Arch-swindler Moist Van Lipwig never believed his
confidence crimes were hanging offenses -- until he found
himself with a noose tightly around his neck, dropping
through a trapdoor, and falling into . . . a government job?
By all rights, Moist should have met his maker. Instead,
it's Lord Vetinari, supreme ruler of Ankh-Morpork, who
promptly offers him a job as Postmaster. Since his only
other option is a nonliving one, Moist accepts the
position -- and the hulking golem watchdog who comes along
with it, just in case Moist was considering abandoning his
responsibilities prematurely.
Getting the moribund Postal Service up and running again,
however, may be a near-impossible task, what with literally
mountains of decades-old undelivered mail clogging every
nook and cranny of the broken-down post office building;
and with only a few creaky old postmen and one rather
unstable, pin-obsessed youth available to deliver it. Worse
still, Moist could swear the mail is talking to him. Worst
of all, it means taking on the gargantuan, money-hungry
Grand Trunk clacks communication monopoly and its
bloodthirsty piratical head, Mr. Reacher Gilt.
But it says on the building "neither rain nor snow nor glo
m of ni t" . . . Inspiring words (admittedly, some of the
bronze letters have been stolen), and for once in his
wretched life Moist is going to fight. And if the bold and
impossible are what's called for, he'll do it -- in order
to move the mail, continue breathing, get the girl, and
specially deliver that invaluable commodity that every
human being (not to mention troll, dwarf, and, yes, even
golem) requires: hope.