On her apparently random walk to the buffet table Madam happened to meet several other gentlemen and, like a good hostess, piloted them in the direction of other small groups. Probably only someone lying on the huge beams that spanned the hall high above would spot any pattern, and even then they'd have to know the code. If they had been in a position to put a red spot on the heads of those people who were not friends of the Patrician, and a white spot on those who were his cronies, and a pink spot on those who were perennial waverers, then they would have seen something like a dance taking place.
There were not many whites.
They would have seen that there were several groups of reds, and white spots were being introduced into them in ones, or twos if the number of reds in the group was large enough. If a white left a group, he or she was effortlessly scooped up and shunted into another conversation which might contain one or two pinks but was largely red.
Any conversation entirely between white spots was gently broken up with a smile and an “oh, but now you must meet—”, or was joined by several red spots. Pinks, meanwhile, were delicately passed from red group to red group until they were deeply pink, and then they were allowed to mix with other pinks of the same hue, under the supervision of a red.
In short, the pinks met so many reds, and so few whites, that they probably forgot about whites at all, while the whites, constantly alone or hugely outnumbered by reds or deep pinks, appeared to be going red out of embarrassment or a desire to blend in.
Lord Winder was entirely surrounded by reds, leaving the few remaining whites out in the cold. He looked like all the Patricians tended to look after a certain time in office—unpleasantly plump, with the pink jowliness of a man of normal build who had too much rich food. He was sweating slightly in this quite cool room, and his eyes swivelled this way and that, looking for the flaws, the clues, the angles.
At last Madam reached the buffet, where Dr Follett was helping himself to the devilled eggs and Miss Rosemary Palm was debating with herself as to whether the future should contain strange pastry things with a green filling that hinted mysteriously of prawn.
“And how are we doing, do we think?” said Dr Follett, apparently to a swan carved out of ice.
“We are doing well,” Madam told a basket of fruit. “There's four, however, that are still proving awkward.”
“I know them,” said the doctor. “They'll fall into place, trust me. What else can they do? We're used to this game here. We know that if you complain too loudly when you lose, you might not be asked to play again. But I shall station some stout friends near them, just in case their resolve needs a little…bolstering.”
“He is suspicious,” said Miss Palm.
“When isn't he?” said Dr Follett. “Go and talk to him.”
“Where is our new best friend, doctor?” said Madam.
“Mr Snapcase is dining quietly but visibly, in impeccable company, some way away.”
They turned when the double doors opened. So did several of the other guests, who then turned back hastily. But it was only a servant, who hurried over to Madam and whispered something. She indicated the two military commanders, and the man went to hover anxiously beside them. There was a brief exchange and then, without even a bow towards Lord Winder, all three men went out.
“I shall just go and see to the arrangements,” said Madam, and, without in any sense following the men, headed towards the doors.
When she stepped into the hall the two servants waiting by the cake stopped lounging and snapped to attention, and a guard who was patrolling the corridor gave her a quick glance of interrogation.
“Now, madam?” said one of the servants.
“What? Oh. No! Just wait.” She glided over to where the commanders were in animated conversation with a couple of junior officers, and took Lord Venturi's arm.
“Oh dear, Charles, are you leaving us so soon?”
Lord Venturi didn't think of wondering how she knew his first name. The champagne had been plentiful, and he saw no reason at the moment why any attractive woman of a certain age shouldn't know his name.
“Oh, there are one or two pockets of resistance left,” he said. “Nothing to concern you, Madam.”
“Bloody big pocket,” murmured Lord Selachii, into his moustache.
“They destroyed Big Mary, sir,” said the luckless messenger. “And they—”
“Major Mountjoy-Standfast can't outthink a bunch of gormless watchmen and civilians and some veterans with garden forks?” said Lord Venturi, who had no idea of how much damage a garden fork could do if hurled straight down from an elevation of twenty feet.
“That's just it, sir, they are veterans and they know all—”
“And the civilians? Unarmed civilians?” said Venturi.
The messenger, who was a sub-lieutenant and very nervous, couldn't find the right words to explain that “unarmed civilian” was stretching a point when it was a 200lb slaughterhouse man with a long hook in one hand and a flensing knife in the other. Young men who'd joined up for the uniform and a bed all to themselves did not expect that kind of treatment.
“Permission to speak freely, sir?” he tried.
“Very well!”
“The men haven't got the heart for it, sir. They'd kill a Klatchian in a wink, sir, but…well, some of the old soldiers are from the regiment, sir, and they're shouting down all kinds of stuff. A lot of the men come from down there, and it's not good for them. And what some of the old ladies shout, sir, well, I've never heard such language. Dolly Sisters was bad enough, sir, but this is a bit too much. Sorry, sir.”
Their lordships looked out of the window. There was half a regiment in the palace grounds, men who'd had nothing to do for several days but stand guard.
“Some backbone and a quick thrust,” said Selachii. “That's what's needed, by lo! Lance the boil! This is not a cavalry action, Venturi. And I'll take those men. Fresh blood.”
“Selachii, we do have orders—”
“We have all kinds of orders,” said Selachii. “But we know where the enemy is, don't we? Aren't there enough guards here? How many guards does one fool need?”
“We can't just—” Lord Venturi began, but Madam said, “I'm sure Charles will see that no harm comes to his lordship,” and took his arm. “He does have his sword, after all…”
A few minutes later, Madam glanced out of the window and saw that the troops were quietly moving out.
She also noticed, after watching for some time, that the guard patrolling in the hall seemed to have vanished.
There were rules. When you had a Guild of Assassins, there had to be rules which everyone knew and which were never, ever broken.10
An Assassin, a real Assassin, had to look like one—black clothes, hood, boots and all. If they could wear any clothes, any disguise, then what could anyone do but spend all day sitting in a small room with a loaded crossbow pointed at the door?
And they couldn't kill a man incapable of defending himself (although a man worth more than AM$10,000 a year was considered automatically capable of defending himself or at least of employing people to do it for him).
And they had to give the target a chance.
But there was no helping some people. It was regrettable how many rulers of the city had been inhumed by the men in black because they didn't recognize a chance when they saw it, didn't know when they'd gone too far, didn't care that they'd made too many enemies, didn't read the signs, didn't know when to walk away after embezzling a moderate and acceptable amount of cash. They didn't realize it when the machine had stopped, when the world was ripe for change, when it was time, in fact, to spend more time with their family in case they ended up spending it with their ancestors.
Of course, the Guild didn't inhume their rulers on their own behalf. There was a rule about that, too. They were simply there when needed.
There was a tradition, once, far back in the past, called the King of the Bean. A special dish was served to all the men of the
clan on a certain day of the year. It contained one small hard-baked bean, and whoever got the bean was, possibly after some dental attention, hailed as King. It was quite an inexpensive system and it worked well, probably because the clever little bald men who actually ran things and paid some attention to possible candidates were experts at palming a bean into the right bowl.
And while the crops ripened and the tribe thrived and the land was fertile the King thrived too. But when, in the fullness of time, crops failed and the ice came back and animals were inexplicably barren, the clever little bald men sharpened their long knives, which were mostly used for cutting mistletoe.
And on the due night, one of them went into his cave and carefully baked one small bean.
Of course, that was before people were civilized. These days, no one had to eat beans.
People were still working on the barricade. It had become a sort of general hobby, a kind of group home improvement. Fire buckets, some full of water, some of sand, had turned up. In places the barricade was more impregnable than the city walls, considering how often the latter had been pillaged for stone.
There were occasional drumbeats down in the city, and the sound of troop movements.
“Sergeant?”
Vimes looked down. A face had appeared at the top of the ladder leading down to the street.
“Ah, Miss Battye? I didn't know you were with us.”
“I didn't intend to be, but suddenly there was this big wall…”
She climbed all the way up. She was holding a small bucket.
“Doctor Lawn presents his compliments and says how come you haven't beaten up anyone yet?” she said, putting it down. “He says he's got three tables scrubbed, two buckets of tar on the boil, six ladies rolling bandages and all he's had to deal with so far is a nose-bleed. You've let him down, he says.”
“Tell him ha, ha, ha,” said Vimes.
“I've brought you up some breakfast,” said Sandra, and Vimes realized that down below, doing their not-very-best to remain unseen, were some of the lads. They were sniggering.
“Mushrooms?” he said.
“No,” said the girl. “I was told to tell you that since it's tomorrow, you're going to get everything you wished for…”
For a moment Vimes tensed, not certain where the world was taking him.
“A hard-boiled egg,” said Sandra. “But Sam Vimes said you probably like the yolk runny and some toast cut up into soldiers.”
“Just like he does,” said Vimes weakly. “Good guess, that man.”
Vimes tossed the egg up into the air, expecting to catch it when it came down. Instead, there was a noise like scissors closing and the air rained runny yolk and bits of shell. And then it rained arrows.
The noise level of the conversation had gone up. Madam moved in on the group around Lord Winder. Magically, within ten seconds they were left alone as all the other people in the group saw people across the room that they really had to talk to.
“Who are yer?” said Winder, his eyes surveying her with that care a man takes when he fears that a woman is carrying concealed weaponry.
“Madam Roberta Meserole, my lord.”
“The one from Genua?” Winder snorted, which was his attempt at a snigger. “I've heard stories about Genua!”
“I could probably tell you a few more, my lord,” said Madam. “But, right now, it's time for the cake.”
“Yeah,” said Winder. “Did you know we got another assassin tonight? They keep trying, you know. Eleven years, and still they try. But I get 'em, every time, sneak about though they may.”
“Well done, my lord,” said Madam. It did help that he was an unpleasant person, ugly clear to the bone. In some ways, it made things easier. She turned, and clapped her hands. Surprisingly, this small noise caused a sudden cessation in the chatter.
The double doors at the end of the hall opened, and two trumpeters appeared. They took up positions on either side of the door—
“Stop 'em!” Winder yelled, and ducked. His two guards ran down the hall and grabbed the trumpets from the frightened men. They handled them with extreme care, as if expecting them to explode or issue a strange gas.
“Poison darts,” said Winder in a satisfied voice. “Can't be too careful, madam. In this job you learn to watch every shadow. All right, let 'em play. But no trumpets. I 'ate tubes pointed at me.”
There was some bewildered conversation at the other end of the hall, and then the bereft trumpeters stood back and whistled as best they could.
Lord Winder laughed as the cake was pushed in. It was in tiers, about man-height, and heavily iced.
“Lovely,” he said, as the crowd clapped. “I do like some entertainment at a party. And I cut it, do I?”
He took a few steps back and nodded at the bodyguards. “Off you go, boys,” he said.
Swords stabbed into the top tier several times. The guards looked at Winder and shook their heads.
“There's such a thing as dwarfs, you know,” he said.
They stabbed at the second layer, again meeting no more resistance than can be offered by dried fruit and suet and a crust of marzipan with sugar frosting.
“He could be kneeling down,” said Winder.
The audience watched, their smiles frozen. When it became clear that the cake was solid and unoccupied, the food taster was sent for. Most of the guests recognized him. His name was Spymould. He was said to have eaten so much poison in his time that he was proof against anything, and that he ate a toad every day to keep in condition. It was also rumoured that he could turn silver black by breathing on it.
He selected a piece of cake and chewed it thoughtfully, staring intently upwards while he did so.
“Hmm,” he said, after a while.
“Well?” said Winder.
“Sorry, milord,” said Spymould. “Nuffin'. I thought there was a touch of cyanide there but, no luck, it's just the almonds.”
“No poison at all?” said the Patrician. “You mean it's edible?”
“Well, yes. It'd be all the better for some toad, o'course, but that's just one man's opinion.”
“Perhaps the servants can serve it now, my lord?” said Madam.
“Don't trust servants serving food,” said Winder. “Sneakin' about. Could slip somethin' in.”
“Do you mind if I do it, then, my lord?”
“Yeah, all right,” said Lord Winder, watching the cake carefully. “I'll have the ninth piece you cut.” But in fact he snatched the fifth piece, triumphantly, as if saving something precious from the wreckage.
The cake was disassembled. Lord Winder's objection to servants handling food withered once the food was headed for other people, and so the party spread out a little as the guests pondered the ancient question of how to hold a plate and a glass and eat at the same time without using one of those little glass-holding things that clip on the side of the plate and make the user look as though they're four years old. This takes a lot of concentration, and that might have been why everyone was so curiously self-absorbed.
The door opened. A figure walked into the room. Winder looked up, over the top of his plate.
It was a slim figure, hooded and masked, all in black.
Winder stared. Around him, the conversation rose, and a watcher above might have noticed that the drift of the party tides was such that they were leaving a wide empty path, stretching from the door all the way to Winder, whose legs didn't want to move.
As it strolled towards him the figure reached both hands behind it and they came back each holding a small pistol bow. There were a couple of small tic noises and the bodyguards collapsed gently towards the floor. Then it tossed the bows behind it, and kept coming. Its footfalls made no sound.
“Brw?” said Winder, staring. His mouth was open, and stuffed with cake. People chattered on. Somewhere, someone had told a joke. There was laughter, perhaps a shade shriller than might normally be the case. The noise level rose again.
Winder blinked. Assassins d
idn't do this. They snuck around. They used the shadows. This didn't happen in real life. This was how it happened in dreams.
And now the creature was in front of him. He dropped his spoon, and there was a sudden silence after it clanged on the ground.
There was another rule. Wherever possible, the inhumed should be told who the Assassin was, and who had sent him. It was felt by the Guild that this was only fair. Winder did not know this, and it was not widely advertised, but nevertheless, in the midst of terror, eyes wide, he asked the right questions.
“Who sent yer?”
“I come from the city,” said the figure, drawing a thin, silvery sword.
“Who are yer?”
“Think of me as…your future.”
The figure drew the sword back, but it was too late. Terror's own more subtle knife had done its work. Winder's face was crimson, his eyes were staring at nothing, and coming up from the throat, through the crumbs of cake, was a sound that merged a creak with a sigh.
The dark figure lowered its sword, watched for a moment in the echoing silence, and then said: “Boo.”
It reached out one gloved hand and gave the Patrician a push. Winder went over backwards, his plate dropping from his hand and shattering on the tiles.
The Assassin held his bloodless sword at arm's length and let it drop on the floor beside the corpse. Then he turned and walked slowly back across the marble floor. He shut the double doors behind him, and the echoes died away.
Madam counted slowly to ten before she screamed. That seemed long enough.
Lord Winder got to his feet, and looked up at the black-clad figure.
“Another one? Where did you creep in from?”
I DO NOT CREEP.
Winder's mind felt even fuzzier than it had done over the past few years, but he was certain about cake. He'd been eating cake, and now there wasn't any. Through the mists he saw it, apparently close but, when he tried to reach it, a long way away.
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