Carpe Jugulum

by Terry Pratchett

“Vampires have a lot of cash, do they?” said Agnes. The town looked quite large, and pretty much like the country towns down on the plains save for a certain amount of gingerbread carving on the eaves.

  “Well, the family has always owned land,” said Vlad, ignoring the sarcasm. “The money mounts up, you know. Over the centuries. And obviously we’ve not enjoyed a particularly active social life.”

  “Or spent much on food,” said Agnes.

  “Yes, yes, very good—”

  A bell started to toll, somewhere above them.

  “Now you’ll see,” said Vlad. “And you’ll understand.”

  Granny Weatherwax opened her eyes. There were flames roaring right in front of her.

  “Oh,” she said. “So be it, then…”

  “Ah. Feeling better, are we?” said Oats.

  Her head spun round. Then she looked down at the steam rising from her dress.

  Oats ducked between the branches of two firs and threw another armful of dead wood on the flames. It hissed and spluttered.

  “How long was I…resting?” said Granny.

  “About half an hour, I’d say.” Red light and black shadows danced among the trees. The rain had turned to sleet, but it was flashing into steam overhead.

  “You did well to get a fire going in this murk,” said Granny.

  “I thank Om for it,” said Oats.

  “Very kind of him, I’m sure. But we’ve got to…get on.” Granny tried to stand up. “Not far now. All downhill…”

  “The mule ran away,” said Oats.

  “We’ve got feet, haven’t we? I feel better for the…rest. The fire’s put a…bit of life into me.”

  “It’s too dark and far too wet. Wait until morning.”

  Granny pulled herself up. “No. Find a stick or something I can lean on. Go on.”

  “Well…there’s a hazel grove just along the slope, but…”

  “Just the thing, a good bit of hazel. Well, don’t just stand there. I’m feeling better every minute. Off you go.”

  He disappeared into the dripping shadows.

  Granny flapped her skirts in front of the blaze to circulate some warm air, and something small and white flew up from the ashes, dancing in the fire and sleet.

  She picked it up from the moss where it had landed.

  It was a piece of thin paper, the charred corner of a page. She could just make out, in the red light, the words “…of Om…aid unto…Ossory smote…” The paper was attached to a burnt strip of leather binding.

  She regarded it for a while, and then dropped it carefully into the flames as the sound of crackling twigs indicated Oats’s return.

  “Can you even find the way in all this?” he said, handing her a long hazel pole.

  “Yes. You go on one side of me, and I’ve got this staff. Then it’s just a walk in the woods, eh?”

  “You don’t look better.”

  “Young man, if we’re going to wait for me to look interestin’ we’ll be here for years.”

  She raised a hand and the wowhawk flew down out of the shadows.

  “Good thing you were able to get a fire going, all the same,” she said, without turning round.

  “I have always found that if I put my trust in Om a way will be found,” said Oats, hurrying after her.

  “I reckon Om helps those who helps themselves,” said Granny.

  Throughout the town of Escrow the windows glowed. Lamps were lit and there was the sound of doors being unbolted. Over all, the bell went on ringing out through the fog.

  “Normally we congregate in the town square,” said Vlad.

  “It’s the middle of the night!” said Agnes.

  “Yes, but it doesn’t happen very often, and our covenant says never more than twice in a month,” said Vlad. “Do you see how prosperous the place is? People are safe in Escrow. They’ve seen reason. No shutters on the windows, do you see? They don’t have to bar their windows or hide in the cellar, which I have to admit is what people do in the…less well regulated areas of our country. They exchanged fear for security. They—” He stumbled, and steadied himself against a wall. Then he rubbed his forehead. “Sorry. I felt a little…strange. What was I saying?”

  “How should I know?” snapped Agnes. “You were talking about how happy everyone is because the vampires visit, or something.”

  “Oh yes. Yes. Because of cooperation, not enmity. Because…” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “…because…well, you’ll see…is it rather cold here?”

  “Just clammy,” said Agnes.

  “Let’s get to the square,” Vlad muttered. “I’m sure I shall feel better.”

  It was just ahead. Torches had been lit. People had congregated there, most of them with blankets across their shoulders or a coat over their night clothes, standing around in aimless groups like people who’d heard the fire alarm but hadn’t seen the smoke.

  One of two of them caught sight of Vlad and there was a certain amount of coughing and shuffling.

  Other vampires were descending through the mist. The Count landed gently and nodded to Agnes.

  “Ah, Miss Nitt,” he said vaguely. “Are we all here, Vlad?”

  The bell stopped. A moment later Lacrimosa descended.

  “You’ve still got her?” she said to Vlad, raising her eyebrows. “Oh well…”

  “I will just have a brief chat to the mayor,” said the Count. “He appreciates being kept informed.”

  Agnes watched him walk toward a small, dumpy man who, despite getting out of bed in the middle of a wet night, seemed to have had the foresight to put on a gold chain of office.

  She noticed the vampires taking up positions in a line in front of the bell tower, about four or five feet apart. They joked and called out to one another, except for Lacrimosa, who was glaring directly at her.

  The Count was deep in conversation with the mayor, who was staring down at his own feet.

  Now, across the square, the people were beginning to form lines. A couple of small children pulled away from their parents’ hands and chased one another up and down the lines of people, laughing.

  And the suspicion bloomed slowly in Agnes like a great black, red-edged rose.

  Vlad must have felt her body stiffen, because his grip tightened on her arm.

  “I know what you’re thinking—” he began.

  “You don’t know what I’m thinking but I’ll tell you what I’m thinking,” she said, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. “You’re—”

  “Listen, it could be so much worse, it used to be so much worse—”

  The Count bustled. “Good news,” he said, “Three children have just turned twelve.” He smiled at Agnes. “We have a little…ceremony, before the main lottery. A rite of passage, as it were. I think they look forward to it, to tell you the truth.”

  He’s watching you to see how you react, said Perdita. Vlad is just stupid and Lacrimosa would weave your hair into a face flannel if she had the chance but this one will go for the throat if you so much as blink at the wrong time…so don’t blink at the wrong time, thank you, because even figments of the imagination want to live…

  But Agnes felt the terror rising around her. And it was wrong, the wrong kind of terror, a numbing, cold, sick feeling that froze her where she stood. She had to do something, do anything, break its horrible grip—

  It was Vlad who spoke.

  “It’s nothing dramatic,” he said quickly. “A little drop of blood…Father went to the school and explained all about citizenship…”

  “How nice,” she croaked. “Do they get a badge?” It must have been Perdita behind that; she couldn’t imagine Agnes being so tasteless, even in the cause of sarcasm.

  “Hah, no. But what a good idea,” said the Count, giving her another quick smile. “Yes…perhaps a badge, or a small plaque. Something to be treasured in later life. I shall make a mental note of this. And so…let us begin. Ah, the mayor has assembled the dear children…”

/>   There was a shout somewhere at the back of the crowd and, for a moment, Agnes caught sight of a man trying to press forward. The mayor nodded at a couple of the nearby men. They hurried back into the crowd. There was a scuffle in the shadows. She thought she heard a woman’s scream, suddenly muffled. A door slammed.

  As the mayor turned back, he met Agnes’s stare. She looked away, not wanting to see that expression. People were good at imagining hells, and some they occupied while they were alive.

  “Shall we get on?” said the Count.

  “Will you let go of my arm, Vlad?” said Agnes, sweetly.

  They’re just waiting for you to react, whispered Perdita. Oh, said Agnes inside her head, so I should just stand here and watch? Like everybody else? I just thought I’d point it out. What’s been done to them? They’re like pigs queuing for Hogswatch! I think they saw reason, said Agnes. Oh well…just wipe that smile off Lacrimosa’s face, that’s all I ask…

  They could move very fast. Even a scream wouldn’t work. She might be able to get in one good wallop, and that would be it. And perhaps she’d wake up as a vampire, and not know the difference between good and evil. But that wasn’t the point. The point was here and now, because here and now she did.

  She could see every drop of moisture hanging in the air, smell the woodsmoke from damped-down fires, hear the rats in the thatch of the houses. Her senses were working overtime, to make the most of the last few seconds—

  “I don’t see why!” Lacrimosa’s voice cut through the mist like a saw.

  Agnes blinked. The girl had reached her father and was glaring at him.

  “Why do you always start?” she demanded.

  “Lacrimosa! What has got into you? I am the head of the clan!”

  “Oh really? Forever?”

  The Count looked astonished. “Well, yes. Of course!”

  “So we’ll always be pushed around by you, forever? We’ll just be your children forever?”

  “My dear, what do you think you—”

  “And don’t try that voice on me! That only works on the meat! So I’ll be sent to my room for being disobedient forever?”

  “We did let you have your own rack—”

  “Oh yes! And for that I have to nod and smile and be nice to meat?”

  “Don’t you dare talk to your father like that!” screamed the Countess.

  “And don’t talk about Agnes like that!” snarled Vlad.

  “Did I use the word Agnes? Did I refer to her in any way?” said Lacrimosa, coldly. “I don’t believe I did. I wouldn’t dream of mentioning her at all.”

  “I can’t be having with this arguing!” shouted the Count.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” said Lacrimosa. “We don’t argue! We just do what you say, forever.”

  “We agreed—”

  “No, you agreed, and no one disagreed with you. Vlad was right!”

  “Indeed?” said the Count, turning to his son. “Right about what, pray?”

  Vlad’s mouth opened and shut once or twice as he hastily assembled a coherent sentence. “I may have mentioned that the whole Lancre business might be considered unwise—”

  “Oh,” said the Countess. “You know so much about wisdom all of a sudden and you’re barely two hundred?”

  “Unwise?” said the Count.

  “I’d say stupid!” said Lacrimosa. “Little badges? Gifts? We don’t give anything! We’re vampires! We take what we want, like this—”

  She reached out, grabbed a man standing near her, and turned, mouth open and hair flying.

  And stopped, as if she’d been frozen.

  Then she buckled, one hand reaching for her throat, and glared at her father.

  “What…did you do?” she gasped. “My throat…feels…You did something!”

  The Count rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lacci—”

  “And don’t call me that! You know how I hate that!”

  There was a brief scream from one of the lesser vampires behind them. Agnes couldn’t remember his name, it was probably Fenrir or Maledicta or something, but she did recall that he preferred to be known as Gerald. He sagged to his knees, clawing at his throat. None of the other vampires looked very happy, either. A couple of them were kneeling and groaning, to the bewilderment of the citizens.

  “I don’t…feel very well,” said the Countess, swaying slightly. “I did say I didn’t think wine was a good idea…”

  The Count turned and stared at Agnes. She took a step back.

  “It’s you, isn’t it,” he said.

  “Of course it is!” moaned Lacrimosa. “You know that old woman put herself somewhere, and she must’ve known Vlad was soppy on that lump!”

  She’s not in here, is she? said Perdita. Don’t you know? Agnes thought, backing away again. Well, I don’t think she is, but is it me doing the thinking? Look, she’s hidden herself in that priest, we know it. No, we don’t, you just thought that’d be a smart thing for her to do because everyone would think she’s hiding in the baby.

  “Why don’t you just crawl back into your coffin and rot, you slimy little maggot,” Agnes said. It wasn’t that good, but im-promptu insults are seldom well crafted.

  Lacrimosa leapt at her, but something else was wrong. Instead of gliding through the air like velvet death she lurched like a bird with a broken wing. But fury let her rear up in front of Agnes, one claw out to scratch—

  Agnes hit her as hard as she could and felt Perdita get behind the blow as well. It shouldn’t have been possible for it to connect, the girl was quick enough to run around Agnes three times before it could, but it did.

  The people of Escrow watched a vampire stagger back, bleeding.

  The mayor raised his head.

  Agnes went into a crouch, fists raised.

  “I don’t know where Granny Weatherwax went,” she said. “Maybe she is in here with me, eh?” A flash of mad inspiration struck her and she added, in Granny’s sharp tones, “And if you strike me down again I’ll bite my way up through your boots!”

  “A nice try, Miss Nitt,” said the Count, striding toward her. “But I don’t think so—”

  He stopped, clutching at the gold chain that was suddenly around his neck.

  Behind him the mayor hauled on it with all his weight, forcing the vampire to the ground.

  The citizens looked at one another, and all moved at once.

  Vampires rose into the air, trying to gain height, kicking at clutching hands. Torches were snatched from walls. The night was suddenly full of screams.

  Agnes looked up at Vlad, who was staring in horror. Lacrimosa was surrounded by a closing ring of people.

  “You’d better run,” she said, “or they’ll—”

  He turned and lunged, and the last thing she saw was teeth.

  The track downhill was worse that the climb. Springs had erupted in every hollow, and every path was a rivulet.

  As Granny and Oats lurched from mud slough to bog, Oats reflected on the story in the Book of Om—the story, really—about the prophet Brutha and his journey with Om across the burning desert, which had ended up changing Omnianism forever. It had replaced swords with sermons, which at least caused fewer deaths except in the case of the really very long ones, and had broken the Church into a thousand pieces which had then started arguing with one another and finally turned out Oats, who argued with himself.

  Oats wondered how far across the desert Brutha would have got if he’d been trying to support Granny Weatherwax. There was something unbending about her, something hard as rock. By about halfway the blessed prophet might, he felt guiltily, have yielded to the temptation to…well, at least say something unpleasant, or give a meaningful sigh. The old woman had got very crotchety since being warmed up. She seemed to have something on her mind.

  The rain had stopped but the wind was sharp, and there were still occasional stinging bursts of hail.

  “Won’t be long now,” he panted.

  “You don�
�t know that,” said Granny, splashing through black, peaty mud.

  “No, you’re absolutely right,” said Oats. “I was just saying that to be cheerful.”

  “Hasn’t worked,” said Granny.

  “Mistress Weatherwax, would you like me to leave you here?” said Oats.

  Granny sniffed. “Wouldn’t worry me,” she said.

  “Would you like me to?” said Oats.

  “It’s not my mountain,” said Granny. “I wouldn’t be one to tell people where they should be.”

  “I’ll go if you want me to,” said Oats.

  “I never asked you to come,” said Granny simply.

  “You’d be dead if I hadn’t!”

  “That’s no business of yours.”

  “My god, Mistress Weatherwax, you try me sorely.”

  “Your god, Mister Oats, tries everyone. That’s what gods generally do, and that’s why I don’t truck with ’em. And they lays down rules all the time.”

  “There have to be rules, Mistress Weatherwax.”

  “And what’s the first one that your Om requires, then?”

  “That believers should worship no other god but Om,” said Oats promptly.

  “Oh yes? That’s gods for you. Very self-centered, as a rule.”

  “I think it was to get people’s attention,” said Oats. “There are many commandments about dealing well with other people, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Really? And ’spose someone doesn’t want to believe in Om and tries to live properly?”

  “According to the prophet Brutha, to live properly is to believe in Om.”

  “Oho, that’s clever! He gets you coming and going,” said Granny. “It took a good thinker to come up with that. Well done. What other clever things did he say?”

  “He doesn’t say things to be clever,” said Oats hotly. “But, since you ask, he said in his Letter to the Simonites that it is through other people that we truly become people.”

  “Good. He got that one right.”

  “And he said that we should take light into dark places.”

  Granny didn’t say anything.

  “I thought I’d mention that,” said Oats, “because when you were…you know, kneeling, back in the forge…you said something very similar…”