Vetinari had suggested it, of course.

Actually, Vetinari didn't usually have to go as far as to suggest; after a few years of seeing the Patrician more than twice a week, Moist had become an expert in translating every eyebrow quirk and each intonation. The sort of vital eyebrow movement and voice raising that turned "Delightful, Mr Lipwig." into "Go and sort it out, you absolute idiot, or you'll be in big trouble."

Whilst it made a very handy way of subtly communicating threats, it was also a way for Vetinari to advise the city's most charismatic civil servant and prod him in the right direction when outright saying information would not be appropriate. It was one such 'suggestion' that had forced this ghastly situation upon him.

Moist had been giving the Patrician his usual bi-weekly report on the goings on of the various businesses under his command, when Vetinari had made a passing comment about how he and Adora had just recently finished the very finishing touches to their new dining room. This was followed by an arched eyebrow, during which he nodded once and remarked how it was usually profitable to keep your friends close, and those you may be forced to co-operate with later closer.

Roughly translated, it really meant - "Throw a dinner party. Next Thursday. Invite everyone you enjoy irritating. And Mr De Worde doesn't like prawns."

Unfortunately, Adora, being of the disposition that she was, really didn't like the idea of Vetinari orchestrating - or 'meddling', as she put it - their affairs. Perhaps she didn't know the Patrician as well as he did, or, more likely, she just didn't find him particularly intimidating. Moist hadn't worked out which one it was yet. He was afraid that he was going to find out that it was the second, but he knew there would be no convincing his wife; it was very difficult to describe the experience of being hung to half an inch of your life. She just didn't have the same awareness of her own mortality like he did, mainly because the things that most people were afraid of took one look at her and ran for the hills. Or, if she was in the direction of the hills, they ran the other way.

"A dinner party next Thursday? Did he actually say-"

"I told you, he never outright says anything; everything is based on interpretation!"

"Well, are you sure you interpreted him right?"

Moist was beginning to lose his patience. "Yes, Adora, I am!" he snapped.

"You don't need to shout." she said, lowering her pen from her Golem Trust work and raising her eyebrows at him. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"No, he never says anything outright. But its my job to interpret him, and I must be good at it because I'm not dead yet!"

"Either that," said Adora Belle, picking up her filofax and skimming through it, "Or you're so bad at it that it keeps him entertained."

"Thank you for that, dearest." Moist muttered, sitting down heavily in an armchair near his wife's desk and covering his face with his hands.

"No problem. Oh, for goodness sake, he would pick the only day of the week when we're busy!"

"What are we doing?" Moist asked, without removing his hands.

"Jovial and her delightful fiancé are coming to dinner; I need to discuss the annual campaign budget with her."

Ah, Jovial Smint. Moist had been involved in the interviewing process for his wife's assistant mainly because Adora was eight months pregnant at the time and had developed a tendency to throw things when she ran out of chocolate, but he had convinced her to hire the young lady on the basis that she would, at the very least, be good at dealing with customers.

Jovial was aptly named in that she was perpetually cheerful, whilst still retaining enough intelligence to keep her bearable. She was devoted to the Rights of a lot of things, but as there was a gap in the market in the Golem section particularly, that was where she had decided to devote her time.

Moist had taken it as a kind of experiment on the neurotic pregnant volcano that his wife had been at the time, and had been very surprised to find that she hadn't killed the poor young assistant within minutes.

On the contrary; Jovial was a perfect foil to Adora's cynicism, and being incredibly efficient and organized helped too. He was fairly sure that reason they got on so well was because Jovial was, for unknown reasons, one of the few people that was not afraid Adora in the slightest. She just didn't view her employer as a threat, which intrigued Adora. Jovial was very different from her other company - namely, Captain Angua and Sergeant Sally von Humperdink, with Lady Sybil sometimes making an appearance (so a werewolf, a vampire and a duchess walked into a bar…gods knows how she'd managed to make friends with such a strange crowd) - and, as much as he loved his wife, it was refreshing to meet a woman that didn't feel the need to dominate everything she was involved in.

"So invite them too."

"Invite Jovial and Mr Herrington too…?" Adora considered it, then ran a hand through her hair, "Okay. Who else are we inviting? We need to make a guest list."

Moist stood up and accepted the piece of paper and pen that his wife passed him, "Right." He stood, poised, then felt like a journalist, so quickly dropped the pose, "Vetinari seems to expect that William De Worde will be there, since he mentioned his dislike of prawns, and-"

"He said that?"

"Well," Moist shrugged, "He, uh, implied…"

"Implied. Right." Adora rolled her eyes, "And who else?"

Looking back, Moist realised how foolish his optimism had been. Silly things he'd thought, like, 'this shouldn't take too long' and 'we can pop around to the printing press after dinner and get them all ready to send out by tomorrow', sprung to mind.

What he hadn't anticipated was that, five hours later, he and Adora would still be cooped up in the study, mounds of paper all over the floor, the waste paper bin overflowing, trying to find the right combination of guests.

Moist took a bite out of a sandwich that was sitting near him. He wasn't sure if it was his or Adora's, but that was getting rather irrelevant. Horseradish. Hmm. Adora's then. He dipped it in a mug of Klatchian coffee that was sitting on his other side and took another bite.

"What about the Sto-Helits - well…Sto-Helit - Duchess Susan?" Adora showed him the entry in the newest edition of Who's Whom, "Lady Sybil probably knows her."

"Good idea, we should have a few people from other cities," Moist pointed the sandwich at her thoughtfully, "What about Lady Margolotta?"

"Only if we invite Vetinari, and half the nobles of Uberwald." she pointed out, causing her husband to groan and drop his head into his hands.

"We're stuck! It's a never-ending circle; we can't have too many people - we don't have room! - but we need enough to make sure what Vetinari wants, happens. And that means we need important people from everywhere here, circulating, so everyone starts to hate each other-"

"-And then they don't plot against him, I know, we've been through this."

There was a few moments of silence, then Adora's face lit up.

"I have an idea."

"What is it?" Moist jumped up and grabbed her hands, "Tell me!"

"You remember that old song, you know, 'Vetinari has no balls'?"

Moist blinked slowly, "…Well, yes, but I don't think that's really going to convince him-"

"Well, we can host the dinner party at the palace, we could even - it could be a Midwinter Gala!"

"…To celebrate the new year!" He slapped his forehead, "How didn't I think of that before? Hogswatch was only last week, its a party to welcome in the new year! And the gala would be by invitation of Moist von Lipwig, so Vetinari wouldn't have to worry about not having balls!"

There was a few seconds where both parties stopped and thought about exactly what had just been said. The laughter that followed those seconds was rather delirious.

The cry of a baby from upstairs cut them out of their hysterics. Moist wiped his eyes, chuckled, then turned to his wife. "I'll go sort out John, you go down to the palace and talk to Vetinari."

Adora gave him an incredulous look, "Me?"

"Yes, you - you really have a way with him. I think he likes you. He's far more likely to say yes if you ask."

"Don't be a wimp, Moist," she rolled her eyes, "I'll go and sort out John, you get the coach ready, then we'll go together. Right?"

About half an hour later, the couple walked smartly through the doors of the Oblong Office. Vetinari didn't even look up.

"Ah, Mr Lipwig, Mrs Lipwig, good evening. It is past eleven o'clock, I do hope there is nothing amiss?"

"We're throwing a Midwinter Gala next Thursday. We'd like to hold it in the palace."

Moist strangled his impulse to clap his hands over Adora's mouth; she was so blunt - she had the subtlety of a five year old. No, worse, because she didn't even try to be subtle! At least children sometimes did, even if it was a nudge-nudge-wink-wink affair. However, thankfully, the Patrician usually seemed to respond quite well to her unabashed forwardness.

"Next Thursday? A little short notice perhaps, but very well."

"You are invited of course, my Lord." Moist cut in quickly, "Hopefully there will be nobles from all over the Disc attending. And the invitations will be from Moist von Lipwig and wife, sir, so as not to - ah - disappoint public opinion."

There was a short pause.

"Quite." said Vetinari. And Moist decided it was a good time to leave.