Wyrd Sisters tds-6

by Terry David John Pratchett

  'You could build your own theatre,' said Hwel, his eyes lighting up for a moment. 'With as many trapdoors as you wanted, and magnificent costumes. You could act in a new play every night. I mean, it would make the Dysk look like a shed.'

  'Who would come to see me?' said Tomjon, sagging in his seat.

  'Everyone.'

  'What, every night?'

  'You could order them to,' said Hwel, without looking up.

  I knew he was going to say that, Tomjon thought. He can't really mean it, he added charitably. He's got his play. He doesn't really exist in this world, not right now at the moment.

  He took off the crown and turned it over and over in his hands. There wasn't much metal in it, but it felt heavy. He wondered how heavy it would get if you wore it all the time.

  At the head of the table was an empty chair containing, he had been assured, the ghost of his real father. It would have been nice to report that he had experienced anything more, when being introduced to it, than an icy sensation and a buzzing in the ears.

  'I suppose I could help father pay off on the Dysk,' he said.

  'That would be nice, yes,' said Hwel.

  He spun the crown in his fingers and listened glumly to the talk flowing back and forth over his head.

  'Fifteen years?' said the Mayor of Lancre.

  'We had to,' said Granny Weatherwax.

  'I thought the baker was a bit early last week.'

  'No, no,' said the witch impatiently. 'It doesn't work like that. No-one's lost anything.'

  'According to my figuring,' said the man who doubled as Lancre's beadle, town clerk and gravedigger, 'we've all lost fifteen years.'

  'No, we've all gained them,' said the mayor. 'It stands to reason. Time's like this sort of wiggly road, see, but we took a short cut across the fields.'

  'Not at all,' said the clerk, sliding a sheet of paper across the table. 'Look here . . .'

  Tomjon let the waters of debate close over him again.

  Everyone wanted him to be king. No-one thought twice about what he wanted. His views didn't count.

  Yes, that was it. No-one wanted him to be king, not precisely him. He just happened to be convenient.

  Gold does not tarnish, at least physically, but Tomjon felt that the thin band of metal in his hands had an unpleasant depth to its lustre. It had sat on too many troubled heads. If you held it to your ear, you could hear the screams.

  He became aware of someone else looking at him, their gaze playing across his face like a blowlamp on a lolly. He looked up.

  It was the third witch, the young . . . the youngest one, with the intense expression and the hedgerow hairstyle. Sitting next to old Fool as though she owned a controlling interest.

  It wasn't his face she was examining. It was his features. Her eyeballs were tracking him from nape to nose like a pair of calipers. He gave her a little brave smile, which she ignored. Just like everyone else, he thought.

  Only the Fool noticed him, and returned the smile with an apologetic grin and a tiny conspiratorial wave of the fingers that said: 'What are we doing here, two sensible people like us?' The woman was looking at him again, turning her head this way and that and narrowing her eyes. She kept glancing at Fool and back to Tomjon. Then she turned to the oldest witch, the only person in the entire hot, damp room who seemed to have acquired a mug of beer, and whispered in her ear.

  The two started a spirited, whispered conversation. It was, thought Tomjon, a particularly feminine way of talking. It normally took place on doorsteps, with all the participants standing with their arms folded and, if anyone was so ungracious as to walk past, they'd stop abruptly and watch them in silence until they were safely out of earshot.

  He became aware that Granny Weatherwax had stopped talking, and that the entire hall was staring at him expectantly.

  'Hallo?' he said.

  'It might be a good idea to hold the coronation tomorrow,' said Granny. 'It's not good for a kingdom to be without a ruler. It doesn't like it.'

  She stood up, pushed back her chair, and came and took Tomjon's hand. He followed her unprotestingly across the flagstones and up the steps to the throne, where she put her hands on his shoulders and pressed him gently down on to the threadbare red plush cushions.

  There was a scraping of benches and chairs. He looked around in panic.

  'What's happening now?' he said.

  'Don't worry,' said Granny firmly. 'Everyone wants to come and swear loyalty to you. You just nod graciously and ask everyone what they do and if they enjoy it. Oh, and you'd better give them the crown back.'

  Tomjon removed it quickly.

  'Why?' he said.

  'They want to present it to you.'

  'But I've already got it!' said Tomjon desperately.

  Granny gave a patient sigh.

  'Only in the wossname, real sense,' she said. 'This is more ceremonial.'

  'You mean unreal?'

  'Yes,' said Granny. 'But much more important.'

  Tomjon gripped the arms of the throne.

  'Fetch me Hwel,' he said.'

  'No, you must do it like that. It's precedent, you see, first you meet the—'

  'I said, fetch me the dwarf. Didn't you hear me, woman?' This time Tomjon got the spin and pitch of his voice just right, but Granny rallied magnificently.

  'I don't think you quite realise who you are talking to, young man,' she said.

  Tomjon half rose in his seat. He had played a great many kings, and most of them weren't the kind of kings who shook hands graciously and asked people whether they enjoyed their work. They were far more the type of kings who got people to charge into battle at five o'clock on a freezing morning and still managed to persuade them that this was better than being in bed. He summoned them all, and treated Granny Weatherwax to a blast of royal hauteur, pride and arrogance.

  'We thought we were talking to a subject,' he said. 'Now do as we say!'

  Granny's face was immobile for several seconds as she worked out what to do next. Then she smiled to herself, said lightly, 'As you wish,' and went and dislodged Hwel, who was still writing.

  The dwarf gave a stiff bow.

  'None of that,' snapped Tomjon. 'What do I do next?'

  'I don't know. Do you want me to write an acceptance speech?'

  'I told you. I don't want to be king!'

  'Could be a problem with an acceptance speech, then,' the dwarf agreed. 'Have you really thought about this? Being king is a great role.'

  'But it's the only one you get to play!'

  'Hmm. Well, just tell them "no", then.'

  'Just like that? Will it work?'

  'It's got to be worth a try.'

  A group of Lancre dignitaries were approaching with the crown on a cushion. They wore expressions of constipated respect coupled with just a hint of self-satisfaction. They carried the crown as if it was a Present for a Good Boy.

  The Mayor of Lancre coughed behind his hand.

  'A proper coronation will take some time to arrange,' he began, 'but we would like—'

  'No,' said Tomjon.

  The mayor hesitated. 'Pardon?' he said.

  'I won't accept it.'

  The mayor hesitated again. His lips moved and his eyes glazed slightly. He felt that he had got lost somewhere, and decided it would be best to start again.

  'A proper coronation will take—' he ventured.

  'It won't,' said Tomjon. 'I will not be king.'

  The mayor was mouthing like a carp.

  'Hwel?' said Tomjon desperately. 'You're good with words.'

  The problem we've got here,' said the dwarf, 'is that "no" is apparently not among the options when you are offered a crown. I think he could cope with "maybe".'

  Tomjon stood up, and grabbed the crown. He held it above his head like a tambourine.

  'Listen to me, all of you,' he said. 'I thank you for your offer, it's a great honour. But I can't accept it. I've worn more crowns than you can count, and the only kingdom I know how to
rule has got curtains in front of it. I'm sorry.'

  Dead silence greeted this. They did not appear to have been the right words.

  'Another problem,' said Hwel conversationally, 'is that you don't actually have a choice. You are the king, you see. It's a job you are lined up for when you're born.'

  'I'd be no good at it!'

  'That doesn't matter. A king isn't something you're good at, it's something you are.'

  'You can't leave me here! There's nothing but forests!'

  Tomjon felt the suffocating cold sensation again, and the slow buzzing in his ears. For a moment he thought he saw, faint as a mist, a tall sad man in front of him, stretching out a hand in supplication.

  'I'm sorry,' he whispered. 'I really am.'

  Through the fading shape he saw the witches, watching him intently.

  Beside him Hwel said, 'The only chance you'd have is if there was another heir. You don't remember any brothers and sisters, do you?'

  'I don't remember anyone! Hwel, I—'

  There was another ferocious argument among the witches. And then Magrat was striding, striding across the hall, moving like a tidal wave, moving like a rush of blood to the head, shaking off Granny Weatherwax's restraining hand, bearing down on the throne like a piston, and dragging the Fool behind her.

  'I say?'

  'Er. Halloee!'

  'Er, I say, excuse me, can anyone hear us?'

  The castle up above was full of hubbub and general rejoicing, and there was no-one to hear the polite and frantic voices that echoed along the dungeon passages, getting politer and more frantic with each passing hour.

  'Um, I say? Excuse me? Billem's got this terrible thing about rats, if you don't mind. Cooeee!'

  Let the camera of the mind's eye pan slowly back along the dim, ancient corridors, taking in the dripping fungi, the rusting ehains, the damp, the shadows . . .

  'Can anyone hear us? Look, it's really too much. There's been some laughable mistake, look, the wigs come right off. . .'

  Let the plaintive echoes dwindle among the cobwebbed corners and rodent-haunted tunnels, until they're no more than a reedy whisper on the cusp of hearing.

  'I say? I say, excuse me, help?'

  Someone is bound to come down here again one of these days.

  Some time afterwards Magrat asked Hwel if he believed in long engagements. The dwarf paused in the task of loading up the latty[22].

  'About a week, maximum,' he said at last. 'With matinees, of course.'

  A month went past. The early damp-earth odours of autumn drifted over the velvety-dark moors, where the watery starlight was echoed by one spark of a fire.

  The standing stone was back in its normal place, but still poised to run if any auditors came into view.

  The witches sat in careful silence. This was not going to rate among the hundred most exciting coven meetings of all time. If Mussorgsky had seen them, the night on the bare mountain would have been over by teatime.

  Then Granny Weatherwax said, 'It was a good banquet, I thought.'

  'I was nearly sick,' said Nanny Ogg proudly. 'And my Shirl helped out in the kitchen and brought me home some scraps.'

  'I heard,' said Granny coldly. 'Haifa pig and three bottles of fizzy wine went missing, they say.'

  'It's nice that some people think of the old folk,' said Nanny Ogg, completely unabashed. 'I got a coronation mug, too.' She produced it. 'It says "Viva Verence II Rex". Fancy him being called Rex. I can't say it's a good likeness, mind you. I don't recall him having a handle sticking out of his ear.'

  There was another long, terribly polite pause. Then Granny said, 'We were a bit surprised you weren't there, Magrat.'

  'We thought you'd be up at the top of the table, kind of thing,' said Nanny. 'We thought you'd have moved in up there.'

  Magrat stared fixedly at her feet.

  'I wasn't invited,' she said meekly.

  'Well, I don't know about invited,' said Granny. 'We weren't invited. People don't have to invite witches, they just know we'll turn up if we want to. They soon find room for us,' she added, with some satisfaction.

  'You see, he's been very busy,' said Magrat to her feet. 'Sorting everything out, you know. He's very clever, you know. Underneath.'

  'Very sober lad,' said Nanny.

  'Anyway, it's full moon,' said Magrat quickly. 'You've got to go to coven meetings at full moon, no matter what other pressing engagements there may be.'

  'Have y—?' Nanny Ogg began, but Granny nudged her sharply in the ribs.

  'It's a very good thing he's paying so much attention to getting the kingdom working again,' said Granny, soothingly. 'It shows proper consideration. I daresay he'll get around to everything, sooner or later. It's very demanding, being a king.'

  'Yes,' said Magrat, her voice barely audible.

  The silence that followed was almost solid. It was broken by Nanny, in a voice as bright and brittle as ice.

  'Well, I brought a bottle of that fizzy wine with me,' she said. 'In case he'd . . . in case . . . in case we felt like a drink,' she rallied, and waved it at the other two.

  'I don't want any,' said Magrat sullenly.

  'You drink up, girl,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'It's a chilly night. It'd be good for your chest.'

  She squinted at Magrat as the moon drifted out from behind its cloud.

  'Here,' she said. 'Your hair looks a bit grubby. It looks as though you haven't washed it for a month.'

  Magrat burst into tears.

  The same moon shone down on the otherwise unremarkable town of Rham Nitz, some ninety miles from Lancre.

  Tomjon left the stage to thunderous applause at the concluding act of The Troll ofAnkh. A hundred people would go home tonight wondering whether trolls were really as bad as they had hitherto thought although, of course, this wouldn't actually stop them disliking them in any way whatsoever.

  Hwel patted him on the back as he sat down at the makeup table and started scraping off the thick grey sludge that was intended to make him look like a walking rock.

  'Well done,' he said. 'The love scene – just right. And when you turned around and roared at the wizard I shouldn't think there was a dry seat in the house.'

  'I know.'

  Hwel rubbed his hands together.

  'We can afford a tavern tonight,' he said. 'So if we just—'

  'We'll sleep in the carts,' said Tomjon firmly, squinting at himself in the shard of mirror.

  'But you know how much the Fo – the king gave us! It could be feather beds all the way home!'

  'It's straw mattresses and a good profit for us,' said Tomjon. 'And that'll buy you gods from heaven and demons from hell and the wind and the waves and more trapdoors than you can count, my lawn ornament.'

  Hwel's hand rested on Tomjon's shoulder for a moment. Then he said, 'You're right, boss.'

  'Certainly I am. How's the play going?'

  'Hmm? What play?' said Hwel, innocently.

  Tomjon carefully removed a plaster brow ridge.

  'You know,' he said. 'That one. The Lancre King.'

  'Oh. Coming along. Coming along, you know. I'll get it right one of these days.' Hwel changed the subject with speed. 'You know, we could work our way down to the river and take a boat home. That would be nice, wouldn't it?'

  'But we could work our way home over land and pick up some more cash. That would be better, wouldn't it?' Tomjon grinned. 'We took one hundred and three pence tonight; I counted heads during the Judgement speech. That's nearly one silver piece after expenses.'

  'You're your father's son, and no mistake,' said Hwel.

  Tomjon sat back and looked at himself in the mirror.

  'Yes,' he said, 'I thought I had better be.'

  Magrat didn't like cats and hated the idea of mousetraps. She'd always felt that it should be possible to come to some sort of arrangement with creatures like mice so that all available food was rationed in the best interest of all parties. This was a very humanitarian outlook, which is to say that
it was not a view shared by mice, and therefore her moonlit kitchen was alive.

  When there was a knocking at the door the entire floor appeared to rush towards the walls.

  After a few seconds the knocking came again.

  There was another pause. Then the knocking rattled the door on its hinges, and a voice cried, 'Open in the name of the king!'

  A second voice said, in hurt tones, 'You don't have to shout like that. Why did you shout like that? I didn't order you to shout like that. It's enough to frighten anybody, shouting like that.'

  'Sorry, sire! It goes with the job, sire!'

  'Just knock again. A bit more gently, please.'

  The knocking might have been a bit softer. Magrat's apron dropped off its hook on the back of the door.

  'Are you sure I can't do it myself?'

  'It's not done, sire, kings knocking at humble cottage doors. Best leave it to me. OPEN IN THE—'

  'Sergeant!'

  'Sorry, sire. Forgot myself.'

  'Try the latch.'

  There was the sound of someone being extremely hesitant.

  'Don't like the sound of that, sire,' said the invisible sergeant. 'Could be dangerous. If you want my advice, sire, I'd set fire to the thatch.'

  'Set fire?'

  'Yessire. We always do that if they don't answer the door. Brings them out a treat.'

  'I don't think that would be appropriate, sergeant. I think I'll try the latch, if it's all the same to you.'

  'Breaks my heart to see you do it, sire.'

  'Well, I'm sorry.'

  'You could at least let me buff it up for you.'

  'No!'

  'Well, couldn't I just set fire to the privy—?'

  'Absolutely not!'

  'That chicken house over there looks as if it would go up like-'

  'Sergeant!'

  'Sire!'

  'Go back to the castle!'

  'What, and leave you all alone, sire?'

  'This is a matter of extreme delicacy, sergeant. I am sure you are a man of sterling qualities, but there are times when even a king needs to be alone. It concerns a young woman, you understand.'