Hogfather - Terry Pratchett [9]
One day, Susan averred, she’d hunt that woman down.
“Susan,” said Twyla, from somewhere under the blankets.
“Yes?”
“You know last week we wrote letters to the Hogfather?”
“Yes?”
“Only…in the park Rachel says he doesn’t exist and it’s your father really. And everyone else said she was right.”
There was a rustle from the other bed. Twyla’s brother had turned over and was listening surreptitiously.
Oh dear, thought Susan. She had hoped she could avoid this. It was going to be like that business with the Soul Cake Duck all over again.
“Does it matter if you get the presents anyway?” she said, making a direct appeal to greed.
“’es.”
Oh dear, oh dear. Susan sat down on the bed, wondering how the hell to get through this. She patted the one visible hand.
“Look at it this way, then,” she said, and took a deep mental breath. “Wherever people are obtuse and absurd…and wherever they have, by even the most generous standards, the attention span of a small chicken in a hurricane and the investigative ability of a one-legged cockroach…and wherever people are inanely credulous, pathetically attached to the certainties of the nursery and, in general, have as much grasp of the realities of the physical universe as an oyster has of mountaineering…yes, Twyla: there is a Hogfather.”
There was silence from under the bedclothes, but she sensed that the tone of voice had worked. The words had meant nothing. That, as her grandfather might have said, was humanity all over.
“G’night.”
“Good night,” said Susan.
It wasn’t even a bar. It was just a room where people drank while they waited for other people with whom they had business. The business usually involved the transfer of ownership of something from one person to another, but then, what business doesn’t?
Five businessmen sat round a table, lit by a candle stuck in a saucer. There was an open bottle between them. They were taking some care to keep it away from the candle flame.
“’s gone six,” said one, a huge man with dreadlocks and a beard you could keep goats in. “The clocks struck ages ago. He ain’t coming. Let’s go.”
“Sit down, will you? Assassins are always late. ’cos of style, right?”
“This one’s mental.”
“Eccentric.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A bag of cash.”
The three that hadn’t spoken yet looked at one another.
“What’s this? You never said he was an Assassin,” said Chickenwire. “He never said the guy was an Assassin, did he, Banjo?”
There was a sound like distant thunder. It was Banjo Lilywhite clearing his throat.
“Dat’s right,” said a voice from the upper slopes. “Youse never said.”
The others waited until the rumble died away. Even Banjo’s voice hulked.
“He’s”—the first speaker waved his hands vaguely, trying to get across the point that someone was a hamper of food, several folding chairs, a tablecloth, an assortment of cooking gear and an entire colony of ants short of a picnic—“mental. And he’s got a funny eye.”
“It’s just glass, all right?” said the one known as Catseye, signaling a waiter for four beers and a glass of milk. “And he’s paying ten thousand dollars each. I don’t care what kind of eye he’s got.”
“I heard it was made of the same stuff they make them fortune-telling crystals out of. You can’t tell me that’s right. And he looks at you with it,” said the first speaker. He was known as Peachy, although no one had ever found out why.*
Catseye sighed. Certainly there was something odd about Mister Teatime, there was no doubt about that. But there was something weird about all Assassins. And the man paid well. Lots of Assassins used informers and locksmiths. It was against the rules, technically, but standards were going down everywhere, weren’t they? Usually they paid you late and sparsely, as if they were doing the favor. But Teatime was okay. True, after a few minutes talking to him your eyes began to water and you felt you needed to scrub your skin even on the inside, but no one was perfect, were they?
Peachy leaned forward. “You know what?” he said. “I reckon