Hogfather - Terry Pratchett [3]
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 gray 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 specter,” 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, practiced 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.