Hogfather

were sitting on either side of Peachy, leaned away nonchalantly.
    “Hi!” said Teatime. There was a blur, and a knife shuddered in the table between Peachy’s thumb and index finger.
    He looked down at it in horror.
    “My name’s Teatime,” said Teatime. “Which one are you?”
    “’m…Peachy,” said Peachy, still staring at the vibrating knife.
    “That’s an interesting name,” said Teatime. “Why are you called Peachy, Peachy?”
    Medium Dave coughed.
    Peachy looked up into Teatime’s face. The glass eye was a mere ball of faintly glowing gray. The other eye was a little dot in a sea of white. Peachy’s only contact with intelligence had been to beat it up and rob it whenever possible, but a sudden sense of self-preservation glued him to his chair.
    “’cos I don’t shave,” he said.
    “Peachy don’t like blades, mister,” said Catseye.
    “And do you have a lot of friends, Peachy?” said Teatime.
    “Got a few, yeah…”
    With a sudden whirl of movement that made the men start, Teatime spun away, grabbed a chair, swung it up to the table and sat down on it. Three of them had already got their hands on their swords.
    “I don’t have many,” he said, apologetically. “Don’t seem to have the knack. On the other hand…I don’t seem to have any enemies at all. Not one. Isn’t that nice?”

    Teatime had been thinking, in the cracking, buzzing fireworks display that was his head. What he had been thinking about was immortality.
    He might have been quite, quite insane, but he was no fool. There were, in the Assassins’ Guild, a number of paintings and busts of famous members who had, in the past, put…no, of course, that wasn’t right. There were paintings and busts of the famous clients of members, with a noticeably modest brass plaque screwed somewhere nearby, bearing some unassuming little comment like “Departed this vale of tears on Grune 3, Year of the Sideways Leech, with the assistance of the Hon. K. W. Dobson (Viper House).” Many fine old educational establishments had dignified memorials in some hall listing the Old Boys who had laid down their lives for monarch and country. The Guild’s was very similar, except for the question of whose life had been laid.
    Every Guild member wanted to be up there somewhere. Because getting up there represented immortality. And the bigger your client, the more incredibly discreet and restrained would be the little brass plaque, so that everyone couldn’t help but notice your name.
    In fact, if you were very, very renowned, they wouldn’t even have to write down your name at all…
    The men around the table watched him. It was always hard to know what Banjo was thinking, or even if he was thinking at all, but the other four were thinking along the lines of: bumptious little twit, like all Assassins. Thinks he knows it all. I could take him down one-handed, no trouble. But…you hear stories. Those eyes give me the creeps…
    “So what’s the job?” said Chickenwire.
    “We don’t do jobs,” said Teatime. “We perform services. And the service will earn each of you ten thousand dollars.”
    “That’s a lot more’n Thieves’ Guild rate,” said Medium Dave.
    “I’ve never liked the Thieves’ Guild,” said Teatime, without turning his head.
    “Why not?”
    “They ask too many questions.”
    “We don’t ask questions,” said Chickenwire quickly.
    “We shall suit one another perfectly,” said Teatime. “Do have another drink while we wait for the other members of our little troupe.”
    Chickenwire saw Medium Dave’s lips start to frame the opening letters “Who—” These letters he deemed inauspicious at this time. He kicked Medium Dave’s leg under the table.
    The door opened slightly. A figure came in, but only just. It inserted itself in the gap and sidled along the wall in a manner calculated not to attract attention. Calculated, that is, by someone not good at this sort of calculation.
    It looked at them over its turned-up collar.
    “That’s a wizard ,” said Peachy.
    The figure hurried over and dragged up a chair.
    “No, I’m not!” it hissed. “I’m incognito!”
    “Right, Mr. Gnito,” said Medium Dave. “You’re just someone in a pointy hat. This is my brother Banjo, that’s Peachy, this is Chick—”
    The wizard looked desperately at Teatime.
    “I didn’t want to come!”
    “Mr. Sideney here is indeed a wizard,” said Teatime. “A student, anyway. But down on his luck at the moment,