The Charity Ball or Inhuming for Humanity
Note: All Characters belong to the great Terry Pratchet of course. Also, I have not read the Assassin's Guild Diaries and such, so I might be off on a few details, please forgive me.
Starring:
Assassins –Various
Guild Leaders –Various
A Commander Samuel Vimes –Singular
And A Touch Of Vetinari
"You smell of Agatean takeaway." Lady T'malia commented as she held her nose. Asking for T'malia's help in dressing was almost as risky as dining with her. Admittedly, dining with Lady T'malia was likely to cost you your life; while asking fashion advice of her only ripped your pride to shreds. (1) Unfortunately for Soh Long (2), Junior Assistant Minor Deputy Professor of Physiology and Pharmaceuticals of Various Sorts, Lady T'malia was one of the few other female masters at the Assassin's Guild. She couldn't very well ask, say Lord Downey, for advice on ball gowns.
"I would give you the c-mail of my corsetieres, but a mere thirty two attendants wouldn't… ahem… do justice to your waist." Her "ahem" was frostily polite and sarcastic; in a way that only the very refined could manage. "And I say this in pure friendliness, of course; everyone at the Ball will know that you're not a real assassin so you won't have to worry about keeping up appearances. Why, any of us would be far too busy to dance a night away. Now chop-chop, off with that horrible Omnian missionary dress. Is that thing even black? It looks rather...grey. "
...
(1) Provided you didn't ask to borrow one of her many rather pretty, poison filled, but still very pretty rings.
(2)An apt name for an assassin, but unfortunately, Soh Long was a bit of a misnomer. She was infamous in a sad, mousy way for being the only Assassin to have never inhumed anyone, and she was secretly glad of the fact.
...
"Willikins! Get out the funny tights and the spiky hat, will you?" Sam Vimes (err sorry, His Grace the Duke of Ankh Sir Commander Sam Vimes) called out as he slammed an old (oops, antique) mahogany door and tracked dirt on the ancient (dreadfully apologetic, heirloom) rug.
"The ducal coronet and the ducal dress uniform are in your dressing room. Would sir allow me to run a bath?" Was the perfectly composed, butler-y response from Willikins.
Vimes had to go to another ball to night. Only it wasn't just a ball, it was the Ball with a capital B, of course. The gods damned Guilds' Charity Ball. Blast Nobby for starting that Watchmen's Guild! He thought violently, in a way that only an unrefined Vimes could manage. The "Charity" bit of the Ball came in when each guild auctioned off something distinctive. What are we supposed to sell, a "get out of lockup free pass"?
…
Balls. (1) Generally defined as confections of dancing, politeness, tinkly music, having one's foot stepped upon, and stuffiness. Quite strangely, they are considered a quite pleasant way to spend an evening. Classiness just addles the brain like that.
"Look here, Mr. Vimes! We got that Get Out of Lockup pass all done up like you asked. It even has the fake-gold-that-doesn't-really-look-like-gold stuff on the sides."
Sometimes all you can do is sigh and get on with life. Sigh.
...
(1) No, not that kind of Balls you horrible lowclass person!