Lords And Ladies tds-14

by Terry David John Pratchett

  "Right you are. Mistress Weatherwax."

  His round, honest face disappeared from view. After a minute or two they heard the creaking of the portcullis.

  "How did you do that?" said Nanny Ogg. "Simple," said Granny. "He knows you wouldn't make his daft head explode."

  "Well, I know you wouldn't, too."

  "No you don't. You just know I ain't done it up to now."

  Magrat had thought this sort of thing was just a joke, but it was true. The castle's Great Hall had one long, one very long dining table, and she and Verence sat at either end of it.

  It was all to do with etiquette.

  The king had to sit at the head of the table. That was obvious. But if she sat on one side of him it made them both uneasy, because they had to keep turning to talk to each other. Opposite ends and shouting was the only way.

  Then there was the logistics of the sideboard. Again, the easy option — them just going over and helping themselves — was out of the question. If kings went round putting their own food on their own plate, the whole system of monarchy would come crashing down.

  Unfortunately, this meant that service had to be by means of Mr. Spriggins the butler, who had a bad memory, a nervous twitch and a rubber knee, and a sort of medieval elevator system that connected with the kitchen and sounded like the rattle of a tumbril. The elevator shaft was a kind of heat sink. Hot food was cold by the time it arrived. Cold food got colder. No one knew what would happen to ice cream, but it would probably involve some rewriting of the laws of thermodynamics.

  Also, the cook couldn't get the hang of vegetarianism. The traditional palace cuisine was heavy in artery-clogging dishes so full of saturated fats that they oozed out in great wobbly globules. Vegetables existed as things to soak up spare gravy, and were generally boiled to a uniform shade of yellow in any case. Magrat had tried explaining things to Mrs. Scorbic the cook, but the woman's three chins wobbled so menacingly at words like "vitamins" that she'd made an excuse to back out of the kitchen.

  At the moment she was making do with an apple. The cook knew about apples. They were big roasted floury things scooped out and filled with raisins and cream. So Magrat had resorted to stealing a raw one from the apple loft. She was also plotting to find out where the carrots were kept.

  Verence was distantly visible behind the silver candlesticks and a pile of account books.

  Occasionally they looked up and smiled at each other. At least, it looked like a smile but it was a little hard to be sure at this distance.

  Apparently he'd just said something.

  Magrat cupped her hands around her mouth.

  "Pardon?"

  "We need a-"

  "Sorry?"

  "What?"

  "What?"

  Finally Magrat got up and waited while Spriggins, purple in the face with the effort, moved her chair down toward Verence. She could have done it herself, but it wasn't what queens did.

  "We ought to have a Poet Laureate," said Verence, marking his place in a book. "Kingdoms have to have one. They write poems for special celebrations."

  "Yes?"

  "I thought perhaps Mrs. Ogg? I hear she's quite an amusing songstress."

  Magrat kept a straight face.

  "I . . . er . . . I think she knows lots of rhymes for certain words," she said.

  "Apparently the going rate is fourpence a year and a butt of sack," said Verence, peering at the page. "Or it may be a sack of butt."

  "What exactly will she have to do?" said Magrat.

  "It says here the role of the Poet Laureate is to recite poems on State occasions," said Verence.

  Magrat had witnessed some of Nanny Ogg's humorous recitations, especially the ones with the gestures. She nodded gravely.

  "Provided," she said, "and I want to be absolutely sure you understand me on this, provided she takes up her post after the wedding."

  "Oh, dear? Really?"

  "After the wedding."

  "Oh."

  "Trust me."

  "Well, of course, if it makes you happy-"

  There was a commotion outside the double doors, which were flung back. Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax stamped in, with Shawn trying to overtake them.

  "Oooaaww, Mum! I'm supposed to go in first to say who it is!"

  "We'll tell them who we are. Wotcha, your majesties," said Nanny.

  "Blessing be upon this castle," said Granny. "Magrat, there's some doctorin' needs doing. Here."

  Granny swept a candlestick and some crockery on to the floor with a dramatic motion and laid Diamanda on the table. In fact there were several acres of table totally devoid of any obstruction, but there's no sense in making an entrance unless you're prepared to make a mess.

  "But I thought she was fighting you yesterday!" said Magrat.

  "Makes no difference," said Granny. "Morning, your majesty."

  King Verence nodded. Some kings would have shouted for the guards at this point but Verence did not because he ' was sensible, this was Granny Weatherwax and in any case the only available guard was Shawn Ogg, who was trying to straighten out his trumpet.

  Nanny Ogg had drifted over to the sideboard. It wasn't that she was callous, but it had been a busy few hours and there was a lot of breakfast that no one seemed to be interested in.

  "What happened to her?" said Magrat, inspecting the girl carefully.

  Granny looked around the room. Suits of armour, shields hanging on the walls, rusty old swords and pikes . . . probably enough iron here . . .

  "She was shot by an elf-"

  "But-" said Magrat and Verence at the same time.

  "Don't ask questions now, got no time. Shot by an elf. Them horrible arrows of theirs. They make the mind go wandering off all by itself. Now — can you do anything?"

  Despite her better nature, Magrat felt a spark of righteous ire.

  "Oh, so suddenly I'm a witch again when you-"

  Granny Weatherwax sighed.

  "No time for that, either," she said. "I'm just askin'. All you have to do is say no. Then I'll take her away and won't bother you again."

  The quietness of her voice was so unexpected that Magrat tripped over her own anger, and tried to right herself.

  "I wasn't saying I wouldn't, I was just-"

  "Good."

  There was a series of clangs as Nanny Ogg lifted the silver tureen lids.

  "Hey, they've got three kinds of eggs!"

  "Well, there's no fever," said Magrat. "Slow pulse. Eyes unfocused. Shawn?"

  "Yes, Miss Queen?"

  "Boiled, scrambled and fried. That's what I call posh."

  "Run down to my cottage and bring back all the books you can find. I'm sure I read something about this once, Granny. Shawn?"

  Shawn paused halfway to the door.

  "Yes, Miss Queen?"

  "On your way out, stop off in the kitchens and ask them to boil up a lot of water. We can start by getting the wound clean, at any rate. But look, elves-"

  "I'll let you get on with it, then," said Granny, turning away. "Can I have a word with you, your majesty? There's something downstairs you ought to see."

  "I shall need some help," said Magrat.

  "Nanny'll do it."

  "That's me," said Nanny indistinctly, spraying crumbs.

  "What are you eating?"

  "Fried egg and ketchup sandwich," said Nanny happily.

  "You better get the cook to boil you, too," said Magrat, rolling up her sleeves. "Go and see her." She looked at the wound. "And see if she's got any mouldy bread . . ."

  The basic unit of wizardry is the Order or the College or, of course, the University.

  The basic unit of witchcraft is the witch, but the basic continuous unit, as has already been indicated, is the cottage.

  A witch's cottage is a very specific architectural item. It is not exactly built, but put together over the years as the areas of repair join up, like a sock made entirely of dams. The chimney twists like a corkscrew. The roof is thatch so old that sma
ll but flourishing trees are growing in it, the floors are switchbacks, it creaks at night like a tea clipper in a gale. If at least two walls aren't shored up with balks of timber then it's not a true witch's cottage at all, but merely the home of some daft old bat who reads tea leaves and talks to her cat.

  Cottages tend to attract similar kinds of witches. It's natural. Every witch trains up one or two young witches in their life, and when in the course of mortal time the cottage becomes vacant it's only sense for one of them to move in.

  Magrat's cottage traditionally housed thoughtful witches who noticed things and wrote things down. Which herbs were better than others for headaches, fragments of old stories, odds and ends like that.

  There were a dozen books of tiny handwriting and drawings, the occasional interesting flower or unusual frog pressed carefully between the pages.

  It was a cottage of questioning witches, research witches. Eye of what newt? What species of ravined salt-sea shark? It's all very well a potion calling for Love-in-idleness, but which of the thirty-seven common plants called by that name in various parts of the continent was actually meant?

  The reason that Granny Weatherwax was a better witch than Magrat was that she knew that in witchcraft it didn't matter a damn which one it was, or even if it was a piece of grass.

  The reason that Magrat was a better doctor than Granny was that she thought it did.

  The coach slowed to a halt in front of the barricade across the road.

  The bandit chieftain adjusted his eyepatch. He had two good eyes, but people respect uniforms. Then he strolled toward the coach.

  "Morning, Jim. What've we got today, then?"

  "Uh. This could be difficult," said the coachman. "Uh, there's a handful of wizards. And a dwarf. And an ape." He rubbed his head, and winced. "Yes. Definitely an ape. Not, and I think I should make this clear, any other kind of manshaped thing with hair on."

  "You all right, Jim?"

  "I've had this lot ever since Ankh-Morpork. Don't talk to me about dried frog pills."

  The bandit chief raised his eyebrows.

  "All right. I won't."

  He knocked on the coach door. The window slid down.

  "I wouldn't like you to think of this as a robbery," he said. "I'd like you to think of it more as a colourful anecdote you might enjoy telling your grandchildren about."

  A voice from within said, "That's him! He stole my horse!"

  A wizard's staff poked out. The chieftain saw the knob on the end.

  "Now, then," he said, pleasantly. "I know the rules. Wizards aren't allowed to use magic against civilians except in genuine life-threatening situa-"

  There was a burst of octarine light.

  "Actually, it's not a rule," said Ridcully. "It's more a guideline." He turned to Ponder Stibbons. "Interestin' use of Stacklady's Morphic Resonator here, I hope you noticed."

  Ponder looked down.

  The chieftain had been turned into a pumpkin although, in accordance with the rules of universal humour, he still had his hat on.

  "And now," said Ridcully, "I'd be obliged if all you fellows hidin' behind the rocks and things would just step out where I can see you. Very good. Mr. Stibbons, you and the Librarian just pass around with the hat, please."

  "But this is robbery!" said the coachman. "And you've turned him into a fruit!"

  "A vegetable," said Ridcully "Anyway, it'll wear off in a couple of hours."

  "And I'm owed a horse," said Casanunda.

  The bandits paid up, reluctantly handing over money to Ponder and reluctantly but very quickly handing over money to the Librarian.

  "There's almost three hundred dollars, sir," said Ponder.

  "And a horse, remember. In fact, there were two horses. I'd forgotten about the other horse until now."

  "Capital! We're in pocket on the trip. So if these gentlemen would just remove the roadblock, we'll be on our way."

  "In fact, there was a third horse I've just remembered about."

  "This isn't what you're supposed to do! You're supposed to be robbed!" shouted the coachman.

  Ridcully pushed him off the board.

  "We're on holiday," he said.

  The coach rattled away There was a distant cry of "And four horses, don't forget" before it rounded a bend.

  The pumpkin developed a mouth.

  "Have they gone?"

  "Yes, boss."

  "Roll me into the shade, will you? And no one say anything about this ever again. Has anyone got any dried frog pills?"

  Verence II respected witches. They'd put him on the throne. He was pretty certain of that, although he couldn't quite work out how it had happened. And he was in awe of Granny Weatherwax.

  He followed her meekly toward the dungeons, hurrying to keep up with her long stride.

  "What's happening, Mistress Weatherwax?"

  "Got something to show you."

  "You mentioned elves."

  "That's right."

  "I thought they were a fairy story."

  "Well?"

  "I mean . . . you know . . . an old wives' tale?"

  "So?"

  Granny Weatherwax seemed to generate a gyroscopic field — if you started out off-balance, she saw to it that you remained there.

  He tried again.

  "Don't exist, is what I'm trying to say."

  Granny reached a dungeon door. It was mainly age-blackened oak, but with a large barred grille occupying some of the top half.

  "In there."

  Verence peered inside.

  "Good grief!"

  "I got Shawn to unlock it. I don't reckon anyone else saw us come in. Don't tell anyone. If the dwarfs and the trolls find out, they'll tear the walls apart to get him out."

  "Why? To kill him?"

  "Of course. They've got better memories than humans."

  "What am I supposed to do with it?"

  "Just keep it locked up. How should I know? I've got to think!"

  Verence peered in again at the elf. It was lying curled up in the centre of the floor.

  "That's an elf? But it's . . . just a long, thin human with a foxy face. More or less. I thought they were supposed to be beautiful?"

  "Oh, they are when they're conscious," said Granny, waving a hand vaguely "They project this . . . this . . . when people look at them, they see beauty, they see something they want to please. They can look just like you want them to look. 'S'called glamour. You can tell when elves are around. People act funny. They stop thinking clear. Don't you know anything?"

  "I thought . . . elves were just stories . . . like the Tooth Fairy. . ."

  "Nothing funny about the Tooth Fairy," said Granny. "Very hard-working woman. I'll never know how she manages with the ladder and everything. No. Elves are real. Oh, drat. Listen. . ."

  She turned, and held up a finger.

  "Feudal system, right?"

  "What?"

  "Feudal system! Pay attention. Feudal system. King on top, then barons and whatnot, then everyone else . . . witches off to one side a bit," Granny added diplomatically. She steepled her fingers. "Feudal system. Like them pointy buildings heathen kings get buried in. Understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Right. That's how the elves see things, yes? When they get into a world, everyone else is on the bottom. Slaves. Worse than slaves. Worse than animals, even. They take what they want, and they want everything. But worst of all, the worst bit is . . . they read your mind. They hear what you think, and in self-defence you think what they want. Glamour. And it's barred windows at night, and food out for the fairies, and turning around three times before you talks about 'em, and horseshoes over the door."

  "I thought that sort of thing was, you know," the king grinned sickly, "folklore?"

  "Of course it's folklore, you stupid man!"

  "I do happen to be king, you know," said Verence reproachfully.

  "You stupid king, your majesty,"

  "Thank you."

  "I mean it doesn't mean it's not tr
ue! Maybe it gets a little muddled over the years, folks forget details, they forget why they do things. Like the horseshoe thing."

  "I know my granny had one over the door," said the king.

  "There you are. Nothing to do with its shape. But if you lives in an old cottage and you're poor, it's probably the nearest bit of iron with holes in it that you can find."

  "Ah."

  "The thing about elves is they've got no . . . begins with m," Granny snapped her fingers irritably.

  "Manners?"

  "Hah! Right, but no."

  "Muscle? Mucus? Mystery?"

  "No. No. No. Means like . . . seein' the other person's point of view."

  Verence tried to see the world from a Granny Weatherwax perspective, and suspicion dawned.

  "Empathy?"

  "Right. None at all. Even a hunter, a good hunter, can feel for the quarry. That's what makes 'em a good hunter. Elves aren't like that. They're cruel for fun, and they can't understand things like mercy. They can't understand that anything apart from themselves might have feelings. They laugh a lot, especially if they've caught a lonely human or a dwarf or a troll. Trolls might be made out of rock, your majesty, but I'm telling you that a troll is your brother compared to elves. In the head, I mean."

  "But why don't I know all this?"

  "Glamour. Elves are beautiful. They've got," she spat the word, "style. Beauty. Grace. That's what matters. If cats looked like frogs we'd realize what nasty, cruel little bastards they are. Style. That's what people remember. They remember the glamour. All the rest of it, all the truth of it, becomes . . . old wives' tales."

  "Magrat's never said anything about them."

  Granny hesitated.

  "Magrat doesn't know too much about elves," she said. "Hah. She ain't even a young wife yet. They're not something that gets talked about a lot these days. It's not good to talk about them. It's better if everyone forgets about them. They . . . come when they're called. Not called like 'Cooee.' Called inside people's heads. It's enough for people just to want them to be here."

  Verence waved his hands in the air.

  "I'm still learning about monarchy," he said. "I don't understand this stuff."

  "You don't have to understand. You're a king. Listen. You know about weak places in the world? Where it joins other worlds?"