Carpe Jugulum

by Terry Pratchett

  “She’s good at resisting,” said Agnes.

  “That good?” said Oats.

  One of the Uberwald people shuffled along the corridor. It stopped when it heard a sound, looked around, saw nothing that had apparently made a noise, and plodded on again.

  Nanny Ogg stepped out of the shadows, and then beckoned Magrat to follow her.

  “Sorry, Nanny, it’s very hard to keep a baby quiet—”

  “Shh! There’s quite a bit of noise coming from the kitchens. What could vampires want to cook?”

  “It’s those people they’ve brought with them,” hissed Magrat. “They’ve been moving in new furniture. They’ve got to be fed, I suppose.”

  “Yeah, like cattle. I reckon our best bet is to walk out bold as brass,” said Nanny. “These folk don’t look like they’re big on original thinkin’. Ready?” She absentmindedly took a swig from the bottle she was carrying. “You just follow me.”

  “But look, what about Verence! I can’t just leave him. He’s my husband!”

  “What will they do to him that you could prevent if you was here?” said Nanny. “Keep the baby safe, that’s the important thing. It always has been. Anyway…I told you, he’s got protection. I saw to that.”

  “What, magic?”

  “Much better’n that. Now, you just follow me and act snooty. You must’ve learned that, bein’ a queen. Never let ’em even think you haven’t got a right to be where you are.”

  She strode out into the kitchen. The shabbily dressed people there gave her a dull-eyed look, like dogs waiting to see if a whipping was in prospect. On the huge stove, in place of Mrs. Scorbic’s usual array of scoured-clean pots, was a large, blackened cauldron. The contents were a basic gray. Nanny wouldn’t have stirred it for a thousand dollars.

  “Just passing through,” she said, sharply. “Get on with whatever you were doing.”

  The heads all turned to watch them. But toward the back of the kitchen a figure unfolded from the old armchair where Mrs. Scorbic sometimes held court and ambled toward them.

  “Oh blast, it’s one of the bloody hangers-on,” said Nanny. “He’s between us and the door…”

  “Ladies!” said the vampire, bowing. “May I be of assistance?”

  “We were just leaving,” said Magrat haughtily.

  “Possibly not,” said the vampire.

  “’Scuse me, young man,” said Nanny, in her soft old biddy voice, “but where are you from?”

  “Uberwald, madam.”

  Nanny nodded, and referred to a piece of paper she’d pulled out of her pocket. “That’s nice. What part?”

  “Klotz.”

  “Really? That’s nice. ’Scuse me.” She turned her back and there was a brief twanging of elastic before she turned around again, all smiles.

  “I just likes to take an interest in people,” she said. “Klotz, eh? What’s the name of that river there? The Um? The Eh?”

  “The Ah,” said the vampire.

  Nanny’s hand shot forward and wedged something yellow between the vampire’s teeth. He grabbed her, but, as she was dragged forward, she hit him on the top of the head.

  He fell to his knees, clutching at his mouth and trying to scream through the lemon he’d just bitten into.

  “Seems an odd superstition, but there you are,” said Nanny, as he started to foam around the lips.

  “You have to cut their heads off, too,” said Magrat.

  “Really? Well, I saw a cleaver back there—”

  “Shall we just go?” Magrat suggested. “Before someone else comes, perhaps?”

  “All right. He’s not a high-up vampire, anyway,” said Nanny dismissively. “He’s not even wearing a very interestin’ waistcoat.”

  The night was silver with rain. Heads down, the witches dashed through the murk.

  “I’ve got to change the baby!”

  “For a raincoat’d be favorite,” muttered Nanny. “Now?”

  “It’s a bit urgent…”

  “All right, then, in here…”

  They ducked into the stables. Nanny peered back into the night, and shut the door quietly.

  “It’s very dark,” whispered Magrat.

  “I could always change babies by feel when I was young.”

  “I’d prefer not to have to. Hey…there’s a light…”

  The weak glow of a candle was just visible at the far end of the loose boxes.

  Igor was brushing the horses until they shone. His muttering kept time with the strokes of the brush. Something seemed to be on his mind.

  “Thilly voithe, eh? Thilly walk? What the hell doth he know? Jumped-up whipper-thnapper! Igor thtop thith, Igor thtop that…all thethe kidth thwanning around, trying to puth me around…there’th a covenant in thethe thingth. The old marthter knew that! A thervant ith not a thlave…”

  He glanced around. A piece of straw drifted to the ground.

  He began brushing again. “Huh! Fetch thith, fetch that…never a morthel of rethpect, oh no…”

  Igor stopped and pulled another piece of straw off his sleeve.

  “…and another thing…”

  There was a creak, a rush of air, the horse reared in its stall and Igor was borne to the ground, his head feeling as though it were caught in a vice.

  “Now, if I brings my knees together,” said a cheerful female voice above him, “it’s very probable I could make your brains come right down your nose, But I know that ain’t going to happen, because I’m sure we’re all friends here. Say yes.”

  “’th.”

  “That’s the best we’re going to get, I expect.”

  Nanny Ogg got up and flicked straw off her dress.

  “I’ve been in cleaner haylofts,” she said. “Up you get, Mr. Igor. And if you’re thinking of anything clever, my colleague over there is holdin’ a pitchfork and she ain’t much good at aiming so who knows what part of you she might hit?”

  “Ith that a baby thee’th carrying?”

  “We’re very modern,” said Nanny. “We’ve got hedge money and everything. And now we’ll have your coach, Igor.”

  “Will we?” said Magrat. “Where’re we going?”

  “It’s a wicked night. I don’t want to keep the babby out, and I don’t know where we’d be safe near here. Maybe we can get down onto the plains before morning.”

  “I won’t leave Lancre!”

  “Save the child,” said Nanny. “Make sure there’s going to be a future. Besides…” She mouthed something at Magrat which Igor did not catch.

  “We can’t be sure of that,” said Magrat.

  “You know the way Granny thinks,” said Nanny. “She’ll want us to keep the baby safe,” she added, loudly. “So hitch up the horses, Mr. Igor.”

  “Yeth, mithtreth,” said Igor meekly.

  “Are you kicking my bucket, Igor?”*

  “No, it’th a pleathure to be commanded in a clear, firm authoritative voithe, mithtreth,” said Igor, lurching over to the bridles. “None of this ‘Would you mind…’ rubbith. An Igor liketh to know where he thtandth.”

  “Slightly lopsidedly?” said Magrat.

  “The old marthter uthed to whip me every day!” said Igor proudly.

  “You liked that?” said Magrat.

  “Of courthe not! But it’th proper! He wath a gentleman, whothe bootth I wath not fit to lick clean…”

  “But you did, though?” said Nanny.

  Igor nodded. “Every morning. Uthed to get a lovely thine, too.”

  “Well, help us out and I’ll see you’re flogged with a scented bootlace,” said Nanny.

  “Thankth all the thame, but I’m leathing anyway,” said Igor, tightening a strap. “I’m thick up to here with thith lot. They thouldn’t be doing thith! They’re a dithgrathe to the thpethieth!”

  Nanny wiped her face. “I like a man who speaks his mind,” she said, “and is always prepared to lend a towel—did I say towel? I mean hand.”

  “Are you going to trust him?” said Magrat.
/>
  “I’m a good judge of character, me,” said Nanny. “And you can always rely a man with stitches all around his head.”

  “Waley, waley, waley!”

  “Ta’ can onlie be one t’ousan!”

  “Bigjobs!”

  A fox peered cautiously around a tree.

  Through the rain-swept woods a man was moving at speed, while apparently lying down. He wore a nightcap, the bobble of which bounced on the ground.

  By the time the fox realized what was going on, it was too late. A small blue figure leapt out from under the rushing man and landed on its nose, smaking it between the eyes with his head.

  “Seeyu? Grich’ ta’ bones outa t’is yan!”

  The Nac mac Feegle leapt down as the fox collapsed, grabbed its tail with one hand and ran after the others, punching the air triumphantly.

  “Obhoy! We ’gan eat t’nicht!”

  They’d pulled the bed out into the middle of the room. Now Agnes and Oats sat on either side of it, listening to the distant sounds of Hodgesaargh feeding the birds. There was the rattle of tins and the occasional yelp as he tried to remove a bird from his nose.

  “Sorry?” said Agnes.

  “Pardon?”

  “I thought you whispered something,” said Agnes.

  “I was, er, saying a short prayer,” said Oats.

  “Will that help?” said Agnes.

  “Er…it helps me. The Prophet Brutha said that Om helps those who help one another.”

  “And does he?”

  “To be honest, there are a number of opinions of what was meant.”

  “How many?”

  “About one hundred and sixty, since the Schism of ten-thirty A.M., February twenty-third. That was when the Re-United Free Chelonianists (Hubward Convocation) split from the Re-United Free Chelonianists (Rimward Convocation). It was rather serious.”

  “Blood spilled?” said Agnes. She wasn’t really interested, but it took her mind off whatever might be waking up in a minute.

  “No, but there were fisticuffs and a deacon had ink spilled on him.”

  “I can see that was pretty bad.”

  “There was some serious pulling of beards as well.”

  “Gosh.” Sects maniacs, said Perdita.

  “You’re making fun of me,” said Oats solemnly.

  “Well, it does sound a little…trivial. You’re always arguing?”

  “The Prophet Brutha said ‘Let there be ten thousand voices,’” said the priest. “Sometimes I think he meant that it was better to argue amongst ourselves than go out putting unbelievers to fire and the sword. It’s all very complicated.” He sighed. “There are a hundred pathways to Om. Unfortunately, I sometimes think someone left a rake lying across a lot of them. The vampire was right. We’ve lost the fire…”

  “But you used to burn people with it.”

  “I know…I know…”

  Agnes saw a movement out of the corner of her eye.

  Steam was rising from under the blanket they’d pulled over Granny Weatherwax.

  As Agnes looked down, Granny’s eyes sprang open and swiv-eled from side to side.

  Her mouth moved once or twice.

  “And how are you, Miss Weatherwax?” said Mightily Oats in a cheerful voice.

  “She was bitten by a vampire! What sort of question is that?” Agnes hissed.

  “One that’s better than ‘what are you’?” Oats whispered.

  Granny’s hand twitched. She opened her mouth again, arched her body against the rope and then slumped back against the pillow.

  Agnes touched her forehead, and drew her hand back sharply.

  “She’s burning up! Hodgesaargh! Bring some water!”

  “Coming, miss!”

  “Oh no…” whispered Oats. He pointed to the ropes. They were unknotting themselves, stealthily moving across one another like snakes.

  Granny half rolled, half fell out of the bed, landing on her hands and knees. Agnes went to pick her up and received a blow from an elbow that sent her across the room.

  The old witch dragged the door open and crawled out into the rain. She paused, panting, as the drops hit her. Agnes swore that some of them sizzled.

  Granny’s hands slipped. She landed in the mud and struggled to push herself upright.

  Blue-green light spilled out from the mews’s open door. Agnes looked back inside. Hodgesaargh was staring at a jamjar, in which a point of white light was surrounded by a pale blue flame that stretched well beyond the jar, and curled and pulsed.

  “What’s that?”

  “My phoenix feather, miss! It’s burning the air!”

  Outside, Oats had pulled Granny upright and had got his shoulder under one of her arms.

  “She said something,” he said. “‘I am,’ I think…”

  “She might be a vampire!”

  “She just said it again. Didn’t you hear?”

  Agnes moved closer, and Granny’s limp hand was suddenly gripping her shoulder. She could feel the heat of it through her sodden dress and made out the word in the hiss of the rain.

  “Iron?” said Oats. “Did she say iron?”

  “There’s the castle forge next door,” said Agnes. “Let’s get her in there.”

  The forge was dark and cold, its fire only lit when there was occasional work to be done. They pulled Granny inside, and she slipped out of their grip and landed on hands and knees on the flagstones.

  “But iron’s no good against vampires, is it?” said Agnes. “I’ve never heard of people using iron—”

  Granny made a noise somewhere between a snort and a growl. She pulled herself across the floor, leaving a trail of mud, until she reached the anvil.

  It was simply a great long lump of iron to accommodate the half-skilled metal-bashing occasionally needed to keep the castle running. Still kneeling, Granny grabbed at it with both hands and laid her forehead against it.

  “Granny, what can—” Agnes began.

  “Go where the others…are,” Granny Weatherwax croaked. “It’ll need three…witches if this goes…wrong…you’ll have to face…something terrible…”

  “What terrible thing?”

  “Me. Do it now.”

  Agnes backed away. On the black iron, by Granny’s fingers, little flecks of rust were spitting and jumping.

  “I’d better go! Keep an eye on her!”

  “But what if—” Oats began.

  Granny flung her head back, her eyes screwed shut.

  “Get away!” she screamed.

  Agnes went white.

  “You heard what she said!” she shouted, and ran out into the rain.

  Granny’s head slumped forward against the iron again. Around her fingers red sparks danced on the metal.

  “Mister priest,” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “Somewhere in this place is an ax. Fetch it here!”

  Oats looked around desperately. There was an ax, a small double-headed one, lying by a grindstone.

  “Er, I’ve found one,” he ventured.

  Granny’s head jerked back. Her teeth were gritted, but she managed to say, “Sharpen it!”

  Oats glanced at the grindstone and licked his lips nervously.

  “Sharpen it right now, I said!”

  He pulled off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, took up the ax and put a foot on the wheel’s treadle.

  Sparks leapt off the blade as the wheel spun.

  “Then find some wood an’…cut a point on it. And find…a hammer…”

  The hammer was easy. There was a rack of tools by the wheel. A few seconds’ desperate rummaging in the debris by the wall produced a fence post.

  “Madam, what are you wanting me to—”

  “Something…will get up…presently,” Granny panted. “Make sure…you know well…what it is…”

  “But you’re not expecting me to behead—”

  “I’m commandin’ you, religious man! What do you really…believe? What did you…think it was all about? Singing songs? Sooner or la
ter…it’s all down to…the blood…”

  Her head lolled against the anvil.

  Oats looked at her hands again. Around them the iron was black, but just a little way from her fingers there was a faint glow to the metal, and the rust sizzled. He touched the anvil gingerly, then pulled his hand away and sucked at his fingers.

  “Mistress Weatherwax a bit poorly, is she?” said Hodgesaargh, coming in.

  “I think you could certainly say that, yes.”

  “Oh dear. Want some tea?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a nasty night. If we’re stopping up I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “Do you realize, man, that she might get up from there a blood-thirsty vampire?”

  “Oh.” The falconer looked down at the still figure and the smoking anvil. “Good idea to face her with a cup of tea inside you, then,” he said.

  “Do you understand what’s going on here?”

  Hodgesaargh took another slow look at the scene. “No,” he said.

  “In that case—”

  “’s not my job to understand this sort of thing,” said the falconer. “I wasn’t trained. Probably takes a lot of training, understanding this. That’s your job. And her job. Can you understand what’s going on when a bird’s been trained and’ll make a kill and still came back to the wrist?”

  “Well, no—”

  “There you are, then. So that’s all right. Cup of tea, was it?”

  Oats gave up. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

  Hodgesaargh bustled off.

  The priest sat down. If the truth were known, he wasn’t sure he understood what was happening. The old woman had been burning up and in pain, and now…the iron was getting hot, as if the pain and the heat had been moved away. Could anyone do that? Well, of course, the prophets could, he told himself conscientiously, but that was because Om had given them the power. But by all accounts the old woman didn’t believe in anything.

  She was very still now.

  The others had talked about her as though she was some great magician, but the figure he’d seen in the hall had been just a tired, worn-out old woman. He’d seen people down in the hospice in Aby Dyal, stiff and withdrawn until the pain was too great and all they had left was a prayer and then…not even that. That seemed to be where she was now.