Lords And Ladies Part 27

Ridcully felt moved to investigate.

"The Librarian," he repeated.

"Yes. You said." Shawn nodded at the orang-utan. "How d'you do?"

"Ook."

"You might be wondering why he looks like that," Ridcully prompted.

"No, sir."

"No?"

"My mum says none of us can help how we're made," said Shawn.

"What a singular lady. And what is her name?" said Ridcully.

"Mrs. Ogg, sir."

"Ogg? Ogg? Name rings a bell. Any relation to Sobriety Ogg?"

"He was my dad, sir."

"Good grief. Old Sobriety's son? How is is the old devil?" the old devil?"

"Dunno, sir, what with him being dead."

"Oh dear. How long ago?"

"These past thirty years," said Shawn.

"But you don't look any older than twen-" Ponder began. Ridcully elbowed him sharply in the ribcage.

"This is the countryside," he hissed. "People do things differently here. And more often." He turned back to Shawn's pink and helpful face.

"Things seem to be waking up a bit," he said, and indeed shutters were coming down around the square. "We'll get some breakfast in the tavern. They used to do wonderful breakfasts." He sniffed again, and beamed.

"Now that that," he said, "is what I I call fresh air." call fresh air."

Shawn looked around carefully.

"Yes, sir," he said. "That's what we call it, too."

There was the sound of someone frantically running, and then a pause, and King Verence II appeared around the corner, walking slowly and calmly with a very red face.

"Certainly gives people a rosy complexion," said Ridcully cheerfully.

"It's the king!" hissed Shawn. "And me without my trumpet!"

"Um," said Verence. "Post been yet, Shawn?"

"Oh, yes, sire!" said Shawn, almost as fl.u.s.tered as the king. "Got it right here. Don't you worry about it! I'll open it all up and have it on your desk right away, sire!"

"Um..."

"Something the matter, sire?"

"Um...I think perhaps..."

Shawn was already tearing at the wrappers.

"Here's that book on etiquette you've been waiting for, sire, and the pig stockbook, and...what's this one...?"

Verence made a grab for it. Shawn automatically tried to hang on to it. The wrapping split, and the large bulky book thumped on to the cobbles. Its fluttering pages played their woodcuts to the breeze.

They looked down.

"Wow!" said Shawn.

"My word," said Ridcully.

"Um," said the king.

"Oook?"

Shawn picked up the book very, very carefully, and turned a few pages.

"Hey, look at this one! He's doing it with his feet! I didn't know you could do it with your feet!" He nudged Ponder Stibbons. "Look, sir!"

Ridcully peered at the king.

"You all right, your majesty?" he said.

Verence squirmed.

"Um..."

"And, look, here's one where both chaps are doing it with sticks..."

"What?" said Verence.

"Wow," said Shawn. "Thank you, sire. This is going to really come in handy, I can tell you. I mean, I've picked up bits and pieces here and there, but-"

Verence s.n.a.t.c.hed the book from Shawn's hands and looked at the t.i.tle page.

"'Martial Arts'? Martial Martial Arts. But I'm sure I wrote Marit-" Arts. But I'm sure I wrote Marit-"

"Sire?"

There was one exquisite moment while Verence fought for mental balance, but he won.

"Ah. Yes. Right. Uh. Well, yes. Uh. Of course. Yes. Well, you see, a well-trained army is...is essential to the security of any kingdom. That's right. Yes. Fine. Magrat and me, we thought...yes. It's for you, Shawn."

"I'll start practicing right away, sire!"

"Um. Good."

Jason Ogg awoke, and wished he hadn't.

Let's be clear. Many authorities have tried to describe a hangover. Dancing elephants and so on are often employed for this purpose. The descriptions never work. They always smack of, hoho, here's one for the lads, let's have some hangover machismo, hoho, landlord, another nineteen pints of lager, hey, we supped some stuff last night, hoho...

Anyway, you can't describe a sc.u.mble hangover. The best best bit of it is a feeling that your teeth have dissolved and coated themselves on your tongue. bit of it is a feeling that your teeth have dissolved and coated themselves on your tongue.

Eventually the blacksmith sat up and opened his eyes.*

His clothes were soaked with dew.

His head felt full of wisps and whispers.

He stared at the stones.

The sc.u.mble jar was lying in the leather. After a moment or two he picked it up, and took an experimental swig. It was empty.

He nudged Weaver in the ribs with his boot.

"Wake up, you old b.u.g.g.e.r. We've been up here all night!"

One by one, the Morris Men made the short but painful journey into consciousness.

"I'm going to get some stick from our Eva when I get home," moaned Carter.

"You might not," said Thatcher, who was on his hands and knees looking for his hat. "Maybe when you gets 'ome she'll have married someone else, eh?"

"Maybe a hundred years'll have gone past," said Carter, hopefully.

"Cor, I hope so," said Weaver, brightening up. "I had sevenpence invested in The Thrift Bank down in Ohulan. I'll be a millionaire at complicated interest. I'll be as rich as Creosote."

"Who's Creosote?" said Thatcher.

"Famous rich b.u.g.g.e.r," said Baker, fishing one of his boots out of a peat pool. "Foreign."

"Wasn't he the one, everything he touched turned to gold?" said Carter.

"Nah, that was someone else. Some king or other. That's what happens in foreign parts. One minute you're all right, next minute, everything you touch turns to gold. He was plagued with it."

Carter looked puzzled.

"How did he manage when he had to-"

"Let that be a lesson to you, young Carter," said Baker. "You stay here where folks are sensible, not go gadding off abroad where you might suddenly be holding a fortune in your hands and not have anything to spend it on."

"We've slept out here all night," said Jason uncertainly. "That's dangerous, that is."

"You're right there, Mr. Ogg," said Carter. "I think something went to the toilet in my ear."

"I mean strange things can enter your head."

"That's what I mean, too."

Jason blinked. He was certain he'd dreamed. He could remember remember dreaming. But he couldn't remember what the dream had been about. But there was still the feeling in his head of voices talking to him, but too far away to be heard. dreaming. But he couldn't remember what the dream had been about. But there was still the feeling in his head of voices talking to him, but too far away to be heard.

"Oh, well," he said, managing to stand up at the third attempt, "probably no harm done. Let's get on home and see what century it is."

"What century is is it, anyway?" said Thatcher. it, anyway?" said Thatcher.

"Century of the Fruitbat, isn't it?" said Baker.

"Might not be anymore," said Carter hopefully.

It turned out that it was, indeed, the Century of the Fruitbat. Lancre didn't have much use for units of time any smaller than an hour or larger than a year, but people were clearly putting up bunting in the town square and a gang of men were erecting the Maypole. Someone was nailing up a very badly painted picture of Verence and Magrat under which was the slogan: G.o.d Bles Their Majestieys.

With hardly a word exchanged, the men parted and staggered their separate ways.

A hare lolloped through the morning mist until it reached the drunken, ancient cottage in its clearing in the woods.

It reached a tree stump between the privy and The Herbs. Most woodland animals avoided The Herbs. This was because animals that didn't avoid The Herbs over the past fifty years had tended not to have descendants. A few tendrils waved in the breeze and this was odd because there wasn't any breeze.

It sat on the stump.

And then there was a sensation of movement. Something left the hare and moved across the air to an open upstairs window. It was invisible, at least to normal eyesight.

The hare changed. Before, it had moved with purpose. Now it flopped down and began to wash its ears.

After a while the back door opened and Granny Weatherwax walked out stiffly, holding a bowl of bread and milk. She put it down on the step and turned back without a second glance, closing the door again behind her.

The hare hopped closer.

It's hard to know if animals understand obligations, or the nature of transactions. But that doesn't matter. They're built into witchcraft. If you want to really upset a witch, do her a favor which she has no means of repaying. The unfulfilled obligation will nag at her like a hangnail.

Granny Weatherwax had been riding the hare's mind all night. Now she owed it something. There'd be bread and milk left outside for a few days.