Perpetrator's Note: Heeheehee...this chapter we find out just how sad and bitter will be the consequences of Cupid's drunken rampage, Susan and Vetinari team up against Teatime, Rincewind is...well, Rincewind, and everything generally goes from bad to worse, with a special guest appearance by everyone's favorite little blue people (and no, I don't mean the Smurfs). Sorry this one took so long--I moved last month, and as consequence everything, including my writing, went straight to hell for a while, until I managed to get organized again. Hopefully the next chapter will be up in short order. :-D

Though it was no longer common knowledge in Ankh-Morpork, Lord Vetinari had been trained as an Assassin, and he'd been a damned good one. Though it had been years since he'd put that training to any practical use, he was still quite up on the theory, and it was easy enough for him to recognize that Teatime had been brought up in the same school. It was also easy enough to see that while Teatime might be mad as a hatter, he was far from stupid, and was therefore unlikely to fall victim to any of the standard methods of assassination.

On a certain level Vetinari disliked the idea of inhuming someone without payment, but in this case he felt he would be doing a service for all of mankind. Like most Assassins, he had had very strict standards, and one look at Teatime was enough to offend just about all of them. Quite apart from the personal inconvenience of being trapped gods alone knew how far from his fragile city, being in the young man's presence was like being trapped in a room full of cockroaches.

He was sitting behind the desk in his chambers, his thin, blue-veined hands folded before him in contemplation, when something thudded into the outside of his door, followed by a muffled curse. Shortly thereafter the door opened, admitting a disheveled young woman in strict schoolteacher's black, her white, black-streaked hair drawn back into what might have once been a bun. She had a lump on her forehead, and looked ready to disembowel the first creature unfortunate enough to get in her way.

Vetinari watched her impassively. "Can I help you?" he asked, in the carefully bland voice that made most of his underlings squirm.

Susan rubbed her forehead and made an attempt to push the hair out of her eyes. "Lord Vetinari?" she said, shutting the door.

"Indeed," he said. "And you would be, let me see...Susan Sto-Helit?" He had only seen her once, and that some years ago, at a party thrown by the Dowager Duchess of Quirm, but hair like that wasn't easily forgotten. "So sorry to hear about your parents."

Susan blinked. "Erm, yes. Look, you and I appear to have the same problem, which is that we're here, rather than, well, anywhere else. I think perhaps we should do something about that." She sat on a great, heavy oaken chest and crossed her arms, doing her best to appear businesslike.

Vetinari rested his hands on the desk-blotter, grateful to finally be in the presence of someone who hadn't been behind the door when common sense was handed out. "What, precisely, did you have in mind?" he asked.

"A Cupid?" said Colon, eying the obese (and currently very unconscious) cherub. "You mean, them little fat buggers that shoot you with their arrows and--oh," he said, suddenly comprehending. "Oh. Right. Erm...I don't suppose those arrows've got an antidote, do they?" he asked helplessly, looking around at the crowd.

"Somehow that would be too convenient," Vimes muttered, picking the thing up by an ankle and eying it critically. It wasn't much of a cherub--it had the high, choleric color of something that had drunk far too much scumble, and it reeked of things he'd rather not think of. "Nobby, you all right? Nobby?"

He turned, just in time to see Nobby go down on one knee before the squat, dumpy witch and throw up his arms in a theatrical gesture. The proscribed format dictated poetry at this point, but, poetry not being Nobby's strong suite, he instead opted for verse fourteen of the Hedgehog Song, complete with pantomime.

"What's that he's singin'?" Colon asked, and Angua choked when Nobby got to the line about the horse, stuffing a fist in her mouth to stifle the giggles. The witch, far from looking offended, was grinning down at Nobby like someone confronting a hitherto undiscovered soulmate.

"Don't ask," Vimes muttered, silently debating whether it was worth it to try and save Nobby from himself.

Nobby wasn't the only one who'd apparently gone off his nut. The Oh God of Hangovers had sidled up to Justice and was attempting a cool lean against a handy tree, apparently completely unaware of the fact that she was stone blind, and Agnes took one look at the oh god and flushed red as a beet. Magrat glanced sharply at Granny, who for several long seconds stood perfectly rigid, her sapphire eyes staring blankly, and then--

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day, and, er, tumpty-tumpty," she said, striding through the long grass, her heavy boots leaving small canyons in her wake. "Thou art more, er, than a wossname, and...tumpty-tum." She seized Albert's hand, pulled him upright, and smacked him several times to make sure he was conscious.

Magrat's jaw dropped. For a moment dead silence fell, as all and sundry, even Nobby, turned to stare at the witch. Albert, for once in his life utterly pole-axed, gaped at her.

Magrat turned to Agnes, whose blush had deepened to the hue of old port. "I don't know who I am anymore," she said helplessly.

"Urg," agreed Agnes.

Granny turned to them, and whatever her mouth had said, her eyes told them quite clearly that she knew what was going on, and didn't like it a bit. However, some things are stronger even than the will of a Weatherwax, and like it or not she was in its clutches.

"Oh dear," Nanny muttered, disentangling herself from Nobby's faltered soliloquy and hurrying over to Granny. "Now, Esme, I'm sure it's only tempr'ry, just come along and have a lie-down..." She shot a worried glance at Magrat, who was still gawping at Granny as though she'd sprouted a second head, and dragged Granny off as quickly as she could.

"Wait!" Nobby cried, and, grubby helmet in his hands, he hurried off after Nanny, moving as fast as his short legs could carry him. "Wait, lady, I wasn't done yet!"

"Oh, bloody hell," Vimes sighed. "Nobby!"

"Leave him be, Commander," Angua said. "It'll run its course...whatever it is."

Albert opened and closed his mouth a few times, before apparently remembering who he was and that he was not, in fact, on Planet Oddball. He turned to Death, who was holding one of the heart-tipped arrows in his hand, turning it this way and that as if in an attempt to analyze it. Albert paled.

"You all right, Master?" he asked, his heart seeming to drop into his stomach like a lead weight. "Not been hit, have you?"

Death started. SORRY, he said. WOOLGATHERING, I EXPECT. NO, I WAS HIT, BUT...BUT... He drew himself up to his full height, trying to collect his scattered wits. BUT OF COURSE, WE PERSONIFICATIONS ARE NOT SUBJECT TO...ER...THESE...

Albert glanced at the oh god, whose attempts to suavely smooth back his hair would have gone over a lot better if he hadn't had a few of last night's peas nesting in his curls. "...Right you are, Master," he said hopelessly.

Rincewind, who had taken the attack of the Cupid as a cue to faint again, found himself being none-too-gently slapped back into the land of the aware. "Murfle?" he said, opening his eyes. "Whowhanow?"

Life beamed down at him in her slightly muzzy way. "Now, now, wake up," she said, dragging him to his feet. She produced a handkerchief from gods only knew where and held it out. "Spit," she commanded, and somewhat hesitantly Rincewind did so. She then applied the handkerchief to his face, straightened his hat, and patted him on the shoulder. "There's a good lad...wha' happened in there?"

Rincewind looked back at the high walls and shuddered. "Erm, well, that is, there was this...man, I think, and he...he made me transport all sorts of people, and then he got tired of me so he loaded me into a catapult and...well, I wound up out here." He shook his head violently, sending his pointy hat flying. "And I'm glad I'm well out of there, too...he's a loony, he is."

Vimes shook his head. "Wait a minute," he said, trying valiantly to wrap his brain around that statement. "You got flung out of the castle with a catapult and survived?"

HE'S GOOD AT THAT, Death muttered sourly.

"Well, yes, obviously," said Rincewind, casting a nervous glance at Death and edging almost imperceptibly away. "He's off his gourd, too, if you ask me."

Vimes shook his head, not wanting to deal with any of this. "At least you didn't get shot," he said, and sighed. "Angua, do me a favor and try to pry Nobby away from the witch, all right? She can't be appreciating the attention, and the last thing we need is a disgruntled witch."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," said Magrat, as Angua went off to find Nobby. "I mean, she's let Casanunda try, and he's, well...a bit special, if you take my meaning."

Vimes considered this, and discovered that the thought of Nobby courting a witch was made doubly horrifying when one added the prospect of the witch enjoying it. "...I didn't need to know that," he said grimly, and shook himself. "Look, this is getting us nowhere...we need to figure out how to get into that castle."

Lobsang, who had somehow avoided the barrage of arrows, gave the pile of stone a thoughtful look. "I don't see why we--that is, the personifications--shouldn't be able to get inside," he said. "After all, there isn't anywhere we can't go."

Death, who had clearly still been woolgathering, straightened. NO, he said. THE AUDITORS WILL HAVE SEEN TO THAT...WE CANNOT ENTER UNTIL BIDDEN.

"What does that mean?" Lobsang asked, scowling at the parapets as though willing them to crumble under the sheer force of his glare.

IT MEANS, ROUGHLY, THAT UNTIL SOMETHING HAPPENS THAT WILL GIVE US A DOORWAY, WE CANNOT ENTER. IN MY CASE, SOMEONE MUST DIE.

"Shouldn't be too hard, then, with that nutter in charge," Rincewind said, picking up his pointy hat and attempting to flip it right-side-out.

Death looked thoughtful. NO, he said. THEY WILL BE MORE CAREFUL THAN THAT...THEY DO NOT WANT ANY OF US INTERFERING.

"So what do we do, then?" Vimes demanded. The sun was already westering, and if they were going to do anything before dark, they would have to do it soon.

Death considered a moment. I SUGGEST, he said, THAT WE DO SOMETHING ABOUT DINNER.

Nanny Ogg had had many suitors over the course of her life, but never one quite like Nobby. It hadn't taken her five minutes of knowing him to realize that here was a creature subtly akin to herself, someone else who had that special type of cheerful, leering lechery branded into their very soul. Sure, there was an undeniable height differential, but Casanunda had been shorter...she had very quickly weighed her options, and decided to see what the little man would do.

She had taken Granny away into the woods, doing her best to provide some sort of comfort, and Nobby hovered at her elbow like an anxious bantam hen, offering what he thought were helpful suggestions, like, "Dump some icewater on her head, works a treat for me." Nanny didn't know what would happen to anyone who tried dumping icewater on Esme, and she didn't particularly want to find out, either.

"How about we just let her have a bit of time to herself," she said, and caught Granny's grateful look. Nanny had known Granny long enough to realize that something like this, something she couldn't control, would be sheer torture, and it would be best for everybody if she had a little time to at least try and collect herself.

They wandered off into the woods, the fading sunlight gilding the needles of the evergreens, and nearly tripped over Mustrum Ridcully, who was muttering furiously to himself and winding his crossbow. He spared a brief glance at them and went back to business, grumbling the whole time. All Nanny caught was, "--don't care if he was the greatest wizard of all time, I'll settle 'im--" before they had passed out of earshot.

"Wonder what that was about?" Nobby said, almost skipping to keep up with Nanny. She was not a tall woman, but she could roll along at a pace that would put a yeti to shame, and Nobby's short legs were no match for her.

"I've got a pretty good idea," Nanny said darkly. "Anyways, now that Esme's settled for a bit--"

She stopped. Something had rustled in the bushes to the left, something small but extremely speedy. It was followed by a second, and then a third, and then all at once the undergrowth around them was filled with the sound of many tiny feet running at full stampede.

"What the bloody--" Nobby started, but Nanny silenced him with an outstretched hand. He listened a moment, and then realized he could hear small, shrill cries amid the minute din.

"Buggert'lightnin'!"
"Mor powert' ye!"

"Nac mac Feegle!"

Nanny smiled, splitting her face into a thousand tiny wrinkles as the herd passed them by. "Bit early this year, but good timin', I'd say," she said.

"What was that?" Nobby asked, turning and watching the slowly retreating rustle of bushes.

"The Nac mac Feegle--come and raid my still every year. Tricky little blighters, but if we can get them on our side, whatever's in that castle doesn't stand the chance of a scarecrow in a brush-fire."

"And if we can't?"

"Then it won't matter what he does--we won't be alive enough to care."

Nobby considered this. "Cheerful," he said, and would have said more, save that Angua finally caught up with them. A Ramtops forest is filled with all sorts of highly individualized smells, but nothing on all the Disc could possibly smell quite like Nobby, and she had found him easily enough.

"Vimes wants to see you, Nobby," she said, quite relieved that she had found him before he'd been able to, erm, press his suit in any earnest. "They've started dinner." She sniffed. "Or something like it," she added dubiously.

Nobby sighed, but Nanny tipped him a wink to let him know all was not lost. She knew all too well that his attention was entirely the cupid's doing, but she hardly cared--there was something rather taking about the little runt, she reflected, and whatever was to come of it, it promised to be damned interesting.

The sun was slanting redly through the castle windows when Teatime skipped down the stairs to the dungeons. He didn't have anyone in them--yet--but he wanted to visit his head chef, who, being a vampire, had insisted on setting up shop as far from natural sunlight as was possible to get.

The chef's name was Illya, and he was a seven-year Black Ribboner. Like all vampires who chose to abstain from human blood, he had to replace his platelet-fixation with some other obsession, and he had settled on cookery. He had been working in a five-star restaurant in Ankh-Morpork before he woke up and found himself here, and with a pragmatism only the undead can feel he had shrugged and gotten to work. He didn't particularly care where he cooked, just so long as his utensils and ingredients were top-of-the-line, and nobody tried to get in his way. So far as that went, Teatime's castle was perfect.

Teatime knocked politely before entering the kitchen, and found Illya carefully icing the last of a tray of small white cupcakes, all delicately frosted with confectioner's sugar. Rack upon rack of various pastries stood on the wall beyond, and the entire place smelt like a diabetic's worst nightmare.

"Hello, sir," said the vampire. "Almost done vith these...the little cream puffs are ze vorst."

"Very good." Teatime, being rather a psychotic perfectionist himself, appreciated the quality in other people as well. "Illya, I need you to do something for me," he said, hopping up onto a stool.

"Yes?" Illya laid aside his frosting-bag. "It better not involve marzipan, I don't haff anymore."

"No, no. At least, I don't think so." Teatime regarded his chef curiously. Vampires were reputed to have a wonderful way with women, something that he himself (apparently) sadly lacked. "I need you to make me a special dinner--you know, the sort that a woman would like. Candles, and...you know, candles and things."

Illya's red eyes lit up. "Ah," he said. "You vant to impress a lady, no? You came to ze right place...ladies always appreciate a romantic meal."

"You can do it, then?"

"Oh, off course...it vould be my pleasure. I haven't been able to sink my teeth into a good romantic dinner in ages."

Teatime considered this sentence a moment, and decided that the vampire really didn't realize what it sounded like. "Very good...have it served in the north tower; I've got some of the seamstresses decorating it right now." He hopped off the stool and left the vampire to do what he would, fully confident that Illya knew what he was doing. Teatime had done some more reading, and was fairly certain it wasn't standard queen behavior to slap your future husband every time he opened his mouth, and he was certain that something like this would help. Women liked that kind of thing, right?

He wandered off, humming idly to himself, and when he was gone Illya shut and bolted the door and then took a book down from the highest of his bookshelves. He'd never had a chance to try it out yet, and he was anxious to see if it could really do all that it claimed--it said it was written by a witch, but then, you never knew. Like all his cookbooks, this one was lovingly kept in perfect condition, and he let his fingers wander over the title before opening it. It said, in fancy copperplate lettering, The Joye of Snackes.

A number of campfires winked into life as the sun sank lower, several aided by fireballs from impatient wizards. Vimes, Angua, Nobby, the Bursar, Rincewind, Lobsang, and Life all sat about one, toasting various field rations on sticks, while at other fires the personifications did what they did best, which was quarrel amongst one another like children (or, thought Rincewind, wizards), and the other wizards came up with ever more grandiose (and ever more ridiculous) schemes for getting into the castle.

Vimes found, to his surprise, that he was rather enjoying himself. He had never been a military man, and certainly wilderness was an entirely alien concept to him, but he found that he felt at home here--it was rather like huddling around a chestnut-seller's barrel back home in Ankh-Morpork, and out here one could see stars that never would have been visible through the city's ever-present haze.

True, he was having to keep a sharp eye on Nobby, but that wasn't very difficult--Nobby, against all knowledge and expectation of his character, was sitting with a small tablet on his knees and his tongue between his teeth, laboriously attempting to compose an original verse to the Hedgehog Song. Vimes had considered pointing out that poetry was usually more acceptable, but one good look at Nanny Ogg had changed his mind on that one.

Angua, meanwhile, had actually managed to engage Life in a more or less coherent conversation, and had found that while she wasn't always all there, she was wonderfully sympathetic. The two talked in the complicated code of women that still, even after several years of marriage, floated straight over Vimes's head, while Rincewind attempted to toast half a loaf of pumpernickel and set the sleeve of his robe on fire. The Bursar occasionally came out of his happy stupor long enough to make a contribution (though it rarely had any bearing on the current conversation), while Lobsang sat and scowled at the castle so blackly that Vimes wondered that it didn't burst into flames from the sheer force of malevolence. Blue sparks occasionally snapped from his fingers, making Vimes edge away. Wizards he could deal with, but anthropomorphic personifications were something else entirely.

The witches sat at the next fire over, cooking something in a large cauldron that Nanny had procured from the gods alone knew where. Nanny chattered cheerfully, in her usual fashion, but Granny, who had returned looking pale but composed, sat in silence. The others made no effort to engage her in conversation, feeling it wisest to let her alone, and if Granny noticed that Ridcully was watching her like a hawk, she gave no sign.

Albert, the raven, and the Death of Rats had a fire all to themselves, as far away from the witches as could be. Albert sat frying bacon and casting suspicious glances Granny-ward, and wishing that he knew where in the hell the Master was--Death had disappeared some time ago, leaving Binky to graze on the sweet Lancre hill-grass.

Nanny was just ladling out some stew when a tall, dark figure appeared at her elbow, and made her nearly drop her bowl in the cauldron.

EXCUSE ME, MRS. OGG, BUT COULD I HAVE A WORD WITH YOU?

Nanny peered up into the gloom. Witches, of course, know when they are going to die, so Death held no terror for her. She couldn't imagine what the Grim Reaper would want to talk to her about, but she went off gamely enough, to a distance just far enough from all of the fires to avoid being overheard.

"Yes?" she said, sitting comfortably on a large mossy boulder.

It is impossible for a seven-foot skeleton to look uncomfortable, but Death was coming close. He leaned the scythe against a tree and sat as well, picking at nonexistent threads on the sleeve of his robe.

ERM, REALLY, THIS IS MOST DIFFICULT, he said. I WAS WONDERING IF...GIVEN YOUR EXPERIENCE...IF YOU COULD POSSIBLY..."

Nanny arched an eyebrow. "Possibly what?"

Death looked as agonized as a skull can, which under the circumstances was quite well. I NEED...ER...ADVICE.

Both of Nanny's brows shot up. "You need advice? About what?"

Death looked around, to make sure nobody was about, and said in a whisper like the thud of a falling tombstone, ER...WOMEN.

Nanny stared. It wasn't often that Gytha Ogg was completely pole-axed, but she was now and no mistake.

"You...want...what?" she demanded, for once unable to process what she had heard.

ADVICE, Death said again, just as quietly, ABOUT...WOMEN.

Nanny blinked. And blinked again. "Why?" she asked.

Now it was Death who was taken rather aback. WHY NOT?

"Well, it's just...with your line of work, I didn't think it was...that is, I didn't think you'd...who is she?" Whatever else she was, Nanny Ogg was both an inveterate meddler in other people's affairs and an incurable gossip, and to be able to break the news that Death had an object d'affection, as she thought of it, would make her day for a year.

THAT'S...NOT IMPORTANT. WHAT IS IMPORTANT IS...WHAT DO WOMEN LIKE? DIAMONDS, CHOCOLATE, THINGS OF THAT NATURE?

"Well, yes, usually...it depends on the woman, really. Some women are all for glitz and glitter, while others like...oh, I don't know, something more personal." Nanny considered. "You could try cooking her dinner."

DINNER? WOMEN ARE PLEASED BY MEN WHO COOK FOR THEM?

"Well, yes. Means we don't have to, see. It's thoughtful, like."

THOUGHTFUL. I SEE. Death considered this. WHAT SORT OF FOOD DO WOMEN LIKE, BESIDES CHOCOLATE?

And it was that, really, that caused ninety percent of the mess that followed. Nanny Ogg was, as Granny had often said, an imp for mischief, and Death had all unknowingly handed her the perfect opportunity to sow some.

"Well, funny you should mention it," she said. She stood and turned around, and after much tortured twanging of elastic produced a small, slim volume, which she handed to him. "Wrote the book on that one, you might say."

Death looked at it. THE JOYE OF SNACKES, he said, bemused. THERE IS HAPPINESS IN FOOD?

"There can be," Nanny assured him. "Provided you use it right."

Death flipped through the pages, glancing over the recipes. AND THIS WILL WORK?

"It's never failed yet," Nanny said, suppressing a snigger. "Has the Nanny Ogg guarantee."

Death brightened visibly. WELL THEN, he said. COOKING. I SHALL COOK. I'M GOOD AT THAT.

He left for his own fire, leaving Nanny shaking from head to foot with quiet laughter. She knew that she probably shouldn't have done that, but when faced with irresistible temptation Nanny had no choice but to give in, as her fifteen children attested to. She'd give her right ear to know how Death's culinary endeavors turned out, and was quite grateful she was in a good position to observe. In several hours she would not be nearly so grateful, but for now she all but hugged herself with glee as she wandered back to the others.

Granny stirred when she sat down, casting a beady eye on her. "What have you been up to, Gytha?" she asked suspiciously.

"Oh, nothin', Esme," Nanny said, her face a picture of innocence. "Nothin' at all."

Susan was back in her own room when Teatime came looking for her. Now that her temper had settled to a slow simmer she realized that she might as well make the best of things, until she and Vetinari perfected their budding plot, so she had had a bath and had done the best she could with her schoolteacher's outfit, which had definitely suffered from her trip with the zombie. She flatly refused to wear any of the dripping creations in the wardrobe--they were the sort of thing that silly, soppy, romantic girls wore, and she'd be damned if she'd have anything to do with that. Her hair had given up holding any sort of style and returned to its ground-state fluffiness, and she didn't particularly feel like doing anything else with it.

Teatime did bother to knock before he entered, but only perfunctorily, as though knocking were something that had been taught to him whose purpose he utterly failed to grasp. Susan automatically reached out to slap him, but he caught her hand in mid-swing.

"Most people usually say 'hello', you know," he said, catching her other hand as it too attempted to strike. "If I let you go, will you try and hit me again?"

"That depends," Susan said, through clenched teeth, wondering how such a matchstick of a man could be so strong. "Will you still be here?"

Teatime laughed. "Such rapier wit...actually, Susan, I was wondering if I might persuade you to join me for dinner."

She looked at him suspiciously, her mind automatically searching for the trap. She struggled hard to remember what she and Vetinari had talked about earlier--they had agreed that it would be best for her to play along with Teatime, at least up to a point, until they could in some way cement certain points of their budding plot. "What's the catch?" she asked suspiciously.

"No catch," Teatime said merrily. "I just figured that since you were to be my queen, we might...get to know one another. Talk. I've heard it's what couples do."

Susan shut her eyes and counted slowly to ten. "I don't see why not," she said levelly, hoping to God it never occurred to him to wonder just what else couples were supposed to do--should his mind ever stray in that direction, she would be liable to forget all Vetinari's warnings and break every bone in Teatime's body.

He released her hands, clapping his own together. "Wonderful," he said. "If you'll just follow me, Illya has made us something special..." He cast a glance over her schoolteaching outfit, realizing dimly that it wasn't the sort of thing prospective queens were supposed to wear, but some dim instinct of self-preservation made him forebear to comment (at least for now).

Realizing there was nothing for it, Susan followed him, the heels of her black boots clicking aggressively over the flagstones. He wasn't really much taller than she, but she knew from experience that he was almost freakishly strong, and she'd be a fool to try to overpower him without help.

He led her into a chamber of such magnificence that she felt sure he must have kidnapped an interior decorator. Susan had grown up in a palace, but this room was much more palatial than anything she'd yet experienced--it looked like someone's idea of a room in a fairy-tale castle, completed with a chandelier to rival that in the opera house at Ankh-Morpork. She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, and raised the other one when Teatime pulled out her chair for her--someone had been giving the little twerp lessons, or she'd eat her socks.

Not that that would be necessary, with such a feast as was spread before her. Illya, whoever he was, had to be one of the most fanatically anal-retentive cooks in the world, by the look of things--never had she seen so many different pastries, not to mention three kinds of soup, two meat dishes, several pies, and a plum pudding the size of a small island. It was a ridiculous amount of food for two people, but that was hardly anything new--back home, when she'd been a child, they'd had enough cooks to feed an army.

"What do you think?" Teatime asked, taking the seat opposite her. Fortunately the table was a large one, which meant that at least she didn't have to try and eat in close proximity to him.

"It's...impressive," Susan said, quite honestly. Suspicion was beginning to niggle at her brain again--what on Disc would motivate him to do something like this? She sat on it, hard--if she could set him at his ease, she'd have a much easier time moving around the castle without being spied upon all the time.

"I was hoping you'd say that." He waved a hand, and Illya himself came forward to serve them--this little feast was his masterpiece, and he'd be damned if he'd let any underling muck up the courses. He wouldn't stay long--Susan had been right in her thought that this was much too much food for two people, though if she had realized the implications of that thought she probably would have let out a most un-Susan-like shriek of laughter.

For Illya was the castle's only cook, which meant that he was responsible for every meal eaten by upwards of five hundred people (the zombie army didn't count). Since he was always pressed for time, he didn't waste any in preparing a special meal for Teatime and a regular meal for everyone else. This, of course, meant that the whole castle would be tonight dining on delicacies from The Joye of Snackes--the footmen, the seamstresses, the various flunkies, Vetinari--and if Illya had been a smarter vampire he'd have realized what a recipe for disaster that was. Being a vampire, he'd probably have gone ahead with it anyway, but that wasn't the point.

The point was, things were about to get most...interesting.

Darkness had finally fully settled on the camp outside the castle, and things were more or less calm. To be sure, Ridcully's crossbow had 'accidentally' discharged several times in Albert's general direction, and Agnes tripped whenever she caught sight of the Oh God of Hangovers, but aside from these and other minor interruptions it was more or less peaceful. They had even received a surprise dinner, courtesy of Death himself, who, as he said, 'NEEDED TO TEST OUT A FEW RECIPES'. Unfortunately Nanny Ogg, who had been liberally applying herself to her bottle of home-made brandy for the last half hour, was far too drunk to work out the implications of this, and so it was that the entire encampment that night dined on Famous Carrot and Oyster Pie, among other things.

As Vimes had said earlier, no, this was indeed, most very definitely, not going to end well.