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Ridcully felt moved to investigate.
“The Librarian,” he repeated.
“Yes. You said. ” Shawn nodded at the orang-utan. “How dyou 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 were 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 Sobrietys 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 dont 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 Shawns pink and helpful face.
“Things seem to be waking up a bit,” he said, and indeed shutters were coming down around the square. “Well 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. “Thats 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.
“Its 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. Dont you worry about it! Ill 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.
“Heres that book on etiquette youve been waiting for, sire, and the pig stockbook, and . . . whats 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! Hes doing it with his feet! I didnt 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, heres 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, Ive picked up bits and pieces here and there, but-”
Verence snatched the book from Shawns hands and looked at the title page.
“Martial Arts”? Martial Arts. But Im 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. Thats right. Yes. Fine. Magrat and me, we thought. . . yes. Its for you, Shawn. ”
“Ill start practicing right away, sire!”
“Um. Good. ”
Jason Ogg awoke, and wished he hadnt.
Lets 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, heres one for the lads, lets have some hangover machismo, hoho, landlord, another nineteen pints of lager, hey, we supped some stuff last night, hoho . . .
Anyway, you cant 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. Weve been up here all night!”
One by one, the Morris Men made the short but painful journey into consciousness.
“Im 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 shell have married someone else, eh?”
“Maybe a hundred yearsll 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. Ill be a millionaire at complicated interest. Ill be as rich as Creosote. ”
“Whos Creosote?” said Thatcher.
“Famous rich bugger,” said Barker, fishing one of his boots out of a peat pool. “Foreign. ”
“Wasnt he the one, everything he touched turned to gold?” said Carter.
“Nah, that was someone else. Some king or other. Thats what happens in foreign parts. One minute youre 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. ”
“Weve slept out here all night,” said Jason uncertainly “Thats dangerous, that is. ”
“Youre right there, Mr. Ogg,” said Carter, “I think something went to the toilet in my ear. ”
“I mean strange things can enter your head. ”
“Thats what I mean, too. ”
Jason blinked. He was certain hed dreamed. He could remember dreaming. But he couldnt 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. Lets get on home and see what century it is. ”
“What century is it, anyway?” said Thatcher. “Century of the Fruitbat, isnt it?” said Baker. “Might not be anymore,” said Carter hopefully. It turned out that it was, indeed, the Century of the Fruitbat. Lancre didnt 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 didnt 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 wasnt 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.
Its hard to know if animals understand obligations, or the nature of transactions. But that doesnt matter. Theyre 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 hares mind all night. Now she owed it something. Theres 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. Thats what people never really understood, she told herself as she stepped back into the kitchen. Magrat hadnt understood it, nor that new girl. Things had to balance. You couldnt 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 shed have to face the Queen. Not Magrat, but the real Queen.
And she would lose.
Shed worked all her life on controlling the insides of her own head. Shed prided herself on being the best there was.
But no longer. Just when she needed all her self reliance, she couldnt 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 didnt leave little notes for herself, shed 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 shed found herself setting the table for two people. Shed tried to walk into a room she didnt have. And soon shed 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, maam. And theres 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, maam. Hes giving it a fresh coat of gold paint right now. ”
“But were going to be married here,” said Magrat. “We dont 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.
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