Hogfather

you I’m an unreasonable chap.”
    Death checked the list carefully.
    T HAT IS PRECISELY CORRECT , he confirmed, with anthropological exactitude.
    “Except for the bananas, of course. I wouldn’t keep fish in my desk.”
    Death looked down at the list and then back up at Ridcully.
    G OOD ? he said, in the hope that this was the right response.
    Wizards know when they are going to die. * Ridcully had no such premonitions, and to Ponder’s horror prodded Death in the cushion.
    “Why you ?” he said. “What’s happened to the other fellow?”
    I SUPPOSE I MUST TELL YOU .

    In the house of Death, a whisper of shifting sand and the faintest chink of moving glass, somewhere in the darkness of the floor…
    And, in the dry shadows, the sharp smell of snow and a thud of hooves.

    Sideney almost swallowed his tongue when Teatime appeared beside him.
    “Are we making progress?”
    “Gnk—”
    “I’m sorry?” said Teatime.
    Sideney recovered himself. “Er…some,” he said. “We think we’ve worked out…er…one lock.”
    Light gleamed off Teatime’s eye.
    “I believe there are seven of them?” said the Assassin.
    “Yes, but…they’re half magic and half real and half not there…I mean…there’s parts of them that don’t exist all the time—”
    Mr. Brown, who had been working at one of the locks, laid down his pick.
    “’t’s no good, mister,” he said. “Can’t even get a purchase with a crowbar. Maybe if I went back to the city and got a couple of dragons we could do something. You can melt through steel with them if you twist their necks right and feed ’em carbon.”
    “I was told you were the best locksmith in the city,” said Teatime.
    Behind him, Banjo shifted position.
    Mr. Brown looked annoyed…
    “Well, yes ,” he said. “But locks don’t generally alter ’emselves while you’re working on ’em, that’s what I’m saying.”
    “And I thought you could open any lock anyone ever made,” said Teatime.
    “Made by humans,” said Mr. Brown sharply. “And most dwarfs. I dunno what made these. You never said anything about magic.”
    “That’s a shame,” said Teatime. “Then really I have no more need of your services. You may as well go back home.”
    “I won’t be sorry.” Mr. Brown started putting things back into his tool bag. “What about my money?”
    “Do I owe you any?”
    “I came along with you. I don’t see it’s my fault that this is all magic business. I should get something .”
    “Ah, yes, I see your point,” said Teatime. “Of course, you should get what you deserve. Banjo?”
    Banjo lumbered forward, and then stopped.
    Mr. Brown’s hand had come out of the bag holding a crowbar.
    “You must think I was born yesterday, you slimy little bugger,” he said. “I know your type. You think it’s all some kind of game. You make little jokes to yourself and you think no one else notices and you think you’re so smart. Well, Mr. Teacup, I’m leaving, right? Right now. With what’s coming to me. And you ain’t stopping me. And Banjo certainly ain’t. I knew old Ma Lilywhite back in the good old days. You think you’re nasty? You think you’re mean? Ma Lilywhite’d tear your ears off and spit ’em in your eye, you cocky little devil. And I worked with her, so you don’t scare me and nor does little Banjo, poor sod that he is.”
    Mr. Brown glared at each of them in turn, flourishing the crowbar. Sideney cowered in front of the doors.
    He saw Teatime nod gracefully, as if the man had made a small speech of thanks.
    “I appreciate your point of view,” said Teatime. “And, I have to repeat, it’s Teh-ah-tim-eh. Now, please, Banjo.”
    Banjo loomed over Mr. Brown, reached down and lifted him up by the crowbar so sharply that his feet came out of his boots.
    “Here, you know me, Banjo!” the locksmith croaked, struggling in midair. “I remembers you when you was little, I used to sit you on my knee, I often used to work for your ma—”
    “D’you like apples?” Banjo rumbled.
    Brown struggled.
    “You got to say yes,” Banjo said.
    “Yes!”
    “D’you like pears? You got to say yes.”
    “All right, yes!”
    “D’you like falling down the stairs?”

    Medium Dave held up his hands for quiet.
    He glared at the gang.
    “This place is getting to you, right? But we’ve all been in bad places before, right?”
    “Not this bad,” said Chickenwire. “I’ve never been anywhere where it hurts to look at the sky. It give me the