Hogfather (28 page)

“You know, it’s a funny thing,” said Susan, staring at it. “Twyla draws houses like that. And she practically lives in a mansion. I drew houses like that. And I was born in a palace. Why?”

“P’raps it’s all this house,” muttered the oh god miserably.

“What? You really think so? Kids’ paintings are all of this place? It’s in our heads?”

“Don’t ask me, I was just making conversation,” said the oh god.

Susan hesitated. The words What Now? loomed. Should she just go and knock?

And she realized that was
normal
thinking…

In the glittering, clattering, chattering atmosphere a head waiter was having a difficult time. There were a lot of people in, and the staff should have been fully stretched, putting bicarbonate of soda in the white wine to make very expensive bubbles and cutting the vegetables very small to make them cost more.

Instead they were standing in a dejected group in the kitchen.

“Where did it all go?” screamed the manager. “Someone’s been through the cellar, too!”

“William said he felt a cold wind,” said the waiter. He’d been backed up against a hot plate, and now
knew
why it was called a hot plate in a way he hadn’t fully comprehended before.

“I’ll give him a cold wind! Haven’t we got
anything
?”

“There’s odds and ends…”

“You don’t mean odds and ends, you mean
des curieux et des bouts
,” corrected the manager.

“Yeah, right, yeah. And, er, and, er…”

“There’s nothing else?”

“Er…old boots. Muddy old boots.”

“Old—?”

“Boots. Lots of ’em,” said the waiter. He felt he was beginning to singe.

“How come we’ve got…vintage footwear?”

“Dunno. They just turned up, sir. The oven’s full of old boots. So’s the pantry.”

“There’s a hundred people booked in! All the shops’ll be shut! Where’s Chef?”

“William’s trying to get him to come out of the privy, sir. He’s locked himself in and is having one of his Moments.”

“
Something’s
cooking. What’s that I can smell?”

“Me, sir.”

“Old boots…” muttered the manager. “Old boots…old boots…Leather, are they? Not clogs or rubber or anything?”

“Looks like…just boots. And lots of mud, sir.”

The manager took off his jacket. “All right. Got any cream, have we? Onions? Garlic? Butter? Some old beef bones? A bit of pastry?”

“Er, yes…”

The manager rubbed his hands together. “
Right
,” he said, taking an apron off a hook. “You there, get some water boiling! Lots of water! And find a really large hammer! And
you
, chop some onions! The rest of you, start sorting out the boots. I want the tongues out and the soles off. We’ll do them…let’s see…
Mousse de la Boue dans une Panier de la Pâte de Chaussures
…”

“Where’re we going to get that from, sir?”

“Mud mousse in a basket of shoe pastry. Get the idea? It’s not our fault if even Quirmians don’t understand restaurant Quirmian. It’s not like lying, after all.”

“Well, it’s a
bit
like—” the waiter began. He’d been cursed with honesty at an early stage.

“Then there’s
Brodequin rôti Façon Ombres
…” The manager sighed at the head waiter’s panicky expression. “Soldier’s boot done in the Shades fashion,” he translated.

“Er…Shades fashion?”

“In mud. But if we cook the tongues separately we can put on
Languette braisée
, too.”

“There’s some ladies’ shoes, sir,” said an underchef.

“Right. Add to the menu…Let’s see now…
Sole d’une Bonne Femme
…and…yes…
Servis dans un Coulis de Terre en l’Eau
. That’s mud, to you.”

“What about the laces, sir?” said another underchef.

“Good thinking. Dig out that recipe for Spaghetti Carbonara.”

“Sir?” said the head waiter.

“I started off as a chef,” said the manager, picking up a knife. “How do you think I was able to afford this place? I know how it’s done. Get the look and the sauce right and you’re three-quarters there.”

“But it’s all going to be old boots!” said the waiter.

“Prime aged beef,” the manager corrected him. “It’ll tenderize in no time.”

“Anyway…anyway…we haven’t got any soup—”

“Mud. And a lot of onions.”

“There’s the puddings—”

“Mud. Let’s see if we can get it to caramelize, you never know.”

“I can’t even find the coffee…Still, they probably won’t last till the coffee…”

“Mud.
Café de Terre
,” said the manager firmly. “Genuine ground coffee.”

“Oh, they’ll spot that, sir!”

“They haven’t up till now,” said the manager darkly.

“We’ll never get away with it, sir. Never.”

In the country of the sky on top, Medium Dave Lilywhite hauled another bag of money down the stairs.

“There must be thousands here,” said Chickenwire.

“Hundreds of thousands,” said Medium Dave.

“And what’s all this stuff?” said Catseye, opening a box. “’s just paper.” He tossed it aside.

Medium Dave sighed. He was all for class solidarity, but sometimes Catseye got on his nerves.

“They’re title deeds,” he said. “And they’re better than money.”

“Paper’s better’n money?” said Catseye. “Hah, if you can burn it you can’t spend it, that’s what I say.”

“Hang on,” said Chickenwire. “I know about them. The Tooth Fairy owns property?”

“Got to raise money somehow,” said Medium Dave. “All those half-dollars under the pillow.”

“If we steal them, do they become ours?”

“Is that a trick question?” said Catseye, smirking.

“Yeah, but…ten thousand each doesn’t sound such a lot, when you see all this.”

“He won’t miss a—”

“
Gentlemen
…”

They turned. Teatime was in the doorway.

“We were just…we were just piling up the stuff,” said Chickenwire.

“Yes. I know. I told you to.”

“Right. That’s right. You did,” said Chickenwire gratefully.

“And there’s such a lot,” said Teatime. He gave them a smile. Catseye coughed.

“’s got to be thousands,” said Medium Dave. “And what about all these deeds and so on? Look, this one’s for that pipe shop in Honey Trap Lane! In Ankh-Morpork! I buy my tobacco there! Old Thimble is always moaning about the rent, too!”

“Ah. So you opened the strongboxes,” said Teatime pleasantly.

“Well…yes…”

“Fine. Fine,” said Teatime. “I didn’t ask you to, but…fine, fine. And how did you think the Tooth Fairy made her money? Little gnomes in some mine somewhere? Fairy gold? But
that
turns to trash in the morning!”

He laughed. Chickenwire laughed. Even Medium Dave laughed. And then Teatime was on him, pushing him irresistibly backward until he hit the wall.

There was a blur and he tried to blink and his left eyelid was suddenly a rose of pain.

Teatime’s good eye was close to him, if you could call it good. The pupil was a dot. Medium Dave could just make out his hand, right by Medium Dave’s face.

It was holding a knife. The point of the blade could only be the merest fraction of an inch from Medium Dave’s right eye.

“I know people say I’d kill them as soon as look at them,” whispered Teatime. “And in fact I’d
much
rather kill you than look at you, Mr. Lilywhite. You stand in a castle of gold and plot to steal pennies. Oh, dear. What am I to do with you?”

He relaxed a little, but his hand still held the knife to Medium Dave’s unblinking eye.

“You’re thinking that Banjo is going to help you,” he said. “That’s how it’s always been, isn’t it? But Banjo likes me. He really does. Banjo is
my
friend.”

Medium Dave managed to focus beyond Teatime’s ear. His brother was just standing there, with the blank face he had while he waited for another order or a new thought to turn up.

“If I thought you were feeling bad thoughts about me I would be so downcast,” said Teatime. “I do not have many friends left, Mr. Medium Dave.”

He stood back and smiled happily. “All friends now?” he said, as Medium Dave slumped down. “Help him, Banjo.”

On cue, Banjo lumbered forward.

“Banjo has the heart of a little child,” said Teatime, the knife disappearing somewhere about his clothing. “I believe I have, too.”

The others were frozen in place. They hadn’t moved since the attack. Medium Dave was a heavyset man and Teatime was a matchstick model, but he’d lifted Medium Dave off his feet like a feather.

“As far as the money goes, in fact, I really have no use for it,” said Teatime, sitting down on a sack of silver. “It is small change. You may share it out amongst yourselves, and no doubt you’ll squabble and double-cross one another more tiresomely. Oh dear. It is so awful when friends fall out.”

He kicked the sack. It split. Silver and copper fell in an expensive trickle.

“And you’ll swagger and spend it on drink and women,” he said, as they watched the coins roll into every corner of the room. “The thought of
investment
will never cross your scarred little minds—”

There was a rumble from Banjo. Even Teatime waited patiently until the huge man had assembled a sentence. The result was:

“I gotta piggy bank.”

“And what would you do with a million dollars, Banjo?” said Teatime.

Another rumble. Banjo’s face twisted up.

“Buy…a…bigger piggy bank?”

“Well done.” The Assassin stood up. “Let’s go and see how our wizard is getting on, shall we?”

He walked out of the room without looking back. After a moment Banjo followed.

The others tried not to look at one another’s faces. Then Chickenwire said, “Was he saying we could take the money and go?”

“Don’t be bloody stupid, we wouldn’t get ten yards,” said Medium Dave, still clutching his face. “Ugh, this
hurts
. I think he cut the eyelid…he cut the damn
eyelid
…”

“Then let’s just leave the stuff and go! I never joined up to ride on tigers!”

“And what’ll you do when he comes after you?”

“Why’d he bother with the likes of us?”

“He’s got time for his friends,” said Medium Dave bitterly. “For gods’ sakes, someone get me a clean rag or something…”

“Okay, but…but he can’t look everywhere.”

Medium Dave shook his head. He’d been through Ankh-Morpork’s very own university of the streets and had graduated with his life and an intelligence made all the keener by constant friction. You only had to look into Teatime’s mismatched eyes to know one thing, which was this: that if Teatime wanted to find you he would
not
look everywhere. He’d look in only one place, which would be the place where you were hiding.

“How come your brother likes him so much?”

Medium Dave grimaced. Banjo had always done what he was told, simply because Medium Dave had told him. Up to now, anyway.

It must have been that punch in the bar. Medium Dave didn’t like to think about it. He’d always promised their mother that he’d look after Banjo,
*
and Banjo had gone back like a falling tree. And when Medium Dave had risen from his seat to punch Teatime’s unbalanced lights out he’d suddenly found the Assassin already behind him, holding a knife. In front of everyone. It was humiliating, that’s what it was—

And then Banjo had sat up, looking puzzled, and spat out a tooth—

“If it wasn’t for Banjo going around with him all the time we could gang up on him,” said Catseye.

Medium Dave looked up, one hand clamping a handkerchief to his eye.

“
Gang up on him
?” he said.

“Yeah, it’s all your fault,” Chickenwire went on.

“Oh, yeah? So it wasn’t you who said, wow, ten thousand dollars, count me in?”

Chickenwire backed away. “I didn’t know there was going to be all this creepy stuff! I want to go home!”

Medium Dave hesitated, despite his pain and rage. This wasn’t normal talk for Chickenwire, for all that he whined and grumbled. This was a strange place, no lie about that, and all that business with the teeth had been very…odd, but he’d been out with Chickenwire when jobs had gone wrong and both the Watch
and
the Thieves’ Guild had been after them and he’d been as cool as anyone. And if the Guild had been the ones to catch them they’d have nailed their ears to their ankles and thrown them in the river. In Medium Dave’s book, which was a simple book and largely written in mental crayon, things didn’t get creepier than that.

“What’s up with you?” he said. “All of you—you’re acting like little kids!”

“Would he deliver to apes
earlier
than humans?”

“Interesting point, sir. Possibly you’re referring to my theory that humans may have in fact descended from apes, of course,” said Ponder. “A bold hypothesis which ought to sweep away the ignorance of centuries if the grants committee could just see their way clear to letting me hire a boat and sail around to the islands of—”

“I just thought he might deliver alphabetically,” said Ridcully.

There was a patter of soot in the cold fireplace.

“That’s presumably him now, do you think?” Ridcully went on. “Oh, well, I thought we should check—”

Something landed in the ashes. The two wizards stood quietly in the darkness while the figure picked itself up. There was a rustle of paper.

L
ET ME SEE NOW
—

There was a click as Ridcully’s pipe fell out of his mouth.

“Who the hell are you?” he said. “Mr. Stibbons, light a candle!”

Death backed away.

I’
M THE
H
OGFATHER, OF COURSE
. E
R
. H
O
. H
O
. H
O
. W
HO WOULD YOU
EXPECT
TO COME DOWN A CHIMNEY ON A NIGHT LIKE THIS, MAY
I
ASK
?

“No, you’re not!”

I
AM
. L
OOK
, I’
VE GOT THE BEARD AND THE PILLOW AND EVERYTHING
!