A sign near the drawbridge said LAƒT CHANCE NOT TO GO NEAR THE CAƒTLE, and Nanny Ogg laughed and laughed.
“The Count’s not going to be very happy about you, Igor,” she said, as he unlocked the doors.
“Thod him,” he said. “I’m going to pack up my thtuff and head for Blintth. There’th alwayth a job for an Igor up there. More lightning thtriketh per year than anywhere in the mountainth, they thay.”
Nanny Ogg wiped her eye. “Good job we’re soaked already,” she said. “All right, let’s get in. And, Igor, if you haven’t been thtraight with us, sorry, straight with us, I’ll have your guts for garters.”
Igor looked down bashfully. “Oh, that’th more than a man could pothibly hope for,” he murmured.
Magrat giggled and Igor pushed open the door and hurriedly shuffled inside.
“What?” said Nanny.
“Haven’t you noticed the looks he’s been giving you?” said Magrat, as they followed the lurching figure.
“What, him?” said Nanny.
“Could be carrying a torch for you,” said Magrat.
“I thought it was just to see where he’s going!” said Nanny, a little bit of panic in her voice. “I mean, I haven’t got my best drawers on or anything!”
“I think he’s a bit of a romantic, actually,” said Magrat.
“Oh, I don’t know, I really don’t,” said Nanny. “I mean, it’s flattering and everything, but I really don’t think I could be goin’ out with a man with a limp.”
“Limp what?”
Nanny Ogg had always considered herself unshockable, but there’s no such thing. Shocks can come from unexpected directions.
“I am a married woman,” said Magrat, smiling at her expression. And it felt good, just once, to place a small tintack in the path of Nanny’s carefree amble through life.
“But is…I mean, is Verence, you know, all right in the—”
“Oh yes. Everything’s…fine. But now I understand what your jokes were about.”
“What, all of them?” said Nanny, like someone who’d found all the aces removed from their favorite pack of cards.
“Well, not the one about the priest, the old woman and the rhinoceros.”
“I should just about hope so!” said Nanny. “I didn’t understand that one until I was forty!”
Igor limped back.
“There’th jutht the thervantth,” he said. “You could thtay down in my quarterth in the old tower. There’th thick doorth.”
“Mrs. Ogg would really like that,” said Magrat. “She was saying just now what good legs you’ve got, weren’t you, Nanny…”
“Do you want thome?” said Igor earnestly, leading the way up the steps. “I’ve got plenty and I could do with the thpathe in the ithehouthe.”
“You what?” said Nanny, stopping dead.
“I’m your man if there’th any organ you need,” said Igor.
There was a strangled coughing noise from Magrat.
“You’ve got—bits of people stored on ice?” said Nanny, horrified. “Bits of strange people? Chopped up? I’m not taking another step!”
Now Igor looked horrified.
“Not thtrangerth,” he said. “Family.”
“You chopped up your family?” Nanny backed away.
Igor waved his hands frantically.
“It’s a tradithion!” he said. “Every Igor leaveth hith body to the family! Why wathte good organth? Look at my uncle Igor, he died of buffaloeth, tho there wath a perfectly good heart and thome kidneyth going begging, pluth he’d thtill got Grandad’th handth and they were damn good handth, let me tell you.” He sniffed. “I with I’d had them, he wath a great thurgeon.”
“We-ll…I suppose every family says things like ‘he’s got his father’s eyes’—” Nanny began.
“No, my thecond couthin Igor got them.”
“But—but…who does the cutting and sewing?” said Magrat.
“I do. An Igor learnth houthehold thurgery on hith father’th knee,” said Igor. “And then practitheth on hith grandfather’th kidneyth.”
“’scuse me,” said Nanny. “What did you say your uncle died of?”
“Buffaloeth,” said Igor, unlocking another door.
“He broke out in them?”
“A herd fell on him. A freak acthident. We don’t talk about it.”
“Sorry, are you telling us you do surgery on yourself?” said Magrat.
“It’th not hard when you know what you’re doing. Thome-timeth you need a mirror, of courth, and it helpth if thomeone can put a finger on the knotth.”
“Isn’t it painful?”
“Oh no, I always tell them to take it away jutht before I pull the thtring tight.”
The door creaked open. It was a long, tortured groaning noise. In fact there was more creak than door, and it went on just a few seconds after the door had stopped.
“That sounds dreadful,” said Nanny.
“Thank you. It took dayth to get right. Creakth like that don’t jutht happen by themthelveth.”
There was a woof from the darkness and something leapt at Igor, knocking him off his feet.
“Got off, you big thoppy!”
It was a dog. Or several dogs rolled, as it were, into one. There were four legs, and they were nearly all the same length although not, Agnes noted, all the same color. There was one head, although the left ear was black and pointed while the right ear was brown and white and flopped. It was a very enthusiastic animal in the department of slobber.
“Thith ith Thcrapth,” said Igor, fighting to get to his feet in a hail of excited paws. “He’th a thilly old thing.”
“Scraps…yes,” said Nanny. “Good name. Good name.”
“He’th theventy-eight yearth old,” said Igor, leading the way down a winding staircase. “Thome of him.”
“Very neat stitching,” said Magrat. “He looks well on it, too. Happy as a dog with two—oh, I see he does have two…”
“I had one thpare,” said Igor, leading the way with Scraps bounding along beside him. “I thought, he’th tho happy with one, jutht think of the fun he could have with two…”
Nanny Ogg’s mouth didn’t even get half open—
“Don’t you even think of saying anything, Gytha Ogg!” snapped Magrat.
“Me?” said Nanny innocently.
“Yes! And you were. I could see you! You know he was talking about tails, not…anything else.”
“Oh, I thought about that long ago,” said Igor. “It’th obviouth. Thaveth wear and tear, pluth you can uthe one while you’re replathing the other. I ecthperimented on mythelf.”
Their footsteps echoed on the stairs.
“Now, what are we talking about here, exactly?” said Nanny, in a quiet I’m-only-asking-out-of-interest tone of voice.
“Heartth,” said Igor.
“Oh, two hearts. You’ve got two hearts?”
“Yeth. The other one belonged to poor Mr. Thwinetth down at the thawmill, but hith wife thed it wath no uthe to him after the acthident, what with him not having a head to go with it.”
“You’re a bit of a self-made man on the quiet, aren’t you,” said Magrat.
“Who did your brain?” said Nanny.
“Can’t do brainth yourthelf,” said Igor.
“Only…you’ve got all those stitches…”
“Oh, I put a metal plate in my head,” said Igor. “And a wire down my neck all the way to my bootth. I got fed up with all thothe lightning thtriketh. Here we are.” He unlocked another groaning door. “My little plathe.”
It was a dank vaulted room, clearly lived in by someone who didn’t spent a lot of social time there. There was a fireplace with a dog basket in front of it, and a bed with a mattress and one blanket. Crude cupboards lined one wall.
“There’th a well under that cover there,” he said, “and there’th a privy through there…”
“What’s through that door?” said Nanny, pointing to one with heavy bolts across it.<
br />
“Nothing,” said Igor.
Nanny shot him a glance. But the bolts were very firmly on this side.
“This looks like a crypt,” she said. “With a fireplace.”
“When the old Count wath alive he liked to get warm of an evening before going out,” said Igor. “Golden dayth, them wath. I wouldn’t give you tuppenth for the new vampireth. D’you know, they wanted me to get rid of Thcrapth?”
Scraps leapt up and tried to lick Nanny’s face.
“I thaw Lacrimotha kick him onthe,” said Igor darkly. He rubbed his hands together. “Can I get you ladieth anything to eat?”
“No,” said Nanny and Magrat together.
Scraps tried to lick Igor. He was a dog with a lot of lick to share.
“Thcrapth play dead,” said Igor. The dog dropped and rolled over with his legs in the air.
“Thee?” said Igor. “He rememberth!”
“Won’t we be cornered down here if the Magpyrs come?” said Magrat.
“They don’t come down here. It’th not modern enough for them,” said Igor. “And there’th wayth out if they do.”
Magrat glanced at the bolted door. It didn’t look the kind of way out anyone would want to take.
“What about weapons?” she said. “I shouldn’t think there’d be any anti-vampire stuff in a vampire’s castle, would there?”
“Why, thertainly,” said Igor.
“There is?”
“Ath much ath you want. The old marthter wath very keen on that. When we had vithitorth ecthpected, he alwayth thed, ‘Igor, make thertain the windowth are clean and there’th lotth of lemonth and bitth of ornament that can be turned into religiouth thymbolth around the plathe.’ He enjoyed it when people played by the ruleth. Very fair, the old marthter.”
“Yeah, but that’d mean he’d die, wouldn’t it?” said Nanny. She opened a cupboard and a stack of wrinkled lemons fell out.
Igor shrugged. “You win thome, you lothe thome,” he said. “The old marther uthed to thay, ‘Igor, the day vampireth win all the time, that’th the day we’ll be knocked back beyond return.’ Mind you, he got annoyed when people pinched hith thockth. He’d thay, ‘thod, that wath thilk, ten dollarth a pair in Ankh-Morpork.’”
“And he probably spent a lot of money on blotting paper, too,” said Nanny. Another cupboard revealed a rack of stakes, along with a mallet and a simple anatomical diagram with an X over the heart area.
“The chart wath my idea, Mithith Ogg,” said Igor proudly. “The old marthter got fed up with people just hammering the thtaketh in any old where. He thed he didn’t mind the dying, that wath quite rethtful, but he did object to looking like a colander.”
“You’re a bright chap, aren’t you, Igor,” said Nanny.
Igor beamed. “I’ve got a good brain in my head.”
“Chose it yourself, did you? No, only joking. You can’t do brains.”
“I’ve got a dithtant couthin at Untheen Univerthity, you know.”
“Really? What’s he do there?”
“Floatth around in hith jar,” said Igor, proudly. “Thall I thow you the holy water thellar? The old marthter build up a very good collection.”
“Sorry? A vampire collected holy water?” said Magrat.
“I think I’m beginning to understand,” said Nanny. “He was a sportsman, right?”
“Egthactly!”
“And a good sportsman always gives the valiant prey a decent chance,” said Nanny. “Even if it means having a cellar of Chateau Nerf de Pope. Sounds an intelligent bird, your old boy. Not like this new one. He’s just clever.”
“I don’t follow you,” said Magrat.
“Being killed’s nothing to a vampire,” said Nanny. “They always find a way of coming back. Everyone knows that, who knows anything about vampires. If they’re not too hard to kill and it’s all a bit of an adventure for people, well, like as not they’ll just stake him or chuck him in the river and go home. Then he has a nice restful decade or so, bein’ dead, and comes back from the grave and away he goes again. That way he never gets totally wiped out and the lads of the village get some healthy exercise.”
“The Magpyrs will come after us,” said Magrat, clutching the baby to her. “They’ll see we’re not in Lancre and they’ll know we couldn’t have gone down to the plains. They’ll find the smashed coach, too. They’ll find us, Nanny.”
Nanny looked at the array of jars and bottles, and the stakes neatly arranged in order of size.
“It’ll take them a little while,” she said. “We’ve got time to get…prepared.”
She turned around with a bottle of blessed water in one hand, a crossbow loaded with a wooden bolt, and a bag of musty lemons in her mouth.
“Eg oo it I ay,” she said.
“Pardon?” said Magrat.
Nanny spat out the lemons.
“Now we’ll try things my way,” she said. “I’m not good at thinkin’ like Granny but I’m bloody good at actin’ like me. Head-ology’s for them as can handle it. Let’s kick some bat.”
The wind soughed across the moors on the edge of Lancre, and hissed through the heather.
Around some old mounds, half buried in brambles, it shook the wet branches of a single thorn tree, and shredded the curling smoke that drifted up through the roots.
There was a single scream.
Down below, the Nac mac Feegle were doing their best, but strength is not the same as weight and mass and even with pixies hanging on to every limb and Big Aggie herself sitting on Verence’s chest he was still hard to control.
“I think mebbe the drink was a wee bitty too trackle?” said Big Aggie’s man, looking down at Verence’s bloodshot eyes and foaming mouth. “I’m sayin’, mebbe it was wrong jus’ giving him fifty times more than we tak’. He’s not used to it…”
Big Aggie shrugged.
In the far corner of the barrow half a dozen pixies backed out of the hole they’d hacked into the next chamber, dragging a sword. For bronze, it was quite well preserved—the old chieftains of Lancre reckoned to be buried with their weapons in order to fight their enemies in the next world, and since you didn’t become a chieftain of ancient Lancre without sending a great many enemies to the next world, they liked to take weapons that could be relied upon to last.
Under the direction of the old pixie, they maneuvered it within reached of Verence’s flailing hand.
“Are ye scrat?” said Big Aggie’s man. “Yin! Tan! Tetra!”
The Feegle leapt away in every direction. Verence rose almost vertically, bounced off the roof, grabbed the sword, hacked madly until he’d cut a hole through to the outside world, and escaped into the night.
The pixies clustered around the walls of the barrow turned their eyes to their Kelda.
Big Aggie nodded.
“Big Aggie says ye’d best see him come to nae harm,” said the old pixie.
A thousand small but very sharp weapons waved in the smoky air.
“Hoons!”
“Kill ’em a’!”
“Nac mac Feegle!”
A few seconds later the chamber was empty.
Nanny hurried across the castle’s main hall, burdened with stakes, and stopped dead.
“What the hell’s that thing?” she said. “Takes up a whole wall!”
“Oh, that wath the old Count’th pride and joy,” said Igor. “He wathn’t very modern, he alwayth thaid, but the Thentury of the Fruitbat had it’th compenthathionth. Thometimeth he’d play with it for hourth on end…”
It was an organ, or possibly what an organ hoped to be when it grew up, because it dominated the huge room. A music lover to the core, Nanny couldn’t help trotting over to inspect it. It was black, its pipes framed and enclosed in intricate ebony fretwork, with the stops and keyboard made of dead elephant.
“How does it work?” she said.
“Water power,” said Igor proudly. “There’th an underground river. The marthter had thith made thpethially to hith own de-thig
n…”
Nanny ran her fingers over a brass plate screwed above the keyboard.
It read: HLISTEN TO ZER CHILTREN OFF DER NIGHT…VOT VONDERFUL MHUSICK DEY MAKE. MNFTRD. BY BERGHOLT STUTTLEY JOHNSON, ANKH-MORPORK.
“It’s a Johnson,” she breathed. “I haven’t got my hands on a Johnson for ages…” She looked closer. “What’s this? ‘Scream 1’? ‘Thunderclap 14’? ‘Wolf Howl 5’? There’s a whole set of stops just marked ‘Creaky Floors’! Can’t you play music on this thing?”
“Oh yeth. But the old marthter wath more interethted in…effectth.”
There was still a dust-covered sheet of music on the stand, which someone had been filling in carefully, with many crossings-out.
“‘Return Of The Bride Of The Revenge Of The Son Of Count Magpyr,’” Nanny said aloud, noting that “From 20,000 Fathoms(?)” had been written in subsequently and then crossed out. “‘Sonata for Thunderstorm, Trapdoors and Young Women in Skimpy Clothing.’ Bit of an artist too, then, your old master?”
“In a…thpethial way,” said Igor wistfully.
Nanny stepped back.
“Magrat’s going to be safe, isn’t she?” she said, picking up the stakes again.
“It’th a mob-proof door,” said Igor. “And Thcrapth ith nine-thirty-eighth Rottweiler.”
“Which parts, as a matter of interest?”
“Two legth, one ear, lotth of tubeth and lower jaw,” said Igor promptly, as they hurried off again.
“Yes, but he’s got a spaniel brain,” said Nanny.
“It’th in the bone,” said Igor. “He holdth people in hith jawth and beatth them thentheleth with hith tailth.”
“He wags people to death?”
“Thometimeth he drownth them in dribble,” said Igor.
The rooftops of Escrow loomed out of the darkness as the vampires drifted lower. A few windows were glowing with candlelight when Agnes’s feet touched the ground.
Vlad dropped down beside her.
“Of course, you can’t see it at its best in this weather,” he said. “Some quite good architecture in the town square, and a very fine town hall. Father paid for the clock.”
“Really.”
“And the bell tower, naturally. Local labor, of course.”
Carpe Jugulum Page 25
