Sam Vimes wasn't quite sure why Vetinari had decided to send him, Sybil, young Sam, and an entourage of watchmen, to the Royal Lancre Hogswatch Gala; although he strongly suspected that it may have had something to do with Sybil's complaints about him not having any holiday time. What he was sure of however, was that he hated large parties, didn't like the countryside very much, and generally found Hogswatch to be a time for pacifying rowdy drunks, rounding up unlicensed thieves, and attempting to prevent heated domestic disputes from escalating into all out civil war. Still, at least Sybil seemed to be having a good time. The Duchess of Ankh was conversing, non-alcoholic, herbally infused, drink in hand, with Queen Magrat of Lancre, on the subject of early years education.
A hand suddenly clapped on his shoulder. "Sir Samuel, there you are."
"Your Majesty." Vimes inwardly cursed. King Verence II seemed a nice enough bloke, as far as kings went; it was just that the man's enthusiasm for all things labelled 'progressive' and 'civilised', got more than a little wearing after a while.
"I was hoping that you and I could discuss that 'forensic science' business you mentioned earlier. I thought we might have a talk the Smoking Room later; not that I touch tobacco myself, of course, very bad for the lungs... My word what is that monkey in the ball dress doing?"
Vimes looked across the ballroom to where Corporal Nobby Nobbs was demonstrating, or at least attempting to demonstrate, a traditional Morporkian folk dance, to a crowed of bemused onlookers. Earlier enquiries as to why Nobby was wearing a powder blue, crinoline ball gown had been met with vague comments about its disguise potential. Vimes had no idea why Nobby would need a disguise on this particular occasion, but had thought it wise not to pursue the matter any further than he had to. "That would be Corporal Nobbs."
"Why is he wearing a dress?"
"We generally find it best not to ask."
—
It was the first time that kitchen maid Gertie Spindle had ever been left in charged of anything, let alone preparing the dainties for a Hogswatch banquet. Following Mrs. Scorbic's ill timed trip down the stairs, Queen Magrat had delegated responsibility for the feast to the three remaining kitchen staff and Shawn Ogg - when he wasn't emptying the privies, or on guard duty, that was. Still, it was a great honour for a young girl like Gertie to be given free reign when it came to deciding what sort of sweets were going to be served up, and she had found just the recipe in the cookery book that her mother kept on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboards. Gertie wasn't quite sure why her mother needed a cookery book; as a proud Lancre housewife Mrs. Spindle knew about twenty traditional Ram Tops recipes, and various variations thereof, off by heart. Still, the book had been written by A Lancre Witch, so it was probably a very special selection of recipes from Mistress Weatherwax's personal collection.
Gertie had led a rather sheltered existence; and wouldn't have been able to recognise an innuendo if it were graffitied onto the side of the castle in fifty foot high red letters, and accompanied by a detailed set of diagrammatic instructions. It was for this reason that, as she went about preparing Forn Pastries topped with Special Secret Sauce, she remained blissfully unaware of the likely consequences of serving such a dish to over three hundred people in the ground floor ballroom.
—
Flying alongside Nanny Ogg had been an experience that Aziraphale didn't think he would ever be able to forget. The woman was very clearly shameless when it came to matters of the heart, and for that matter, the groin. She had, during the twenty minute flight to the castle, made several indiscrete enquiries into angelic anatomy, and the relative completeness thereof. It had really all been quite embarrassing. Still, at least Mrs. Ogg was a cheerful enough sort, unlike the other old woman, who had spent the entirety of the journey berating Crowley for his general existence. Aziraphale made a mental note not to let the demon forget this singular occurrence for at least the next thousand years.
They landed in the courtyard of Lancre Castle. It was, unlike the architecture dotted across the rest of the surrounding countryside, a massive and heavily fortified structure. It was therefore quite a surprised to find that security was the sole responsibility of Mrs. Ogg's youngest son, Shawn Ogg, who was tonight acting as guard, steward and general helper out.
"I thought you said that you had an invitation?" said Aziraphale, as Mistress Weatherwax led the way to what appeared to be the castle kitchens.
"Oh, witches never use the front door if we can help it," said Mrs. Ogg.
Crowley muttered something incredibly lewd about back entrances under his breath. Mrs. Ogg burst out laughing, the youngest witch blushed furiously, Mistress Weatherwax just glared.
"Er...sorry," said Crowley, wearing the same expression a naughty schoolboy, who has just been caught writing swear words on the lavatory wall. Aziraphale didn't think he had every seen him this cowed before.
"So you should be," said Mistress Weatherwax, coldly, before opening a discretely placed wooden door, and sweeping inside.
A blast of warm air instantly burst forth.
"'Ere we are," said Nanny Ogg, rubbing her hand together.
The kitchens were really quite expansive, but seemed only to be manned, or for that matter womanned, by three bustling young women. On witnessing the entrance of Nanny Ogg however, two of the women stopped what they were doing, and curtsied respectfully.
"I couldn't half murder a cup of tea," said Nanny, casually.
The two unfortunate daughters in law instantly dashed for the kettle and strainer.
"I don't mean to be rude, but we are in rather a hurry to get home," said Aziraphale, sensing an immanent and prolonged delay, should tea be served.
"Agnes, go and show Mr. Zirifell and his friend to the king, will you," said Nanny Ogg, clearly deciding that delegation was the key to personal contentment.
"Yes Nanny," said the youngest witch, sighing ever so slightly.
"And if you see Magrat. Tell her we're here."
"Yes Nanny."
"It's this way," said Agnes, gesturing for the two men shaped entities to follow.
As the young woman led them out of the kitchens, and into a cavernous hallway, Aziraphale felt duty bound to make polite conversation. "Witchcraft must be a terribly interesting career for a young woman," he said, conversationally.
"It's alright I suppose," replied Agnes, with a shrug.
"But you'd rather be doing something more exciting, right?" said Crowley.
"Tried that once already," said Agnes. "I joined the Ankh Morpork Opera, but it didn't really work out."
"Ah well, plenty more jobs for young women in the big city. Seamstressing for example." The leer on the demon's face strongly suggested that he was not referring to the honourable craft of darning socks.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale scowled
The demon smirked.
Agnes felt increasingly as though she had landed in the middle of a long standing squabble between an old married couple. She was really quite relieved when they came to the ballroom's arched entrance.
—
In the time honoured tradition of parties everywhere, there was at least one woman, in the corner of the ballroom, attempting to extract an opinion about the suitability of her dress, from an attractive friend. In this case however, the woman was a dwarf, and her attractive friend, a werewolf. Nevertheless, the conversation was following that hallowed script passed down from generation to generation, with only a few minor adjustments.
"Angua."
"Yes?"
"You don't think that this dress makes my beard look too big, do you?"
"You look fine Cheery. The pink suits you. Really brings out the colour of your... er ceremonial axe."
"Honestly?"
"Would I lie?"
—
Aziraphale's first impression of King Verence the Second of Lancre was that he had truly found a kindred spirit. His second impression was that the man was clearly on the path to becoming completely blotto.
"They want to use the library," said Agnes, her tone suggesting that she wanted to get away from these strange people as soon as possible.
"You're interested in books too?" said the King, his face lighting up, as he drowned a large glass of Chateaux de Quirm.
"I do possess a small collection," said Aziraphale, radiating false modesty.
Crowley snorted.
"Really what kind?"
Aziraphale began to talk happily, and at length, about his vast collection of misprinted Bibles and rare first editions, in great detail. King Verence, clearly delighted to have, at last, found somebody who shared his enthusiasm for the written word, was more than happy to stand and listen to the angel's book auction anecdotes. Neither of them really noticed the departure of the extremely bored demon that had been standing beside them.
—
Constable Visit, of the Ankh Morpork City Watch, was glowering at the assembled revellers. As a strict Omnian he was against such exhibitions of drunken debauchery - even though most of the guests were only mildly tipsy, and there really hadn't been much in the way of debauchery, unless you counted a few the jokes Corporal Nobbs had been telling earlier.
"Not much of a party is it?" said a voice.
He turned to see tall man, with good cheekbones, and odd glasses, standing next to him.
"A crass display of self-indulgence," said Constable Visit.
"Omnian are you?" said the man.
"I have some pamphlets somewhere," said Visit, never one to let a potential convert get away empty handed. Little did he know that his pamphlets had, with the blink of a well-covered serpentine eye, been drastically re-edited.
A woman bearing a tray of red wine walked past. The man with the strange glasses removed two glasses, and proffered one to Visit.
"Om forbids alcohol," said Visit, disapprovingly. "It dulls the mind and weakens spirit."
"Really? Have you ever tried it?"
"The Book of Ossory..."
"But you've never actually tried it yourself?"
"Never." Visit's expression verged on the smug.
"So you don't know what you're up against?"
"The Book of Ossory forbids us from polluting the body with such things."
"But if you don't understand the enemy, how can you expect to defeat it?"
Visit considered this for a moment. "What exactly are you saying?"
The man shrugged, and proceeded to drain both glasses. "Just making an observation. Now if you'll excuse me I've got to go and forcibly remove an angel from a book discussion."
"An angel?"
"Figure of speech."
As Crowley sauntered away, he noticed Visit tentatively approaching the woman bearing the drinks tray. He shook his head. The puritanically religious were always so easy to lead astray. All you needed to do was pique their curiosity, and human nature would take its inevitable course.
—
Nearly everyone who sampled them agreed that the cream filled pastries topped with the spiced chocolate sauce were unbelievably delicious. So much so, that most were accosting the serving staff, and demanding second helping. It was then that the problems started. Those who had partaken of these particular confectionary delights started to feel as though the ballroom had suddenly become ever so warm and stuffy. At first, those affected did no more than shift about uncomfortably in their evening wear. Soon however, they found themselves beset by the most unnatural of natural urges. The more self-controlled amongst them managed to make it out into the cold night air, where they began to loudly, and desperately, extol the virtues of late night jogging in sub-zero temperatures. The rest, much to the shock, and barely concealed voyeuristic glee, of the onlookers, merely gave in to their urges there and then.
Queen Magrat was horrified. She had been down on the idea of hosting any large scale pageants, balls, galas and feasts in the castle, ever since that incident with the vampires. But she had never, even in her most bizarre imaginings expected a spontaneous full-scale orgy to erupt in the ballroom. Granny really had known what she was talking about when she said that people from forn parts had some bloody weird customs. It was just a blessing that little Esme was in the games room, watching the children's puppet show with the Duchess of Ankh and her son.
She eventually found a tipsy, and rather confused, looking Verence standing next to two men. One of whom she recognised as the Duke of Ankh, the other she had not been introduced to, but he was definitely giving off some very strange vibes.
"...never seen anything like it," said the Duke of Ankh, shaking his head. "I don't suppose you want me to try and arrest them your majesty?"
"I don't think that would be very practical," said Verence, weakly. "Besides, most of them have diplomatic immunity... Ah Magrat, I...er thought you were watching the puppet show."
"I was on my way to the kitchens to find Granny. Verence, what on earth is going on?"
"I don't know. I was just having a conversation about book binding with Mr. Fell here, when they all just started.... well, you know."
"Verence, next year we're having a nice family Hogwatch."
"Yes dear."
—
Crowley didn't think he had ever seen anything quite so amusing since the fall of the Roman Empire. The sight of so many ill-suited people having promiscuous sex in public made his demonic heart glow with perverse delight. He couldn't wait to see their faces when the lust had faded, and they all finally realised what they'd done; in a ballroom, in front of an audience of over one hundred people. His mind was attempting to find a way in which he might claim some sort of official credit for the proceedings, when a hand connected sharply with his cheek.
"What did you do that for?" he said, glaring at Aziraphale.
The angel was clearly furious, even his ears had gone beetroot red with anger. "I have never been so embarrassed in my entire existence."
Crowley briefly considered mentioning the time that Aziraphale had accidentally submitted his annual thwarting report on the back of a pornographic piece of papyrus, but wisely decided against it. "Me, what have I done?"
"That." The angel gestured to two middle-aged members of the Genuan nobility, who were in a rather unorthodox position against the wall. "And don't even attempt to deny it."
"But I didn't..."
"I told you not to even attempt to deny it. And if you think that I'm going to speak to you again, at any time during the next three hundred years, then you'll find yourself sorely mistake."
"Fine," said Crowley, before storming off in the other direction. He did not particularly want to storm off, but it was either that or let the angel do the storming off. This, of course, left Crowley with a rather large problem. He had no idea how to get back home. The last time he had attempted to navigate multi-dimensional L-Space by himself had been an unmitigated disaster. He'd decided, after several glasses of Jack Daniels, that is would be a good idea to travel from the British Library to Aziraphale's shop using this method. He had arrive eventually; but only after accidentally stopping off at Ghormangast, Moria, Hogwarts, and, worst of all, the library at St. John's Comprehensive. Still, if the angel was going to be pissed off with him for a few months, he didn't really have much choice.