' - or should I say gold-ish cup - '
More cheers and more laughter.
' - based on the recently discovered ancient urn known as The Tackle, which, I am sure, you have all seen?'
General sniggering.
'And if you haven't, then your wives certainly have.'
Silence, followed by a tsunami of laughter which, like most tidal waves, had a lot of froth on the top.
Glenda, lurking among the serving girls, was taken aback and affronted at the same time, which was a bit of a squeeze, and wondered... So, he's planning something. They're lapping it up along with the beer, too.
'Never seen that before,' said a wine waiter beside her.
'Seen what before?'
'Seen his lordship drinking. He doesn't even drink wine.'
Glenda looked at the skinny black figure and said, enunciating carefully, 'When you say he does not drink wine, do you mean he does not drink wine, or he does not drink... wine?'
'He doesn't have a bloody drink. That's all I'm saying. That's Lord Vetinari, that is. He's got ears everywhere.'
'I can only see two, but he's quite handsome, in a way.' was a yell in the distance. And then a crash. Ridcully smiled. The day had suddenly brightened up.
When he and Ponder reached the Great Hall, most of the team were gathered around one of their members lying on the floor, with Nutt kneeling over him.
'What's happened here?' Ridcully demanded.
'Badly bruised, sir. I shall put a compress on it.'
'Ah.' His gaze fell upon a large, brass-bound chest. It looked at first sight like any other chest, until you saw the tiny little toes poking out.
'Rincewind's luggage,' he growled. 'And where that is, Rincewind can't be far in front. Rincewind!'
'Actually, it wasn't my fault,' said Rincewind.
'He's right, sir,' said Nutt. 'I have to apologize for the fact that this was a group misapprehension. I understand it is a remarkably magical chest on hundreds of little legs and I am afraid that the gentlemen here believed that it would play football like stink, as they put it. In which surmise, I have to say, they were proved wrong.'
'I tried to tell them,' said the former Dean from the edge of the crowd. 'Morning, Mustrum. Good team you have here.'
'All its feet do is get in each other's way,' said Bengo Macarona. 'And if it does get on top of the ball, it spins out of control and, alas, it crashed into Mister Sopworthy here.'
'Oh, well, we learn by our mistakes,' said Ridcully. 'And now, do you happen to have something nice to show me?'
'I think I have the very thing, Archchancellor,' said a cheerful but reedy voice behind him.
Ridcully turned and looked into the face of a man with the shape and urgency of a piccolo. He seemed to be vibrating on the spot.
'Professor Ritornello, Master of the Music,' Ponder whispered into Ridcully's ear.
'Ah, Professor,' said Ridcully smoothly, 'and I see you have the choir with you.'
'Yes indeed, Archchancellor, and I must tell you, I am thrilled and filled with inner light by what I have witnessed this morning! Without ado, I have penned a chant, such as you asked for!'
'Did I?' said Ridcully, out of the corner of his mouth.
'You will remember that chanting was mentioned and so I thought it best to alert the professor,' whispered Ponder.