Carpe Jugulum

by Terry Pratchett

  “There’s three of us, isn’t there?” said Nanny. She produced a flask, and uncorked it. “And a bit of help. Anyone else want some?”

  “That’s brandy, Nanny!” said Magrat. “Do you want to face the vampires drunk?”

  “Sounds a whole lot better than facin’ them sober,” said Nanny, taking a gulp and shuddering. “Only sensible bit of advice Agnes got from Mister Oats, I reckon. Vampire hunters need to be a little bit tipsy, he said. Well, I always listen to good advice…”

  Even inside Mightily Oats’s tent the candle streamed in the wind. He sat gingerly on his camp bed, because sudden movements made it fold up with nail-blackening viciousness, and leafed through his notebooks in a state of growing panic.

  He hadn’t come here to be a vampire expert. “Revenants and Ungodly Creatures” had been a one hour lecture from deaf Deacon Thrope every fortnight, for Om’s sake! It hadn’t even counted toward the final examination score! They’d spent twenty times that on Comparative Theology, and right now he wished, he really wished that they’d found time to tell him, for example, exactly where the heart was and how much force you needed to drive a stake through it.

  Ah…here they were, a few pages of scribble, saved only because the notes for his essay on Thrum’s Lives of the Prophets were on the other side.

  “…The blood is the life…vampires are subservient to the one who turned them into a vampire…allyl disulphide, active ingredient in garlic…porphyria, lack of? Learned reaction?…native soil v. important…as many as possible will drink of a victim so that he is the slave of all…‘clustersuck’…blood as an unholy sacrament…Vampire controls: bats, rats, creatures of the night, weather…contrary to legend, most victims merely become passive, NOT vampires…intended vampire suffers terrible torments & craving for blood…socks…Garlic, holy icons…sunlight—deadly?…kill vampire, release all victims…physical strength &…”

  Why hadn’t anyone told them this was important? He’d covered half the page with a drawing of Deacon Thrope, which was practically a still life.

  Oats dropped the book into his pocket and grasped his medallion hopefully. After four years of theological college he wasn’t at all certain of what he believed, and this was partly because the Church had schismed so often that occasionally the entire curriculum would alter in the space of one afternoon. But also—

  They had been warned about it. Don’t expect it, they’d said. It doesn’t happen to anyone except the prophets. Om doesn’t work like that. Om works from inside.

  —but he’d hoped that, just once, that Om would make himself known in some obvious and unequivocal way that couldn’t be mistaken for wind or a guilty conscience. Just once, he’d like the clouds to part for the space of ten seconds and a voice to cry out, “YES, MIGHTILY-PRAISEWORTHY-ARE-YE-WHO-EXALTETH-OM OATS! IT’S ALL COMPLETELY TRUE! INCIDENTALLY, THAT WAS A VERY THOUGHTFUL PAPER YOU WROTE ON THE CRISIS OF RELIGION IN A PLURALISTIC SOCIETY!”

  It wasn’t that he’d lacked faith. But faith wasn’t enough. He’d wanted knowledge.

  Right now he’d settle for a reliable manual of vampire disposal.

  He stood up. Behind him, unheeded, the terrible camp bed sprang shut.

  He’d found knowledge, and knowledge hadn’t helped.

  Had not Jotto caused the Leviathan of Terror to throw itself onto the land and the seas to turn red with blood? Had not Orda, strong in his faith, caused a sudden famine throughout the land of Smale?

  They certainly had. He believed it utterly. But a part of him also couldn’t forget reading about the tiny little creatures that caused the rare red tides off the coast of Urt and the effect this apparently had on local sea life, and about the odd wind cycle that sometimes kept rainclouds away from Smale for years at a time.

  This had been…worrying.

  It was because he was so very good at old languages that he’d been allowed to study in the new libraries that were springing up around the Citadel, and this had been fresh ground for worry, because the seeker after truth had found truths instead. The Third Journey of the Prophet Cena, for example, seemed remarkably like a retranslation of the Testament of Sand in the Laotan Book of the Whole. On one shelf alone he found forty-three remarkably similar accounts of a great flood, and in every single one of them a man very much like Bishop Horn had saved the elect of mankind by building a magical boat. Details varied, of course. Sometimes the boat was made of wood, sometimes of banana leaves. Sometimes the news of the emerging dry land was brought by a swan, sometimes by an iguana. Of course these stories in the chronicles of other religions were mere folktales and myth, while the voyage detailed in the Book of Cena was holy truth. But, nevertheless…

  Oats had gone on to be fully ordained, but he’d progressed from Slight Reverend to Quite Reverend a troubled young man. He’d wanted to discuss his findings with someone, but there were so many schisms going on that no one would stand still long enough to listen. The hammering of clerics as they nailed their own versions of the truth of Om on the temple doors was deafening, and for a brief while he’d even contemplated buying a roll of paper and a hammer of his own and putting his name on the waiting list for the doors, but he’d overruled himself.

  Because he was, he knew, in two minds about everything.

  At one point he’d considered asking to be exorcised but had drawn back from this because the Church traditionally used fairly terminal methods for this and in any case serious men who seldom smiled would not be amused to hear that the invasive spirit he wanted exorcised was his own.

  He called the voices the Good Oats and the Bad Oats. The trouble was, each of them agreed with the terminology but applied it in different ways.

  Even when he was small there’d been a part of him that thought the temple was a silly boring place, and tried to make him laugh when he was supposed to be listening to sermons. It had grown up with him. It was the Oats that read avidly and always remembered those passages which cast doubt on the literal truth of the Book of Om—and nudged him and said, if this isn’t true, what can you believe?

  And the other half of him would say: there must be other kinds of truth.

  And he’d reply: other kinds than the kind that is actually true, you mean?

  And he’d say: define actually!

  And he’d shout: well, actually Omnians would have tortured you to death, not long ago, for even thinking like this. Remember that? Remember how many died for using the brain which, you seem to think, their god gave them? What kind of truth excuses all that pain?

  He’d never quite worked out how to put the answer into words. And then the headaches would start, and the sleepless nights. The Church schismed all the time these days, and this was surely the ultimate one, starting a war inside one’s head.

  To think he’d been sent here for his health, because Brother Melchio had got worried about his shaky hands and the way he talked to himself!

  He did not gird his loins, because he wasn’t certain how you did that and had never dared ask, but he adjusted his hat and stepped out into the wild night under the thick, uncommunicative clouds.

  The castle gates swung open, and Count Magpyr stepped out, flanked by his soldiers.

  This was not according to the proper narrative tradition. Although the people of Lancre were technically new to all this, down at genetic level they knew that when the mob is at the gate the mobee should be screaming defiance in a burning laboratory or engaged in a cliffhanger struggle with some hero on the battlements.

  He shouldn’t be lighting a cigar.

  They fell silent, scythes and pitchforks hovering in mid-shake. The only sound was the cracking of the torches.

  The Count blew a smoke ring.

  “Good evening,” he said, as it drifted away. “You must be the mob.”

  Someone at the back of the crowd, who hadn’t been keeping up to date, threw a stone. Count Magpyr caught it without looking.

  “The pitchforks are good,” he said. “I like the pitchforks. As pitchforks they
certainly pass muster. And the torches, well, that goes without saying. But the scythes…no, no, I’m afraid not. They simply will not do. Not a good mob weapon, I have to tell you. Take it from me. A simple sickle is much better. Start waving scythes around and someone could lose an ear. Do try to learn.”

  He ambled over to a very large man who was holding a pitchfork.

  “And what is your name, young man?”

  “Er…Jason Ogg, sir.”

  “The blacksmith?”

  “Yessir?”

  “Wife and family doing well?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Well done. Got everything you need?”

  “Er…yessir.”

  “Good man. Carry on. If you could keep the noise down over dinner, I would be grateful, but of course I appreciate you have a vital traditional role to play. I’ll have the servants bring out some mugs of hot toddy shortly.” He knocked the ash off his cigar. “Oh, and may I introduce you to Sergeant Kraput, known to his friends as ‘Bent Bill,’ I believe, and this gentlemen here picking his teeth with his knife is Corporal Svitz, who I understand has no friends at all. I suppose it is faintly possible that he will make some here. They and their men, who I suppose could be called soldiers in a sort of informal, easy-come easy-go, cut-and-thrust sort of way”—here Corporal Svitz leered and flicked a gobbet of anonymous rations from a yellowing molar—“will be going on duty in, oh, about an hour. Purely for reasons of security, you understand.”

  “An’ then we’ll gut yer like a clam and stuff yer with straw,” said Corporal Svitz.

  “Ah. This is technical military language of which I know little,” said the Count. “I do so hope there is no unpleasantness.”

  “I don’t,” said Sergeant Kraput.

  “What scamps they are,” said the Count. “Good evening to you all. Come, gentlemen.”

  He stepped back into the courtyard. The gates, their wood so heavy and toughened with age that it was like iron, swung shut.

  On the other side of it was silence, followed by the puzzled mumbling of players who have had their ball confiscated.

  The Count nodded at Vlad and flung out his hands theatrically.

  “Ta-da! And that is how we do it—”

  “And d’you think you’d do it twice?” said a voice from the steps.

  The vampires looked up at the three witches.

  “Ah, Mrs. Ogg,” said the Count, waving the soldiers away impatiently. “And your majesty. And Agnes…Now…was it three for a girl. Or three for a funeral?”

  The stone cracked under Nanny’s feet as Magpyr walked forward.

  “Do you think I’m stupid, dear ladies?” he said. “Did you really think I’d let you run around if there was the least chance that you could harm us?”

  Lightning crackled across the sky.

  “I can control the weather,” said the Count. “And lesser creatures which, let me tell you, includes humans. And yet you plot away and think you can have some kind of…of duel? What a lovely image. However…”

  The witches were lifted off their feet. Hot air curled around them. A rising wind outside made the torches of the mob stream flames like flags.

  “What happened to us harnessing the power of all three of us together?” hissed Magrat.

  “That rather depended on him standing still!” said Nanny.

  “Stop this at once!” Magrat shouted. “And how dare you smoke in my castle! That can have a very serious effect on people around you!”

  “Is anyone going to say ‘You’ll never get away with it’?” said the Count, ignoring her. He walked up the steps. They bobbed helplessly along ahead of him, like so many balloons. The hall doors slammed shut after him.

  “Oh, someone must,” he said.

  “You won’t get away with this!”

  The Count beamed. “And I didn’t even see your lips move—”

  “Depart from here and return to the grave whence thou camest, unrighteous revenant!”

  “Where the hell did he come from?” said Nanny, as Mightily Oats dropped to the ground in front of the vampires.

  He was creeping along the minstrel gallery, said Perdita to Agnes. Sometimes you just don’t pay attention.

  The priest’s coat was covered with dust and his collar was torn, but his eyes blazed with holy zeal.

  He thrust something in front of the vampire’s face. Agnes saw him glance down hurriedly at a small book in his other hand.

  “Er…‘Get thee hence, thou worm of Rheum, and vex not—’”

  “Excuse me?” said the Count.

  “‘—trouble no more the—’”

  “Could I just make a point?”

  “‘—thou spirit that troubles thee, thou’…what?”

  The Count took the notebook out of Oats’s suddenly unresisting hand.

  “This is from Ossory’s Malleus Malificarum,” he said. “Why do you looked so surprised? I helped write it, you silly little man!”

  “But…you…but that was hundreds of years ago!” Oats managed.

  “So? And I contributed to Auriga Clavorum Maleficarum, Torquus Simiae Malificarium… the whole damn Arca Instru-mentorum, in fact. None of those stupid fictions work on vampires, didn’t you even know that?” The Count almost growled. “Oh, I remember your prophets. They were mad bearded old men with the sanitary habits of a stoat but, by all that’s crazed, they had passion! They didn’t have holy little minds full of worry and fretfulness. They spoke the idiot words as though they believed them, with specks of holy foam bubbling away in the corners of their mouth. Now they were real priests, bellies full of fire and bile! You are a joke.”

  He tossed the notebook aside and took the pendant. “And this is the holy turtle of Om, which I believe should make me cringe back in fear. My, my. Not even a very good replica. Cheaply made.”

  Oats found a reserve of strength. He managed to say “And how would you know, foul fiend?”

  “No, no, that’s for demons,” sighed the Count.

  He handed the turtle back to Oats.

  “A commendable effort, none the less,” he said. “If I ever want a nice cup of tea and a bun and possibly also a cheery singsong, I will be sure to patronize your mission. But, at the moment, you are in my way.”

  He hit the priest so hard that Oats slid under the long table.

  “So much for piety,” the Count said. “All that remains now is for Granny Weatherwax to turn up. It should be any minute now. After all, did you think she’d trust you to get it right?”

  The sound of the huge iron doorknocker reverberated through the hall.

  The Count nodded happily. “And that will be her,” he said. “Of course it will. Timing is everything.”

  The wind roared in when the doors were opened, swirling twigs and rain and Granny Weatherwax, blown like a leaf. She was soaked and covered in mud, her dress torn in several places.

  Agnes realized that she’d never actually seen Granny Weath-erwax wet before, even after the worst storm, but now she was drenched. Water poured off her and left a trail on the floor.

  “Mistress Weatherwax! So good of you to come,” said the Count. “Such a long walk on a dark night. Do sit by the fire for a while and rest.”

  “I’ll not rest here,” said Granny.

  “At least have a drink or something to eat, then.”

  “I’ll not eat nor drink here.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “You know well why I’ve come.”

  She looks small, said Perdita. And tired, too.

  “Ah, yes. The set-piece battle. The great gamble. The Weath-erwax trademark. And…let me see…your shopping list today will be…‘If I win I will expect you to free everyone and go back to Uberwald,’ am I right?”

  “No. I will expect you to die,” said Granny.

  To her horror, Agnes saw the old woman was swaying slightly.

  The Count smiled. “Excellent! But…I know how you think, Mistress Weatherwax. You always have more than one plan. You�
�re standing there, clearly one step away from collapse, and yet…I’m not entirely certain that I believe what I’m seeing.”

  “I couldn’t give a damn what you’re certain of,” said Granny. “But you daren’t let me walk out of here, I do know that. ’Cos you can’t be sure of where I’ll go, or what I’ll do. I could be watching you from any pair of eyes. I might be behind any door. I have a few favors I might call in. I could come from any direction, at any time. An’ I’m good at malice.”

  “So? If I was so impolite, I could kill you right now. A simple arrow would suffice. Corporal Svitz?”

  The mercenary gave the wave that was as good as he’d ever get to a salute, and raised his crossbow.

  “Are you sure?” said Granny. “Is your ape sure he’d have time for a second shot? That I’d still be here?”

  “You’re not a shape-changer, Mistress Weatherwax. And by the look of it you’re in no position to run.”

  “She’s talking about moving her self into someone else’s head,” said Vlad.

  The witches looked at one another.

  “Sorry, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg, at last. “I couldn’t stop meself thinking. I don’t think I drunk quite enough.”

  “Oh yes,” said the Count. “The famous Borrowing trick.”

  “But you don’t know where, you don’t know how far,” said Granny wearily. “You don’t even know what kind of head. You don’t know if it has to be a head. All you know about me is what you can get out of other people’s minds, and they don’t know all about me. Not by a long way.”

  “And so your self is put elsewhere,” said the Count. “Primitive. I’ve met them, you know, on my travels. Strange old men in beads and feathers who could put their inner self into a fish, an insect…even a tree. And as if it mattered. Wood burns. I’m sorry, Mistress Weatherwax. As King Verence is so fond of saying, there’s a new world order. We are it. You are history—”

  He flinched. The three witches dropped to the ground.

  “Well done,” he said. “A shot across my bows. I felt that. I actually felt it. No one in Uberwald has ever managed to get through.”