‘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 any more.’ 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 backwards, 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 corner, 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!’
‘Um,’ 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!’
‘Um …’
‘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 practising 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. They 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.25
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 heather. 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 ole 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 Baker, fishing one of his boots out of a peat pool. ‘Foreign.’
‘Wasn’t he the one, everything he touched turned into 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 any more,’ 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: Gods Bles Their Majestieys.
With hardly a word exchanged, the men parted and staggered their separate ways.
A hare lolloped through the morning mists 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 last 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’d 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 elves 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 in
to 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 fiancé.
‘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 fourposter 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 a 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.
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