The paperknife was slowly bending.
“Well?” said the Patrician.
“Not us,” said Ridcully, his voice hollow. The Patrician followed his gaze.
The knife was already curved like a bow.
The Patrician scanned the sheepish crowd until he found Captain Doxie of the City Guard Day Watch.
“Can’t you do something?” he said.
“Er. Like what, sir? The knife? Er. I suppose I could arrest it for being bent.”
Lord Vetinari threw his hands up in the air.
“So! It’s not magic! It’s not gods! It’s not people! What is it? And who’s going to stop it? Who am I going to call?”
Half an hour later the little globe had vanished. No one noticed. They never do.
Mrs. Cake knew who she was going to call.
“You there, One-Man-Bucket?” she said.
Then she ducked, just in case.
A reedy and petulant voice oozed out of the air. where have you been? can’t move in here!
Mrs. Cake bit her lip. Such a direct reply meant her spirit guide was worried. When he didn’t have anything on his mind he spent five minutes talking about buffaloes and great white spirits, although if One-Man-Bucket had ever been near white spirit he’d drunk it and it was anyone’s guess what he’d do to a buffalo. And he kept putting “ums” and “hows” into the conversation.
“What d’you mean?” there been a catastrophe or something? some kind of ten-second plague?
“No. Don’t think so.” there’s real pressure here, you know. what’s holding everything up?
“What do you mean?”
shutupshutupshutup I’m trying to talk to the lady! you lot over there, keep the noise
down! oh yeah? sez you—
Mrs. Cake was aware of other voices trying to drown him out.
“One-Man-Bucket!”
heathen savage, am I? so you know what this heathen savage says to you? yeah? listen, I’ve been over here for a hundred years, me! I don’t have to take talk like that from someone who’s still warm! right—that does it, you…
His voice faded.
Mrs. Cake set her jaw.
His voice came back.
—oh yeah? oh yeah? well, maybe you was big when you was alive, friend, but here and now you’re just a bedsheet with holes in it! oh, so you don’t like that, eh—
“He’s going to start fighting again, mum,” said Ludmilla, who was curled up by the kitchen stove. “He always calls people ‘friend’ just before he hits them.”
Mrs. Cake sighed.
“And it sounds as if he’s going to fight a lot of people,” said Ludmilla.