He looked down at it in horror.

     'My name's Teatime,' said Teatime.'Which one are you?'

     'I'm ... Peachy,' said Peachy, still staring at the vibrating knife.

     'That's an interesting name,' said Teatime. 'Why are you called Peachy, Peachy?'

     Medium Dave coughed.

     Peachy looked  up into Teatime's face. The glass eye was a mere ball of faintly  glowing  grey. The other eye  was a little dot in a sea  of  white. Peachy's only contact with intelligence  had been to beat it  up  and rob it whenever  possible,  but a sudden sense of selfpreservation glued him to his chair.

     ' cos I don't shave,' he said.

     'Peachy don't like blades, mister,' said Catseye.

     'And do you have a lot of friends, Peachy?' said Teatime.

     'Got a few, yeah.'

     With a sudden whirl  of movement that made the men start, Teatime  spun away, grabbed a chair, swung it up to the table and sat down on it. Three of them had already got their hands on their swords.

     'I don't  have many,' he said,  apologetically. 'Don't seem to have the knack. On the  other hand ... I  don't seem to have  any enemies at all. Not one. Isn't that nice?'

     Teatime had  been thinking, in  the cracking, buzzing firework  display that was his head. What he had been thinking about was immortality.

     He might have been quite, quite insane, but he was no fool. There were, in the Assassins' Guild, a number  of paintings and busts of  famous members who had, in the past,  put ... no, of course, that wasn't right.  There were paintings and busts of  the famous  clients of members,  with  a  noticeably modest brass plaque screwed somewhere nearby, bearing some unassuming little comment like 'Departed this vale of tears  on Grune 3,  Year of the Sideways Leech,  with  the assistance of the  Hon.  K. W. Dobson (Viper House)'. Many fine  old educational  establishments had dignified memorials  in some  hall listing the Old Boys who had laid down their lives for  monarch and country. The Guild's was very similar, except for the question of whose life had been laid.

     Every Guild member wanted to be  up there somewhere. Because getting up there  represented  immortality.  And  the  bigger  your  client,  the  more incredibly discreet and restrained would be the little brass plaque, so that everyone couldn't help but notice your name.

     In fact, if you  were  very, very  renowned, they wouldn't even have to write down your name at all...

     The men around  the table watched him. It was always hard to know  what Banjo was thinking, or even if he was thinking at all, but the other four were thinking  along the lines of: bumptious little tit,  like all Assassins. Thinks  he knows  it  all. I  could  take him down one-handed, no trouble. But ... you hear stories. Those eyes give me the creeps...

     'So what's the job?' said Chickenwire.

     'We don't do jobs,' said Teatime. 'We perform services. And the service will earn each of you ten thousand dollars.'

     'That's a lot more'n Thieves' Guild rate,' said Medium Dave.

     'I've never  liked the  Thieves' Guild,' said  Teatime, without turning his head.

     'Why not?'

     'They ask too many questions.'

     'We don't ask questions,' said Chickenwire quickly.

     'We  shall suit one another  perfectly,' said Teatime. 'Do have another drink while we wait for the other members of our little troupe.'

     Chickenwire saw Medium Dave's lips start to  frame  the opening letters 'Who-'. These letters he deemed inauspicious  at this time. He kicked Medium Dave's leg under the table.

     The door opened slightly. A figure came in,  but only just. It inserted itself in the gap  and sidled along the wall in a  manner  calculated not to attract attention. Calculated, that is, by someone  not good at this sort of calculation.

     It looked at them over its turned-up collar.

     'That's a wizard,' said Peachy.

     The figure hurried over and dragged up a chair.

     'No I'm not!' it hissed. 'I'm incognito!'

     'Right, Mr Gnito,' said Medium  Dave. 'You're  just someone in a pointy hat. This is my brother Banjo, that's Peachy, this is Chick---'

     The wizard looked desperately at Teatime.

     'I didn't want to come!'

     'Mr Sideney here is indeed a wizard,' said Teatime. 'A student, anyway. But down on his luck at the moment, hence his willingness to join us on this venture.'

     'Exactly how far down on his luck?' said Medium Dave.

     The wizard tried not to meet anyone's gaze.

     'I made a misjudgement to do with a wager,' he said.

     'Lost a bet, you mean?' said Chickenwire.

     'I paid up on time,' said Sideney.

     'Yes, but Chrysoprase  the troll has this odd little thing  about money that turns into lead the next day,' said Teatime cheerfully.  'So our friend needs to earn a little cash in a hurry and in  a climate where arms and legs stay on.'

     'No one  said anything  about  there  being  magic in all  this,'  said Peachy.

     'Our destination  is ... probably you should  think of it as  something like a wizard's tower, gentlemen,' said Teatime.

     'It isn't an actual wizard's tower, is it?' said Medium Dave. 'They got a very odd sense of humour when it comes to booby traps.'

     'No.'

     'Guards?'

     'I believe so. According to legend. But nothing very much.'

     Medium  Dave  narrowed his eyes. 'There's valuable  stuff  in  this ... tower?'

     'Oh, yes.'

     'Why ain't there many guards, then?'

     'The ...  person who  owns the  property  probably does not realize the value of what ... of what they have.'

     'Locks?' said Medium Dave.

     'On our way we shall be picking up a locksmith.'

     'Who?'

     'Mr Brown.'

     They  nodded. Everyone  -  at  least, everyone  in 'the business',  and everyone in 'the business'  knew what 'the business' was,  and if you didn't know what  'the business' was you weren't a businessman - knew Mr Brown. His presence anywhere  around a job gave it a certain kind of respectability. He was a neat, elderly man who'd invented most of the tools in his big  leather bag. No  matter what cunning you'd used to  get into a place, or overcome  a small army, or find the secret treasure room, sooner or later you  sent  for Mr Brown, who'd turn  up with his  leather bag and his little springy things and his  little bottles of  strange alchemy and his  neat little boots.  And he'd do nothing for ten minutes but look at the lock, and then he'd select a piece of bent metal from a ring of several hundred almost  identical pieces, and under an hour later he'd be walkingaway with a neat ten per  cent of the takings. Of course, you didn't have  to  use Mr  Brown's services. You could always opt to spend the rest of your life looking at a locked door.

     'All right. Where is this place?' said Peachy.

     Teatime turned and smiled at him. 'If I'm paying you, why isn't it me who's asking the questions?'

     Peachy didn't even try to outstare the glass eye a second time.

     'Just want to be prepared, that's all,' he mumbled.

     'Good reconnaissance is  the essence of  a successful operation,'  said Teatime. He turned and looked up at the bulk that was Banjo and added, 'What is this?'

     'This is Banjo,' said Medium Dave, rolling himself a cigarette.

     'Does it do tricks?'

     Time stood still for a moment. The other men looked at  Medium Dave. He was known to Ankh-Morpork's professional underclass as a thoughtful, patient man, and considered something of an intellectual because some of his tattoos were spelled  right. He was reliable in a tight spot  and, above all, he was honest,  because good criminals have to be honest. If he had a fault, it was a tendency to deal  out  terminal  and  definitive retribution to anyone who said anything about his brother.