'I hope that sorts it all out,' he said. 'Ha. Ha.'
In the silence that followed Tomjon opened his mouth to utter something suitable, something soothing, and found that there was nothing he could say.
But another personality stepped into him, took over his lips, and spoke thusly:
'With my own bloody dagger, you bastard! I know it was you! I saw you at the top of the stairs, sucking your thumb! I'd kill you now, except for the thought of having to spend eternity listening to your whining. I, Verence, formerly King of-'
'What testimony is this?' said the duchess. She stood in front of the stage, with half a dozen soldiers beside her.
'These are just slanders,' she added. 'And treason to boot. The rantings of mad players.'
'I was bloody King of Lancre!' shouted Tomjon.
'In which case you are the alleged victim,' said the duchess calmly. 'And unable to speak for the prosecution. It is against all precedent.'
Tomjon's body turned towards Death.
'You were there! You saw it all!'
I SUSPECT I WOULD NOT BE CONSIDERED AN APPROPRIATE WITNESS.
'Therefore there is no proof, and where there is no proof there is no crime,' said the duchess. She motioned the soldiers forward.
'So much for your experiment,' she said to her husband. 'I think my way is better.'
She looked around the stage, and found the witches.
'Arrest them,' she said.
'No,' said the Fool, stepping out of the wings.
'What did you say?'
'I saw it all,' said the Fool, simply. 'I was in the Great Hall that night. You killed the king, my lord.'
'I did not!' screamed the duke. 'You were not there! I did not see you there! I order you not to be there!'
'You did not dare say this before,' said Lady Felmet.
'Yes, lady. But I must say it now.'
The duke focused unsteadily on him.
'You swore loyalty unto death, my Fool,' he hissed.
'Yes, my lord. I'm sorry.'
'You're dead.'
The duke snatched a dagger from Wimsloe's-unresisting hand, darted forward, and plunged it to the hilt into the Fool's heart. Magrat screamed.
The Fool rocked back and forth unsteadily.
'Thank goodness that's over,' he said, as Magrat pushed her way through the actors and clasped him to what could charitably be called her bosom. It struck the Fool that he had never looked a bosom squarely in the face, at least since he was a baby, and it was particularly cruel of the world to save the experience until after he was dead.
He gently moved one of Magrat's arms and pulled the despicable horned cowl from his head, and tossed it as far as possible. He didn't have to be a Fool any more or, he realised, bother about vows or anything. What with bosoms as well, death seemed to be an improvement.
'I didn't do it,' said the duke.
No pain, thought the Fool. Funny, that. On the other hand, you obviously can't feel pain when you are dead. It would be wasted.
'You all saw that I didn't do it,' said the duke.
Death gave the Fool a puzzled look. Then he reached into the recesses of his robes and pulled out an hourglass. It had bells on it. He gave it a gentle shake, which made them tinkle.
'I gave no orders that any such thing should be done,' said the duke calmly. His voice came from a long way off, from wherever his mind was now. The company stared at him wordlessly. It wasn't possible to hate someone like this, only to feel acutely embarrassed about being anywhere near him. Even the Fool felt embarrassed, and he was dead.
Death tapped the hourglass, and then peered at it to see if it had gone wrong.
'You are all lying,' said the duke, in tranquil tones. 'Telling lies is naughty.'
He stabbed several of the nearest actors in a dreamy, gentle way, and then held up the blade.
'You see?' he said. 'No blood! It wasn't me.' He looked up at the duchess, towering over him now like a red tsunami over a small fishing village.
'It was her,' he said. 'She did it.'
He stabbed her once or twice, on general principles, and then stabbed himself and let the dagger drop from his fingers.
After a few seconds reflection he said, in a voice far nearer the worlds of sanity, 'You can't get me now.'
He turned to Death. 'Will there be a comet?' he said. 'There must be a comet when a prince dies. I'll go and see, shall I?'
He wandered away. The audience broke into applause.
'You've got to admit he was real royalty,' said Nanny Ogg, eventually. 'It only goes to show, royalty goes eccentric far better than the likes of you and me.'
Death held the hourglass to his skull, his face radiating puzzlement.
Granny Weatherwax picked up the fallen dagger and tested the blade with her finger. It slid into the handle quite easily, with a faint squeaking noise.
She passed it to Nanny.
'There's your magic sword,' she said.
Magrat looked at it, and then back at the Fool.
'Are you dead or not?' she said.
'I must be,' said the Fool, his voice slightly muffled. 'I think I'm in paradise.'
'No, look, I'm serious.'
'I don't know. But I'd like to breathe.'
'Then you must be alive.'
'Everyone's alive,' said Granny. 'It's a trick dagger. Actors probably can't be trusted with real ones.'
'After all, they can't even keep a cauldron clean,' said Nanny.
'Whether everyone is alive or not is a matter for me,' said the duchess. 'As ruler it is my pleasure to decide. Clearly my husband has lost his wits.' She turned to her soldiers. 'And I decree—'
'Now!' hissed King Verence in Granny's ear. 'Now!'
Granny Weatherwax drew herself up.
'Be silent, woman!' she said. 'The true King of Lancre stands before you!'
She clapped Tomjon on the shoulder.
'What, him?'
'Who, me?'
'Ridiculous,' said the duchess. 'He's a mummer, of sorts.'
'She's right, miss,' said Tomjon, on the edge of panic. 'My father runs a theatre, not a kingdom.'
'He is the true king. We can prove it,' said Granny.
'Oh, no,' said the duchess. 'We're not having that. There's no mysterious returned heirs in this kingdom. Guards – take him.'
Granny Weatherwax held up a hand. The soldiers lurched from foot to foot, uncertainly.
'She's a witch, isn't she?' said one of them, tentatively.
'Certainly,' said the duchess.
The guards shifted uneasily.
'We seen where they turn people into newts,' said one.
'And then shipwreck them.'
'Yeah, and alarum the divers.'
'Yeah.'
'We ought to talk about this. We ought to get extra for witches.'
'She could do anything to us, look. She could be a drabe, even.'
'Don't be foolish,' said the duchess. 'Witches don't do that sort of thing. They're just stories to frighten people.'
The guard shook his head.
'It looked pretty convincing to me.'
'Of course it did, it was meant—' the duchess began.
She sighed, and snatched a spear out of the guard's hand.
'I'll show you the power of these witches,' she said, and hurled it at Granny's face.
Granny moved her hand across at snakebite speed and caught the spear just behind the head.
'So,' she said, 'and it comes to this, does it?'
'You don't frighten me, wyrd sisters,' said the duchess.
Granny stared her in the eye for a few seconds. She gave a grunt of surprise.
'You're right,' she said. 'We really don't, do we . . .'
'Do you think I haven't studied you? Your witchcraft is all artifice and illusion, to amaze weak minds. It holds no fears for me. Do your worst.'
Granny studied her for a while.
'My worst?' she said, eventually. Magrat and Nanny Ogg shuffled gently out of her
way.
The duchess laughed.
'You're clever,' she said. 'I'll grant you that much. And quick. Come on, hag. Bring on your toads and demons, I'll . . .'
She stopped, her mouth opening and shutting a bit without any words emerging. Her lips drew back in a rictus of terror, her eyes looked beyond Granny, beyond the world, towards something else. One knuckled hand flew to her mouth and she made a little whimpering noise. She froze, like a rabbit that has just seen a stoat and knows, without any doubt, that it is the last stoat that it will ever see.
'What have you done to her?' said Magrat, the first to dare to speak. Granny smirked.
'Headology,' said Granny, and smirked. 'You don't need any Black Aliss magic for it.'
'Yes, but what have you done?'
'No-one becomes like she is without building walls inside their head,' she said. Tve just knocked them down. Every scream. Every plea. Every pang of guilt. Every twinge of conscience. All at once. There's a little trick to it.'
She gave Magrat a condescending smile. 'I'll show you one day, if you like.'
Magrat thought about it. 'It's horrible,' she said.
'Nonsense,' Granny smiled terribly. 'Everyone wants to know their true self. Now, she does.'
'Sometimes you have to be kind to be cruel,' said Nanny Ogg approvingly.
'I think it's probably the worst thing that could happen to anyone,' said Magrat, as the duchess swayed backwards and forwards.
'For goodness' sake use your imagination, girl,' said Granny. 'There are far worse things. Needles under the fingernails, for one. Stuff with pliers.'
'Red-hot knives up the jacksie,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Handle first, too, so you cut your fingers trying to pull them out—'
'This is simply the worst that I can do,' said Granny Weatherwax primly. 'It's all right and proper, too. A witch should act like that, you know. There's no need for any dramatic stuff. Most magic goes on in the head. It's headology. Now, if you'd—'
A noise like a gas leak escaped from the duchess's lips. Her head jerked back suddenly. She opened her eyes, blinked, and focused on Granny. Sheer hatred suffused her features.
'Guards!' she said. 'I told you to take them!'
Granny's jaw sagged. 'What?' she said. 'But – but I showed you your true self . . .'
'I'm supposed to be upset by that, am I?' As the soldiers sheepishly grabbed Granny's arms the duchess pressed her face close to Granny's, her tremendous eyebrows a V of triumphant hatred. 'I'm supposed to grovel on the floor, is that it? Well, old woman, I've seen exactly what I am, do you understand, and I'm proud of it! I'd do it all again, only hotter and longer! I enjoyed it, and I did it because I wanted to!'
She thumped the vast expanse of her chest.
'You gawping idiots!' she said. 'You're so weak. You really think that people are basically decent underneath, don't you?'
The crowd on the stage backed away from the sheer force of her exultation.
'Well, I've looked underneath,' said the duchess. 'I know what drives people. It's fear. Sheer, deep-down fear. There's not one of you who doesn't fear me, I can make you widdle your drawers out of terror, and now I'm going to take—'
At this point Nanny Ogg hit her on the back of the head with the cauldron.
'She does go on, doesn't she?' she said conversationally, as the duchess collapsed. 'She was a bit eccentric, if you ask me.'
There was a long, embarrassed silence.
Granny Weatherwax coughed. Then she treated the soldiers holding her to a bright, friendly smile, and pointed to the mound that was now the duchess.
'Take her away and put her in a cell somewhere,' she commanded. The men snapped to attention, grabbed the duchess by her arms, and pulled her upright with considerable difficulty.
'Gently, mind,' said Granny.
She rubbed her hands together and turned to Tomjon, who was watching her with his mouth open.
'Depend on it,' she hissed. 'Here and now, my lad, you don't have a choice. You're the King of Lancre.'
'But I don't know how to be a king!'
'We all seed you! You had it down just right, including the shouting.'
'That's just acting!'
'Act, then. Being a king is, is—' Granny hesitated, and snapped her fingers at Magrat. 'What do you call them things, there's always a hundred of them in anything?'
Magrat looked bewildered. 'Do you mean per cents?' she said.
'Them,' agreed Granny. 'Most of the per cents in being a king is acting, if you ask me. You ought to be good at it.'
Tomjon looked for help into the wings, where Hwel should have been. The dwarf was in fact there, but he wasn't paying much attention. He had the script in front of him, and was rewriting furiously.
BUT I ASSURE YOU, YOU ARE NOT DEAD. TAKE IT FROM ME.
The duke giggled. He had found a sheet from somewhere and had draped it over himself, and was sidling along some of the castle's more deserted corridors. Sometimes he would go 'whoo-oo' in a low voice.
This worried Death. He was used to people claiming that they were not dead, because death always came as a shock, and a lot of people had some trouble getting over it. But people claiming that they were dead with every breath in their body was a new and unsettling experience.
'I shall jump out on people,' said the duke dreamily. 'I shall rattle my bones all night, I shall perch on the roof and foretell a death in the house—'
THAT'S BANSHEES.
'I shall if I want,' said the duke, with a trace of earlier determination. 'And I shall float through walls, and knock on tables, and drip ectoplasm on anyone I don't like. Ha. Ha.'
IT WON'T WORK. LIVING PEOPLE ARENT ALLOWED TO BE GHOSTS. I'M SORRY.
The duke made an unsuccessful attempt to float through a wall, gave up, and opened a door out on to a crumbling section of the battlements. The storm had died away a bit, and a thin rind of moon lurked behind the clouds like a ticket tout for eternity.
Death stalked through the wall behind him.
'Well then,' said the duke, 'if I'm not dead, why are you here?'
He jumped up on to the wall and flapped his sheet.
WAITING.
'Wait forever, bone face!' said the duke triumphantly. 'I shall hover in the twilight world, I shall find some chains to shake, I shall—'
He stepped backwards, lost his balance, landed heavily on the wall and slid. For a moment the remnant of his right hand scrabbled ineffectually at the stonework, and then it vanished.
Death is obviously potentially everywhere at the same time, and in one sense it is no more true to say that he was on the battlements, picking vaguely at non-existent particles of glowing metal on the edge of his scythe blade, than that he was waist-deep in the foaming, rock-toothed waters in the depths of Lancre gorge, his calcareous gaze sweeping downwards and stopping abruptly at a point where the torrent ran a few treacherous inches over a bed of angular pebbles.
After a while the duke sat up, transparent in the phosphorescent waves.
'I shall haunt their corridors,' he said, 'and whisper under the doors on still nights.' His voice grew fainter, almost lost in the ceaseless roar of the river. 'I shall make basket chairs creak most alarmingly, just you wait and see.'
Death grinned at him.
NOW YOU'RE TALKING.
It started to rain.
Ramtop rain has a curiously penetrative quality which makes ordinary rain seem almost arid. It poured in torrents over the castle roofs, and somehow seemed to go right through the tiles and fill the Great Hall with a warm, uncomfortable moistness[21].
The hall was crowded with half the population of Lancre. Outside, the rushing of the rain even drowned out the distant roar of the river. It soaked the stage. The colours ran and mingled in the painted backdrop, and one of the curtains sagged away from its rail and flapped sadly into a puddle.
Inside, Granny Weatherwax finished speaking.
'You forgot about the crown,' whispered Nanny Ogg.
'Ah,' said Grann
y. 'Yes, the crown. It's on his head, d'you see? We hid it among the crowns when the actors left, the reason being, no-one would look for it there. See how it fits him so perfectly.'
It was a tribute to Granny's extraordinary powers of persuasion that everyone did see how perfectly it fitted Tomjon. In fact the only one who didn't was Tomjon himself, who was aware that it was only his ears that were stopping it becoming a necklace.
'Imagine the sensation when he put it on for the first time,' she went on. 'I expect there was an eldritch tingling sensation.'
'Actually, it felt rather—' Tomjon began, but no-one was listening to him. He shrugged and leaned over to Hwel, who was still scribbling busily.
'Does eldritch mean uncomfortable?' he hissed.
The dwarf looked at him with unfocused eyes.
'What?'
'I said, does eldritch mean uncomfortable?'
'Eh? Oh. No. No, I shouldn't think so.'
'What does it mean then?'
'Dunno. Oblong, I think.' Hwel's glance returned to his scrawls as though magnetised. 'Can you remember what he said after all those tomorrows? I didn't catch the bit after that . . .'
'And there wasn't any need for you to tell everyone I was – adopted,' said Tomjon.
'That's how it was, you see,' said the dwarf vaguely. 'Best to be honest about these things. Now then, did he actually stab her, or just accuse her?'
'I don't want to be a king!' Tomjon whispered hoarsely. 'Everyone says I take after dad!'
'Funny thing, all this taking after people,' said the dwarf vaguely. 'I mean, if I took after my dad, I'd be a hundred feet underground digging rocks, whereas—' His voice died away. He stared at the nib of his pen as though it held an incredible fascination.
'Whereas what?'
'Eh?'
'Aren't you even listening?'
'I knew it was wrong when I wrote it, I knew it was the wrong way round . . . What? Oh, yes. Be a king. It's a good job. It seems there's a lot of competition, at any rate. I'm very happy for you. Once you're a king, you can do anything you want.'
Tomjon looked at the faces of the Lancre worthies around the table. They had a keen, calculating look, like the audience at a fatstock show. They were weighing him up. It crept upon him in a cold and clammy way that once he was king, he could do anything he wanted. Provided that what he wanted to do was be king.
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