‘So you’ll be shutting down the Assassins’ Guild, will you, sir?’

There was a gasp from every mouth, including her own. The only rational thought that didn’t flee from her mind was: I wonder if that job is still going in the Fools’ Guild? The pay wasn’t much, but they do know how to appreciate a pie.

When she dared look, the Archchancellor was staring at the ceiling, while his fingers drummed on the table. I should have been more careful, Glenda whined in her own ear. Don’t get chatty with nobs. You forget what you are, but they don’t.

The drumming stopped. ‘Good point, well put,’ said Ridcully, ‘and I shall marshal my responses thusly.’ He flicked a finger and, with a smell of gooseberries and a pop, a small red globe appeared in the air over the table.

‘One: the Assassins, while deadly, are not random, and indeed are mostly a danger to one another. Assassination is only to be feared, generally speaking, by those powerful enough to have a stab, as it were, at defending themselves.’

Another little globe appeared.

‘Two: it is an article of faith with them that property is undamaged. They are invariably courteous and considerate and notoriously silent, and would never dream of inhuming their target in a public street.’

A third globe appeared.

‘Three: they are organized and therefore amenable to civic influence. Lord Vetinari is very keen on that sort of thing.’

And another globe popped into life.

‘And four: Lord Vetinari is himself a trained Assassin, majoring in stealth and poisons. I am not sure he would share your opinion. And he is a Tyrant even if he has developed tyranny to such a point of metaphysical perfection that it is a dream rather than a force. He does not have to listen to you, you see. He doesn’t even have to listen to me. He listens to the city. I don’t know how he does, but he does. And he plays it like a violin’–Ridcully paused, then went on–‘or like the most complicated game you can imagine. The city works, not perfectly, but better than it has ever done. I think it’s time for football to change too.’ He smiled at her expression. ‘What is your job, young lady? Because you are wasted in it.’

It was probably meant as a compliment, but Glenda, her head so bewilderingly full of the Archchancellor’s words that they were trickling out of her ears, heard herself say, ‘I’m certainly not wasted, sir! You’ve never eaten better pies than mine! I run the Night Kitchen!’

The metaphysics of real politics were not a subject of interest to most of those present, but they knew where they were with pies. She was the centre of attention already, but now it blazed with interest.

‘You do?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘We thought it was the pretty girl.’

‘Really?’ said Glenda brightly. ‘Well, I run it.’

‘So who does that wonderful pie you send up here sometimes, with the cheese pastry and the hot pickle layer?’

‘The Ploughman’s Pie? Me, sir. My own recipe.’

‘Really? How do you manage to get the pickled onions to stay so hard and crispy in the baking? It’s just amazing!’

‘My own recipe, sir,’ said Glenda firmly. ‘It wouldn’t be mine if I told anyone else.’

‘Well said,’ said Ridcully gleefully. ‘You can’t go around asking craftsmen the secrets of their trade, old chap. It’s a thing you just don’t do. Now, I am concluding this meeting, although what it has in fact concluded I shall decide later.’ He turned back to Glenda. ‘Thank you for coming here today, Miss Glenda, and I shall not enquire why a young lady who works in the Night Kitchen is pouring tea up here at nearly noon. Do you have any further advice for us?’

‘Well,’ said Glenda, ‘since you ask… No, I really shouldn’t say… ’

‘This is hardly the moment for bashfulness, do you think?’

‘Well, it’s about your strip, sir. That means your team colours. Nothing wrong with red and yellow, no one else uses those two, but, well, you want two big U’s on the front, right? Like UU?’ She waved her hands in the air.

‘Yes, that is exactly right. After all, it’s what we are.’ Ridcully nodded.

‘Are you sure? I mean, I know you gentlemen are bachelors and all, but… well, you’ll look like you’ve got bosoms. Honestly.’

‘Oh gods, sir, she’s right,’ said Ponder. ‘It will make a rather unfortunate shape… ’

‘What kind of mind would see something like that in a pair of innocent letters?’ the Lecturer in Recent Runes demanded angrily.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Glenda, ‘but every man watching the football has got one. And they would make up nicknames. They love doing that.’

‘I suspect you may be right,’ said Ridcully, ‘but we never had any trouble when I was rowing in the old days.’

‘Football followers are rather more robust in their language, sir,’ said Ponder.

‘Yes, and in those days we were pretty careless when it came to throwing fireballs, as I recall,’ Ridcully mused. ‘Oh dear, what a shame. I was looking forward to giving the old rag a bit of an airing again. Still, I’m sure we can change the design a little to save embarrassment all round. Thank you once again, Miss Glenda. Bosoms, eh? Narrow escape there, all round. Good day to you.’ He shut the door after the trolley, which Glenda was pushing as if in a race…

Molly, the head maid in the Day Kitchen, was fretting at the end of the corridor beyond. She sagged with relief when Glenda came round the corner, teacups rattling.

‘Was it all right? Did anything go wrong? I’ll get into so much trouble if anything went wrong. Tell me nothing went wrong!’

‘It was all fine,’ said Glenda. That got her a suspicious look.

‘Are you sure? You owe me for this!’

The laws of favours are amongst the most fundamental in the multiverse. The first law is: nobody asks for just one favour; the second request (after the granting of the first favour), prefaced by ‘and can I be really cheeky… ?’ is the asking of the second favour. If the aforesaid second request is not granted, the second law ensures that the need for any gratitude for the first favour is nullified, and in accordance with the third law the favour giver has not done any favours at all, and the favour field collapses.

But Glenda reckoned she’d won a lot of favours over the years, and was owed a few herself. Besides, she had reason to believe that Molly had been spending the welcome break in dalliance with her boyfriend, who worked in the bakery.

‘Can you get me in to the banquet on Wednesday night?’

‘Sorry, the butler chooses who gets those jobs,’ said Molly.

Ah yes, the tall, thin girls, Glenda thought.

‘Why in the world would you want to get in, anyway?’ Molly said. ‘It’s a lot of running around and not much pay, when all’s said and done. I mean, we get some decent leftovers after a big affair, but what’s that to you? Everyone knows that you’re the leftover queen!’ She paused, too awkwardly. ‘I mean, we all know you’re really good at making wonderful food with always a little something left over,’ she gabbled. ‘That’s all I meant!’

‘I didn’t think you meant anything else,’ said Glenda, keeping her voice level. But she raised it again to add, as Molly scurried off: ‘I can pay back the favour right now! You’ve got two floury handprints on your arse!’

The glare that came back was a small victory, but you have to take what you can get.

Still, that strange interlude, which she was sure she would regret, had taken up a lot of time. She had to get the Night Kitchen organized.

When the door had closed behind the rather forthright maid, Ridcully nodded meaningfully at Ponder. ‘All right, Mister Stibbons. You were glancing at your thaumometer the whole time I was talking to her. Out with it.’

‘Some kind of entanglement,’ said Ponder.

‘And there was me thinking that Vetinari was behind the business with the urn,’ said Ridcully gloomily. ‘I should have realized he’s never that unsubtle.’