Awkward silences were not things that Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson was accustomed to; he was very good at making friendly conversation and had a good memory for names, which meant that he could get through most social occasions unscathed.

Moist von Lipwig had lived through his fair share, but had learnt just the right tone of voice to avert them or, at least, turn them into inane small talk. He couldn't decide if he hated them with a passion or found them highly entertaining. It usually depended whether or not the awkwardness was resting on him.

William De Worde hadn't had to deal with too many in his time, since he'd quickly learnt how to politely detour Mr Wintler away from the iconograph, and on the off chance that someone else said something awkward, he usually had his notebook to hide behind.

Jonathan Teatime was aware that awkward situations existed, but for him, they were things that happened to other people. There was always another darkened rainbow of a thought corkscrewing through his mind to keep him busy when company stopped talking or conversation got boring.

Mr Lucas Herrington was the sort of man that had to have awkward situations pointed out to him, then highlighted in yellow, then ringed several times in red pen, and was often the one that blithely made them awkward in the first place. But everyone was sure that his heart was in the right place.

Unfortunately for all five men, Captain Carrot had already asked after how everyone had found the evening, and after Mr Herrington's name and employment, Moist had already commented vaguely on the weather and the impressive palace ballroom, William didn't have his notebook, Teatime was gazing out of the window and Herrington was still quite at ease.

It was a sad situation that five fully grown men couldn't find more than two minutes of conversation, but, then again, Lord Vetinari was very good at keeping himself in power.

-x-x-x-

At this point, Drumknott was very glad that he, in his master's words, had a 'cultivated lack of imagination'. Imagination when discovering one of the young Venturi Lords in a cupboard with two of Lord Selachii's parlour maids was certainly not a good thing; Fact said, I say, Marcus Venturi is creasing the linen, and one of the ladies appears to have misplaced her corset, and left you at that. Imagination was not a good thing to have, as it tended to go one step further, hand in hand with Assumption.

Men more inclined to imagination may have reacted differently to Commander Vimes'…well, command to "go and find Vetinari because the guests are leaving and Lipwig isn't back yet" when they realised, unlike the any of the of other the guests, that the Patrician was not, in fact, in the ballroom. And neither was Lady Margolotta.

Assistants with a more developed sense of imagination may have simply returned to Commander Vimes and excused their master for a headache or some such ailment. Drumknott, in school, when creative writing took its turn on the curriculum, had all the punctuation perfectly placed, but the story bored the poor teacher to tears.

This was why, with next to no trepidation or hesitation, he set off briskly for the Patrician's office. He did not find Vetinari or Lady Margolotta there, but did discover Lord Venturi and his two lady friends in a nearby linen closet. His next visit was to the Thud Room, where he knocked politely and entered.

"My Lord, Commander Vimes wishes to speak to you on an urgent matter."

"Of course, Drumknott. Please inform him that I will be there momentarily."

"Yes, my Lord." Drumknott bowed, and left.

The trolls appeared to be winning.

-x-x-x-

There was a reason why Samuel Vimes hated galas and parties and political meetings; he hated occasions where it was not socially acceptable to punch, kick and generally be violent towards a wall, or the person you were talking to.

'Hold the fort', Lipwig had said. He wished it was as military as the term suggested.

It had been fine for a while, until people had noticed the hour and decided that it was about time they left, really, you know the traffic this time of night…and then they'd looked around for someone to apologise to and, for lack of other hostly figures, they'd found him. He'd lost count of how many people he'd had to pretend to smile at, how many hands he'd shaken and cheeks kissed and pleasantries expressed. He was tempted to call upon the Watchman's old ability to sleep whilst standing, but dared not risk the soul-destroying Disappointed Look from Sybil.

Lipwig, Carrot, De Worde, the suspicious-looking assassin (when were assassins not suspicious? Their entire existence oozed suspicion because they murdered people for a living, and got away with it!) and the tailor that sounded like a farmer had been gone for over half an hour, and he knew that because he was looking at the grand clock on the wall every ten seconds.

"Commander Vimes," Orion Venturi extended a hand, which Vimes shook reluctantly, then grabbed his rather ruffled-looking son by the collar and hauled him away. Lady Venturi, who was busy kissing Sybil's cheeks and simultaneously arranging an afternoon to come around for tea, finally broke away and joined her husband in berating their son.

Vimes tried to imagine himself in Lord Venturi's shoes, then quickly banished the idea because it did not bear thinking about.

"Commander Vimes!"

Vimes grimaced and prepared himself for another bought of hand-shaking, before he realised that the voice had not come from inside the ballroom, but outside, somewhere in the vicinity of the coaches.

It was Carrot!…And only Carrot. Confusion creased his brow.

"Carrot. Where are-"

"I don't think this is the best place to discuss it, sir."

Vimes looked around, and couldn't recall a time when he was more pleased to see Vetinari.

"Ah, just in time, my Lord," he tapped the Patrician lightly on the arm, "Tag. You're it."

Without looking to see Vetinari's reaction, Vimes pulled Carrot into a sparsely populated corner.

"Where's Angua?"

"I think it would be best if I explained it from the beginning, sir."

"Go on, then."

And he did.

"…Singing?"

"Yes, sir."

"Standing on the bar. In a ball gown."

"Yes sir. She had, thankfully, removed her shoes, or she may have turned an ankle from the dancing."

Vimes swallowed. This was surreal. "…What exactly were they singing?"

"The Hedgehog Song, I believe, sir, the one that goes-"

"Yes, Carrot, I know how it goes."

"-And Vetinari Has No Balls At All, too, or at least several verses of it."

Vimes ran his hands down his face in the manner of one that has just discovered that the pros for suicide far outweigh the cons. "I hate to say it, but at least Lipwig had the good sense to suggest going and finding them before anything worse happened. And then what? Where are they now?"

"Well, sir, Duchess Susan lives quite near Biers, so Mr Teatime took her back home on foot. There wasn't enough room for us all in the coach, and Miss Cripslock was feeling quite under the weather, so Mr De Worde took the coach back home with her, and we waited for the next cab."

"So where is Mr Lipwig now, then?" Vimes squinted into the darkness outside over Carrot's shoulder, looking for the black-suited Postmaster.

"It was originally his intention to return, sir, as his wife appeared to be none the worse, but his assumption was wrong, as a few minutes later she suddenly became very…familiar, and started undoing his…shirt buttons," Carrot coughed, red-faced, "Mr Lipwig thought it would be best if he took her home."

"Hmm!"

"Angua and Miss Smint both fell asleep on the return journey, sir, and Mr Herrington is waiting with them now in the coach. I would rather like to take Angua back, sir, if you don't mind…"

Vimes rubbed his eyes wearily and waved a hand, "Of course, Carrot. She can have the morning off, too, but she'll have to swap to tomorrow's night shift with the new recruits."

"Thank you, sir. Good night, sir."

Vimes watched the retreating broad back of Carrot as he made his way back outside and sighed; at least if the reporter woman had been involved in the little escapade she was less likely to give it a scandalous write-up. The tremendous headache she would be suffering the next day was enough punishment, so he wouldn't mention it to Angua.

Also, having the combination of an embarrassed werewolf who felt like four porcupines were playing foot-the-ball inside her skull, very close to full moon, and Sergeant Detritus - well, it was safe to say that none of the new recruits would retain their impudence for long.