and they turned as a noisy tide of people swept into the room.
“Intruders!” yelled Derrick, drawing his truncheon again.
“Don’t mind us,” said Wilmot’s Aunt Dorothy, bustling past him. What looked like most of the remaining members of the Old Guard jostled and poked and nosed about behind her.
“They’ve not kept this place up,” one of them said.
“I hear they’ve installed that Ether Web and everything.”
“Is this where they keep the jelly rolls?”
“Dorothy?” Gertrude raised one questioning eyebrow. “What are you doing here? And why are the residents with you?”
“Sorry, Gert,” she said with a big grin that looked anything but sorry. “I couldn’t make ’em stay put. They want to see Suzy lick the queen’s backside.”
Suzy went rigid with shock. “They what?” she said.
The Old Guard sniggered, including Mr. Trellis, but she heard Wilmot gasp.
“Of course,” he said. “I’ve been so busy I completely forgot.”
“Forgot what?” said Suzy. The question sounded like an accusation, which she supposed it was.
“It’s sort of a tradition,” he said. “They say you’re not a true postie until you’ve done it.”
“We’ve all done it, haven’t we, lads?” shouted Mr. Trellis. The others cheered and waved their canes.
“They just didn’t want you to miss out,” said Dorothy, although she was looking at her sister, who let her mask of disapproval slip for a moment.
“Very well,” said Gertrude. “As long as it doesn’t take too long.”
“I knew you’d say yes,” said Dorothy. “That’s why we took a little detour to the stamp room on our way here and got her out of her case.”
She turned and nodded to the Old Guard, whose fussing and chattering came to an abrupt halt as something was passed hand to hand from the back of the group to the front. It was a small velvet cushion with something gold resting on it.
“You do the honors, Wilmot,” said Dorothy, passing him the cushion with a proud smile. Blushing with pride, Wilmot pressed the NeuroGlobe into Suzy’s hands and took the cushion.
“I never thought I’d get to do this,” he said, looking around the sea of eager faces. “Thank you, everyone.”
“Don’t keep her waiting, lad,” said Mr. Trellis, clearly as excited as the others. “This is her big day.”
All eyes turned to Suzy, who squirmed. She had no idea what was happening, but she didn’t like being at the center of it.
“Of course. Sorry.” Wilmot cleared his throat and addressed the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I, Postmaster Wilmot Grunt, am proud to present the newest member of our Impossible Postal family.” He nudged Suzy in the ribs.
“What? Oh. Uh, it’s me. Suzy Smith. Postal operative. Hello.”
“Suzy Smith,” intoned Wilmot. “You swore to uphold the ideals of the Impossible Postal Service, risking life, limb, and reason in the execution of your duty, and have been found equal to the task.”
Suzy tried to smile, but Frederick’s snow globe was starting to feel very heavy in her pocket. “Listen,” she whispered to Wilmot. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“Sssssshhhhhhh!” To her horror, every troll in the room put a finger to their lips and shushed her. She blushed a furious red and kept quiet.
“Now step forward and behold Her Majesty, Queen Borax the First,” said Wilmot.
She looked to Gertrude, wanting to plead with her to stop this before it went too far, but Gertrude just gave an encouraging nod in return. Swallowing her awkwardness, Suzy did as she was instructed.
Wilmot held the cushion out to her, and she finally saw what the flicker of gold was—it was a postage stamp. It seemed to be fashioned from actual gold leaf and glowed with a warm brilliance that was both beautiful and captivating. But the most remarkable thing about it was its shape. It was the height of a normal stamp, but incredibly wide: almost six inches from one side to the other, and the entire width was taken up with the profile of Queen Borax. A troll queen, of course, with a nose mightier than any Suzy had seen thus far, stretching to the far edge of the stamp.
“The original Queen’s Gold,” said Wilmot. “The very first troll stamp ever printed. In recognition of your part in its legacy, I now invite you to lick
its reverse.”
With great reverence, he turned the stamp over, and Suzy almost laughed with relief as she realized what the others had been talking about. Sure enough, there were a few suppressed giggles from the crowd behind her.
But her relief was short-lived, as Wilmot gave her an expectant smile and she realized that everyone in the room was waiting for her to act. Her mouth went dry.
“Go ahead, Suzy,” Wilmot whispered.
Why not? she thought. Just get it over with, and you can get out of here. What’s stopping you?
She didn’t know, but something definitely was. The respectful silence of the room was filling up with nervous mutterings. Wilmot proffered the cushion again. He was starting to look nervous.
Not knowing what else to do, she stuffed the NeuroGlobe into the pocket of her bathrobe not taken up by Frederick and the wand, bent forward over the cushion, and tried to stick her tongue out, only to find it was glued to the roof of her mouth. She peeled it free and rolled it around inside her cheeks, trying to wet it, while Wilmot, Gertrude, and everyone else looked on.
“Is everything all right?” said Wilmot.
A simple question, but it was suddenly all she needed. “No,” she exclaimed, the word echoing round the room like a gunshot. She looked him in the eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t do it.”
There were gasps of shock from all sides, but Wilmot remained silent. Somehow, that felt worse. “But why?” he said quietly. “You’ve been doing so well.”
“I haven’t,” she said. “I know you think I have, but I haven’t, and I don’t want to go on lying to you.” She reached into her pocket and grasped Frederick’s snow globe.
“What are you doing?” she heard him hiss. She ignored him.
“I broke my promise, Wilmot. I told you I’d uphold the values of the Impossible Postal Service, and I meant it, I really did, but something happened, and I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”
Wilmot looked dismayed. “What are you talking about?”
This was it. The moment of truth. She could feel her chest tightening as the secrets she had been hoarding strained to get out. She pulled Frederick from her pocket and held him aloft.
