Discworld (abridged)

This isn't real life. This isn't even cheese mongering. It's opera - where the music matters, and where an opera house is being terrorised by a man in evening dress with a white mask, lurking in the shadows, occasionally killing people, and, most worryingly, sending little notes, writing maniacal laughter with five exclamation marks. Opera can do that to a man. In such circumstances, life has obviously reached that desperate point where the wrong thing to do has to be the right thing to do.

For members of the City Watch, life consists of troubling times, linked together by periods of torpid inactivity. Now is one such troubling time. People are being murdered, but there's no trace of anything alive having been at the crime scene. Is there ever a circumstance in which you can blame the weapon not the murderer? Such philosophical questions are not the usual domain of the city's police, but they're going to have to start learning fast.

It's the night before Hogswatch. And it's too quiet. It's the night before Hogswatch. There's snow, there are robins, there are trees covered with decorations, but there's a notable lack of the big fat man who delivers the toys. He's gone. Susan the governess has got to find him before morning; otherwise, the sun won't rise. And unfortunately, her only helpers are a raven with an eyeball fixation, the Death of Rats, and an "oh god of hangovers".

Throughout history, there's always been a perfectly good reason to start a war. Never more so if it is over a "strategic" piece of old rock in the middle of nowhere. It is, after all, every citizen's right to bear arms to defend what they consider to be their own. Even if it isn't. And in such pressing circumstances, you really shouldn't let small details like the absence of an army get in the way of a righteous fight with all the attendant benefits of out-and-out nationalism.

There's nothing like the issue of evolution to get under the skin of academics. Especially when those same academics are by chance or bad judgement deposited at a critical evolutionary turning point when one wrong move could have catastrophic results for the future. Unfortunately, in the hands of such an inept and cussed group of individuals, the sensitive issue of causality is, sadly, only likely to receive the same scant respect that they show to one another.

Mightily Oats has not picked a good time to be priest. He thought he'd come to the mountain kingdom of Lancre for a simple little religious ceremony. Now he's caught up in a war between vampires and witches, and he's not sure there is a right side.

Sam Vines is a man on the run. Yesterday he was a duke, a chief of police, and the ambassador to the mysterious, fat-rich country of Uberwald. Now he has nothing but his native wit and the gloomy trousers of Uncle Vanya (don't ask). It's snowing. It's freezing. And if he can't make it through the forest to civilization, there's going to be a terrible war. But there are monsters on his trail. They're bright. They're fast. They're werewolves. And they're catching up.

William de Worde is the accidental editor of the Discworld's first newspaper. Now he must cope with the traditional perils of a journalist's life: people who want him dead, a recovering vampire with a suicidal fascination for flash photography, some more people who want him dead in a different way and, worst of all, the man who keeps begging him to publish pictures of his humorously shaped potatoes. William just wants to get at the truth.

Time is a resource. Everyone knows it has to be managed. And on Discworld, that is the job of the Monks of History, who store it and pump it from the places where it's wasted (like underwater; how much time does a codfish need?) to places like cities, where there's never enough time. But the construction of the world's first truly accurate clock starts a race against, well, time for Lu Tze and his apprentice, Lobsang Ludd. Because it will stop time. And that will only be the start of everyone's problems.

Maurice, an amazing cat who has survived four years on the toughest streets in the whole of the Discworld, reckons that rats are dumb - clever, okay, but dumb. Maurice, however, is smart, smart enough to recognize that there's a new kind of rat around: rats who have been eating wizards' rubbish and can now talk. Smart enough to get a pretty amazing idea when he spots a stupid-looking kid playing the flute....Now Maurice has his very own "plague of rats" and his own Pied Piper.

Commander Sam Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch had it all. But now he's back in his own rough, tough past without even the clothes he was standing up in when the lightning struck. Living in the past is hard. Dying in the past is incredibly easy. But he must survive, because he has a job to do. He must track down a murderer, teach his younger self how to be a good copper, and change the outcome of a bloody rebellion. But there's a problem: if he wins, he's got no wife, no child, no future.

Up on the chalk downs they call The Wold, witches are banned: ever since the Baron's son vanished in the woods. Anyway, as all witches know, chalk's no good for magic. Nine-year-old Tiffany Aching thinks her Granny Aching, a wise shepherd, might have been a witch, but now Granny Aching is dead, and it's up to Tiffany to work it all out when strange things begin happening.

Polly Perks had to become a boy in a hurry. Cutting off her hair and wearing trousers was easy. Learning to fart and belch in public and walk like an ape took more time. And now she's enlisted in the army, and searching for her lost brother. But there's a war on. There's always a war on. And Polly and her fellow recruits are suddenly in the thick of it, without any training, and the enemy is hunting them.

A real witch never casually steps out of her body, leaving it empty. Eleven-year-old Tiffany Aching does. And there's something just waiting for a handy body to take over. Something ancient and horrible and that can't die. Tiffany returns in this exciting new adventure, helped as before by the Nac Mac Feegle - the rowdiest, toughest, smelliest bunch of fairies ever to be thrown out of Fairyland for being drunk at two in the afternoon. They'll fight anything!

Moist von Lipwig was a con artist and a fraud and a man faced with a life choice: be hanged, or put Ankh-Morpork's ailing postal service back on its feet. It was a tough decision. But he's got to see that the mail gets though, come rain, hail, sleet, dogs, the Post Office Workers Friendly and Benevolent Society, the evil chairman of the Grand Trunk Semaphore Company, and a midnight killer. Getting a date with Adora Bell Dearheart would be nice, too.

Koom Valley? That was where the trolls ambushed the dwarfs, or the dwarfs ambushed the trolls. It was far away. It was a long time ago. But if he doesn't solve the murder of just one dwarf, Commander Sam Vimes of Ankh-Morpork City Watch is going to see it fought again, right outside his office. With his beloved Watch crumbling around him and war-drums sounding, he must unravel every clue, outwit every assassin, and brave any darkness to find the solution. And darkness is following him.

Tiffany Aching is a trainee witch now working for the seriously scary Miss Treason. But when Tiffany witnesses the Dark Dance, the crossover from summer to winter, she does what no one has ever done before: she leaps into the dance. And into the oldest story there is. She draws the attention of the Wintersmith himself....As Tiffany-shaped snowflakes hammer down on the land, can Tiffany deal with the consequences of her actions?