Hogfather

     'That's right,' Susan said. 'All kinds.'

     She put the  girl  to bed  next  to her  brother  and leaned the  poker against the toy cupboard.

     The  poker was made of some cheap metal  with  a brass knob on the end. She would,  Susan reflected, give quite a lot to be able to  use  it  on the children's previous governess.

     'G'night.'

     'Goodnight.'

     She went back to her own small bedroom and got back into  bed, watching the curtains suspiciously.

     It would be nice to think she'd imagined it. It would also be stupid to think that, too.  But she'd been nearly normal for two years now, making her own way in the real world, never remembering the future at all...

     Perhaps she had just dreamed things (but even dreams could be real...).

     She tried to ignore  the long  thread of wax that suggested  the candle had, just for a few seconds, streamed in the wind.

     As Susan sought sleep,  Lord Downey sat in his study catching up on the paperwork.

     Lord Downey  was an assassin. Or,  rather,  an  Assassin.  The  capital letter was important.  It separated those  curs  who  went around  murdering people for money from the gentlemen who were occasionally consulted by other gentlemen who wished to have removed,  for a consideration, any inconvenient razorblades from the candyfloss of life.

     The  members of the Guild  of Assassins considered  themselves cultured men who enjoyed good music and  food and literature. And they knew the value of human life. To a penny, in many cases.

     Lord Downey's  study was  oak-panelled and well carpeted. The furniture was very old and quite worn,  but the wear was the wear that comes only when very good furniture is carefully used over several centuries. It was matured furniture.

     A  log fire burned in the grate. In front of it  a couple  of dogs were sleeping in the tangled way of large hairy dogs everywhere.

     Apart from the occasional doggy snore or the crackle of a shifting log, there were no other sounds but the scratching of Lord Downey's  pen and  the ticking of  the longcase clock by  the door ...  small, private noises which only served to define the silence.

     At least, this was the case until someone cleared their throat.

     The sound suggested  very clearly  that the purpose of the exercise was not  to erase the  presence of a  troublesome bit of biscuit, but  merely to indicate in the politest possible way the presence of the throat.

     Downey stopped writing but did not raise his head.

     Then,  after what  appeared to  be  some  consideration,  he said  in a businesslike voice, 'The doors are locked. The windows are  barred. The dogs do not appear to  have  woken  up.  The squeaky  floorboards haven't.  Other little  arrangements  which  I will not specify seem to  have been bypassed. That severely limits the possibilities. I really doubt that  you are a ghost and gods generally do not  announce themselves so politely.  You  could,  of course, be  Death,  but I don't believe he bothers with such  niceties  and, besides, I am feeling quite well. Hmm!'

     Something hovered in the air in front of his desk.

     'My  teeth are in fine condition  so you  are  unlikely to be the Tooth Fairy. I've always found that  a stiff brandy before bedtime quite does away with the need  for the  Sandman. And, since I can carry a tune quite well, I suspect I'm not likely to attract the attention of Old Man Trouble. Hmm.'

     The figure drifted a little nearer.

     'I suppose a  gnome could  get  through a  mousehole, but I  have traps down,' Downey went on. 'Bogeymen can  walk through  walls but  would be very loath to reveal themselves. Really, you have me at a loss. Hmm?'

     And then he looked up.

     A grey robe hung in the air. It appeared to be occupied, in that it had a shape, although the occupant was not visible.

     The  prickly  feeling  crept  over  Downey  that  the  occupant  wasn't invisible, merely not, in any physical sense, there at all.

     'Good evening,' he said.

     The robe said, Good evening, Lord Downey.

     His brain registered the words. His ears swore they hadn't heard them.

     But you did not become head  of  the Assassins' Guild by  taking fright easily. Besides,  the  thing  wasn't frightening.  It  was,  thought Downey, astonishingly dull. If monotonous drabness could take on a shape, this would be the shape it would choose.

     'You appear to be a spectre,' he said.

     Our  nature  is not  a  matter  for discussion, arrived in his head. We offer you a commission.

     'You wish someone inhumed?' said Downey.

     Brought to an end.

     Downey considered this.  It was  not as  unusual  as it appeared. There were precedents. Anyone could buy the services of the Guild. Several zombies had,  in the past, employed the Guild to settle scores with their murderers. In fact the Guild, he liked to  think  practised the ultimate democracy. You didn't need intelligence, social position,  beauty or charm to  hire it. You just needed money which, unlike the other stuff, was available  to everyone. Except for the poor, of course, but there was no helping some people.