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.

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, OK, 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.

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.

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!

Shortlisted for the British Book Awards, Children's Book of the Year, 2007.
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.