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?”