The leader column inside was headed 'Score One For Vetinari'. Glenda never normally read the leader column because there was only a certain number of times she was prepared to see the word 'however' used in a 120-word article.
She read the front-page story at first glumly and then with rising anger. Vetinari had done it. He had got them drunk and the fools had signed away their football for a pale variety cooked up by the palace and the university. Of course, minds are never quite that simple. She had to admit to herself that she hated the stupidity of the present game. She hated the idiot fighting and mindless shoving, but it was hers to hate. It was something that people themselves had put together and rickety and stupid though it was, it was theirs. And now the nobs were again picking up something that wasn't theirs and saying how wonderful it was. The old football was going to be banned. That was another little razor blade in Lord Vetinari's alcoholic candyfloss.
She was also deeply suspicious about the urn, the picture of which, for some reason, was still on her kitchen table. Since what was claimed to be the original rules was written in an ancient language, how could anyone other than a nob know what they meant? She ran her eye down the description of the new rules. Some of the rules of old street football had survived in there like monsters from another era. She recognized one that she had always liked: the ball shall be called the ball. The ball is the ball that is played as the ball by any three consecutive players, at which point it is the ball. She'd loved it when she first read it for the sheer stupidity of its phraseology. Apparently, it had been added on a day, centuries ago, when an unfortunately severed head had rolled into play and had rather absent-mindedly replaced the ball currently in play on account of some body, formerly belonging to the head, now lying on the original ball. That kind of thing stuck in the memory, especially because after the match the owner of the head was credited with scoring the winning goal.
That rule and a few others stood out as remnants of a vanished glory in the list of Lord Vetinari's new regulations. A few nods at the old game had been left in as a kind of sop to public opinion. He should not be allowed to get away with it. Just because he was a tyrant and capable of having just about anybody killed on a whim, people acted as if they were scared of him. Someone ought to tell him off. The world had turned upside down several times. She hadn't quite got her bearings, but making sure that Lord Vetinari did not get away with it was suddenly very important. It was up to the people to decide when they were being stupid and old-fashioned; it wasn't up to nobs to tell them what to do.
With great determination she put on her coat over her apron and, after a moment's thought, took two freshly made Jammy Devils from her cupboard. Where a battering ram cannot work, really good shortcrust pastry can often break through.
In the Oblong Office, the Patrician's personal secretary looked at the stopwatch.
'Fifty seconds slower than your personal best, I'm afraid, my lord.'
'Proof indeed that strong drink is a mocker, Drumknott,' said Vetinari severely.
'I suspect that no further proof is needed,' said Drumknott, with his little secretarial smile.
'Although I would, in fairness, point out that Charlotte of the Times is emerging as the most fearsome crossword compiler of all time, and they are a pretty fearsome lot. But her? Initialisms, odds and evens, hidden words, container reverses, and now diagonals! How does she do it?'
'Well, you did it, sir.'
'I undid it. That is much easier.' Vetinari raised a finger. 'It is that woman who runs the pet shop in Pellicool Steps, depend upon it. She hasn't been mentioned as a winner recently. She must be compiling the things.'
'The female mind is certainly a devious one, my lord.'
Vetinari looked at his secretary in surprise. 'Well, of course it is. It has to deal with the male one. I think - '
There was a gentle tap at one of the doors. The Patrician turned back to the Times while Drumknott slipped out of the room. After some whispered exchanges, the secretary returned.
'It would appear that a young woman has got in via the back gate by bribing the guards, sir. They accepted the bribes, as per your standing orders, and she has been shown into the anteroom, which she will soon find is locked. She wishes to see you because, she says, she has a complaint. She is a maid.'
Lord Vetinari looked over the top of the paper. 'Tell her I can't help her with that. Perhaps, oh, I don't know, a different perfume would help?'
'I mean she is a member of the serving classes, sir. Her name is Glenda Sugarbean.'
'Tell her - ' Vetinari hesitated, and then smiled. 'Ah, yes, Sugarbean. Did she bribe the guards with food? Something baked, perhaps?'
'Well done, sir! A large Jammy Devil apiece. May I ask how - ?'
'She is a cook, Drumknott, not a maid. Show her in, by all means.'
The secretary looked a little resentful. 'Are you sure this is wise, sir? I have already told the guards to throw the foodstuffs away.'
'Food cooked by a Sugarbean? You may have committed a crime against high art, Drumknott. I shall see her now.'
'I must point out that you have a full schedule this morning, my lord.'
'Quite so. It is your job to point this out, and I respect that. But I did not return until half past four this morning and I distinctly remember stubbing my toe on the stairs. I am as drunk as a skunk, Drumknott, which of course means skunks are just as drunk as I. I must say the term is unfamiliar to me, and I had not thought hitherto of skunks in this context, but Mustrum Ridcully was kind enough to enlighten me. Allow me, then, a moment of indulgence.'
'Well, you are the Patrician, sir,' said Drumknott. 'You can do as you please.'
'That is kind of you to say so, but I did not, in fact, need reminding,' said Vetinari, with what was almost certainly a smile.
When the severe thin man opened the door, it was too late to flee. When he said, 'His lordship will see you now, Miss Sugarbean,' it was too late to faint. What had she been thinking of? Had she been thinking at all?
Glenda followed the man into the next room, which was oak panelled and sombre and the most uncluttered office she had ever seen. The room of the average wizard was so stuffed with miscellaneous things that the walls were invisible. Here, even the desk was clear, apart from a pot of quill pens, an inkwell, an open copy of the Ankh-Morpork Times and¨Cher eye stayed fixed on this one, unable to draw itself away¨Ca mug with the slogan 'To the world's Greatest Boss'. It was so out of place it might have been an intrusion from another universe.
A chair was quietly placed behind her. This was just as well, because when the man at the desk looked up she sat down abruptly.