Hogfather

action.
    “Ah.” Downey’s hand hesitated over the whiskey 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 disks 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 disk! They’re all just blank disks!”
    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 disks,” 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