Terry Pratchett - Discworld 20 - Hogfather

v1.0 18/11/2000 scanned and spellcheked with Word2000 by 4i Publications

Everything starts somewhere, although many physicists disagree.

But people have always been dimly aware of the problem with the start of things.

They wonder aloud how the snowplough driver gets to work, or how the makers of

dictionaries look up the spelling of the words. Yet there is the constant desire to

find some point in the twisting, knotting, ravelling nets of space-time on which a

metaphorical finger can be put to indicate that here, here, is the point where it all

began...

Something began when the Guild of Assassins enrolled Mister Teatime, who saw

things differently from other people, and one of the ways that he saw things

differently from other people was in seeing other people as things (later, Lord

Downey of the Guild said, 'We took pity on him because he'd lost both parents at

an early age. I think that, on reflection, we should have wondered a bit more about

that.')

But it was much earlier even than that when most people forgot that the very

oldest stories are, sooner or later, about blood. Later on they took the blood out to

make the stories more acceptable to children, or at least to the people who had to

read them to children rather than the children themselves (who, on the whole, are

quite keen on blood provided it's being shed by the deserving), and then wondered

where the stories went.

And earlier still when something in the darkness of the deepest caves and

gloomiest forests thought: what are they, these creatures? I will observe them.

And much, much earlier than that, when the Discworld was formed, drifting

onwards through space atop four elephants on the shell of the giant turtle, Great

A'Tuin.

Possibly, as it moves, it gets tangled like a blind man in a cobwebbed house in

those highly specialized little spacetime strands that try to breed in every history they

encounter, stretching them and breaking them and tugging them into new shapes.

Or possibly not, of course. The philosopher Didactylos has summed up an

alternative hypothesis as 'Things just happen. What the hell.'

The senior wizards of Unseen University stood and looked at the door.

There was no doubt that whoever had shut it wanted it to stay shut. Dozens of

nails secured it to the door frame. Planks had been nailed right across. And finally it

had, up until this morning, been hidden by a bookcase that had been put in front of

it.

'And there's the sign, Ridcully,' said the Dean. 'You have read it, I assume. You

know? The sign which says "Do not, under any circumstances, open this door"?'

'Of course I've read it,' said Ridcully. 'Why d'yer think I want it opened?'

'Er ... why?' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

'To see why they wanted it shut, of course.`

He gestured to Modo, the University's gardener and oddjob dwarf, who was

standing by with a crowbar.

'Go to it, lad.'

The gardener saluted. 'Right you are, sir.'

Against a background of splintering timber, Ridcully went on: 'It says on the plans

that this was a bathroom. There's nothing frightening about a bathroom, for gods'

sake. I want a bathroom. I'm fed up with sluicing down with you fellows. It's

unhygienic. You can catch stuff. My father told me that. Where you get lots of

people bathing together, the Verruca Gnome is running around with his little sack.'

'Is that like the Tooth Fairy?' said the Dean sarcastically.

'I'm in charge here and I want a bathroom of my own,' said Ridcully firmly. 'And

that's all there is to it, all right? I want a bathroom in time for Hogswatchnight,

understand?'

And that's a problem with beginnings, of course. Sometimes, when you're dealing

with occult realms that have quite a different attitude to time, you get the effect a

little way before the cause.

From somewhere on the edge of hearing came a glingleglingleglingle noise, like little

silver bells.

At about the same time as the Archchancellor was laying down the law, Susan

Sto-Helit was sitting up in bed, reading by candlelight.

Frost patterns curled across the windows.

She enjoyed these early evenings. Once she had put the children to bed she was

more or less left to herself. Mrs Gaiter was pathetically scared of giving her any

instructions even though she paid Susan's wages.

Not that the wages were important, of course. What was important was that she

was being her Own Person and holding down a Real job. And being a governess

was a real job. The only tricky bit had been the embarrassment when her employer

found out that she was a duchess, because in Mrs Gaiter's book, which was a rather

short book with big handwriting, the upper crust wasn't supposed to work. It was

supposed to loaf around. It was all Susan could do to stop her curtseying when they

met.

A flicker made her turn her head.

The candle flame was streaming out horizontally, as though in a howling wind.

She looked up. The curtains billowed away from the window, which-

-flung itself open with a clatter.

But there was no wind.

At least, no wind in this world.

Images formed in her mind. A red ball ... The sharp smell of snow... And then

they were gone, and instead there were...

'Teeth?' said Susan, aloud. 'Teeth, again?'

She blinked. When she opened her eyes the window was, as she knew it would be,

firmly shut. The curtain hung demurely. The candle flame was innocently upright.

Oh, no, not again. Not after all this time. Everything had been going so well

'Thusan?'

She looked around. Her door had been pushed open and a small figure stood

there, barefoot in a nightdress.

She sighed. 'Yes, Twyla?'

'I'm afwaid of the monster in the cellar, Thusan. It's going to eat me up.'

Susan shut her book firmly and raised a warning finger.

'What have I told you about trying to sound ingratiatingly cute, Twyla?' she said.

The little girl said, 'You said I mustn't. You said that exaggerated lisping is a

hanging offence and I only do it to get attention.'

'Good. Do you know what monster it is this time?'

'It's the big hairy one wif-'

Susan raised the finger. 'Uh?' she warned.

‘-with eight arms,' Twyla corrected herself.

'What, again? Oh, all right.'

She got out of bed and put on her dressing gown, trying to stay quite calm while

the child watched her. So they were coming back. Oh, not the monster in the cellar.

That was all in a day's work. But it looked as if she was going to start remembering

the future again.

She shook her head. However far you ran away, you always caught yourself up.

But monsters were easy, at least. She'd learned how to deal with monsters. She

picked up the poker from the nursery fender and went down the back stairs, with

Twyla following her.

The Gaiters were having a dinner party. Muffled voices came from the direction

of the dining room.

Then, as she crept past, a door opened and yellow light spilled out and a voice

said, 'Ye gawds, there's a gel in a nightshirt out here with a poker!'

She saw figures silhouetted in the light and made out the worried face of Mrs

Gaiter.

'Susan? Er ... what are you doing?'

Susan looked at the poker and then back at the woman. 'Twyla said she's afraid of

a monster in the cellar, Mrs Gaiter.'

'And yer going to attack it with a poker, eh?' said one of the guests. There was a

strong atmosphere of brandy and cigars.

'Yes,' said Susan simply.

'Susan's our governess,' said Mrs Gaiter. 'Er ... I told you about her.'

There was a change in the expression on the faces peering out from the dining

room. It became a sort of amused respect.

'She beats up monsters with a poker?' said someone.

'Actually, that's a very clever idea,' said someone else. 'Little gel gets it into her head

there's a monster in the cellar, you go in with the poker and make a few bashing

noises while the child listens, and then everything's all right. Good thinkin', that girl.

Ver' sensible. Ver' modem.'

'Is that what you're doing Susan?' said Mrs Gaiter anxiously.

'Yes, Mrs Gaiter,' said Susan obediently.

'This I've got to watch, by Io! It's not every day you see monsters beaten up by a

gel,' said the man behind her. There was a swish of silk and a cloud of cigar smoke

as the diners poured out into the hall.

Susan sighed again and went down the cellar stairs, while Twyla sat demurely at

the top, hugging her knees.

A door opened and shut.

There was a short period of silence and then a terrifying scream. One woman

fainted and a man dropped his cigar.

'You don't have to worry, everything will be all right,' said Twyla calmly. 'She always

wins. Everything will be all right.'

There were thuds and clangs, and then a whirring noise, and finally a sort of

bubbling.

Susan pushed open the door. The poker was bent at right angles. There was

nervous applause.

'Ver' well done,' said a guest. 'Ver' persykological. Clever idea, that, bendin' the

poker. And I expect you're not afraid any more, eh, little girl?'

'No,' said Twyla

'Ver' persykological.'

'Susan says don't get afraid, get angry,' said Twyla.

'Er, thank you, Susan,' said Mrs Gaiter, now a trembling bouquet of nerves. 'And,

er, now, Sir Geoffrey, if you'd all like to come back into the parlour - I mean, the

drawing room-'

The party went back up the hall. The last thing Susan heard before the door shut

was 'Dashed convincin', the way she bent the poker like that-'

She waited.

'Have they all gone, Twyla?'

'Yes, Susan.'

'Good.' Susan went back into the cellar and emerged towing something large and

hairy with eight legs. She managed to haul it up the steps and down the other

passage to the back yard, where she kicked it out. It would evaporate before dawn.

'That's what we do to monsters,' she said.

Twyla watched carefully.

'And now it's bed for you, my girl,' said Susan, picking her up.

'C'n I have the poker in my room for the night?'

'All right.'

'It only kills monsters, doesn't it...?' the child said sleepily, as Susan carried her

upstairs.

'That's right,' Susan said. 'All kinds.'

She put the girl to bed next to her brother and leaned the poker against the toy

cupboard.

The poker was made of some cheap metal with a brass knob on the end. She

would, Susan reflected, give quite a lot to be able to use it on the children's previous

governess.

'G'night.'

'Goodnight.'

She went back to her own small bedroom and got back into bed, watching the

curtains suspiciously.

It would be nice to think she'd imagined it. It would also be stupid to think that,

too. But she'd been nearly normal for two years now, making her own way in the

real world, never remembering the future at all...

Perhaps she had just dreamed things (but even dreams could be real...).

She tried to ignore the long thread of wax that suggested the candle had, just for a

few seconds, streamed in the wind.

As Susan sought sleep, Lord Downey sat in his study catching up on the

paperwork.

Lord Downey was an assassin. Or, rather, an Assassin. The capital letter was

important. It separated those curs who went around murdering people for money

from the gentlemen who were occasionally consulted by other gentlemen who

wished to have removed, for a consideration, any inconvenient razorblades from the

candyfloss of life.

The members of the Guild of Assassins considered themselves cultured men who

enjoyed good music and food and literature. And they knew the value of human life.

To a penny, in many cases.

Lord Downey's study was oak-panelled and well carpeted. The furniture was very

old and quite worn, but the wear was the wear that comes only when very good

furniture is carefully used over several centuries. It was matured furniture.

A log fire burned in the grate. In front of it a couple of dogs were sleeping in the

tangled way of large hairy dogs everywhere.

Apart from the occasional doggy snore or the crackle of a shifting log, there were

no other sounds but the scratching of Lord Downey's pen and the ticking of the

longcase clock by the door ... small, private noises which only served to define the

silence.

At least, this was the case until someone cleared their throat.

The sound suggested very clearly that the purpose of the exercise was not to erase

the presence of a troublesome bit of biscuit, but merely to indicate in the politest

possible way the presence of the throat.

Downey stopped writing but did not raise his head.

Then, after what appeared to be some consideration, he said in a businesslike

voice, 'The doors are locked. The windows are barred. The dogs do not appear to

have woken up. The squeaky floorboards haven't. Other little arrangements which I

will not specify seem to have been bypassed. That severely limits the possibilities. I

really doubt that you are a ghost and gods generally do not announce themselves so

politely. You could, of course, be Death, but I don't believe he bothers with such

niceties and, besides, I am feeling quite well. Hmm!’

Something hovered in the air in front of his desk.

'My teeth are in fine condition so you are unlikely to be the Tooth Fairy. I've

always found that a stiff brandy before bedtime quite does away with the need for

the Sandman. And, since I can carry a tune quite well, I suspect I'm not likely to

attract the attention of Old Man Trouble. Hmm.'

The figure drifted a little nearer.

'I suppose a gnome could get through a mousehole, but I have traps down,'

Downey went on. 'Bogeymen can walk through walls but would be very loath to

reveal themselves. Really, you have me at a loss. Hmm?'

And then he looked up.

A grey robe hung in the air. It appeared to be occupied, in that it had a shape,

although the occupant was not visible.

The prickly feeling crept over Downey that the occupant wasn't invisible, merely

not, in any physical sense, there at all.

'Good evening,' he said.

The robe said, Good evening, Lord Downey.

His brain registered the words. His ears swore they hadn't heard them.

But you did not become head of the Assassins' Guild by taking fright easily.

Besides, the thing wasn't frightening. It was, thought Downey, astonishingly dull. If

monotonous drabness could take on a shape, this would be the shape it would

choose.

'You appear to be a spectre,' he said.

Our nature is not a matter for discussion, arrived in his head. We offer you a

commission.

'You wish someone inhumed?' said Downey.

Brought to an end.

Downey considered this. It was not as unusual as it appeared. There were

precedents. Anyone could buy the services of the Guild. Several zombies had, in the

past, employed the Guild to settle scores with their murderers. In fact the Guild, he

liked to think practised the ultimate democracy. You didn't need intelligence, social

position, beauty or charm to hire it. You just needed money which, unlike the other

stuff, was available to everyone. Except for the poor, of course, but there was no

helping some people.

'Brought to an end...' That was an odd way of putting it.

'We can-' he began.

The payment will reflect the difficulty of the task.

'Our scale of fees-'

The payment will be three million dollars.

Downey sat back. That was four times higher than any fee yet earned by any

member of the Guild, and that had been a special family rate, including overnight

guests.

'No questions asked, I assume?' he said, buying time.

No questions answered.

'But does the suggested fee represent the difficulty involved? The client is heavily

guarded?'

Not guarded at all. But almost certainly impossible to delete with conventional

weapons.

Downey nodded. This was not necessarily a big problem, he said to himself. The

Guild had amassed quite a few unconventional weapons over the years. Delete? An

unusual way of putting it ...

'We like to know for whom we are working, he said.

We are sure you do.

'I mean that we need to know your name. Or names. In strict client

confidentiality, of course. We have to write something down in our files.'

You may think of us as ... the Auditors.

'Really? What is it you audit?'

Everything.

'I think we need to know something about you.'

We are the people with three million dollars.

Downey took the point, although he didn't like it. Three million dollars could buy a

lot of no questions.

'Really?' he said. 'In the circumstances, since you are a new client, I think we would

like payment in advance.'

As you wish. The gold is now in your vaults.

'You mean that it will shortly be in our vaults,' said Downey.

No. It has always been in your vaults. We know this because we have just put it

there.

Downey watched the empty hood for a moment, and then without shifting his

gaze he reached out and picked up the speaking tube.

'Mr Winvoe?' he said, after whistling into it. 'Ah. Good. Tell me, how much do we

have in our vaults at the moment? Oh, approximately. To the nearest million, say.'

He held the tube away from his ear for a moment, and then spoke into it again.

'Well, be a good chap and check anyway, will you?'

He hung up the tube and placed his hands flat on the desk in front of him.

'Can I offer you a drink while we wait?' he said.

Yes. We believe so.

Downey stood up with some relief and walked over to his large drinks cabinet. His

hand hovered over the Guild's ardent and valuable tantalus, with its labelled

decanters of Mur, Nig, Trop and Yksihw.

'And what would you like to drink?' he said, wondering where the Auditor kept its

mouth. His hand hovered for just a moment over the smallest decanter, marked

Nosiop.

We do not drink.

'But you did just say I could offer you a drink ... '

Indeed. We judge you fully capable of performing that action.

'Ah.'Downey's hand hesitated over the whisky decanter, and then he thought

better of it. At that point, the speaking tube whistled.

'Yes, Mr Winvoe? Really? Indeed? I myself have frequently found loose change

under sofa cushions, it's amazing how it mou ... No, no, I wasn't being ... Yes, I did

have some reason to ... No, no blame attaches to you in any ... No, I could hardly

see how it ... Yes, go and have a rest, what a good idea. Thank you.'

He hung up the tube again. The cowl hadn't moved.

'We will need to know where, when and, of course, who,' he said, after a moment.

The cowl nodded. The location is not on any map. We would like the task to be

completed within the week. This is essential. As for the who...

A drawing appeared on Downey's desk and in his head arrived the words: Let us

call him the Fat Man.

'Is this a joke?' said Downey.

We do not joke.

No, you don't, do you, Downey thought. He drummed his fingers.

'There are many who would say this... person does not exist,' he said.

He must exist. How else could you so readily recognize his picture? And many are

in correspondence with him.

'Well, yes, of course, in a sense he exists…

In a sense everything exists. It is cessation of existence that concerns us here.

'Finding him would be a little difficult.'

You will find persons on any street who can tell you his approximate address.

'Yes, of course,' said Downey, wondering why anyone would call them 'persons'. It

was an odd usage. 'But, as you say, I doubt that they could give a map reference.

And even then, how could the . . . the Fat Man be inhumed? A glass of poisoned

sherry, perhaps?'

The cowl had no face to crack a smile.

You misunderstand the nature of employment, it said in Downey's head.

He bridled at this. Assassins were never employed. They were engaged or retained

or commissioned, but never employed. Only servants were employed.

'What is it that I misunderstand, exactly?' he said.

We pay. You find the ways and means.

The cowl began to fade.

'How can I contact you?' said Downey.

We will contact you. We know where you are. We know where everyone is.

The figure vanished. At the same moment the door was flung open to reveal the

distraught figure of Mr Winvoe, the Guild Treasurer.

'Excuse me, my lord, but I really had to come up!' He flung some discs on the

desk. 'Look at them!'

Downey carefully picked up a golden circle. It looked like a small coin, but -

'No denomination!' said Winvoe. 'No heads, no tails, no milling! It's just a blank

disc! They're all just blank discs!'

Downey opened his mouth to say, 'Valueless?' He realized that he was half hoping

that this was the case. If they, whoever they were, had paid in worthless metal then

there wasn't even the glimmering of a contract. But he could see this wasn't the

case. Assassins learned to recognize money early in their careers.

'Blank discs,' he said, 'of pure gold.'

Winvoe nodded mutely.

'That,' said Downey, 'will do nicely.'

'It must be magical!' said Winvoe. 'And we never accept magical money!'

Downey bounced the coin on the desk a couple of times. It made a satisfyingly

rich thunking noise. It wasn't magical. Magical money would look real, because its

whole purpose was to deceive. But this didn't need to ape something as human and

adulterated as mere currency. This is gold, it told his fingers. Take it or leave it.

Downey sat and thought, while Winvoe stood and worried.

'We'll take it,' he said.

'But-'

'Thank you, Mr Winvoe. That is my decision,' said Downey. He stared into space

for a while, and then smiled. 'Is Mister Teatime still in the building?'

Winvoe stood back. 'I thought the council had agreed to dismiss him,' he said

stiffly. 'After that business with---'

'Mister Teatime does not see the world in quite the same way as other people,'

said Downey, picking up the picture from his desk and looking at it thoughtfully.

'Well, indeed, I think that is certainly true.'

'Please send him up.'

The Guild attracted all sorts of people, Downey reflected. He found himself

wondering how it had come to attract Winvoe, for one thing. It was hard to

imagine him stabbing anyone in the heart in case he got blood on the victim's

wallet. Whereas Mister Teatime...

The problem was that the Guild took young boys and gave them a splendid

education and incidentally taught them how to kill, cleanly and dispassionately, for

money and for the good of society, or at least that part of society that had money,

and what other kind of society was there?

But very occasionally you found you'd got someone like Mister Teatime, to whom

the money was merely a distraction. Mister Teatime had a truly brilliant mind, but it

was brilliant like a fractured mirror, all marvellous facets and rainbows but, ultimately,

also something that was broken.

Mister Teatime enjoyed himself too much. And other people, also.

Downey had privately decided that some time soon Mister Teatime was going to

meet with an accident. Like many people with no actual morals, Lord Downey did

have standards, and Teatime repelled him. Assassination was a careful game, usually

played against people who knew the rules themselves or at least could afford the

services of those who did. There was considerable satisfaction in a clean kill. What

there wasn't supposed to be was pleasure in a messy one. That sort of thing led to

talk.

On the other hand, Teatime's corkscrew of a mind was exactly the tool to deal

with something like this. And if he didn't ... well, that was hardly Downey's fault, was

it?

He turned his attention to the paperwork for a while. It was amazing how the

stuff mounted up. But you had to deal with it. It wasn't as though they were

murderers, after all...

There was a knock at the door. He pushed the paperwork aside and sat back.

'Come in, Mister Teatime,' he said. It never hurt to put the other fellow slightly in

awe of you.

In fact the door was opened by one of the Guild's servants, carefully balancing a

tea tray.

'Ah, Carter,' said Lord Downey, recovering magnificently. 'Just put it on the table

over there, will you?'

'Yes, sir,' said Carter. He turned and nodded. 'Sorry, sir, I will go and fetch another

cup directly, sir.'

'What?'

'For your visitor, sir.'

'What visitor? Oh, when Mister Teati-'

He stopped. He turned.

There was a young man sitting on the hearthrug, playing with the dogs.

'Mister Teatime!'

'It's pronounced Teh-ah-tim-eh, sir,' said Teatime, with just a hint of reproach.

'Everyone gets it wrong, sir.'

'How did you do that?'

'Pretty well, sir. I got mildly scorched on the last few feet, of course.'

There were some lumps of soot on the hearthrug. Downey realized he'd heard

them fall, but that hadn't been particularly extraordinary. No one could get down the

chimney. There was a heavy grid firmly in place near the top of the flue.

'But there's a blocked-in fireplace behind the old library,' said Teatime, apparently

reading his thoughts. 'The flues connect, under the bars. It was really a stroll, sir.'

'Really . . .'

'Oh, yes, sir.'

Downey nodded. The tendency of old buildings to be honeycombed with sealed

chimney flues was a fact you learned early in your career. And then, he told himself,

Terry Pratchett - Discworld 20 - Hogfather

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