Lords And Ladies tds-14

by Terry David John Pratchett

  Below Stairs there was only Shawn Ogg, who was cleaning the oven of the huge iron stove and reflecting that this was no job for a military man.

  "Where's everyone gone?"

  Shawn leapt up, banging his head on the stove. "Ow! Sorry, miss! Um! Everyone's . . . everyone's down in the square, miss. I'm only here because Mrs. Scorbic said she'd have my hide if I didn't get all the yuk off."

  "What's happening in the square, then?"

  "They say there's a couple of witches having a real set-to, miss."

  "What? Not your mother and Granny Weatherwax!"

  "Oh no, miss. Some new witch."

  "In Lancre? A new witch?"

  "I think that's what Mum said."

  "I'm going to have a look."

  "Oh, I don't think that'd be a good idea, miss," said Shawn.

  Magrat drew herself up regally.

  "We happen to be Queen," she said. "Nearly. So you don't tell one one can't do things, or one'll have you cleaning the privies!"

  "But I does clean the privies," said Shawn, in a reasonable voice. "Even the garderobe-"

  "And that's going to go, for a start," said Magrat, shuddering. "One's seen it."

  "Doesn't bother me, miss, it'll give me Wednesday afternoons free," said Shawn, "but what I meant was, you'll have to wait till I've gone down to the armoury to fetch my horn for the fanfare."

  "One won't need a fanfare, thank you very much."

  "But you got to have a fanfare, miss."

  "One can blow my own trumpet, thank you."

  "Yes, miss."

  "Miss what?"

  "Miss Queen."

  "And don't you forget it."

  Magrat arrived at as near to a run as was possible in the queen outfit, which ought to have had castors.

  She found a circle of several hundred people and, near the edge, a very pensive Nanny Ogg.

  "What's happening, Nanny?"

  Nanny turned.

  "Oops, sorry. Didn't hear no fanfare," she said. "I'd curtsy, only it's my legs."

  Magrat looked past her at the two seated figures in the circle.

  "What're they doing?"

  "Staring contest."

  "But they're looking at the sky."

  "Bugger that Diamanda girl! She's got Esme trying to outstare the sun," said Nanny Ogg. "No looking away, no blinking. . ."

  "How long have they been doing it?"

  "About an hour," said Nanny gloomily.

  "That's terrible!"

  "It's bloody stupid is what it is," said Nanny. "Can't think what's got into Esme. As if power's all there is to witching! She knows that. Witching's not power, it's how you harness it."

  There was a pale gold haze over the circle, from magical fallout.

  "They'll have to stop at sunset," said Magrat.

  "Esme won't last until sunset," said Nanny. "Look at her. All slumped up."

  "I suppose you couldn't use some magic to-" Magrat began.

  "Talk sense," said Nanny. "If Esme found out, she'd kick me round the kingdom. Anyway, the others'd spot it."

  "Perhaps we could create a small cloud or something?" said Magrat.

  "No! That's cheating!"

  "Well, you always cheat."

  "I cheat for myself. You can't cheat for other people."

  Granny Weatherwax slumped again.

  "I could have it stopped," said Magrat.

  "You'd make an enemy for life."

  "I thought Granny was my enemy for life."

  "If you think that, my girl, you've got no understanding," said Nanny. "One day you'll find out Esme Weatherwax is the best friend you ever had."

  "But we've got to do something! Can't you think of anything?"

  Nanny Ogg looked thoughtfully at the circle. Occasionally a little wisp of smoke curled up from her pipe.

  The magical duel was subsequently recorded in Birdwhistle's book Legendes and Antiquities of the Ramptops and went as follows:

  "The duel beinge ninety minutes advanced, a small boy child upon a sudden ran across the square and stept within the magic circle, whereup he fell down with a terrible scream also a flash. The olde witche looked around, got out of her chair, picked him up, and carried him to his grandmother, then went back to her seat, whilom the young witch never averted her eyes from the Sunne. But the other young witches stopped the duel averring, Look, Diamanda has wonne, the reason being, Weatherwax looked away. Whereupon the child's grandmother said in a loude voice, Oh yes? Pulle the other onne, it have got bells on. This is not a contest about power, you stupid girls, it is a contest about witchcraft, do you not even begin to know what being a witch IS?

  "Is a witch someone who would look round when she heard a child scream?

  "And the townspeople said, Yess!"

  "That was wonderful," said Mrs. Quamey, the storekeeper's wife. "The whole town cheered. A true miffic quality."

  They were in the tavern's back room. Granny Weatherwax was lying on a bench with a damp towel over her face.

  "Yes, it was, wasn't it?" said Magrat.

  "That girl was left without a leg to stand-on, everyone says."

  "Yes," said Magrat.

  "Strutted off with her nose in a sling, as they say."

  "Yes," said Magrat.

  "Is the little boy all right?"

  They all looked at Pewsey, who was sitting in a suspicious puddle on the floor in the comer with a bag of sweets and a sticky ring around his mouth.

  "Right as rain," said Nanny Ogg. "Nothing worse'n a bit of sunburn. He screams his head off at the least little thing, bless him," she said proudly, as if this was some kind of rare talent.

  "Gytha?" said Granny, from under the towel.

  "Yes?"

  "You knows I don't normally touch strong licker, but I've heard you mention the use of brandy for medicinal purposes."

  "Coming right up."

  Granny raised her towel and focused one eye on Magrat.

  "Good afternoon, your pre-majesty," she said. "Come to be gracious at me, have you?"

  "Well done," said Magrat, coldly. "Can one have a word with you, Na-Mrs. Ogg? Outside?"

  Right you are, your queen," said Nanny.

  In the alley outside Magrat spun around with her mouth open.

  "You-"

  Nanny held up her hand.

  "I know what you're going to say," she said. "But there wasn't any danger to the little mite."

  "But you-"

  "Me?" said Nanny. "I hardly did anything. They didn't know he was going to run into the circle, did they? They both /reacted just like they normally would, didn't they? Fair's fair."

  "Well, in a way, but-"

  "No one cheated," said Nanny

  Margrat sagged into silence. Nanny patted her on the shoulder.

  "So you won't be telling anyone you saw me wave the bag of sweets at him, will you?" she said.

  "No, Nanny."

  "There's a good going-to-be-queen."

  "Nanny?"

  "Yes, dear?"

  Magrat took a deep breath.

  "How did Verence know when we were coming back?"

  It seemed to Magrat that Nanny thought for just a few seconds too long.

  "Couldn't say," she said at last. "Kings are a bit magical, mind. They can cure dandruff and that. Probably he woke up one morning and his royal prerogative gave him a tickle."

  The trouble with Nanny Ogg was that she always looked as if she was lying. Nanny Ogg had a pragmatic attitude to the truth; she told it if it was convenient and she couldn't be bothered to make up something more interesting.

  "Keeping busy up there, are you?" she said.

  "One's doing very well, thank you," said Magrat, with what she hoped was queenly hauteur.

  "Which one?" said Nanny.

  "Which one what?"

  "Which one's doing very well?"

  "Me!"

  "You should have said," said Nanny, her face poker straight. "So long as you're keeping busy, that's the important thing."

/>   "He knew we were coming back," said Magrat firmly. "He'd even got the invitations sorted out. Oh, by the way . . . there's one for you-"

  "I know, one got it this morning," said Nanny. "Got all that fancy nibbling on the edges and gold and everything. Who's Ruservup?"

  Magrat had long ago got a handle on Nanny Ogg's world-view.

  "RSVP," she said. "It means you ought to say if you're coming."

  "Oh, one'll be along all right, catch one staying away," said Nanny. "Has one's Jason sent one his invite yet? Thought not. Not a skilled man with a pen, our Jason."

  "Invitation to what?" said Magrat. She was getting fed up with ones.

  "Didn't Verence tell one?" said Nanny. "It's a special play that's been written special for you."

  "Oh, yes," said Magrat. "The Entertainment."

  "Right," said Nanny. "It's going to be on Midsummer's Eve."

  "It's got to be special, on Midsummer's Eve," said Jason Ogg.

  The door to the smithy had been bolted shut. Within were the eight members of the Lancre Morris Men, six times winners of the Fifteen Mountains All-Comers Morris Championship[10], now getting to grips with a new art form.

  "I feel a right twit," said Bestiality Carter, Lancre's only baker. "A dress on! I just hope my wife doesn't see me!"

  "Says here," said Jason Ogg, his enormous forefinger hesitantly tracing its way along the page, "that it's a beaut-i-ful story of the love of the Queen of the Fairies — that's you, Bestiality-"

  "-thank you very much-"

  "-for a mortal man. Plus a hum-our-rus int-ter-lude with Comic Artisans. . ."

  "What's an artisan?" said Weaver the thatcher.

  "Dunno. Type of well, I reckon." Jason scratched his head. "Yeah. They've got 'em down on the plains. I repaired a pump for one once. Artisan wells."

  "What's comic about them?"

  "Maybe people fall down 'em in a funny way?"

  "Why can't we do a Morris like normal?" said Obidiah Carpenter the tailor[11].

  "Morris is for every day," said Jason. "We got to do something cultural. This come all the way from Ankh-Morpork."

  "We could do the Stick and Bucket Dance," volunteered Baker the weaver.

  "No one is to do the Stick and Bucket Dance ever again," said Jason. "Old Mr. Thrum still walks with a limp, and it were three months ago."

  Weaver the thatcher squinted at his copy of the script.

  "Who's this bugger Exeunt Omnes' he said.

  "I don't think much of my part," said Carpenter, "it's too small."

  "It's his poor wife I feel sorry for," said Weaver, automatically.

  "Why?" said Jason[13].

  "And why's there got to be a lion in it?" said Baker the weaver.

  "'Cos it's a play!" said Jason. "No one'd want to see it if it had a . . . a donkey in it! Oi can just see people comin' to see a play 'cos it had a donkey in it. This play was written by a real playsmith! Hah, I can just see a real playsmith putting donkeys in a play! He says he'll be very interested to hear how we get on! Now just you all shut up!"

  "I don't feel like the Queen of the Fairies," moaned Bestiality Carter[14].

  "You'll grow into it," said Weaver.

  "I hope not."

  "And you've got to rehearse," said Jason.

  "There's no room," said Thatcher the carter.

  "Well, I ain't doin' it where anyone else can see," said Bestiality. "Even if we go out in the woods somewhere, people'll be bound to see. Me in a dress!"

  "They won't recognize you in your makeup," said Weaver.

  "Make-up?"

  "Yeah, and your wig," said Tailor the other weaver. "He's right, though," said Weaver. "If we're going to make fools of ourselves, I don't want no one to see me until we're good at it."

  "Somewhere off the beaten track, like," said Thatcher the carter.

  "Out in the country," said Tinker the tinker.

  "Where no one goes," said Carter.

  Jason scratched his cheese-grater chin. He was bound to

  think of somewhere.

  "And who's going to play Exeunt Omnes?" said Weaver.

  "He doesn't have much to say, does he?"

  The coach rattled across the featureless plains. The land between Ankh-Morpork and the Ramtops was fertile, well-cultivated and dull, dull, dull. Travel broadens the mind. This landscape broadened the mind because the mind just flowed out from the ears like porridge. It was the kind of landscape where, if you saw a distant figure cutting cabbages, you'd watch him until he was out of sight because there was simply nothing else for the eye to do.

  "I spy," said the Bursar, "with my little eye, something beginning with . . . H."

  "Oook."

  "No."

  "Horizon," said Ponder.

  "You guessed!"

  "Of course I guessed. I'm supposed to guess. We've had S for Sky, C for Cabbage, 0 for . . . for Ook, and there's nothing else."

  "I'm not going to play anymore if you're going to guess." The Bursar pulled his hat down over his ears and tried to curl up on the hard seat.

  "There'll be lots to see in Lancre," said the Archchancellor. "The only piece of flat land they've got up there is in a museum."

  Ponder said nothing.

  "Used to spend whole summers up there," said Ridcully. He sighed. "You know . . . things could have been very different."

  Ridcully looked around. If you're going to relate an intimate piece of personal history, you want to be sure it's going to be heard.

  The Librarian looked out at the jolting scenery. He was sulking. This had a lot to do with the new bright blue collar around his neck with the word "PONGO' on it. Someone was going to suffer for this.

  The Bursar was trying to use his hat like a limpet uses its shell.

  "There was this girl."

  Ponder Stibbons, chosen by a cruel fate to be the only one listening, looked surprised. He was aware that, technically, even the Archchancellor had been young once. After all, it was just a matter of time. Common sense suggested that wizards didn't flash into existence aged seventy and weighing nineteen stone. But common sense needed reminding.

  He felt he ought to say something.

  "Pretty, was she, sir?" he said.

  "No. No, I can't say she was. Striking. That's the word. Tall. Hair so blond it was nearly white. And eyes like gimlets, I tell you."

  Ponder tried to work this out.

  "You don't mean that dwarf who runs the delicatessen in-" he began.

  "I mean you always got the impression she could see right through you," said Ridcully, slightly more sharply than he had intended. "And she could run . . ."

  He lapsed into silence again, staring at the newsreels of memory.

  "I would've married her, you know," he said.

  Ponder said nothing. When you're a cork in someone else's stream of consciousness, all you can do is spin and bob in the eddies.

  "What a summer," murmured Ridcully. "Very like this one, really. Crop circles were bursting like raindrops. And . . . well, I was having doubts, you know. Magic didn't seem to be enough. I was a bit . . . lost. I'd have given it all up for her. Every blasted octogram and magic spell. Without a second thought. You know when they say things like 'she had a laugh like a mountain stream'?"

  "I'm not personally familiar with it," said Ponder, "but I have read poetry that-"

  "Load of cobblers, poetry," said Ridcully. "I've listened to mountain streams and they just go trickle, trickle, gurgle.

  And you get them things in them, you know, insect things with little . . . anyway. Doesn't sound like laughter at all, is my point. Poets always get it wrong. 'S'like 'she had lips like cherries.' Small, round, and got a stone in the middle? Hah!"

  He shut his eyes. After a while Ponder said, "So what happened, sir?"

  "What?"

  "The girl you were telling me about."

  "What girl?"

  "This girl."

  "Oh, that girl. Oh, she turned me down. Said there were things she wanted to
do. Said there'd be time enough."

  There was another pause.

  "What happened then?" Ponder prompted.

  "Happened? What d'you think happened? I went off and studied. Term started. Wrote her a lot of letters but she never answered 'em. Probably never got 'em, they probably eat the mail up there. Next year I was studying all summer and never had time to go back. Never did go back. Exams and so on. Expect she's dead now, or some fat old granny with a dozen kids. Would've wed her like a shot. Like a shot." Ridcully scratched his head. "Hah . . . just wish I could remember her name . . ."

  He stretched out with his feet on the Bursar.

  "'S'funny, that," he said. "Can't even remember her name. Hah! She could outrun a horse-"

  "Kneel and deliver!"

  The coach rattled to a halt.

  Ridcully opened an eye.

  "What's that?" he said.

  Ponder jerked awake from a reverie of lips like mountain streams and looked out of the window.

  "I think," he said, "it's a very small highwayman."

  The coachman peered down at the figure in the road. It was hard to see much from this angle, because of the short body and the wide hat. It was like looking at a well-dressed mushroom with a feather in it.

  "I do apologize for this," said the very small highwayman. "I find myself a little short."

  The coachman sighed and put down the reins. Properly arranged holdups by the Bandits' Guild were one thing, but he was blowed if he was going to be threatened by an outlaw that came up to his waist and didn't even have a crossbow.

  "You little bastard," he said. "I'm going to knock your block off."

  He peered closer.

  "What's that on your back? A hump?"

  "Ah, you've noticed the stepladder," said the low highwayman. "Let me demonstrate-"

  "What's happening?" said Ridcully, back in the coach.

  "Um, a dwarf has just climbed up a small stepladder and kicked the coachman in the middle of the road," said Ponder.

  "That's something you don't see every day," said Ridcully. He looked happy. Up to now, the journey had been quite uneventful.