Hogfather

     Occult Sequence! Any fool could do it if they knew that!'

     'I know it,' said Teatime, without taking his eyes off Susan.

     'Ah... '

     It was not  technically  audible,  but nevertheless Susan could  almost hear the  wizard's mind  back-pedalling.  Up ahead  was the conclusion  that Teatime had no time for people he didn't need.

     '...  with... inter...  est... ing subtleties,' he  said  slowly. 'Yes. Very tricky. I'll, er, just have a look at number six...'

     'How do you know who I am?' said Susan.

     'Oh, easy,' said  Teatime. 'Twurp's  Peerage. Family  motto Non temetis messor.  We have to read it, you know, in  class. Hah, old Mericet calls  it the Guide to the Turf. No one laughs except  him, of  course. Oh yes, I know about  you.  Quite  a lot. Your father was well  known. Went a long way very fast. As for your  grandfather...  honestly, that motto. Is that good taste? Of course, you don't need to fear him, do you? Or do you?'

     Susan tried  to fade.  It  didn't work.  She could feel herself staying embarrassingly solid.

     'I don't know  what you're  talking  about,' she said.  'Who  are  you, anyway?'

     'I  beg  your  pardon. My name is  Teatime,  Jonathan  Teatime. At your service.'

     Susan lined up the syllables in her head.

     'You mean... like around four o'clock in the afternoon?' she said.

     'No.  I did say Teh-ah-tim-eh,'  said  Teatime. 'I  spoke very clearly. Please  don't  try to  break  my  concentration by annoying  me. I  only get annoyed  at important things. How  are you getting  on,  Mr Sideney? If it's just  according  to  Woddeley's  sequence, number six  should be copper  and blue-green light. Unless, of course, there are any subtleties...'

     'Er, doing it right now, Mister Teatime-'

     'Do you think your  grandfather will try to rescue you? Do you think he will? But now I have his sword, you see. I wonder...'

     There was another click.

     'Sixth lock, Mister Teatime!'

     'Really.'

     'Er... don't you want me to start on the seventh?'

     'Oh,  well,  if  you  like. Pure white  light will  be  the key,'  said Teatime, still not looking away from Susan. 'But it may not be all important now. Thank you, anyway. You've been most helpful.'

     'Er...'

     'Yes, you may go.'

     Susan noticed that Sideney didn't even bother to pick up his books  and tools, but hurried  down the  stairs as if he expected to be called back and was trying to run faster than the sound.

     'Is that all  you're here for?' she said.  'A robbery?'  He was dressed like  an  Assassin, after  all,  and there was  always one way  to  annoy an Assassin. 'Like a thief?'

     Teatime danced excitedly. 'A thief? Me? I'm not a thief, madam. But if I were, I would be the kind that steals fire from the gods.'

     'We've already got fire.'

     'There must  be an  upgrade by  now. No,  these gentlemen are  thieves. Common  robbers.  Decent  types,  although you wouldn't necessarily  want to watch them eat,  for  example. That's Medium Dave and exhibit B is Banjo. He can talk.'

     Medium  Dave nodded at Susan. She saw the look in his eyes. Maybe there was something she could use...

     She'd  need  something. Even  her  hair was a mess.  She couldn't  step behind time,  she couldn't fade into  the background, and now even her  hair had let her down.

     She was normal. Here, she was what she'd always wanted to be.

     Bloody, bloody damn.

     Sideney  prayed as  he ran down the stairs.  He  didn't  believe in any gods, since most wizards seldom like to encourage them, but he prayed anyway the fervent prayers of an atheist who hopes to be wrong.

     But no one called him back. And no one ran after him.

     So,  being  of  a serious  turn  of  mind  under  his normal  state  of sub-critical fear, he slowed down in case he lost his footing.

     It was then that he noticed that the steps underfoot weren't the smooth whiteness they had been everywhere else but  were  very large, pitted flagstones.  And the light had changed, and then they weren't stairs any more and he staggered as he encountered flat ground where steps should have been.

     His outstretched hand brushed against a crumbling brick.

     And the ghosts  of the past poured in, and he knew where he was. He was in the yard of Gammer  Wimblestone's dame  school. His mother wanted  him to learn his letters and be a wizard, but she also thought that long curls on a five- year-old boy looked very smart.

     This was the hunting ground of Ronnie Jenks.

     Adult  memory   and   understanding   said  that  Ronnie  was  just  an unintelligent  bullet-headed  seven-year-old  bully  with muscles  where his brain  should  have  been. The  eye of childhood,  rather  more  accurately, dreaded  him as a force  like a  personalized earthquake  with  one  nostril bunged  up with bogies,  both knees scabbed,  both fists balled and all five brain cells concentrated in a kind of cerebral grunt.

     Oh, gods. There was the  tree Ronnie used  to hide behind. It looked as big and menacing as he remembered it.