Hogfather

‘You know where it is?’

‘No! I've never been here before! They had a bag on my head when we came! All I ever did was take the teeth from under the pillows!’ Violet started to sob. ‘You just get this list and about five minutes’ training and they even dock you ten pence a week for the ladder and I know I made that mistake with little William Rubin but they should of said, you're supposed to take any teeth you—’

‘Er… mistake?’ said Bilious, trying to get her to hurry.

‘Just because he slept with his head under the pillow but they give you the pliers anyway and no one told me that you shouldn't—’

She certainly did have a pleasant voice, Bilious told himself. It was just that in a funny way it grated, too. It was like listening to a talking flute.

‘I think we'd just better get outside,’ he said. ‘In case they hear us,’ he hinted.

‘What sort of godding do you do?’ said Violet.

‘Er… oh, I… this and that… I… er…’ Bilious tried to think through the pounding headache. And then he had one of those ideas, the kind that only sound good after a lot of alcohol. Someone else may have drunk the drinks, but he managed to snag the idea.

‘I'm actually self-employed,’ he said, as brightly as he could manage.

‘How can you be a self-employed god?’

‘Ah, well, you see, if any other god wants, perhaps, you know, a holiday or something, I cover for them. Yes. That's what I do.’

Unwisely, in the circumstances, he let his inventiveness impress him.

‘Oh, yes. I'm very busy. Rushed off my feet. They're always employing me. You've no idea. They don't think twice about pushing off for a month as a big white bull or a swan or something and it's always, “Oh, Bilious, old chap, just take care of things while I'm away, will you? Answer the prayers and so on.” I hardly get a minute to myself but of course you can't turn down work these days.’

Violet was round-eyed with fascination.

‘And are you covering for anyone right now?’ she asked.

‘Um, yes… the God of Hangovers, actually… ‘A God of Hangovers? How awful!’

Bilious looked down at his stained and wretched toga.

‘I suppose it is…’ he mumbled.

‘You're not very good at it.’

‘You don't have to tell me.’

‘You're more cut out to be one of the important gods,’ said Violet, admiringly. ‘I can just see you as Io or Fate or one of those.’

Bilious stared at her with his mouth open.

‘I could tell at once you weren't right,’ she went on. ‘Not for some horrible little god. You could even be Offler with calves like yours.’

‘Could I? I mean… oh, yes. Sometimes. Of course, I have to wear fangs—’

And then someone was holding a sword to his throat.

‘What's this?’ said Chickenwire. ‘Lover's Lane?’

‘You leave him alone, you!’ shouted Violet. ‘He's a god! You'll be really sorry!’

Bilious swallowed, but very gently. It was a sharp sword.

‘A god, eh?’ said Chickenwire. ‘What of?’

Bilious tried to swallow again.

‘Oh, bit o' this, bit o' that,’ he mumbled.

‘Cor,’ said Chickenwire. ‘Well, I'm impressed. I can see I'm going to have to be dead careful here, eh? Don't want you smiting me with thunderbolts, do I? Puts a crimp in the day, that sort of thing—’

Bilious didn't dare move his head. But out of the corner of his eye he was sure he could see shadows moving very fast across the walls.

‘Dear me, out of thunderbolts, are we?’ Chickenwire sneered. ‘Well, y'know, I've never—’

There was a creak.

Chickenwire's face was a few inches from Bilious. The oh god saw his expression change.

The man's eyes rolled. His lips said ‘…nur…’

Bilious risked stepping back. Chickenwire's sword didn't move. He stood there, trembling slightly, like a man who wants to turn round to see what's behind him but doesn't dare to in case he does.

As far as Bilious was concerned, it had just been a creak.

He looked up at the thing on the landing above.

‘Who put that there?’ said Violet.

It was just a wardrobe. Dark oak, a bit of fancy woodwork glued on in an effort to disguise the undisguisable fact that it was just an upright box. It was a wardrobe.

‘You didn't, you know, try to cast a thunderbolt and go on a few letters too many?’ she went on.

‘Huh?’ said Bilious, looking from the stricken man to the wardrobe. It was so ordinary it was odd.

‘I mean, thunderbolts begin with T and wardrobes…’

Violet's lips moved silently. Part of Bilious thought: I'm attracted to a girl who actually has to shut down all other brain functions in order to think about the order of the letters of the alphabet. On the other hand, she's attracted to someone who's wearing a toga that looks as though a family of weasels have had a party in it, so maybe I'll stop this thought right here.

But the major part of his brain thought: why's this man making little bubbling noises? It's just a wardrobe, for my sake!

‘No, no,’ mumbled Chickenwire. ‘I don't wanna!’

The sword clanged on the floor.

He took a step backwards up the stairs, but very slowly, as if he was doing it despite every effort his muscles could muster.

‘Don't want to what?’ said Violet.

Chickenwire spun round. Bilious had never seen that happen before. People turned round quickly, yes, but Chickenwire just revolved as if some giant hand had been placed on his head and twisted a hundred and eighty degrees.

‘No. No. No,’ Chickenwire whined. ‘No.’

He tottered up the steps.

‘You got to help me,’ he whispered.

‘What's the matter?’ said Bilious. ‘It's just a wardrobe, isn't it? It's for putting all your old clothes in so that there's no room for your new clothes.’

The doors of the wardrobe swung open.

Chickenwire managed to thrust out his arms and grab the sides and, for a moment, he stood quite still.

Then he was pulled into the wardrobe in one sudden movement and the doors slammed shut.

The little brass key turned in the lock with a click.

‘We ought to get him out,’ said the oh god, running up the steps.

‘Why?’ Violet demanded. ‘They are not very nice people! I know that one. When he brought me food he made… suggestive comments.’

‘Yes, but…’ Bilious hadn't ever seen a face like that, outside of a mirror. Chickenwire had looked very, very sick.

He turned the key and opened the doors.

‘Oh dear…’

‘I don't want to see! I don't want to see!’ said Violet, looking over his shoulder.

Bilious reached down and picked up a pair of boots that stood neatly in the middle of the wardrobe's floor.

Then he put them back carefully and walked around the wardrobe. It was plywood. The words ‘Dratley and Sons, Phedre Road, Ankh-Morpork’ were stamped in one corner in faded ink.

‘Is it magic?’ said Violet nervously.

‘I don't know if something magic has the maker's name on it,’ said Bilious.