Hogfather

hence his willingness to join us on this venture.”
    “Exactly how far down on his luck?” said Medium Dave.
    The wizard tried not to meet anyone’s gaze.
    “I made a misjudgment to do with a wager,” he said.
    “Lost a bet, you mean?” said Chickenwire.
    “I paid up on time,” said Sideney.
    “Yes, but Chrysoprase the troll has this odd little thing about money that turns into lead the next day,” said Teatime cheerfully. “So our friend needs to earn a little cash in a hurry and in a climate where arms and legs stay on.”
    “No one said anything about there being magic in all this,” said Peachy.
    “Our destination is…probably you should think of it as something like a wizard’s tower, gentlemen,” said Teatime.
    “It isn’t an actual wizard’s tower, is it?” said Medium Dave. “They got a very odd sense of humor when it comes to booby traps.”
    “No.”
    “Guards?”
    “I believe so. According to legend. But nothing very much.”
    Medium Dave narrowed his eyes. “There’s valuable stuff in this…tower?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “Why ain’t there many guards, then?”
    “The…person who owns the property probably does not realize the value of what…of what they have.”
    “Locks?” said Medium Dave.
    “On our way we shall be picking up a locksmith.”
    “Who?”
    “Mr. Brown.”
    They nodded. Everyone—at least, everyone in “the business,” and everyone in “the business” knew what “the business” was, and if you didn’t know what “the business” was you weren’t a businessman—knew Mr. Brown. His presence anywhere around a job gave it a certain kind of respectability. He was a neat, elderly man who’d invented most of the tools in his big leather bag. No matter what cunning you’d used to get into a place, or overcome a small army, or find the secret treasure room, sooner or later you sent for Mr. Brown, who’d turn up with his leather bag and his little springy things and his little bottles of strange alchemy and his neat little boots. And he’d do nothing for ten minutes but look at the lock, and then he’d select a piece of bent metal from a ring of several hundred almost identical pieces, and under an hour later he’d be walking away with a neat ten percent of the takings. Of course, you didn’t have to use Mr. Brown’s services. You could always opt to spend the rest of your life looking at a locked door.
    “All right. Where is this place?” said Peachy.
    Teatime turned and smiled at him. “If I’m paying you, why isn’t it me who’s asking the questions?”
    Peachy didn’t even try to outstare the glass eye a second time.
    “Just want to be prepared, that’s all,” he mumbled.
    “Good reconnaissance is the essence of a successful operation,” said Teatime. He turned and looked up at the bulk that was Banjo and added, “What is this?”
    “This is Banjo,” said Medium Dave, rolling himself a cigarette.
    “Does it do tricks?”
    Time stood still for a moment. The other men looked at Medium Dave. He was known to Ankh-Morpork’s professional underclass as a thoughtful, patient man, and considered something of an intellectual because some of his tattoos were spelled right. He was reliable in a tight spot and, above all, he was honest, because good criminals have to be honest. If he had a fault, it was a tendency to deal out terminal and definitive retribution to anyone who said anything about his brother.
    If he had a virtue, it was a tendency to pick his time. Medium Dave’s fingers tucked the tobacco into the paper and raised it to his lips.
    “No,” he said.
    Chickenwire tried to defrost the conversation. “He’s not what you’d call bright, but he’s always useful. He can lift two men in each hand. By their necks.”
    “Yur,” said Banjo.
    “He looks like a volcano,” said Teatime.
    “ Really ?” said Medium Dave Lilywhite. Chickenwire reached out hastily and pushed him back down in his seat.
    Teatime turned and smiled at him.
    “I do so hope we’re going to be friends, Mr. Medium Dave,” he said. “It really hurts to think I might not be among friends.” He gave him another bright smile. Then he turned back to the rest of the table.
    “Are we resolved, gentlemen?”
    They nodded. There was some reluctance, given the consensus view that Teatime belonged in a room with soft walls, but ten thousand dollars was ten thousand dollars, possibly even more.
    “Good,” said Teatime. He looked Banjo up and down. “Then