'She wasn't necessary,' said Teatime. 'Few people are.' Sideney thumbed hurriedly through his notebooks. 'Anyway, the place is a maze-' Medium Dave said. 'Sadly, this is so,' said Teatime. 'But I am sure they will be able to find us. It's probably too much to hope that they intend something heroic.' Violet and the oh god hurried down the stairs. 'Do you know how to get back?' said Violet. 'Don't you?'

'I think there's a... a kind of soft place. If you walk at it knowing it's there you go through.'

'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 lo 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 Offier 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. 'There are magic wardrobes,' said Violet nervously. 'If you go into them, you come out in a magic land.' Bilious looked at the boots again. 'Um... yes,' he said. I THINK I MUST TELL YOU SOMETHING, said Death. 'Yes, I think you should,' said Ridcully. 'I've got little devils running round the place eating socks and pencils, earlier tonight we sobered up someone who thinks he's a God of Hangovers and half my wizards are trying to cheer up the Cheerful Fairy. We thought something must've happened to the Hogfather. We were right, right?'

'Hex was right, Archchancellor,' Ponder corrected him. HEX? WHAT IS HEX? 'Er... Hex thinks - that is, calculates - that there's been a big change in the nature of belief today,' said Ponder. He felt, he did not know why, that Death was probably not in favour of unliving things that thought. MR HEX WAS REMARKABLY ASTUTE. THE HOGFATHER HAS BEEN... Death paused. THERE IS NO SENSIBLE HUMAN WORD. DEAD, IN A WAY, BUT NOT EXACTLY... A GOD CANNOT BE KILLED. NEVER COMPLETELY KILLED. HE HAS BEEN, SHALL WE SAY, SEVERELY REDUCED.

'Ye gods!' said Ridcully. 'Who'd want to kill off the old boy?' HE HAS ENEMIES. 'What did he do? Miss a chimney?' EVERY LIVING THING HAS ENEMIES. 'What, everything?' YES. EVERYTHING. POWERFUL ENEMIES. BUT THEY HAVE CONE TOO FAR THIS TIME. NOW THEY ARE USING PEOPLE. 'Who are?' THOSE WHO THINK THE UNIVERSE SHOULD BE A LOT OF ROCKS MOVING IN CURVES. HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF THE AUDITORS? 'I suppose the Bursar may have done-' NOT AUDITORS OF MONEY. AUDITORS OF REALITY. THEY THINK OF LIFE AS A STAIN ON THE UNIVERSE. A PESTILENCE. MESSY. GETTING IN THE WAY. 'In the way of what?' THE EFFICIENT RUNNING OF THE UNIVERSE. 'I thought it was run for us... Well, for the Professor of Applied Anthropics, actually, but we're allowed to tag along,' said Ridcully. He scratched his chin. 'And I could certainly run a marvellous university here if only we didn't have to have these damn students underfoot all the time.' QUITE SO. 'They want to get rid of us?' THEY WANT YOU TO BE... LESS... DAMN, I'VE FORGOTTEN THE WORD. UNTRUTHFUL? THE HOGFATHER IS A SYMBOL OF THIS... Death snapped his fingers, causing echoes to bounce off the walls, and added, WISTFUL LYING? 'Untruthful?' said Ridcully. 'Me? I'm as honest as the day is long! Yes, what is it this time?' Ponder had tugged at his robe and now he whispered something in his ear. Ridcully cleared his throat. 'I am reminded that this is in fact the shortest day of the year,' he said. 'However, this does not undermine the point that I just made, although I thank my colleague for his invaluable support and constant readiness to correct minor if not downright trivial errors. I am a remarkably truthful man, sir. Things said at University council meetings don't count.' I MEAN HUMANITY IN GENERAL. ER... THE ACT OF TELLING THE UNIVERSE IT IS OTHER THAN IT is? 'You've got me there,' said Ridcully. 'Anyway, why're you doing the job?' SOMEONE MUST. IT IS VITALLY IMPORTANT. THEY MUST BE SEEN, AND BELIEVED. BEFORE DAWN, THERE MUST BE ENOUGH BELIEF IN THE HOGFATHER. 'Why?' said Ridcully. SO THAT THE SUN WILL COME UP. The two wizards gawped at him. I SELDOM JOKE, said Death. At which point there was a scream of horror. 'That sounded like the Bursar,' said Ridcully. 'And he's been doing so well up to now.' The reason for the Bursar's scream lay on the floor of his bedroom. It was a man. He was dead. No one alive had that kind of expression. Some of the other wizards had got there first. Ridcully pushed his way through the crowd. 'Ye gods,' he said. 'What a face! He looks as though he died of fright! What happened?'

'Well,' said the Dean, 'as far as I can tell, the Bursar opened his wardrobe and found the man inside.'

'Really? I wouldn't have said the poor old Bursar was all that frightening.'

'No, Archchancellor. The corpse fell out on him.' The Bursar was standing in the corner, wearing his old familiar expression of good-humoured concussion. 'You all right, old fellow?' said Ridcully. 'What's eleven per cent of 1,276?'

'One hundred and forty point three six,' said the Bursar promptly. 'Ah, right as rain,' said Ridcully cheerfully. 'I don't see why,' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. 'Just because he can do things with numbers doesn't mean everything else is fine.'

'Doesn't need to be,' said Ridcully. 'Numbers is what he has to do. The poor chap might be slightly yoyo, but I've been reading about it. He's one of these idiot servants.'

'Savants,' said the Dean patiently. 'The word is savants, Ridcully.'

'Whatever. Those chaps who can tell you what day of the week the first of Grune was a hundred years ago-'

'-Tuesday-' said the Bursar. '-but can't tie their bootlaces,' said Ridcully. 'What was a corpse doing in his wardrobe? And no one is to say “Not a lot,” or anythin' tasteless like that. Haven't had a corpse in a wardrobe since that business with Archchancellor Buckleby.'

'We all warned Buckleby that the lock was too stiff,' said the Dean. 'Just out of interest, why was the Bursar fiddling with his wardrobe at this time of night?' said Ridcully. The wizards looked sheepish. 'We were... playing Sardines, Archchancellor,' said the Dean. 'What's that?'