She saw his bemused expression.
‘Look… how would you make sure everyone in the world was well fed?’ she demanded.
‘Me? Oh, well, I…’ The oh god spluttered for a moment. ‘I suppose you'd have to think about the prevalent political systems, and the proper division and cultivation of arable land, and—’
‘Yes, yes. But he'd just give everyone a good meat,’ said Susan.
‘Oh, I see. Very impractical. Hah, it's as silly as saying you could clothe the naked by, well, giving them some clothes.’
‘Yes! I mean, no. Of course not! I mean, obviously you'd give— oh, you know what I mean!’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘But he wouldn't.’
There was a crash beside them.
A burning wheel always rolls out of flaming wreckage. Two men carrying a large sheet of glass always cross the road in front of any comedy actor involved in a crazy car chase. Some narrative conventions are so strong that equivalents happen even on planets where the rocks boil at noon. And when a fully laden table collapses, one miraculously unbroken plate always rolls across the floor and spins to a halt.
Susan and the oh god watched it, and then turned their attention to the huge figure now lying in what remained of an enormous centrepiece made of fruit.
‘He just… came right out of the air,’ whispered the oh god.
‘Really? Don't just stand there. Give me a hand to help him up, will you?’ said Susan, pulling at a large melon.
‘Er, that's a bunch of grapes behind his ear—’
‘Well?’
‘I don't like even to think about grapes—’
‘Oh, come on.’
Together they managed to get the newcomer on to his feet.
‘Toga, sandals… he looks a bit like you,’ said Susan, as the fruit victim swayed heavily.
‘Was I that green colour?’
‘Close.’
‘Is… is there a privy nearby?’ mumbled their burden, through clammy lips.
‘I believe it's through that arch over there,’ said Susan. ‘I've heard it's not very pleasant, though.’
‘That's not a rumour, that's a forecast,’ said the fat figure, and lurched off. ‘And then can I please have a glass of water and one charcoal biscuit…’
They watched him go.
‘Friend of yours?’ said Susan.
‘God of Indigestion, I think. Look… I… er… I think I do remember something,’ said the oh god— ‘Just before I, um, incarnated. But it sounds stupid…’
‘Well?’
‘Teeth,’ said the oh god.
Susan hesitated.
‘You don't mean something attacking you, do you?’ she said flatly.
‘No. Just… a sensation of toothiness. Probably doesn't mean much. As God of Hangovers I see a lot worse, I can tell you.’
‘Just teeth. Lots of teeth. But not horrible teeth, just lots and lots of little teeth. Almost… sad?’
‘Yes! How did you know?’
‘Oh, I… maybe I remember you telling me before you told me. I don't know. How about a big shiny red globe?’
The oh god looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, ‘No, can't help you there, I'm afraid. It's just teeth. Rows and rows of teeth.’
‘I don't remember rows,’ said Susan. ‘I just felt… teeth were important.’
‘Nah, it's amazing what you can do with a beak,’ said the raven, who'd been investigating the laden table and had succeeded in levering a lid off a jar.
‘What have you got there?’ said Susan wearily.
‘Eyeballs,’ said the raven. ‘Hah, wizards know how to live all right, eh? They don't want for nothing around here, I can tell you.’
‘They're olives,’ said Susan.
‘Tough luck,’ said the raven. ‘They're mine now.’
‘They're a kind of fruit! Or a vegetable or something!’
‘You sure?’ The raven swivelled one doubtful eye on the jar and the other on her.
‘Yes!’
The eyes swivelled again.
‘So you're an eyeball expert all of a sudden?’
‘Look they're green, you stupid bird!’
‘They could be very old eyeballs,’ said the raven defiantly. ‘Sometimes they go like that—’
SQUEAK, said the Death of Rats, who was halfway through a cheese.
‘And not so much of the stupid,’ said the raven. ‘Corvids are exceptionally bright with reasoning and, in the case of some forest species, tool-using abilities!’
‘Oh, so you are an expert on ravens, are you?’ said Susan.
‘Madam, I happen to be a—’
SQUEAK, said the Death of Rats again.
They both turned. It was pointing at its grey teeth.
‘The Tooth Fairy?’ said Susan. ‘What about her?’
SQUEAK.
‘Rows of teeth,’ said the oh god again. ‘Like… rows, you know? What's the Tooth Fairy?’
‘Oh, you see her around a lot these days,’ said Susan. ‘Or them, rather. Its a sort of franchise operation. You get the ladder, the moneybelt and the pliers and you're set up.’
‘Pliers?’
‘If she can't make change she has to take an extra tooth on account. But, look, the tooth fairies are harmless enough. I've met one or two of them. They're just working girls. They don't menace anyone.’
SQUEAK.
‘I just hope Grandfather doesn't take it into his head to do their job as well. Good grief, the thought of it—’
‘They collect teeth?’
‘Yes. Obviously.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? It's their job.’
‘I meant why, where do they take the teeth after they collect them?’
‘I don't know! They just… well, they just take the teeth and leave the money,’ said Susan. ‘What sort of question is that — “Where do they take the teeth?”?’
‘I just wondered, that's all. Probably all humans know, I'm probably very silly for asking, it's probably a wellknown fact.’
Susan looked thoughtfully at the Death of Rats.
‘Actually… where do they take the teeth?’
SQUEAK?
‘He says search him,’ said the raven. ‘Maybe they sell 'em?’ It pecked at another jar. ‘How about these, these look nice and wrinkl—’
‘Pickled walnuts,’ said Susan absently. ‘What do they do with the teeth? What use is there for a lot of teeth? But… what harm can a tooth fairy do?’
‘Have we got time to find one and ask her?’ said the oh god.
‘Time isn't the problem,’ said Susan.
There are those who believe knowledge is something that is acquired — a precious ore hacked, as it were, from the grey strata of ignorance.
There are those who believe that knowledge can only be recalled, that there was some Golden Age in the distant past when everything was known and the stones fitted together so you could hardly put a knife between them, you know, and it's obvious they had flying machines, right, because of the way the earthworks can only be seen from above, yeah? and there's this museum I read about where they found a pocket calculator under the altar of this ancient temple, you know what I'm saying? but the government hushed it up… [18]
Mustrum Ridcully believed that knowledge could be acquired by shouting at people, and was endeavouring to do so. The wizards were sitting around the Uncommon Room table, which was piled high with books.
‘It is Hogswatch, Archchancellor,’ said the Dean reproachfully, thumbing through an ancient volume.
‘Not until midnight,’ said Ridcully. ‘Sortin' this out will give you fellows an appetite for your dinner.’
‘I think I might have something, Archchancellor,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘This is Woddeley's Basic Gods. There's some stuff here about lares and penates that seems to fit the bill.’
‘Lares and penates? What were they when they were at home?’ said Ridcully.
‘Hahaha,�
� said the Chair.
‘What?’ said Ridcully.
‘I thought you were making a rather good joke, Archchancellor,’ said the Chair.
‘Was I? I didn't mean to,’ said Ridcully.
‘Nothing new there,’ said the Dean, under his breath.
‘What was that, Dean?’
‘Nothing, Archchancellor.’
‘I thought you made the reference “at home” because they are, in fact, household gods. Or were, rather. They seemed to have faded away long ago. They were… little spirits of the house, like, for example—’
Three of the other wizards, thinking quite fast for wizards, clapped their hands over his mouth.
‘Careful!’ said Ridcully. ‘Careless talk creates lives! That's why we've got a big fat God of Indigestion being ill in the privy. By the way, where's the Bursar?’
‘He was in the privy, Archchancellor,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
‘What, when the—?’
‘Yes, Archchancellor.’
‘Oh, well, I'm sure he'll be all right,’ said Ridcully, in the matter-of-fact voice of someone contemplating something nasty that was happening to someone else out of earshot. ‘But we don't want any more of these… what're they, Chair?’
‘Lares and penates, Archchancellor, but I wasn't suggesting—’
‘Seems clear to me. Something's gone wrong and these little devils are coming back. All we have to do is find out what's gone wrong and put it right.’
‘Oh, well, I'm glad that's all sorted out,’ said the Dean.
‘Household gods,’ said Ridcully. ‘That's what they are, Chair?’ He opened the drawer in his hat and took out his pipe.
‘Yes, Archchancellor. It says here they used to be the… local spirits, I suppose. They saw to it that the bread rose and the butter churned properly.’
‘Did they eat pencils? What was their attitude in the socks department?’
‘This was back in the time of the First Empire,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘Sandals and togas and so on.’
‘Ah. Not noticeably socked?’
‘Not excessively so, no. And it was nine hundred years before Osric Pencillium first discovered, in the graphite-rich sands of the remote island of Sumtri, the small bush which, by dint of careful cultivation, he induced to produce the long—’
‘Yes, we can all see you've got the encyclopaedia open under the table, Chair,’ said Ridcully. ‘But I daresay things have changed a bit. Moved with the times. Bound to have been a few developments. Once they looked after the bread rising, now we have things that eat pencils and socks and see to it that you can never find a clean towel when you want one—’
There was a distant tinkling.
He stopped.
‘I just said that, didn't I?’ he said.
The wizards nodded glumly.
‘And this is the first time anyone's mentioned it?’
The wizards nodded again.
‘Well, dammit, it's amazing, you can never find a clean towel when—’
There was a rising wheeee noise. A towel went by at shoulder height. There was a suggestion of many small wings.
‘That was mine,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes reproachfully. The towel disappeared in the direction of the Great Hall.
‘Towel Wasps,’ said the Dean. ‘Well done, Archchancellor.’
‘Well, I mean, dammit, it's human nature, isn't it?’ said Ridcully hotly. ‘Things go wrong, things get lost, it's natural to invent little creatures that — All right, all right, I'll be careful. I'm just saying man is naturally a mythopoeic creature.’
‘What's that mean?’ said the Senior Wrangler.
‘Means we make things up as we go along,’ said the Dean, not looking up.
‘Um… excuse me, gentlemen,’ said Ponder Stibbons, who had been scribbling thoughtfully at the end of the table. ‘Are we suggesting that things are coming back? Do we think that's a viable hypothesis?’
The wizards looked at one another around the table.
‘Definitely viable.’
‘Viable, right enough.’
‘Yes, that's the stuff to give the troops.’
‘What is? Whats the stuff to give the troops?’
‘Well… tinned rations? Decent weapons, good boots… that sort of thing.’
‘What's that got to do with anything?’
‘Don't ask me. He was the one who started talking about giving stuff to the troops.’
‘Will you lot shut up? No one's giving anything to the troops!’
‘Oh, shouldn't they have something? It's Hogswatch, after all.’
‘Look it was just a figure of speech, all right? I just meant I was… fully in agreement. It's just colourful language. Good grief, you surely can't think I'm actually suggesting giving stuff to the troops, at Hogswatch or any other time!’
‘You weren't?’
‘No!’
‘That's a bit mean, isn't it?’
Ponder just let it happen. It's because their minds are so often involved with deep and problematic matters, he told himself, that their mouths are allowed to wander around making a nuisance of themselves.
‘I don't hold with using that thinking machine,’ said the Dean. ‘I've said this before. It's meddling with the Cult. The occult has always been good enough for me, thank you very much.’
‘On the other hand it's the only person round here who can think straight and it does what it's told,’ said Ridcully.
The sleigh roared through the snow, leaving rolling trails in the sky.
‘Oh, what fun,’ muttered Albert, hanging on tightly.
The runners hit a roof near the University and the pigs trotted to a halt.
Death looked at the hourglass again.
ODD, he said.
‘It's a scythe job, then?’ said Albert. ‘You won't be wanting the false beard and the jolly laugh?’ He looked around, and puzzlement replaced sarcasm. ‘Hey… how could anyone be dead up here?’
Someone was. A corpse lay in the snow.
It was clear that the man had only just died. Albert squinted up at the sky.
‘There's nowhere to fall from and there's no footprints in the snow,’ he said, as Death swung his scythe. ‘So where did he come from? Looks like someone's personal guard. Been stabbed to death. Nasty knife wound there, see?’
‘It's not good,’ agreed the spirit of the man, looking down at himself.
Then he stared from himself to Albert to Death and his phantom expression went from shock to concern.
‘They got the teeth! All of them! They just walked in… and… they… no, wait…’
He faded and was gone.
‘Well, what was that all about?’ said Albert.
I HAVE MY SUSPICIONS.
‘See that badge on his shirt? Looks like a drawing of a tooth.’
YES. IT DOES.
‘Where's that come from?’
A PLACE I CANNOT GO.
Albert looked down at the mysterious corpse and then back up at Deaths impassive skull.
‘I keep thinking it was a funny thing, us bumping into your grand-daughter like that,’ he said.
YES.
Albert put his head on one side. ‘Given the large number of chimneys and kids in the world, ekcetra.’
INDEED…
‘Amazing coincidence, really.’
IT JUST GOES TO SHOW.
‘Hard to believe, you might say.’
LIFE CERTAINLY SPRINGS A FEW SURPRISES.
‘Not just life, I reckon,’ said Albert. ‘And she got real worked up, didn't she? Flew right off the ole handle. Wouldn't be surprised if she started asking questions.’
THAT'S PEOPLE FOR YOU.
‘But Rat is hanging around, ain't he? He'll probably keep an eye socket on her. Guide her path, prob'ly.’
HE IS A LITTLE SCAMP, ISN'T HE?
Albert knew he couldn't win. Death had the ultimate poker face.
I'M SURE SHE'LL ACT SENSIBLY.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Albert, as they walked back to the sleigh. ‘It runs in the family, acting sensibly.’
Like many barmen, Igor kept a club under the bar to deal with those little upsets that occurred around closing time, although in fact Biers never closed and no one could ever remember not seeing Igor behind the bar. Nevertheless, things sometimes got out of hand. Or paw. Or talon.
Igor's weapon of choice was a little different. It was tipped with silver (for werewolves), hung with garlic (for vampires) and wrapped around with a strip of blanket (for bogeymen). For everyone else the fact that it was two feet of solid bog-oak usually sufficed.
He'd been watching the window. The frost was creeping across it. For some reason the creeping fingers were forming into a pattern of three little dogs looking out of a boot.
Then someone had tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around, club already in his hand, and relaxed.
‘Oh… it's you, miss. I didn't hear the door.’
There hadn't been the door. Susan was in a hurry.
‘Have you seen Violet lately, Igor?’
‘The tooth girl?’ Igor's one eyebrow writhed in concentration. ‘Nah, haven't seen her for a week or two.’
The eyebrow furrowed into a V of annoyance as he spotted the raven, which tried to shuffle behind a half-empty display card of beer nuts.
‘You can get that out of here, miss,’ he said. ‘You know the rule 'bout pets and familiars. If it can't turn back into human on demand, it's out.’
‘Yeah, well, some of us have more brain cells than fingers,’ muttered a voice from behind the beer nuts.
‘Where does she live?’
‘Now, miss, you know I never answers questions like that—’
‘WHERE DOES SHE LIVE, IGOR?’
‘Shamlegger Street, next to the picture framers,’ said Igor automatically. The eyebrow knotted in anger as he realized what he'd said.
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