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.
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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
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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
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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 sublieutenant and very nervous, couldn’t find the right words to explain that ‘unarmed civilian’
was stretching a point when it was a 2001b 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’in 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
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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.*
* Sometimes, admittedly, for a given value of ‘never’.
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
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hardbaked 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.