‘Just a stomach's the best I could do, master. You're starting off with a handicap, sort of thing.’
Albert unscrewed the top off a bottle of cold tea. All the sherry had made him thirsty.
‘Doing well, master,’ he repeated, taking a pull. ‘All the soot in the fireplace, the footprints, them swigged sherries, the sleigh tracks all over the roofs… it's got to work.’
YOU THINK SO?
‘Sure.’
AND I MADE SURE SOME OF THEM SAW ME. I KNOW IF THEY ARE PEEPING, Death added proudly.
‘Well done, sir.’
YES.
‘Though here's a tip, though. Just “Ho. Ho. Ho,” — will do. Don't say, “Cower, brief mortals” unless you want them to grow up to be moneylenders or some such.’
HO. HO. HO.
‘Yes, you're really getting the hang of it.’ Albert looked down hurriedly at his notebook so that Death wouldn't see his face. ‘Now, I got to tell you, master, what'll really do some good is a public appearance. Really.’
OH. I DON'T NORMALLY DO THEM.
‘The Hogfather's more've a public figure, master. And one good public appearance'll do more good than any amount of letting kids see you by accident. Good for the old belief muscles.’
REALLY? HO. HO. HO.
‘Right, right, that's really good, master. Where was I… yes… the shops'll be open late. Lots of kiddies get taken to see the Hogfather, you see. Not the real one, of course, just some ole geezer with a pillow up his jumper, saving yer presence, master.’
NOT REAL? HO. HO. HO.
‘Oh, no. And you don't need—’
THE CHILDREN KNOW THIS? HO. HO. HO.
Albert scratched his nose. ‘S'pose so, master.’
THIS SHOULD NOT BE. NO WONDER THERE HAS BEEN… THIS DIFFICULTY. BELIEF WAS COMPROMISED? HO. HO. HO.
‘Could be, master. Er, the “ho, ho—”’
WHERE DOES THIS TRAVESTY TAKE PLACE? HO. HO. HO.
Albert gave up. ‘Well, Crumley's in The Maul, for one. Very popular, the Hogfather Grotto. They always have a good Hogfather, apparently.’
LET'S GET THERE AND SLEIGH THEM. HO. HO. HO.
‘Right you are, master.’
THAT WAS A PUNE OR PLAY ON WORDS, ALBERT. I DON'T KNOW IF YOU NOTICED.
‘I'm laughing like hell deep down, sir.’
HO. HO. HO.
Archchancellor Ridcully grinned.
He often grinned. He was one of those men who grinned even when they were annoyed, but right now he grinned because he was proud. A little sore still, perhaps, but still proud.
‘Amazing bathroom, ain't it?’ he said. ‘They had it walled up, you know. Damn silly thing to do. I mean, perhaps there were a few teething troubles,’ he shifted gingerly, ‘but that's only to be expected. It's got everything, d'you see? Foot baths in the shape of clam shells, look. A whole wardrobe for dressing gowns. And that tub over there's got a big blower thingy so's you get bubbly water without even havin' to eat starchy food. And this thingy here with the mermaids holdin' it up's a special pot for your toenail clippings. It's got everything, this place.’
‘A special pot for nail clippings?’ said the Verruca Gnome.
‘Oh, can't be too careful,’ said Ridcully, lifting the lid of an ornate jar marked BATH SALTS and pulling out a bottle of wine. ‘Get hold of something like someone's nail clipping and you've got ' em under your control. That's real old magic. Dawn of time stuff.’
He held the wine bottle up to the light.
‘Should be cooled nicely by now,’ he said, extracting the cork. ‘Verrucas, eh?’
‘Wish I knew why,’ said the gnome.
‘You mean you don't know?’
‘Nope. Suddenly I wake up and I'm the Verruca Gnome.’
‘Puzzling, that,’ said Ridcully. ‘My dad used to say the Verruca Gnome turned up if you walked around in bare feet but I never knew you existed. I thought he just made it up. I mean, tooth fairies, yes, and them little buggers that live in flowers, used to collect 'em myself as a lad, but can't recall anything about verrucas.’ He drank thoughtfully. ‘Got a distant cousin called Verruca, as a matter of fact. It's quite a nice sound, when you come to think of it.’
He looked at the gnome over the top of his glass.
You didn't become Archchancellor without a feeling for subtle wrongness in a situation. Well, that wasn't quite true. It was more accurate to say that you didn't remain Archchancellor for very long.
‘Good job, is it?’ he said thoughtfully.
‘Dandruff'd be better,’ said the gnome. ‘At least I'd be out in the fresh air.’
‘I think we'd better check up on this,’ said Ridcully. ‘Of course, it might be nothing.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ said the Verruca Gnome, gloomily.
It was a magnificent Grotto this year, Vernon Crumley told himself. The staff had worked really hard. The Hogfather's sleigh was a work of art in itself, and the pigs looked really real and a wonderful shade of pink.
The Grotto took up nearly all of the first floor. One of the pixies had been Disciplined for smoking behind the Magic Tinkling Waterfall and the clockwork Dolls of All Nations showing how We Could All Get Along were a bit jerky and giving trouble but all in all, he told himself, it was a display to Delight the Hearts of Kiddies everywhere.
The kiddies were queueing up with their parents and watching the display owlishly.
And the money was coming in. Oh, how the money was coming in.
So that the staff would not be Tempted, Mr Crumley had set up an arrangement of overhead wires across the ceilings of the store. In the middle of each floor was a cashier in a little cage. Staff took money from customers, put it in a little clockwork cable car, sent it whizzing overhead to the cashier, who'd make change and start it rattling back again. Thus there was no possibility of Temptation, and the little trolleys were shooting back and forth like fireworks.
Mr Crumley loved Hogswatch. It was for… the Kiddies, after all.
He tucked his fingers in the pockets of his waistcoat and beamed.
‘Everything going well, Miss Harding?’
‘Yes, Mr Crumley,’ said the cashier, meekly.
‘Jolly good.’ He looked at the pile of coins.
A bright little zig-zag crackled off them and earthed itself on the metal grille.
Mr Crumley blinked. In front of him sparks flashed off the steel rims of Miss Harding's spectacles.
The Grotto display changed. For just a fraction of a second Mr Crumley had the sensation of speed, as though what appeared had screeched to a halt. Which was ridiculous.
The four pink papier-mache pigs exploded. A cardboard snout bounced off Mr Crumley's head.
There, sweating and grunting in the place where the little piggies had been, were… well, he assumed they were pigs, because hippopotamuses didn't have pointy ears and rings through their noses. But the creatures were huge and grey and bristly and a cloud of acrid mist hung over each one.
And they didn't look sweet. There was nothing charming about them. One turned to look at him with small, red eyes, and didn't go ‘oink’, which was the sound that Mr Crumley, born and raised in the city, had always associated with pigs.
It went ‘Ghnaaarrrwnnkh?’
The sleigh had changed, too. He'd been very pleased with that sleigh. It had delicate silver curly bits on it. He'd personally supervised the gluing on of every twinkling star. But the splendour of it was lying in glittering shards around a sledge that looked as though it had been built of crudely sawn tree trunks laid on two massive wooden
