Night Watch

opportunities, apparently.”
    “ Madam? ” said Downey. “An honorific or a job description?”
    “In Genua? Could be both,” said someone, to general laughter.
    “Folly’s certainly plying her with champagne,” said Downey. “They’re on their third bottle. What have they got to talk about?”
    “Politics,” said Ludo. “Everyone knows Winder isn’t going to do the decent thing, so it’ll be down to us. And Folly’s annoyed because we’ve lost three chaps up there already. Winder’s pretty cunning. There’s guards and soldiers everywhere you look.”
    “Winder’s a scag,” said Downey.
    “Yes, Downey. You call everyone a scag,” said Ludo calmly.
    “Well, everyone is.”
    Downey turned back to the table, and a movement—or, rather, a lack of movement—caught his eye. Toward the far end of the table one young Assassin was sitting reading, with a book stand positioned in front of his plate. He was intent on it, an empty fork halfway to his mouth.
    With a wink at the others, Downey selected an apple from the bowl in front of him, stealthily drew his arm back, and let fly with malicious accuracy.
    The fork moved like a snake’s tongue and skewered the apple out of the air.
    The reader turned a page. Then, eyes never leaving the print, he delicately brought the fork up to his mouth and took a bite out of the apple.
    The rest of the table looked back at Downey, and there were one or two chuckles. The young man’s brow furrowed. Assault having failed, he was forced to try scathing wit, which he did not have.
    “You really are a scag, Dog-Botherer,” he said.
    “Yes, Downey,” said the reader levelly, his eyes still intent on the page.
    “When are you going to pass some decent exams, Dog-Botherer?”
    “I really couldn’t say, Downey.”
    “Never killed anyone, right, Dog-Botherer?”
    “Probably not, Downey.” The reader turned another page. That little sound infuriated Downey even more.
    “What’s that you’re reading?” he snapped. “Robertson, show me what the Dog-Botherer is reading, will you? Come on, pass it up.”
    The boy next to the one currently known as Dog-Botherer snatched the book off the stand and threw it along the length of the table
    The reader sighed and sat back as Downey gave the pages a cursory flick.
    “Well, look here, you fellows,” he said. “Dog-Botherer is reading a picture book. ” He held it open. “Color it in yourself with your paints or crayons, did you, Dog-Botherer?”
    The former reader stared up at the ceiling. “No, Downey. It was hand-colored to his instructions by Miss Emelia Jane, the sister of Lord Winstanleigh Greville-Pipe, the author. It says so on the frontispiece, you will note.”
    “And here’s a lovely picture of a tiger ,” Downey ploughed on. “Why’re you looking at pictures, Dog-Botherer?”
    “Because Lord Winstanleigh has some interesting theories on the art of concealment, Downey,” said the reader.
    “Huh? Black-and-orange tiger in green trees?” said Downey, turning the pages roughly. “Big red ape in green forest? Black-and-white zebra in yellow grass? What’s this, a manual on how not to do it?”
    Again there was a round of chuckles, but they were forced. Downey had friends because he was big and rich, but sometimes he was embarrassing to have around.
    “As a matter of fact, Lord Winstanleigh also has an interesting point to make on the dangers of intuitive—”
    “This a Guild book, Dog-Botherer?” Downey demanded.
    “No, Downey. It was privately engraved some years ago and I succeeded in tracking down a copy in—”
    Downey’s hand shot out. The book whirled away, causing a tableful of younger boys to scatter, and landed at the back of the fireplace. The diners at the top tables looked around, and then turned back in indifference. Flames licked up. For a moment, the tiger burned brightly.
    “Rare book, was it?” said Downey, grinning.
    “I think it may now be said to be nonexistent,” said the one known as Dog-Botherer. “That was the only extant copy. Even the engraved plates have been melted down.”
    “Don’t you ever get upset, Dog-Botherer?”
    “Oh yes, Downey,” said the reader. He pushed his chair back and stood up. “And now, I believe, I will have an early night.” He nodded at the table. “Good evening, Downey, gentlemen…”
    “You’re a scag, Vetinari.”
    “Just as you say, Downey.”

    Vimes thought better when his feet were moving, the mere activity calmed him