Night Watch

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 still slightly 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 go. 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 rumored that he could turn silver black by breathing on it.
    He selected a piece of cake and chewed it thoughtfully, staring intently upward 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 they 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