Hogfather

‘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.

‘Brought to an end…’ That was an odd way of putting it.

‘We can—’ he began.

The payment will reflect the difficulty of the task.

‘Our scale of fees—’

The payment will be three million dollars.

Downey sat back. That was four times higher than any fee yet earned by any member of the Guild, and that had been a special family rate, including overnight guests.

‘No questions asked, I assume?’ he said, buying time.

No questions answered.

‘But does the suggested fee represent the difficulty involved? The client is heavily guarded?’

Not guarded at all. But almost certainly impossible to delete with conventional weapons.

Downey nodded. This was not necessarily a big problem, he said to himself. The Guild had amassed quite a few unconventional weapons over the years. Delete? An unusual way of putting it …

‘We like to know for whom we are working,’ he said.

We are sure you do.

‘I mean that we need to know your name. Or names. In strict client confidentiality, of course. We have to write something down in our files.’

You may think of us as… the Auditors.

‘Really? What is it you audit?’

Everything.

‘I think we need to know something about you.’

We are the people with three million dollars.

Downey took the point, although he didn't like it. Three million dollars could buy a lot of no questions.

‘Really?’ he said. ‘In the circumstances, since you are a new client, I think we would like payment in advance.’

As you wish. The gold is now in your vaults.

‘You mean that it will shortly be in our vaults,’ said Downey.

No. It has always been in your vaults. We know this because we have just put it there.

Downey watched the empty hood for a moment, and then without shifting his gaze he reached out and picked up the speaking tube.

‘Mr Winvoe?’ he said, after whistling into it. ‘Ah. Good. Tell me, how much do we have in our vaults at the moment? Oh, approximately. To the nearest million, say.’ He held the tube away from his ear for a moment, and then spoke into it again. ‘Well, be a good chap and check anyway, will you?’

He hung up the tube and placed his hands flat on the desk in front of him.

‘Can I offer you a drink while we wait?’ he said.

Yes. We believe so.

Downey stood up with some relief and walked over to his large drinks cabinet. His hand hovered over the Guild's ardent and valuable tantalus, with its labelled decanters of Mur, Nig, Trop and Yksihw.[3]

‘And what would you like to drink?’ he said, wondering where the Auditor kept its mouth. His hand hovered for just a moment over the smallest decanter, marked Nosiop.

We do not drink.

‘But you did just say I could offer you a drink… ’

Indeed. We judge you fully capable of performing that action.

‘Ah.’ Downey's hand hesitated over the whisky 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 discs 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 disc! They're all just blank discs!’