There are some people that would whistle "Yankee Doodle" in a crowded bar in Atlanta.
Even these people would consider it tactless to mention the word "billygoat" to a troll.
The troll's expression changed very slowly, like a glacier eroding half a mountain. Ponder tried to get under the seat.
"So we'll just trit-trot along, shall we?" said the Bursar, his voice by now slightly muffled.
"He doesn't mean it," said the Archchancellor quickly. "It's the dried frog talking."
"You don't want to eat me," said the Bursar. "You want to eat my brother, he's much mfmfph mfmfph . . ."
"Well, now," said the troll, "seems to me that-" He spotted Casanunda.
"Oh-ho," he said, "dwarf smuggling, eh?"
"Don't be ridiculous, man," said Ridcully, "there's no such thing as dwarf smuggling."
"Yeah? Then what's that you've got there?"
"I'm a giant," said Casanunda.
"Giants are a lot bigger."
"I've been ill."
The troll looked perplexed. This was post-graduate thinking for a troll. But he was looking for trouble. He found it on the roof of the coach, where the Librarian had been sunbathing.
"What's in that sack up there?"
"That's not a sack. That's the Librarian."
The troll prodded the large mass of red hair.
"Ook. . ."
"What? A monkey?"
"Oook?"
Several minutes later, the travellers leaned on the parapet, looking down reflectively at the river far below.
"Happen often, does it?" said Casanunda.
"Not so much these days," said Ridcully. "It's like — what's that word, Stibbons? About breedin' and passin' on stuff to yer kids?"
"Evolution," said Ponder. The ripples were still sloshing against the banks.
"Right. Like, my father had a waistcoat with embroidered peacocks on it, and he left it to me, and now I've got it. They call it hereditarery-"
"No, that's not-" Ponder began, with no hope whatsoever that Ridcully would listen.
"-so anyway, most people left back home know the difference between apes and monkeys now," said Ridcully. "Evolution, that is. It's hard to breed when you've got a headache from being bounced up and down on the pavement."
The ripples had stopped now.
"Do you think trolls can swim?" said Casanunda.
"No. They just sink and walk ashore," said Ridcully He turned, and leaned back on his elbows. "This really takes me back, you know. The old Lancre River. There's trout down there that'd take your arm off."
"Not just trout," said Ponder, watching a helmet emerge from the water.
"And limpid pools further up," said Ridcully. "Full of, of, of . . . limpids, stuff like that. And you can bathe naked and no one'd see. And water meadows full of . . . water, don'tyerknow, and flowers and stuff." He sighed. "You know, it was on this very bridge that she told me she-"
"He's got out of the river," said Ponder. But the troll wasn't moving very fast, because the Librarian was nonchalantly levering one of the big stones out of the parapet.
"On this very bridge I asked-"
"That's a big club he's got," said Casanunda.
"This bridge, I may say, was where I nearly-"
"Could you stop holding that rock in such a provocative way?" said Ponder.
"Oook."
"It'd be a help."
"The actual bridge, if anyone's interested, is where my whole life took a diff-"
"Why don't we just go on?" said Ponder. "He's got a steep climb."
"Good thing for him he hasn't got up here, eh?" said Casanunda. Ponder swiveled the Librarian around and pushed him toward the coach.
"This is the bridge, in fact, where-"
Ridcully turned around.
"Are you coming or not?" said Casanunda, with the reins in his hand.
"I was actually having a quality moment of misty nostalgic remembrance," said Ridcully. "Not that any of you buggers noticed, of course."
Ponder held the door open.
"Well, you know what they say. You can't cross the same river twice, Archchancellor," he said.
Ridcully stared at him.
"Why not? This is a bridge."
On the roof of the coach the Librarian picked up the coach-horn, bit the end of it reflectively — well, you never knew — and then blew it so hard that it uncurled.
It was early morning in Lancre town, and it was more or less deserted. Farmers had got up hours before to curse and swear and throw a bucket at the cows and had then gone back to bed.
The sound of the horn bounced off the houses.
Ridcully leapt out of the coach and took a deep, theatrical breath.
"Can't you smell that?" he said. "That's real fresh mountain air, that is." He thumped his chest.
"I've just trodden in something rural," said Ponder. "Where is the castle, sir?"
"I think it could be that huge black towering thing looming over the town," said Casanunda.
The Archchancellor stood in the middle of the square and turned slowly with his arms spread wide.
"See that tavern?" he said. "Hah! If I had a penny for every time they threw me out of there, I'd have . . . five dollars and thirty-eight pence. And over there is the old forge, and there's Mrs. Persifleur's, where I had lodgings. See that peak up there? That's Copperhead, that is. I climbed that one day with old Carbonaceous the troll. Oh, great days, great days. And see that wood down there, on the hill? That's where she-"
His voice trailed into a mumble. "Oh, my word. It all comes back to me . . . What a summer that was. They don't make 'em like that anymore." He sighed. "You know," he said, "I'd give anything to walk through those woods with her again. There were so many things we never — oh, well. Come on."
Ponder looked around at Lancre. He'd been born and raised in Ankh-Morpork. As far as he was concerned, the countryside was something that happened to other people, and most of them had four legs. As far as he was concerned, the countryside was like raw chaos before the universe, which was to say something with cobbles and walls, something civilized, was created.
"This is the capital city?" he said.
"More or less," said Casanunda, who tended to feel the same way about places that weren't paved.
"I bet there's not a single delicatessen anywhere," said Ponder.
"And the beer here," said Ridcully, "the beer here — well, you'd just better taste the beer here! And there's stuff called scumble, they make it from apples and . . . and damned if I know what else they put in it, except you daren't pour it into metal mugs. You ought to try it, Mr. Stibbons. It'd put hair on your chest. And yours-" he turned to the next one down from the coach, who turned out to be the Librarian.
"Oook?"
"Well, I, er, I should just drink anything you like, in your case," said Ridcully.
He hauled the mail sack down from the roof.
"What do we do with this?" he said.
There were ambling footsteps behind him, and he turned to see a short, red-faced youth in ill-fitting and baggy chain-mail, which made him look like a lizard that had lost a lot of weight very quickly.
"Where's the coach driver?" said Shawn Ogg.
"He's ill," said Ridcully. "He had a sudden attack of bandits. What do we do with the mail?"
"I take the palace stuff, and we generally leave the sack hanging up on a nail outside the tavern so that people can help themselves," said Shawn.
"Isn't that dangerous?" said Ponder.
"Don't think so. It's a strong nail," said Shawn, rummaging in the sack.
"I meant, don't people steal letters?"
"Oh, they wouldn't do that, they wouldn't do that. One of the witches'd go and stare at 'em if they did that." Shawn stuffed a few packages under his arm and hung the sack on the aforesaid nail.
"Yes, that's another thing they used to have round here," said Ridcully. "Witches! Let me tell you about the witches round here-"
"Our mum's a witch," said Shawn conversationally, rummaging in the sack.
"As fine a body of women as you could hope to meet," said Ridcully, with barely a hint of mental gear-clashing. "And not a bunch of interfering power-mad old crones at all, whatever anyone might say."
"Are you here for the wedding?"
"That's right. I'm the Archchancellor of Unseen University, this is Mr. Stibbons, a wizard, this — where are you? Oh, there you are — this is Mr. Casanunda-"
"Count," said Casanunda. "I'm a Count."
"Really? You never said."
"Well, you don't, do you? It's not the first thing you say."
Ridcully's eyes narrowed.
"But I thought dwarfs didn't have titles," he said.
"I performed a small service for Queen Agantia of Skund," said Casanunda.
"Did you? My word. How small?"
"Not that small."
"My word. And that's the Bursar, and this is the Librarian." Ridcully took a step backward, waved his hands in the air, and silently mouthed the words: Don't Say Monkey.
"Pleased to meet you," said Shawn, politely.
Ridcully felt moved to investigate.
"The Librarian," he repeated.
"Yes. You said." Shawn nodded at the orang-utan. "How d'you do?"
"Ook."
"You might be wondering why he looks like that," Ridcully prompted.
"No, sir."
"No?"
"My mum says none of us can help how we're made," said Shawn.
"What a singular lady. And what is her name?" said
Ridcully.
"Mrs. Ogg, sir."
"Ogg? Ogg? Name rings a bell. Any relation to Sobriety Ogg?"
"He was my dad, sir."
"Good grief. Old Sobriety's son? How is the old devil?"
"Dunno, sir, what with him being dead."
"Oh dear. How long ago?"
"These past thirty years," said Shawn.
"But you don't look any older than twen-" Ponder began. Ridcully elbowed him sharply in the ribcage.
"This is the countryside," he hissed. "People do things differently here. And more often." He turned back to Shawn's pink and helpful face.
"Things seem to be waking up a bit," he said, and indeed shutters were coming down around the square. "We'll get some breakfast in the tavern. They used to do wonderful breakfasts." He sniffed again, and beamed.
"Now that" he said, "is what I call fresh air."
Shawn looked around carefully.
"Yes, sir," he said. "That's what we call it, too." ' There was the sound of someone frantically running, and then a pause, and King Verence II appeared around the comer, walking slowly and calmly with a very red face.
"Certainly gives people a rosy complexion," said Ridcully cheerfully.
"It's the king!" hissed Shawn. "And me without my trumpet!"
"Urn," said Verence. "Post been yet, Shawn?"
"Oh, yes, sire!" said Shawn, almost as flustered as the king. "Got it right here. Don't you worry about it! I'll open it all up and have it on your desk right away, sire!"
"Urn. . ."
"Something the matter, sire?"
"Um . . . I think perhaps . . ."
Shawn was already tearing at the wrappers.
"Here's that book on etiquette you've been waiting for, sire, and the pig stockbook, and . . . what's this one . . . ?"
Verence made a grab for it. Shawn automatically tried to hang on to it. The wrapping split, and the large bulky book thumped on to the cobbles. Its fluttering pages played their woodcuts to the breeze.
They looked down.
"Wow!" said Shawn.
"My word," said Ridcully.
"Um," said the king.
"Oook?"
Shawn picked up the book very, very carefully, and turned a few pages.
"Hey, look at this one! He's doing it with his feet! I didn't know you could do it with your feet!" He nudged Ponder Stibbons. "Look, sir!"
Ridcully peered at the king.
"You all right, your majesty?" he said.
Verence squirmed.
"Um . . ."
"And, look, here's one where both chaps are doing it with sticks . . ."
"What?" said Verence.
"Wow," said Shawn. "Thank you, sire. This is going to really come in handy, I can tell you. I mean, I've picked up bits and pieces here and there, but-"
Verence snatched the book from Shawn's hands and looked at the title page.
"'Martial Arts"? Martial Arts. But I'm sure I wrote Marit-"
"Sire?"
There was one exquisite moment while Verence fought for mental balance, but he won.
"Ah. Yes. Right. Uh. Well, yes. Uh. Of course. Yes. Well, you see, a well-trained army is . . . is essential to the security of any kingdom. That's right. Yes. Fine. Magrat and me, we thought. . . yes. It's for you, Shawn."
"I'll start practicing right away, sire!"
"Um. Good."
Jason Ogg awoke, and wished he hadn't.
Let's be clear. Many authorities have tried to describe a hangover. Dancing elephants and so on are often employed for this purpose. The descriptions never work. The always smack of, hoho, here's one for the lads, let's have some hangover machismo, hoho, landlord, another nineteen pints of lager, hey, we supped some stuff last night, hoho . . .
Anyway, you can't describe a scumble hangover. The best bit of it is a feeling that your teeth have dissolved and coated themselves on your tongue.
Eventually the blacksmith sat up and opened his eyes[26].
His clothes were soaked with dew.
His head felt full of wisps and whispers.
He stared at the stones.
The scumble jar was lying in the leather. After a moment or two he picked it up, and took an experimental swig. It was empty.
He nudged Weaver in the ribs with his boot.
"Wake up, you old bugger. We've been up here all night!"
One by one, the Morris Men made the short but painful journey into consciousness.
"I'm going to get some stick from our Eva when I get home," moaned Carter.
"You might not," said Thatcher, who was on his hands and knees looking for his hat. "Maybe when you gets 'ome she'll have married someone else, eh?"
"Maybe a hundred years'll have gone past," said Carter, hopefully.
"Cor, I hope so," said Weaver, brightening up. "I had sevenpence invested in The Thrift Bank down in Ohulan. I'll be a millionaire at complicated interest. I'll be as rich as Creosote."
"Who's Creosote?" said Thatcher.
"Famous rich bugger," said Barker, fishing one of his boots out of a peat pool. "Foreign."
"Wasn't he the one, everything he touched turned to gold?" said Carter.
"Nah, that was someone else. Some king or other. That's what happens in foreign parts. One minute you're all right, next minute, everything you touch turns to gold. He was plagued with it."
Carter looked puzzled.
"How did he manage when he had to-"
"Let that be a lesson to you, young Carter," said Baker. "You stay here where folks are sensible, not go gadding off abroad where you might suddenly be holding a fortune in your hands and not have anything to spend it on."
"We've slept out here all night," said Jason uncertainly "That's dangerous, that is."
"You're right there, Mr. Ogg," said Carter, "I think something went to the toilet in my ear."
"I mean strange things can enter your head."
"That's what I mean, too."
Jason blinked. He was certain he'd dreamed. He could remember dreaming. But he couldn't remember what the dream had been about. But there was still the feeling in his head of voices talking to him, but too far away to be heard.
"Oh, well," he said, managing to stand up at the third attempt, "probably no harm done. Let's get on home and see what century it is."
"What century is it, anyway?" said Thatcher. "Century of the Fruitbat, isn't it?" said Baker. "Might not be anymore," said Carter hopefully. It turned out that it was, indeed, the Century of the Fruitbat. Lancre didn't have much use for units of time any smaller than an hour or larger than a year, but people were clearly putting up bunting in the town square and a gang of men were erecting the Maypole. Someone was nailing up a very badly painted picture of Verence and Magrat under which was the slogan: God Bless Their Majestieys.
With hardly a word exchanged, the men parted and staggered their separate ways.
A hare lolloped through the morning mist until it reached the drunken, ancient cottage in its clearing in the woods.
It reached a tree stump between the privy and The Herbs. Most woodland animals avoided The Herbs. This was because animals that didn't avoid The Herbs over the past fifty years had tended not to have descendants. A few tendrils waved in the breeze and this was odd because there wasn't any breeze.
It sat on the stump.
And then there was a sensation of movement. Something left the hare and moved across the air to an open upstairs window. It was invisible, at least to normal eyesight. ' The hare changed. Before, it had moved with purpose. Now it flopped down and began to wash its ears.
After a while the back door opened and Granny Weatherwax walked out stiffly, holding a bowl of bread and milk. She put it down on the step and turned back without a second glance, closing the door again behind her.
The hare hopped closer.
It's hard to know if animals understand obligations, or the nature of transactions. But that doesn't matter. They're built into witchcraft. If you want to really upset a witch, do her a favour which she has no means of repaying. The unfulfilled obligation will nag at her like a hangnail.
Granny Weatherwax had been riding the hare's mind all night. Now she owed it something. There's be bread and milk left outside for a few days.
You had to repay, good or bad. There was more than one type of obligation. That's what people never really understood, she told herself as she stepped back into the kitchen. Magrat hadn't understood it, nor that new girl. Things had to balance. You couldn't set out to be a good witch or a bad witch. It never worked for long. All you could try to be was a witch, as hard as you could.
She sat down by the cold hearth, and resisted a temptation to comb her ears.
They had broken in somewhere. She could feel it in the trees, in the minds of tiny animals. She was planning something. Something soon. There was of course nothing special about midsummer in the occult sense, but there was in the minds of people. And the minds of people was where eleves were strong.
Granny knew that sooner or later she'd have to face the Queen. Not Magrat, but the real Queen.
And she would lose.
She'd worked all her life on controlling the insides of her own head. She'd prided herself on being the best there was.
But no longer. Just when she needed all her self reliance, she couldn't rely on her mind. She could sense the probing of the Queen — she could remember the feel of that mind, from all those decades ago. And she seemed to have her usual skill at Borrowing. But herself — if she didn't leave little notes for herself, she'd be totally at sea. Being a witch meant knowing exactly who you were and where you were, and she was losing the ability to know both. Last night she'd found herself setting the table for two people. She'd tried to walk into a room she didn't have. And soon she'd have to fight an elf.
If you fought an elf and lost. . . then, if you were lucky, you would die.
Magrat was brought breakfast in bed by a giggling Millie
Chillum.
"Guests are arriving already, ma'am. And there's flags and everything down in the square! And Shawn has found the coronation coach!"
"How can you lose a coach?" said Magrat.
"It was locked up in one of the old stables, ma'am. He's giving it a fresh coat of gold paint right now."
"But we're going to be married here," said Magrat. "We don't have to go anywhere."
"The king said perhaps you could both ride around a bit. Maybe as far as Bad Ass, he said. With Shawn Ogg as a military escort. So people can wave and shout hooray. And then come back here."
Magrat put on her dressing gown and crossed to the tower window. She could see down over the outer walls and into Lancre town square, which was already quite full of people. It would have been a market day in any case, but people were erecting benches as well and the Maypole was already up. There were even a few dwarfs and trolls, politely maintaining a distance from one another.
"I just saw a monkey walk across the square," said
Magrat.
"The whole world's coming to Lancre!" said Millie, who had once been as far as Slice.
Magrat caught sight of the distant picture of herself and her fiance.
"This is stupid," she said to herself, but Millie heard her and was shocked.
"What can you mean, ma'am?"
Magrat spun around.
"All this! For me!"
Millie backed away in sudden fright.
"I'm just Magrat Garlick! Kings ought to marry princesses and duchesses and people like that! People who are used to it! I don't want people shouting hooray just because I've gone by in a coach! And especially not people who've known me all my life! All this — this," her frantic gesture took in the hated garderobe, the huge four-poster bed, and the dressing room full of stiff and expensive clothes, "this stuff . . . it's not for me! It's for some kind of idea. Didn't you ever get those cut-outs, those dolls, you know, when you were a girl . . . dolls you cut out, and there were cut-out clothes as well? And you could make her anything you wanted? That's me! It's . . . it's like the bees! I'm being turned into a queen whether I want to or not! That's what's happening to me!"
"I'm sure the king bought you all those nice clothes because-"
"I don't mean just clothes. I mean people'd be shouting hooray if — if anyone went past in the coach!"
"But you were the one who fell in love with the king, ma'am," said Millie, bravely.
Magrat hesitated for a moment. She'd never quite analysed that emotion. Eventually she said, "No. He wasn't king then. No one knew he was going to be king. He was just a sad, nice little man in a cap and bells who everyone ignored."
Millie backed away a bit more.
"I expect it's nerves, ma'am," she gabbled. "Everyone feels nervous on the day before their wedding. Shall I . . . shall I see if I can make you some herbal-"
"I'm not nervous! And I can do my own herbal tea if I happen to want any!"
"Cook's very particular who goes into the herb garden, ma'am," said Millie.
"I've seen that herb garden! It's all leggy sage and yellowy parsley! If you can't stuff it up a chicken's bum, she doesn't think it's an herb! Anyway . . . who's queen in this vicinity?"
"I thought you didn't want to be, ma'am?" said Millie.
Magrat stared at her. For a moment she looked as if she was arguing with herself.
Millie might not have been the best-informed girl in the world, but she wasn't stupid. She was at the door and through it just as the breakfast tray hit the wall.
Magrat sat down on the bed with her head in her hands.
She didn't want to be queen. Being a queen was like being an actor, and Magrat had never been any good at acting. She'd always felt she wasn't very good at being Magrat, if it came to that.
The bustle of the pre-nuptial activities rose up from the town. There'd be folk dancing, of course — there seemed to be no way of preventing it — and probably folk singing would be perpetrated. And there'd be dancing bears and comic jugglers and the greasy pole competition, which for some reason Nanny Ogg always won. And bowling-with-a-pig. And the bran tub, which Nanny Ogg usually ran; it was a brave man who plunged his hand into a bran tub stocked by a witch with a broad sense of humour. Magrat had always liked the fairs. Up until now.
Well, there were still some things she could do.
She dressed herself in her commoner's clothes for the ' last time, and let herself out and down the back stairs to the widdershins tower and the room where Diamanda lay
Magrat had instructed Shawn to keep a good fire going in the grate, and Diamanda was still sleeping, peacefully, the unwakeable sleep.
Magrat couldn't help noticing that Diamanda was strikingly good-looking and, from what she'd heard, quite brave enough to stand up to Granny Weatherwax. She could hardly wait to get her better so that she could envy her properly.
The wound seemed to be healing up nicely, but there seemed to be —
Magrat strode to the bellpull in the comer and hauled on it.
After a minute or two Shawn Ogg arrived, panting. There was gold paint on his hands.
"What," said Magrat, "are all these things?"
"Um. Don't like to say, ma'am . . ."
"One happens to be . . . very nearly . . . the queen," said Magrat.
"Yes, but the king said . . . well. Granny said-"
"Granny Weatherwax does not happen to rule the kingdom," said Magrat. She hated herself when she spoke like this, but it seemed to work. "And anyway she's not here. One is here, however, and if you don't tell one what's going on I'll see to it that you do all the dirty jobs around the palace."
"But I do all the dirty jobs anyway," said Shawn.
"I shall see to it that there are dirtier ones."
Magrat picked up one of the bundles. It was made up of strips of sheet wrapped around what turned out to be an iron bar.
"They're all around her," she said. "Why?"
Shawn looked at his feet. There was gold paint on his boots, too.
"Well, our mum said . . ."
"Yes?"
"Our mum said I was to see to it that there was iron round her. So me and Millie got some bars from down the smithy and wrapped 'em up like this and Millie packed 'em round her."
"Why?"
"To keep away the . . . the Lords and Ladies, ma'am."
"What? That's just old superstition! Anyway, everyone knows elves were good, whatever Granny Weatherwax says."
Behind her, Shawn flinched. Magrat pulled the wrapped iron lumps out of the bed and tossed them into the comer.
"No old wives' tales here, thank you very much. Is there anything else people haven't been telling me, by any chance?"
Shawn shook his head, guiltily aware of the thing in the dungeon.
"Huh! Well, go away. Verence wants the kingdom to be modem and efficient, and that means no horseshoes and stuff around the place. Go on, go away."
"Yes, Miss Queen."
At least I can do something positive around here, Magrat told herself.
Yes. Be sensible. Go and see him. Talk. Magrat clung to the idea that practically anything could be sorted out if only people talked to one another.
"Shawn?"
He paused at the door.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Has the king gone down to the Great Hall yet?"
"I think he's still dressing, Miss Queen. He hasn't rung for me to do the trumpet, I know that."
In fact, Verence, who didn't like going everywhere preceded by Shawn's idea of a fanfare, had already gone downstairs incognito. But Magrat slipped along to his room, and knocked on the door.
Why be bashful? It'd be her room as well from tomorrow, wouldn't it? She tried the handle. It turned. Without quite willing it, Magrat went in.
Rooms in the castle could hardly be said to belong to anyone in any case. They'd had too many occupants over the centuries. The very atmosphere was the equivalent of those walls scattered with outbreaks of drawing-pin holes where last term's occupants hung the posters of rock groups long disbanded. You couldn't stamp your personality on that stone. It stamped back harder.
For Magrat, stepping into a man's bedroom was like an explorer stepping on to that part of the map marked Here Be Dragons[27].
And it wasn't exactly what it ought to have been.
Verence had arrived at the bedroom concept fairly late in life. When he was a boy, the entire family slept on straw in the cottage attic. As an apprentice in the Guild of Joculators, he'd slept on a pallet in a long dormitory of other sad, beaten young men. When he was a fully fledged Fool he'd slept, by tradition, curled up in front of his master's door. Suddenly, at a later age than is usual, he'd been introduced to the notion of soft mattresses.
And now Magrat was privy to the big secret.
It hadn't worked.
There was the Great Bed of Lancre, which was said to be able to sleep a dozen people, although in what circumstances and why it should be necessary history had never made clear. It was huge and made of oak.
It was also, very clearly, unslept in.
Magrat pulled back the sheets, and smelled the scorched smell of linen. But it also smelled unaired, as if it hadn't been slept in.
She stared around the room until her eye lit on the little still-life by the door. There was a folded nightshirt, a candlestick, and a small pillow.
As far as Verence had been concerned, a crown merely changed which side of the door you slept.
Oh, gods. He'd always slept in front of the door of his master. And now he was king, he slept in front of the door to his kingdom.
Magrat felt her eyes fill with tears.
You couldn't help loving someone as soppy as that.
Fascinated, and aware that she was where she technically shouldn't be, Magrat blew her nose and explored further. A heap of discarded garments by the bed suggested that Verence had mastered the art of hanging up clothes as practiced by half the population of the world, and also that he had equally had difficulty with the complex topological manoeuvres necessary to turn his socks the right way out.
There was a tiny dressing table and a mirror. Stuck to the mirror frame was a dried and faded flower that looked, to Magrat, very like the ones she habitually wore in her hair.
She shouldn't have gone on looking. She admitted that to herself, afterward. But she seemed to have no self-control.
There was a wooden bowl in the middle of the dresser table, full of odd coins, bits of string, and the general detritus of the nightly emptied pocket.
And a folded paper. Much folded, as if it had stayed in said pocket for some time.
She picked it up, and unfolded it.
There were little kingdoms all over the hubward slopes of the Ramtops. Every narrow valley, every ledge that something other than a goat could stand on, was a kingdom. There were kingdoms in the Ramtops so small that, if they were ravaged by a dragon, and that dragon had been killed by a young hero, and the king had given him half his kingdom as per Section Three of the Heroic Code, then there wouldn't have been any kingdom left. There were wars of annexation that went on for years just because someone wanted a place to keep the coal.
Lancre was one of the biggest kingdoms. It could actually afford a standing army[28].
Kings and queens and various sub-orders of aristocracy were even now streaming over Lancre bridge, watched by a sulking and soaking-wet troll who had given up on bridge-keeping for the day.
The Great Hall had been thrown open. Jugglers and fire-eaters strolled among the crowd. Up in the minstrels gallery a small orchestra were playing the Lancre one-string fiddle and famed Ramtop bagpipes, but fortunately they were more or less drowned out by the noise of the crowd.
Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax moved through said crowd. In deference to this being a festive occasion, Nanny Ogg had exchanged her normal black pointy hat for one the same shape but in red, with wax cherries on it.
"All the hort mond are here," Nanny observed, taking a drink off a passing tray. "Even some wizards from Ankh-Morpork, our Shawn said. One of them said I had a fine body, he said. Been tryin' to remember all morning who that could have been."
"Spoilled for choice," said Granny, but it was automatic nastiness, with no real heart to it. It worried Nanny Ogg. Her friend seemed preoccupied.
"There's some gentry we don't want to see here," said Granny. "I won't be happy until all this is over."
Nanny Ogg craned to try and see over the head of a small emperor.
"Can't see Magrat around," she said. "There's Verence talking to some other kings, but can't see our Magrat at all. Our Shawn said Millie Chillum said she was just a bag of nerves this morning."
"All these high-born folks," said Granny, looking around at the crowned heads. "I feel like a fish out of water."
"Well, the way I see it, it's up to you to make your own water," said Nanny, picking up a cold roast chicken leg from the buffet and stuffing it up a sleeve.
"Don't drink too much. We've got to keep alert, Gytha. Remember what I said. Don't let yourself get distracted-"
"That's never the delectable Mrs. Ogg, is it?"
Nanny turned.
There was no one behind her.
"Down here," said the voice.
She looked down, into a wide grin.
"Oh, blast," she said.
"It's me, Casanunda," said Casanunda, who was dwarfed still further by an enormous[30] powdered wig. "You remember? We danced the night away in Genua?"
"No we didn't."
"Well, we could have done."
"Fancy you turning up here," said Nanny, weakly. The thing about Casanunda, she recalled, was that the harder you slapped him down the faster he bounced back, often in an unexpected direction.
"Our stars are entwined," said Casanunda. "We're fated for one another. I wants your body, Mrs. Ogg."
"I'm still using it."
And while she suspected, quite accurately, that this was an approach the world's second greatest lover used on anything that appeared to be even vaguely female, Nanny Ogg had to admit that she was flattered. She'd had many admirers in her younger days, but time had left her with a body that could only be called comfortable and a face like Mr. Grape the Happy Raisin. Long-banked fires gave off a little smoke.
Besides, she'd rather liked Casanunda. Most men were oblique in their approach, whereas his direct attack was refreshing.
"It'd never work," she said. "We're basically incompatible. When I'm 5' 4" you'll still only be 3' 9". Anyway, I'm old enough to be your mother."
"You can't be. My mother's nearly 300, and she's got a better beard than you."
And of course that was another point. By dwarf standards, Nanny Ogg was hardly more than a teenager.
"La, sir," she said, giving him a playful tap that made his ears ring, "you do know how to turn a simple country girl's head and no mistake!"
Casanunda picked himself up and adjusted his wig happily
"I like a girl with spirit," he said. "How about you and me having a little tete-a-tete when this is over?"
Nanny Ogg's face went blank. Her cosmopolitan grip of language had momentarily let her down.
"Excuse me a minute," she said. She put her drink down on his head and pushed through the crowd until she found a likely looking duchess, and prodded her in the bustle regions.
"Hey, your grace, what's a tater tate?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"A tater tate? Do you do it with your clothes on or what?"
"It means an intimate meeting, my good woman."
"Is that all? Oh. Ta."
Nanny Ogg elbowed her way back to the vibrating dwarf.
"You're on," she said.
"I thought we could have a little private dinner, just you and me," said Casanunda. "In one of the taverns?"
Never, in a long history of romance, had Nanny Ogg ever been taken out for an intimate dinner. Her courtships had been more noted for their quantity than their quality.
"OK," was all she could think of to say.
"Dodge your chaperone and meet me at six o'clock?"
Nanny Ogg glanced at Granny Weatherwax, who was watching them disapprovingly from a distance.
"She's not my-" she began.
Then it dawned on her that Casanunda couldn't possibly have really thought that Granny Weatherwax was chaperoning her.
Compliments and flattery had also been very minor components in the machinery of Nanny Ogg's courtships.
"Yes, all right," she said.
"And now I shall circulate, so that people don't talk and ruin your reputation," said Casanunda, bowing and kissing Nanny Ogg's hand.
Her mouth dropped open. No one had ever kissed her hand before, either, and certainly no one had ever worried about her reputation, least of all Nanny Ogg.
As the world's second greatest lover bustled off to accost a countess. Granny Weatherwax — who had been watching from a discreet distance[31] — said, in an amiable voice: "You haven't got the morals of a cat, Gytha Ogg."
"Now, Esme, you know that's not true."
"All right. You have got the morals of a cat, then."
"That's better."
Nanny Ogg patted her mass of white curls and wondered if she had time to go home and put her corsets on.
"We must stay on our guard, Gytha."
"Yes, yes."
"Can't let other considerations turn our heads."
"No, no."
"You're not listening to a word I say, are you?"
"What?"
"You could at least find out why Magrat isn't down here."
"All right."
Nanny Ogg wandered off, dreamily.
Granny Weatherwax turned—
—there should have been violins. The murmur of the crowd should have faded away, and the crowd itself should have parted in a quite natural movement to leave an empty path between her and Ridcully
There should have been violins. There should have been something.
There shouldn't have been the Librarian accidentally knuckling her on the toe on his way to the buffet, but this, in fact, there was.
She hardly noticed.
"Esme?" said Ridcully
"Mustrum?" said Granny Weatherwax.
Nanny Ogg bustled up.
"Esme, I saw Millie Chillum and she said-"
Granny Weatherwax's vicious elbow jab winded her. Nanny took in the scene.
"Ah," she said, "I'll just, I'll just. . . I'll just go away, then."
The gazes locked again.
The Librarian knuckled past again with an entire display of fruit.
Granny Weatherwax paid him no heed.
The Bursar, who was currently on the median point of his cycle, tapped Ridcully on the shoulder.
"I say, Archchancellor, these quails' eggs are amazingly go-"
"DROP DEAD. Mr. Stibbons, fish out the frog pills and keep knives away from him, please."
The gazes locked again.
"Well, well," said Granny, after a year or so.
"This must be some enchanted evening," said Ridcully.
"Yes. That's what I'm afraid of."
"That really is you, isn't it?"
"It's really me," said Granny
"You haven't changed a bit, Esme."
"Nor have you, then. You're still a rotten liar, Mustrum Ridcully"
They walked toward one another. The Librarian shuttled between them with a tray of meringues. Behind them, Ponder Stibbons grovelled on the floor for a spilled bottle of dried frog pills.
"Well, well," said Ridcully.
"Fancy that."
"Small world."
"Yes indeed."
"You're you and I'm me. Amazing. And it's here and now."
"Yes, but then was then."
"I sent you a lot of letters," said Ridcully
"Never got 'em."
There was a glint in Ridcully's eye.
"That's odd. And there was me putting all those destination spells on them too," he said. He gave her a critical up-and-down glance. "How much do you weigh, Esme? Not a spare ounce on you, I'll be bound."
"What do you want to know for?"
"Indulge an old man."
"Nine stones, then."
"Hmm . . . should be about right . . . three miles hubward . . . you'll feel a slight lurch to the left, nothing to worry about. . ."
In a lightning movement, he grabbed her hand. He felt young and light-headed. The wizards back at the University would have been astonished.
"Let me take you away from all this."
He snapped his fingers.
There has to be at least an approximate conservation of mass. It's a fundamental magical rule. If something is moved from A to B, something that was at B has got to find itself at A.
And then there's momentum. Slow as the disc spins, various points of its radii are moving at different speeds relative to the Hub, and a wizard projecting himself any distance toward the Rim had better be prepared to land jogging.
The three miles to Lancre Bridge merely involved a faint tug, which Ridcully had been ready for, and he landed up leaning against the parapet with Esme Weatherwax in his arms.
The customs troll who had until a fraction of a second previously been sitting there ended up lying full length on the floor of the Great Hall, coincidentally on top of the Bursar.
Granny Weatherwax looked over at the rushing water, and then at Ridcully.
"Take me back this instant," she said. "You've got no right to do that."
"Dear me, I seem to have run out of power. Can't understand it, very embarrassing, fingers gone all limp," said Ridcully. "Of course, we could walk. It's a lovely evening. You always did get lovely evenings here."
"It was all fifty or sixty years ago!" said Granny. "You can't suddenly turn up and say all those years haven't happened."
"Oh, I know they've happened all right," said Ridcully. "I'm the head wizard now. I've only got to give an order and a thousand wizards will. . . uh . . . disobey, come to think of it, or say 'What?', or start to argue. But they have to take notice."
"I've been to that University a few times," said Granny. "A bunch of fat old men in beards."
"That's right! That's them!"
"A lot of 'em come from the Ramtops," said Granny. "I knew a few boys from Lancre who became wizards."
"Very magical area," Ridcully agreed. "Something in the air."
Below them, the cold black waters raced, always dancing to gravity, never flowing uphill.
"There was even a Weatherwax as Archchancellor, years ago," said Ridcully.
"So I understand. Distant cousin. Never knew him," said Granny.
They both stared down at the river for a moment. Occasionally a twig or a branch would whirl along in the current.
"Do you remember-"
"I have a . . . very good memory, thank you."
"Do you ever wonder what life would have been like if
you'd said yes?" said Ridcully.
"No."
"I suppose we'd have settled down, had children, grandchildren, that sort of thing . . ."
Granny shrugged. It was the sort of thing romantic idiots said. But there was something in the air tonight. . .
"What about the fire?" she said.
"What fire?"
"Swept through our house just after we were married.
Killed us both."
"What fire? I don't know anything about any fire?"
Even these people would consider it tactless to mention the word "billygoat" to a troll.
The troll's expression changed very slowly, like a glacier eroding half a mountain. Ponder tried to get under the seat.
"So we'll just trit-trot along, shall we?" said the Bursar, his voice by now slightly muffled.
"He doesn't mean it," said the Archchancellor quickly. "It's the dried frog talking."
"You don't want to eat me," said the Bursar. "You want to eat my brother, he's much mfmfph mfmfph . . ."
"Well, now," said the troll, "seems to me that-" He spotted Casanunda.
"Oh-ho," he said, "dwarf smuggling, eh?"
"Don't be ridiculous, man," said Ridcully, "there's no such thing as dwarf smuggling."
"Yeah? Then what's that you've got there?"
"I'm a giant," said Casanunda.
"Giants are a lot bigger."
"I've been ill."
The troll looked perplexed. This was post-graduate thinking for a troll. But he was looking for trouble. He found it on the roof of the coach, where the Librarian had been sunbathing.
"What's in that sack up there?"
"That's not a sack. That's the Librarian."
The troll prodded the large mass of red hair.
"Ook. . ."
"What? A monkey?"
"Oook?"
Several minutes later, the travellers leaned on the parapet, looking down reflectively at the river far below.
"Happen often, does it?" said Casanunda.
"Not so much these days," said Ridcully. "It's like — what's that word, Stibbons? About breedin' and passin' on stuff to yer kids?"
"Evolution," said Ponder. The ripples were still sloshing against the banks.
"Right. Like, my father had a waistcoat with embroidered peacocks on it, and he left it to me, and now I've got it. They call it hereditarery-"
"No, that's not-" Ponder began, with no hope whatsoever that Ridcully would listen.
"-so anyway, most people left back home know the difference between apes and monkeys now," said Ridcully. "Evolution, that is. It's hard to breed when you've got a headache from being bounced up and down on the pavement."
The ripples had stopped now.
"Do you think trolls can swim?" said Casanunda.
"No. They just sink and walk ashore," said Ridcully He turned, and leaned back on his elbows. "This really takes me back, you know. The old Lancre River. There's trout down there that'd take your arm off."
"Not just trout," said Ponder, watching a helmet emerge from the water.
"And limpid pools further up," said Ridcully. "Full of, of, of . . . limpids, stuff like that. And you can bathe naked and no one'd see. And water meadows full of . . . water, don'tyerknow, and flowers and stuff." He sighed. "You know, it was on this very bridge that she told me she-"
"He's got out of the river," said Ponder. But the troll wasn't moving very fast, because the Librarian was nonchalantly levering one of the big stones out of the parapet.
"On this very bridge I asked-"
"That's a big club he's got," said Casanunda.
"This bridge, I may say, was where I nearly-"
"Could you stop holding that rock in such a provocative way?" said Ponder.
"Oook."
"It'd be a help."
"The actual bridge, if anyone's interested, is where my whole life took a diff-"
"Why don't we just go on?" said Ponder. "He's got a steep climb."
"Good thing for him he hasn't got up here, eh?" said Casanunda. Ponder swiveled the Librarian around and pushed him toward the coach.
"This is the bridge, in fact, where-"
Ridcully turned around.
"Are you coming or not?" said Casanunda, with the reins in his hand.
"I was actually having a quality moment of misty nostalgic remembrance," said Ridcully. "Not that any of you buggers noticed, of course."
Ponder held the door open.
"Well, you know what they say. You can't cross the same river twice, Archchancellor," he said.
Ridcully stared at him.
"Why not? This is a bridge."
On the roof of the coach the Librarian picked up the coach-horn, bit the end of it reflectively — well, you never knew — and then blew it so hard that it uncurled.
It was early morning in Lancre town, and it was more or less deserted. Farmers had got up hours before to curse and swear and throw a bucket at the cows and had then gone back to bed.
The sound of the horn bounced off the houses.
Ridcully leapt out of the coach and took a deep, theatrical breath.
"Can't you smell that?" he said. "That's real fresh mountain air, that is." He thumped his chest.
"I've just trodden in something rural," said Ponder. "Where is the castle, sir?"
"I think it could be that huge black towering thing looming over the town," said Casanunda.
The Archchancellor stood in the middle of the square and turned slowly with his arms spread wide.
"See that tavern?" he said. "Hah! If I had a penny for every time they threw me out of there, I'd have . . . five dollars and thirty-eight pence. And over there is the old forge, and there's Mrs. Persifleur's, where I had lodgings. See that peak up there? That's Copperhead, that is. I climbed that one day with old Carbonaceous the troll. Oh, great days, great days. And see that wood down there, on the hill? That's where she-"
His voice trailed into a mumble. "Oh, my word. It all comes back to me . . . What a summer that was. They don't make 'em like that anymore." He sighed. "You know," he said, "I'd give anything to walk through those woods with her again. There were so many things we never — oh, well. Come on."
Ponder looked around at Lancre. He'd been born and raised in Ankh-Morpork. As far as he was concerned, the countryside was something that happened to other people, and most of them had four legs. As far as he was concerned, the countryside was like raw chaos before the universe, which was to say something with cobbles and walls, something civilized, was created.
"This is the capital city?" he said.
"More or less," said Casanunda, who tended to feel the same way about places that weren't paved.
"I bet there's not a single delicatessen anywhere," said Ponder.
"And the beer here," said Ridcully, "the beer here — well, you'd just better taste the beer here! And there's stuff called scumble, they make it from apples and . . . and damned if I know what else they put in it, except you daren't pour it into metal mugs. You ought to try it, Mr. Stibbons. It'd put hair on your chest. And yours-" he turned to the next one down from the coach, who turned out to be the Librarian.
"Oook?"
"Well, I, er, I should just drink anything you like, in your case," said Ridcully.
He hauled the mail sack down from the roof.
"What do we do with this?" he said.
There were ambling footsteps behind him, and he turned to see a short, red-faced youth in ill-fitting and baggy chain-mail, which made him look like a lizard that had lost a lot of weight very quickly.
"Where's the coach driver?" said Shawn Ogg.
"He's ill," said Ridcully. "He had a sudden attack of bandits. What do we do with the mail?"
"I take the palace stuff, and we generally leave the sack hanging up on a nail outside the tavern so that people can help themselves," said Shawn.
"Isn't that dangerous?" said Ponder.
"Don't think so. It's a strong nail," said Shawn, rummaging in the sack.
"I meant, don't people steal letters?"
"Oh, they wouldn't do that, they wouldn't do that. One of the witches'd go and stare at 'em if they did that." Shawn stuffed a few packages under his arm and hung the sack on the aforesaid nail.
"Yes, that's another thing they used to have round here," said Ridcully. "Witches! Let me tell you about the witches round here-"
"Our mum's a witch," said Shawn conversationally, rummaging in the sack.
"As fine a body of women as you could hope to meet," said Ridcully, with barely a hint of mental gear-clashing. "And not a bunch of interfering power-mad old crones at all, whatever anyone might say."
"Are you here for the wedding?"
"That's right. I'm the Archchancellor of Unseen University, this is Mr. Stibbons, a wizard, this — where are you? Oh, there you are — this is Mr. Casanunda-"
"Count," said Casanunda. "I'm a Count."
"Really? You never said."
"Well, you don't, do you? It's not the first thing you say."
Ridcully's eyes narrowed.
"But I thought dwarfs didn't have titles," he said.
"I performed a small service for Queen Agantia of Skund," said Casanunda.
"Did you? My word. How small?"
"Not that small."
"My word. And that's the Bursar, and this is the Librarian." Ridcully took a step backward, waved his hands in the air, and silently mouthed the words: Don't Say Monkey.
"Pleased to meet you," said Shawn, politely.
Ridcully felt moved to investigate.
"The Librarian," he repeated.
"Yes. You said." Shawn nodded at the orang-utan. "How d'you do?"
"Ook."
"You might be wondering why he looks like that," Ridcully prompted.
"No, sir."
"No?"
"My mum says none of us can help how we're made," said Shawn.
"What a singular lady. And what is her name?" said
Ridcully.
"Mrs. Ogg, sir."
"Ogg? Ogg? Name rings a bell. Any relation to Sobriety Ogg?"
"He was my dad, sir."
"Good grief. Old Sobriety's son? How is the old devil?"
"Dunno, sir, what with him being dead."
"Oh dear. How long ago?"
"These past thirty years," said Shawn.
"But you don't look any older than twen-" Ponder began. Ridcully elbowed him sharply in the ribcage.
"This is the countryside," he hissed. "People do things differently here. And more often." He turned back to Shawn's pink and helpful face.
"Things seem to be waking up a bit," he said, and indeed shutters were coming down around the square. "We'll get some breakfast in the tavern. They used to do wonderful breakfasts." He sniffed again, and beamed.
"Now that" he said, "is what I call fresh air."
Shawn looked around carefully.
"Yes, sir," he said. "That's what we call it, too." ' There was the sound of someone frantically running, and then a pause, and King Verence II appeared around the comer, walking slowly and calmly with a very red face.
"Certainly gives people a rosy complexion," said Ridcully cheerfully.
"It's the king!" hissed Shawn. "And me without my trumpet!"
"Urn," said Verence. "Post been yet, Shawn?"
"Oh, yes, sire!" said Shawn, almost as flustered as the king. "Got it right here. Don't you worry about it! I'll open it all up and have it on your desk right away, sire!"
"Urn. . ."
"Something the matter, sire?"
"Um . . . I think perhaps . . ."
Shawn was already tearing at the wrappers.
"Here's that book on etiquette you've been waiting for, sire, and the pig stockbook, and . . . what's this one . . . ?"
Verence made a grab for it. Shawn automatically tried to hang on to it. The wrapping split, and the large bulky book thumped on to the cobbles. Its fluttering pages played their woodcuts to the breeze.
They looked down.
"Wow!" said Shawn.
"My word," said Ridcully.
"Um," said the king.
"Oook?"
Shawn picked up the book very, very carefully, and turned a few pages.
"Hey, look at this one! He's doing it with his feet! I didn't know you could do it with your feet!" He nudged Ponder Stibbons. "Look, sir!"
Ridcully peered at the king.
"You all right, your majesty?" he said.
Verence squirmed.
"Um . . ."
"And, look, here's one where both chaps are doing it with sticks . . ."
"What?" said Verence.
"Wow," said Shawn. "Thank you, sire. This is going to really come in handy, I can tell you. I mean, I've picked up bits and pieces here and there, but-"
Verence snatched the book from Shawn's hands and looked at the title page.
"'Martial Arts"? Martial Arts. But I'm sure I wrote Marit-"
"Sire?"
There was one exquisite moment while Verence fought for mental balance, but he won.
"Ah. Yes. Right. Uh. Well, yes. Uh. Of course. Yes. Well, you see, a well-trained army is . . . is essential to the security of any kingdom. That's right. Yes. Fine. Magrat and me, we thought. . . yes. It's for you, Shawn."
"I'll start practicing right away, sire!"
"Um. Good."
Jason Ogg awoke, and wished he hadn't.
Let's be clear. Many authorities have tried to describe a hangover. Dancing elephants and so on are often employed for this purpose. The descriptions never work. The always smack of, hoho, here's one for the lads, let's have some hangover machismo, hoho, landlord, another nineteen pints of lager, hey, we supped some stuff last night, hoho . . .
Anyway, you can't describe a scumble hangover. The best bit of it is a feeling that your teeth have dissolved and coated themselves on your tongue.
Eventually the blacksmith sat up and opened his eyes[26].
His clothes were soaked with dew.
His head felt full of wisps and whispers.
He stared at the stones.
The scumble jar was lying in the leather. After a moment or two he picked it up, and took an experimental swig. It was empty.
He nudged Weaver in the ribs with his boot.
"Wake up, you old bugger. We've been up here all night!"
One by one, the Morris Men made the short but painful journey into consciousness.
"I'm going to get some stick from our Eva when I get home," moaned Carter.
"You might not," said Thatcher, who was on his hands and knees looking for his hat. "Maybe when you gets 'ome she'll have married someone else, eh?"
"Maybe a hundred years'll have gone past," said Carter, hopefully.
"Cor, I hope so," said Weaver, brightening up. "I had sevenpence invested in The Thrift Bank down in Ohulan. I'll be a millionaire at complicated interest. I'll be as rich as Creosote."
"Who's Creosote?" said Thatcher.
"Famous rich bugger," said Barker, fishing one of his boots out of a peat pool. "Foreign."
"Wasn't he the one, everything he touched turned to gold?" said Carter.
"Nah, that was someone else. Some king or other. That's what happens in foreign parts. One minute you're all right, next minute, everything you touch turns to gold. He was plagued with it."
Carter looked puzzled.
"How did he manage when he had to-"
"Let that be a lesson to you, young Carter," said Baker. "You stay here where folks are sensible, not go gadding off abroad where you might suddenly be holding a fortune in your hands and not have anything to spend it on."
"We've slept out here all night," said Jason uncertainly "That's dangerous, that is."
"You're right there, Mr. Ogg," said Carter, "I think something went to the toilet in my ear."
"I mean strange things can enter your head."
"That's what I mean, too."
Jason blinked. He was certain he'd dreamed. He could remember dreaming. But he couldn't remember what the dream had been about. But there was still the feeling in his head of voices talking to him, but too far away to be heard.
"Oh, well," he said, managing to stand up at the third attempt, "probably no harm done. Let's get on home and see what century it is."
"What century is it, anyway?" said Thatcher. "Century of the Fruitbat, isn't it?" said Baker. "Might not be anymore," said Carter hopefully. It turned out that it was, indeed, the Century of the Fruitbat. Lancre didn't have much use for units of time any smaller than an hour or larger than a year, but people were clearly putting up bunting in the town square and a gang of men were erecting the Maypole. Someone was nailing up a very badly painted picture of Verence and Magrat under which was the slogan: God Bless Their Majestieys.
With hardly a word exchanged, the men parted and staggered their separate ways.
A hare lolloped through the morning mist until it reached the drunken, ancient cottage in its clearing in the woods.
It reached a tree stump between the privy and The Herbs. Most woodland animals avoided The Herbs. This was because animals that didn't avoid The Herbs over the past fifty years had tended not to have descendants. A few tendrils waved in the breeze and this was odd because there wasn't any breeze.
It sat on the stump.
And then there was a sensation of movement. Something left the hare and moved across the air to an open upstairs window. It was invisible, at least to normal eyesight. ' The hare changed. Before, it had moved with purpose. Now it flopped down and began to wash its ears.
After a while the back door opened and Granny Weatherwax walked out stiffly, holding a bowl of bread and milk. She put it down on the step and turned back without a second glance, closing the door again behind her.
The hare hopped closer.
It's hard to know if animals understand obligations, or the nature of transactions. But that doesn't matter. They're built into witchcraft. If you want to really upset a witch, do her a favour which she has no means of repaying. The unfulfilled obligation will nag at her like a hangnail.
Granny Weatherwax had been riding the hare's mind all night. Now she owed it something. There's be bread and milk left outside for a few days.
You had to repay, good or bad. There was more than one type of obligation. That's what people never really understood, she told herself as she stepped back into the kitchen. Magrat hadn't understood it, nor that new girl. Things had to balance. You couldn't set out to be a good witch or a bad witch. It never worked for long. All you could try to be was a witch, as hard as you could.
She sat down by the cold hearth, and resisted a temptation to comb her ears.
They had broken in somewhere. She could feel it in the trees, in the minds of tiny animals. She was planning something. Something soon. There was of course nothing special about midsummer in the occult sense, but there was in the minds of people. And the minds of people was where eleves were strong.
Granny knew that sooner or later she'd have to face the Queen. Not Magrat, but the real Queen.
And she would lose.
She'd worked all her life on controlling the insides of her own head. She'd prided herself on being the best there was.
But no longer. Just when she needed all her self reliance, she couldn't rely on her mind. She could sense the probing of the Queen — she could remember the feel of that mind, from all those decades ago. And she seemed to have her usual skill at Borrowing. But herself — if she didn't leave little notes for herself, she'd be totally at sea. Being a witch meant knowing exactly who you were and where you were, and she was losing the ability to know both. Last night she'd found herself setting the table for two people. She'd tried to walk into a room she didn't have. And soon she'd have to fight an elf.
If you fought an elf and lost. . . then, if you were lucky, you would die.
Magrat was brought breakfast in bed by a giggling Millie
Chillum.
"Guests are arriving already, ma'am. And there's flags and everything down in the square! And Shawn has found the coronation coach!"
"How can you lose a coach?" said Magrat.
"It was locked up in one of the old stables, ma'am. He's giving it a fresh coat of gold paint right now."
"But we're going to be married here," said Magrat. "We don't have to go anywhere."
"The king said perhaps you could both ride around a bit. Maybe as far as Bad Ass, he said. With Shawn Ogg as a military escort. So people can wave and shout hooray. And then come back here."
Magrat put on her dressing gown and crossed to the tower window. She could see down over the outer walls and into Lancre town square, which was already quite full of people. It would have been a market day in any case, but people were erecting benches as well and the Maypole was already up. There were even a few dwarfs and trolls, politely maintaining a distance from one another.
"I just saw a monkey walk across the square," said
Magrat.
"The whole world's coming to Lancre!" said Millie, who had once been as far as Slice.
Magrat caught sight of the distant picture of herself and her fiance.
"This is stupid," she said to herself, but Millie heard her and was shocked.
"What can you mean, ma'am?"
Magrat spun around.
"All this! For me!"
Millie backed away in sudden fright.
"I'm just Magrat Garlick! Kings ought to marry princesses and duchesses and people like that! People who are used to it! I don't want people shouting hooray just because I've gone by in a coach! And especially not people who've known me all my life! All this — this," her frantic gesture took in the hated garderobe, the huge four-poster bed, and the dressing room full of stiff and expensive clothes, "this stuff . . . it's not for me! It's for some kind of idea. Didn't you ever get those cut-outs, those dolls, you know, when you were a girl . . . dolls you cut out, and there were cut-out clothes as well? And you could make her anything you wanted? That's me! It's . . . it's like the bees! I'm being turned into a queen whether I want to or not! That's what's happening to me!"
"I'm sure the king bought you all those nice clothes because-"
"I don't mean just clothes. I mean people'd be shouting hooray if — if anyone went past in the coach!"
"But you were the one who fell in love with the king, ma'am," said Millie, bravely.
Magrat hesitated for a moment. She'd never quite analysed that emotion. Eventually she said, "No. He wasn't king then. No one knew he was going to be king. He was just a sad, nice little man in a cap and bells who everyone ignored."
Millie backed away a bit more.
"I expect it's nerves, ma'am," she gabbled. "Everyone feels nervous on the day before their wedding. Shall I . . . shall I see if I can make you some herbal-"
"I'm not nervous! And I can do my own herbal tea if I happen to want any!"
"Cook's very particular who goes into the herb garden, ma'am," said Millie.
"I've seen that herb garden! It's all leggy sage and yellowy parsley! If you can't stuff it up a chicken's bum, she doesn't think it's an herb! Anyway . . . who's queen in this vicinity?"
"I thought you didn't want to be, ma'am?" said Millie.
Magrat stared at her. For a moment she looked as if she was arguing with herself.
Millie might not have been the best-informed girl in the world, but she wasn't stupid. She was at the door and through it just as the breakfast tray hit the wall.
Magrat sat down on the bed with her head in her hands.
She didn't want to be queen. Being a queen was like being an actor, and Magrat had never been any good at acting. She'd always felt she wasn't very good at being Magrat, if it came to that.
The bustle of the pre-nuptial activities rose up from the town. There'd be folk dancing, of course — there seemed to be no way of preventing it — and probably folk singing would be perpetrated. And there'd be dancing bears and comic jugglers and the greasy pole competition, which for some reason Nanny Ogg always won. And bowling-with-a-pig. And the bran tub, which Nanny Ogg usually ran; it was a brave man who plunged his hand into a bran tub stocked by a witch with a broad sense of humour. Magrat had always liked the fairs. Up until now.
Well, there were still some things she could do.
She dressed herself in her commoner's clothes for the ' last time, and let herself out and down the back stairs to the widdershins tower and the room where Diamanda lay
Magrat had instructed Shawn to keep a good fire going in the grate, and Diamanda was still sleeping, peacefully, the unwakeable sleep.
Magrat couldn't help noticing that Diamanda was strikingly good-looking and, from what she'd heard, quite brave enough to stand up to Granny Weatherwax. She could hardly wait to get her better so that she could envy her properly.
The wound seemed to be healing up nicely, but there seemed to be —
Magrat strode to the bellpull in the comer and hauled on it.
After a minute or two Shawn Ogg arrived, panting. There was gold paint on his hands.
"What," said Magrat, "are all these things?"
"Um. Don't like to say, ma'am . . ."
"One happens to be . . . very nearly . . . the queen," said Magrat.
"Yes, but the king said . . . well. Granny said-"
"Granny Weatherwax does not happen to rule the kingdom," said Magrat. She hated herself when she spoke like this, but it seemed to work. "And anyway she's not here. One is here, however, and if you don't tell one what's going on I'll see to it that you do all the dirty jobs around the palace."
"But I do all the dirty jobs anyway," said Shawn.
"I shall see to it that there are dirtier ones."
Magrat picked up one of the bundles. It was made up of strips of sheet wrapped around what turned out to be an iron bar.
"They're all around her," she said. "Why?"
Shawn looked at his feet. There was gold paint on his boots, too.
"Well, our mum said . . ."
"Yes?"
"Our mum said I was to see to it that there was iron round her. So me and Millie got some bars from down the smithy and wrapped 'em up like this and Millie packed 'em round her."
"Why?"
"To keep away the . . . the Lords and Ladies, ma'am."
"What? That's just old superstition! Anyway, everyone knows elves were good, whatever Granny Weatherwax says."
Behind her, Shawn flinched. Magrat pulled the wrapped iron lumps out of the bed and tossed them into the comer.
"No old wives' tales here, thank you very much. Is there anything else people haven't been telling me, by any chance?"
Shawn shook his head, guiltily aware of the thing in the dungeon.
"Huh! Well, go away. Verence wants the kingdom to be modem and efficient, and that means no horseshoes and stuff around the place. Go on, go away."
"Yes, Miss Queen."
At least I can do something positive around here, Magrat told herself.
Yes. Be sensible. Go and see him. Talk. Magrat clung to the idea that practically anything could be sorted out if only people talked to one another.
"Shawn?"
He paused at the door.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Has the king gone down to the Great Hall yet?"
"I think he's still dressing, Miss Queen. He hasn't rung for me to do the trumpet, I know that."
In fact, Verence, who didn't like going everywhere preceded by Shawn's idea of a fanfare, had already gone downstairs incognito. But Magrat slipped along to his room, and knocked on the door.
Why be bashful? It'd be her room as well from tomorrow, wouldn't it? She tried the handle. It turned. Without quite willing it, Magrat went in.
Rooms in the castle could hardly be said to belong to anyone in any case. They'd had too many occupants over the centuries. The very atmosphere was the equivalent of those walls scattered with outbreaks of drawing-pin holes where last term's occupants hung the posters of rock groups long disbanded. You couldn't stamp your personality on that stone. It stamped back harder.
For Magrat, stepping into a man's bedroom was like an explorer stepping on to that part of the map marked Here Be Dragons[27].
And it wasn't exactly what it ought to have been.
Verence had arrived at the bedroom concept fairly late in life. When he was a boy, the entire family slept on straw in the cottage attic. As an apprentice in the Guild of Joculators, he'd slept on a pallet in a long dormitory of other sad, beaten young men. When he was a fully fledged Fool he'd slept, by tradition, curled up in front of his master's door. Suddenly, at a later age than is usual, he'd been introduced to the notion of soft mattresses.
And now Magrat was privy to the big secret.
It hadn't worked.
There was the Great Bed of Lancre, which was said to be able to sleep a dozen people, although in what circumstances and why it should be necessary history had never made clear. It was huge and made of oak.
It was also, very clearly, unslept in.
Magrat pulled back the sheets, and smelled the scorched smell of linen. But it also smelled unaired, as if it hadn't been slept in.
She stared around the room until her eye lit on the little still-life by the door. There was a folded nightshirt, a candlestick, and a small pillow.
As far as Verence had been concerned, a crown merely changed which side of the door you slept.
Oh, gods. He'd always slept in front of the door of his master. And now he was king, he slept in front of the door to his kingdom.
Magrat felt her eyes fill with tears.
You couldn't help loving someone as soppy as that.
Fascinated, and aware that she was where she technically shouldn't be, Magrat blew her nose and explored further. A heap of discarded garments by the bed suggested that Verence had mastered the art of hanging up clothes as practiced by half the population of the world, and also that he had equally had difficulty with the complex topological manoeuvres necessary to turn his socks the right way out.
There was a tiny dressing table and a mirror. Stuck to the mirror frame was a dried and faded flower that looked, to Magrat, very like the ones she habitually wore in her hair.
She shouldn't have gone on looking. She admitted that to herself, afterward. But she seemed to have no self-control.
There was a wooden bowl in the middle of the dresser table, full of odd coins, bits of string, and the general detritus of the nightly emptied pocket.
And a folded paper. Much folded, as if it had stayed in said pocket for some time.
She picked it up, and unfolded it.
There were little kingdoms all over the hubward slopes of the Ramtops. Every narrow valley, every ledge that something other than a goat could stand on, was a kingdom. There were kingdoms in the Ramtops so small that, if they were ravaged by a dragon, and that dragon had been killed by a young hero, and the king had given him half his kingdom as per Section Three of the Heroic Code, then there wouldn't have been any kingdom left. There were wars of annexation that went on for years just because someone wanted a place to keep the coal.
Lancre was one of the biggest kingdoms. It could actually afford a standing army[28].
Kings and queens and various sub-orders of aristocracy were even now streaming over Lancre bridge, watched by a sulking and soaking-wet troll who had given up on bridge-keeping for the day.
The Great Hall had been thrown open. Jugglers and fire-eaters strolled among the crowd. Up in the minstrels gallery a small orchestra were playing the Lancre one-string fiddle and famed Ramtop bagpipes, but fortunately they were more or less drowned out by the noise of the crowd.
Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax moved through said crowd. In deference to this being a festive occasion, Nanny Ogg had exchanged her normal black pointy hat for one the same shape but in red, with wax cherries on it.
"All the hort mond are here," Nanny observed, taking a drink off a passing tray. "Even some wizards from Ankh-Morpork, our Shawn said. One of them said I had a fine body, he said. Been tryin' to remember all morning who that could have been."
"Spoilled for choice," said Granny, but it was automatic nastiness, with no real heart to it. It worried Nanny Ogg. Her friend seemed preoccupied.
"There's some gentry we don't want to see here," said Granny. "I won't be happy until all this is over."
Nanny Ogg craned to try and see over the head of a small emperor.
"Can't see Magrat around," she said. "There's Verence talking to some other kings, but can't see our Magrat at all. Our Shawn said Millie Chillum said she was just a bag of nerves this morning."
"All these high-born folks," said Granny, looking around at the crowned heads. "I feel like a fish out of water."
"Well, the way I see it, it's up to you to make your own water," said Nanny, picking up a cold roast chicken leg from the buffet and stuffing it up a sleeve.
"Don't drink too much. We've got to keep alert, Gytha. Remember what I said. Don't let yourself get distracted-"
"That's never the delectable Mrs. Ogg, is it?"
Nanny turned.
There was no one behind her.
"Down here," said the voice.
She looked down, into a wide grin.
"Oh, blast," she said.
"It's me, Casanunda," said Casanunda, who was dwarfed still further by an enormous[30] powdered wig. "You remember? We danced the night away in Genua?"
"No we didn't."
"Well, we could have done."
"Fancy you turning up here," said Nanny, weakly. The thing about Casanunda, she recalled, was that the harder you slapped him down the faster he bounced back, often in an unexpected direction.
"Our stars are entwined," said Casanunda. "We're fated for one another. I wants your body, Mrs. Ogg."
"I'm still using it."
And while she suspected, quite accurately, that this was an approach the world's second greatest lover used on anything that appeared to be even vaguely female, Nanny Ogg had to admit that she was flattered. She'd had many admirers in her younger days, but time had left her with a body that could only be called comfortable and a face like Mr. Grape the Happy Raisin. Long-banked fires gave off a little smoke.
Besides, she'd rather liked Casanunda. Most men were oblique in their approach, whereas his direct attack was refreshing.
"It'd never work," she said. "We're basically incompatible. When I'm 5' 4" you'll still only be 3' 9". Anyway, I'm old enough to be your mother."
"You can't be. My mother's nearly 300, and she's got a better beard than you."
And of course that was another point. By dwarf standards, Nanny Ogg was hardly more than a teenager.
"La, sir," she said, giving him a playful tap that made his ears ring, "you do know how to turn a simple country girl's head and no mistake!"
Casanunda picked himself up and adjusted his wig happily
"I like a girl with spirit," he said. "How about you and me having a little tete-a-tete when this is over?"
Nanny Ogg's face went blank. Her cosmopolitan grip of language had momentarily let her down.
"Excuse me a minute," she said. She put her drink down on his head and pushed through the crowd until she found a likely looking duchess, and prodded her in the bustle regions.
"Hey, your grace, what's a tater tate?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"A tater tate? Do you do it with your clothes on or what?"
"It means an intimate meeting, my good woman."
"Is that all? Oh. Ta."
Nanny Ogg elbowed her way back to the vibrating dwarf.
"You're on," she said.
"I thought we could have a little private dinner, just you and me," said Casanunda. "In one of the taverns?"
Never, in a long history of romance, had Nanny Ogg ever been taken out for an intimate dinner. Her courtships had been more noted for their quantity than their quality.
"OK," was all she could think of to say.
"Dodge your chaperone and meet me at six o'clock?"
Nanny Ogg glanced at Granny Weatherwax, who was watching them disapprovingly from a distance.
"She's not my-" she began.
Then it dawned on her that Casanunda couldn't possibly have really thought that Granny Weatherwax was chaperoning her.
Compliments and flattery had also been very minor components in the machinery of Nanny Ogg's courtships.
"Yes, all right," she said.
"And now I shall circulate, so that people don't talk and ruin your reputation," said Casanunda, bowing and kissing Nanny Ogg's hand.
Her mouth dropped open. No one had ever kissed her hand before, either, and certainly no one had ever worried about her reputation, least of all Nanny Ogg.
As the world's second greatest lover bustled off to accost a countess. Granny Weatherwax — who had been watching from a discreet distance[31] — said, in an amiable voice: "You haven't got the morals of a cat, Gytha Ogg."
"Now, Esme, you know that's not true."
"All right. You have got the morals of a cat, then."
"That's better."
Nanny Ogg patted her mass of white curls and wondered if she had time to go home and put her corsets on.
"We must stay on our guard, Gytha."
"Yes, yes."
"Can't let other considerations turn our heads."
"No, no."
"You're not listening to a word I say, are you?"
"What?"
"You could at least find out why Magrat isn't down here."
"All right."
Nanny Ogg wandered off, dreamily.
Granny Weatherwax turned—
—there should have been violins. The murmur of the crowd should have faded away, and the crowd itself should have parted in a quite natural movement to leave an empty path between her and Ridcully
There should have been violins. There should have been something.
There shouldn't have been the Librarian accidentally knuckling her on the toe on his way to the buffet, but this, in fact, there was.
She hardly noticed.
"Esme?" said Ridcully
"Mustrum?" said Granny Weatherwax.
Nanny Ogg bustled up.
"Esme, I saw Millie Chillum and she said-"
Granny Weatherwax's vicious elbow jab winded her. Nanny took in the scene.
"Ah," she said, "I'll just, I'll just. . . I'll just go away, then."
The gazes locked again.
The Librarian knuckled past again with an entire display of fruit.
Granny Weatherwax paid him no heed.
The Bursar, who was currently on the median point of his cycle, tapped Ridcully on the shoulder.
"I say, Archchancellor, these quails' eggs are amazingly go-"
"DROP DEAD. Mr. Stibbons, fish out the frog pills and keep knives away from him, please."
The gazes locked again.
"Well, well," said Granny, after a year or so.
"This must be some enchanted evening," said Ridcully.
"Yes. That's what I'm afraid of."
"That really is you, isn't it?"
"It's really me," said Granny
"You haven't changed a bit, Esme."
"Nor have you, then. You're still a rotten liar, Mustrum Ridcully"
They walked toward one another. The Librarian shuttled between them with a tray of meringues. Behind them, Ponder Stibbons grovelled on the floor for a spilled bottle of dried frog pills.
"Well, well," said Ridcully.
"Fancy that."
"Small world."
"Yes indeed."
"You're you and I'm me. Amazing. And it's here and now."
"Yes, but then was then."
"I sent you a lot of letters," said Ridcully
"Never got 'em."
There was a glint in Ridcully's eye.
"That's odd. And there was me putting all those destination spells on them too," he said. He gave her a critical up-and-down glance. "How much do you weigh, Esme? Not a spare ounce on you, I'll be bound."
"What do you want to know for?"
"Indulge an old man."
"Nine stones, then."
"Hmm . . . should be about right . . . three miles hubward . . . you'll feel a slight lurch to the left, nothing to worry about. . ."
In a lightning movement, he grabbed her hand. He felt young and light-headed. The wizards back at the University would have been astonished.
"Let me take you away from all this."
He snapped his fingers.
There has to be at least an approximate conservation of mass. It's a fundamental magical rule. If something is moved from A to B, something that was at B has got to find itself at A.
And then there's momentum. Slow as the disc spins, various points of its radii are moving at different speeds relative to the Hub, and a wizard projecting himself any distance toward the Rim had better be prepared to land jogging.
The three miles to Lancre Bridge merely involved a faint tug, which Ridcully had been ready for, and he landed up leaning against the parapet with Esme Weatherwax in his arms.
The customs troll who had until a fraction of a second previously been sitting there ended up lying full length on the floor of the Great Hall, coincidentally on top of the Bursar.
Granny Weatherwax looked over at the rushing water, and then at Ridcully.
"Take me back this instant," she said. "You've got no right to do that."
"Dear me, I seem to have run out of power. Can't understand it, very embarrassing, fingers gone all limp," said Ridcully. "Of course, we could walk. It's a lovely evening. You always did get lovely evenings here."
"It was all fifty or sixty years ago!" said Granny. "You can't suddenly turn up and say all those years haven't happened."
"Oh, I know they've happened all right," said Ridcully. "I'm the head wizard now. I've only got to give an order and a thousand wizards will. . . uh . . . disobey, come to think of it, or say 'What?', or start to argue. But they have to take notice."
"I've been to that University a few times," said Granny. "A bunch of fat old men in beards."
"That's right! That's them!"
"A lot of 'em come from the Ramtops," said Granny. "I knew a few boys from Lancre who became wizards."
"Very magical area," Ridcully agreed. "Something in the air."
Below them, the cold black waters raced, always dancing to gravity, never flowing uphill.
"There was even a Weatherwax as Archchancellor, years ago," said Ridcully.
"So I understand. Distant cousin. Never knew him," said Granny.
They both stared down at the river for a moment. Occasionally a twig or a branch would whirl along in the current.
"Do you remember-"
"I have a . . . very good memory, thank you."
"Do you ever wonder what life would have been like if
you'd said yes?" said Ridcully.
"No."
"I suppose we'd have settled down, had children, grandchildren, that sort of thing . . ."
Granny shrugged. It was the sort of thing romantic idiots said. But there was something in the air tonight. . .
"What about the fire?" she said.
"What fire?"
"Swept through our house just after we were married.
Killed us both."
"What fire? I don't know anything about any fire?"