Moist giggled to himself. Adora knew, and disapproved.

"What if he doesn't accept?" she asked. Her wedding was in just five days time, and it was turning from autumn into winter. Hopefully, the cruise would honeymoon them somewhere hot.

"Oh, he'll accept. He loves being wound up."

"More the other way. What if you end up in the dungeons? I'll honeymoon without you."

"He wouldn't dare. I'm his golden boy." Moist gulped. "Do you think he'll really?"

"No." She blew smoke in his face. "You haven't stepped a foot wrong otherwise. I don't think dressing up like a little girl is his style."

Moist admired his top hat in the mirror. They were outside the conference, about to announce their wedding plans. They'd cancelled the University in favour of a more down-to-disc wedding, which was more fitting, given all the hard work he'd done. And they were saving themselves a small fortune.

All the better for the descendants. She was pregnant, and the baby breathed smoke. He was getting worried about that.

The doors opened. Moist stepped in, holding Adora's hand.

"Yes, yes, we're still getting married," he told all the press, and sought out Sacharissa. "We're changing venue for the wedding. We plan it at the station, coming off a train. It's more... fitting."

"You're getting married at a train station?" shouted a dwarf reporter. "Hot damn!"

"And we can ride off to the reception. We've the route planned. We're going past all the clacks towers lighting fireworks, so we've moved it to the evening."

"Is the Post Office, and Bank getting involved, Mr. Lipwig?"

"No, no. Just using the Post Office hall for the reception after hours. All the postal clerks would have gone home then... unless they want to join in! The more, the merrier!"

Adora dragged him over to Sacharissa, and he repeated the whole thing again. He also added, "I also don't want Lord Havelock Vetinari wearing that dusty, old, black thing any more. I can't stand it. I want him nice and cheerful and colourful - and so's his clerk, Drumknott - for the wedding and the reception. I dare him!"

The crowd quietened, then oohed him.

"Is this right, Ms. Dearheart?" asked Sacharissa, smiling. "Do you dare him too?"

"Anything my fiance says, I'll stand by," she said, cigarette not trembling in the slightest.

"The challenge is set," said the dwarf reporter, scribbling furiously. "Can we get a photo for the glorious couple?"

"Not dark-light," muttered Moist.

"Just an iconograph will do," said Adora brightly. The dwarf set up, and took the picture. Everything felt tinny.

Moist and Adora saw the picture. Moist looked nervous, and Adora looked cool as ice. They posed for more iconographs, and Moist signed the Bank's tax slip again, having just sorted out taxes.

"The challenge is set," repeated the dwarf.

It was dark. The curtains were drawn. He squinted in the light. "I didn't know what else to say," complained the dwarf. He was a spy.

Lord Vetinari turned by the window. "I see," he said, steepling his fingers. "You could have destroyed this entire wretched challenge." The morning edition of the newspaper lay unheeded on the desk.

"In front of everyone? Prfff. Not likely, sir. You know what Mr. Lipwig is like. Gold hat and tails. Just wear gold or silver to outshine him." The dwarf tipped his head to one side critically. "You could wear grey," he tried.

"No. Be with you," he said distractedly. "Do not let me detain you."

The dwarf left, and Lord Vetinari opened the curtains, and opened the window. Drumknott wandered through, shuffling paper.

"If I may, sir, you could try wearing a suit. I think that they're nice. I might wear one," he volunteered.

"I'll have to wear something... unique," he replied. "Otherwise everyone else will try to copy me. I'll start a terrible new line of fashion for the rest of the year. It'll be so embarrassing."

"Sir?"

Vetinari rubbed his temples. "Why did he have to be so vexing? Trying to wind me up," he repeated. "Hah! He doesn't look so cool in dark-light, does he?"

"His girlfriend does. I think it was her idea. She might be the power behind the scenes, sir."

Lord Vetinari sniffed. "I rather thought that was me, Drumknott." He went back to the paper, where it was frontline news. "Do I look like a little girl to you?"

"No, sir. That was Snapcase, sir, with his dollies. Or one of the others."

"Ah, hahaha, I suppose they expect me to wear pink. Get me Vimes!"

"Sir? He mostly wears red tights and things. Plumes. He'd be the last person I'd consult with on fashion. Try all the guild leaders and gentry. They hold fashion balls."

Vetinari turned from pacing back and forth. "The man wears hats. At least he gets one thing straight."

"Yes, sir."

Vimes slouched in the chair. It had been a long night chasing bad people, and he'd failed. He was getting on a bit.

At the end of the debriefing, Vetinari said, "Do tell me about hats, Vimes."

"What, sir?"

"Hats. You wear them all the time. The one with the feather."

He came to, spitting. "The plume?! I hate that thing. I hate wearing those bleeding outfits. Sybil, bless her, I love her, makes me wear that revolting thing."

Vetinari sat back. "But it suits you. And it's the current rage," he added.

Vimes stared. "Why the hell do you want to know?"

Vetinari handed over the morning's paper. "I've been challenged. It's quite a dare."

Vimes said, "I thought I dreamed this this morning. You're going to refuse, and wear that dusty black thing again."

Vetinari looked at himself. "What's wrong with it?"

Vimes stood up. "I'll tell you what," he shouted. "When I was drunk, you looked to me like a big, gigantic, hovering, black flamingo! And on one leg." He pointed back and forth under the desk. "It's those skinny legs you've got. You look like you're only standing on one leg with them. It's horrible. Put some weight on. I've lifted you up, and you weigh only about seven stone."

Vetinari paused. "I see. I wonder if you could tell me about tights, Sir Samuel."

He groaned, and moved about theatrically. "They get right up stuck in your groin, and you can't pull them out publicly. They itch. The codpiece gets jammed under your balls. One ball, if it's you, sir." He calmed down, and sat down again. "Don't make me wear them again, SIR!"

Vetinari wiped spit discreetly off the front of his desk. "What would you recommend I wear, Sir Samuel, to the wedding?"

He stared, he really stared. "You really want my advice?"

"Yes, please." Vetinari leaned forward. "I'm agog, Sir Samuel."

"Wear the robe like you usually do. It's long, I don't think you wear clothes underneath it enough in winter; Sybil reckons you need some longjohns, but I don't want to explode the Hogswatch surprise. It's nice and simple and black, like you've got a uniform on, sir." He hazarded a guess. "It brings out the black in your pupils, sir."

Vetinari affixed his pupils on him now, and he started to fidget. "I mean, the blue in your eyes. Damn!" His arm wouldn't stop twitching.

"I see. You think I should wear my... uniform. That I wear to work every day. Frankly, I wear it because I don't know what else to wear, and it's easy. You don't have to decide with black. Just wear it."

Vimes saluted. "Yes, sir. Permission to go to bed, sir?"

Vetinari sat back. "Permission granted. Honestly, you're a knight and a duke. I don't have to give you permission any more."

Vimes got up, gave the chair a kick, and walked to the door. He subconsciously slammed his twitching fist into the door frame, and plaster floated down. The door still stood, miraculously. He left.

Drumknott approached the desk. "If I said I told you so, would you forgive me, sir? Sir?"

"Ah. I see. I appear to have learnt nothing at all. I wonder." Vetinari went to the window, and hooked one bare leg over the window frame. He looked at it.

Drumknott appeared nervous. "Sir?"

"Do my legs look that skinny to you?"

"No, sir. You look... slim."

"How very flattering. No, it appears a bit skinny and wonky." He got back down again. On the right side of the window.