Wyrd Sisters

'Only now no-one must say Felmet killed the king,' said Magrat.

'What?' said Granny.

'He had some people executed in Lancre, the other day for saying it,' Magrat went on. 'Spreading malicious lies, he said. He said anyone saying different will see the inside of his dungeons, only not for long. He said Verence died of natural causes.'

'Well, being assassinated is natural causes for a king,' said Granny. 'I don't see why he's so sheepish about it. When old Thargum was killed they stuck his head on a pole, had a big bonfire and everyone in the palace got drunk for a week.'

'I remember,' said Nanny. 'They carried his head all round the villages to show he was dead. Very convincing, I thought. Specially for him. He was grinning. I think it was the way he would have liked to go.'

'I think we might have to keep an eye on this one, though,' said Granny. 'I think he might be a bit clever. That's not a good thing, in a king. And I don't think he knows how to show respect.'

'A man came to see me last week to ask if I wanted to pay any taxes,' said Magrat. 'I told him no.'

'He came to see me, too,' said Nanny Ogg. 'But our Jason and our Wane went out and tole him we didn't want to join.'

'Small man, bald, black cloak?' said Granny thoughtfully.

'Yes,' said the other two.

'He was hanging about in my raspberry bushes,' said Granny. 'Only, when I went out to see what he wanted, he ran away.'

'Actually, I gave him tuppence,' said Magrat. 'He said he was going to be tortured, you see, if he didn't get witches to pay their taxes . . .'

Lord Felmet looked carefully at the two coins in his lap.

Then he looked at his tax gatherer.

'Well?' he said.

The tax gatherer cleared his throat. 'Well, sir, you see. I explained about the need to employ a standing army, ekcetra, and they said why, and I said because of bandits, ekcetra, and they said bandits never bothered them.'

'And civil works?'

'Ah. Yes. Well, I pointed out the need to build and maintain bridges, ekcetra.'

'And?'

'They said they didn't use them.'

'Ah,' said the duke knowledgeably. 'They can't cross running water.'

'Not sure about that, sir. I think witches cross anything they like.'

'Did they say anything else?' said the duke.

The tax gatherer twisted the hem of his robe distractedly.

'Well, sir. I mentioned how taxes help to maintain the King's Peace, sir . . . '

'And?'

'They said the king should maintain his own peace, sir. And then they gave me a look.'

'What sort of look?'

The duke sat with his thin face cupped in one hand. He was fascinated.

'It's sort of hard to describe,' said the taxman. He tried to avoid Lord Felmet's gaze, which was giving him the distinct impression that the tiled floor was fleeing away in all directions and had already covered several acres. Lord Felmet's fascination was to him what a pin is to a Purple Emperor.

'Try,' the duke invited.

The taxman blushed.

'Well,' he said. 'It . . . wasn't nice.'

Which demonstrates that the tax gatherer was much better at figures than words. What he would have said, if embarrassment, fear, poor memory and a complete lack of any kind of imagination hadn't conspired against it, was:

'When I was a little boy, and staying with my aunt, and she had told me not to touch the cream, ekcetra, and she had put it on a high shelf in the pantry, and I got a stool and went after it when she was out anyway, and she'd come back and I didn't know, and I couldn't reach the bowl properly and it smashed on the floor, and she opened the door and glared at me: it was that look. But the worst thing was, they knew it.'

'Not nice,' said the duke.

'No, sir.'

The duke drummed the fingers of his left hand on the arm of his throne. The tax gatherer coughed again.

'You're – you're not going to force me to go back, are you?' he said.

'Um?' said the duke. He waved a hand irritably. 'No, no,' he said. 'Not at all. Just call in at the torturer on your way out. See when he can fit you in.'

The taxman gave him a look of gratitude, and bobbed a bow.

'Yes, sir. At once, sir. Thank you, sir. You're very—'

'Yes, yes,' said Lord Felmet, absently. 'You may go.'

The duke was left alone in the vastness of the hall. It was raining again. Every once in a while a piece of plaster smashed down on the tiles, and there was a crunching from the walls as they settled still further. The air smelled of old cellars.

Gods, he hated this kingdom.

It was so small, only forty miles long and maybe ten miles wide, and nearly all of it was cruel mountains with ice-green slopes and knife-edge crests, or dense huddled forests. A kingdom like that shouldn't be any trouble.

What he couldn't quite fathom was this feeling that it had depth. It seemed to contain far too much geography.

He rose and paced the floor to the balcony, with its unrivalled view of trees. It struck him that the trees were also looking back at him.

He could feel the resentment. But that was odd, because the people themselves hadn't objected. They didn't seem to object to anything very much. Verence had been popular enough, in his way. There'd been quite a turnout for the funeral; he recalled the lines of solemn faces. Not stupid faces. By no means stupid. Just preoccupied, as though what kings did wasn't really very important.

He found that almost as annoying as trees. A jolly good riot, now, that would have been more – more appropriate. One could have ridden out and hanged people, there would have been the creative tension so essential to the proper development of the state. Back down on the plains, if you kicked people they kicked back. Up here, when you kicked people they moved away and just waited patiently for your leg to fall off. How could a king go down in history ruling a people like that? You couldn't oppress them any more than you could oppress a mattress.

He had raised taxes and burned a few villages on general principles, just to show everyone who they were dealing with. It didn't seem to have any effect.

And then there were these witches. They haunted him.

'Fool!'

The Fool, who had been having a quiet doze behind the throne, awoke in terror.

'Yes!'

'Come hither, Fool.'

The Fool jingled miserably across the floor.

'Tell me, Fool, does it always rain here?'

'Marry, nuncle—'

'Just answer the question,' said Lord Felmet, with iron patience.

'Sometimes it stops, sir. To make room for the snow. And sometimes we get some right squand'ring orgulous fogs,' said the Fool.

'Orgulous?' said the duke, absently.

The Fool couldn't stop himself. His horrified ears heard his mouth blurt out: Thick, my lord. From the Latatian orgulum, a soup or broth.'

But the duke wasn't listening. Listening to the prattle of underlings was not, in his experience, particularly worthwhile.

'I am bored, Fool.'

'Let me entertain you, my lord, with many a merry quip and lightsome jest.'

'Try me.'

The Fool licked his dry lips. He hadn't actually expected this. King Verence had been happy enough just to give him a kick, or throw a bottle at his head. A real king.

'I'm waiting. Make me laugh.'

The Fool took the plunge.

'Why, sirrah,' he quavered, 'why may a caudled fillhorse be deemed the brother to a hiren candle in the night?'

The duke frowned. The Fool felt it better not to wait.

'Withal, because a candle may be greased, yet a fillhorse be without a fat argier,' he said and, because it was part of the joke, patted Lord Felmet lightly with his balloon on a stick and twanged his mandolin.

The duke's index finger tapped an abrupt tattoo on the arm of the throne.

'Yes?' he said. 'And then what happened?'

'That, er, was by way of being the whole thing,' said the Fool, and added, 'My grandad thought it was one of his best.'

'I daresay he told it differently,' said the duke. He stood up. 'Summon my huntsmen. I think I shall ride out on the chase. And you can come too.'

'My lord, I cannot ride!'

For the first time that morning Lord Felmet smiled.

'Capital!' he said. 'We will give you a horse that can't be ridden. Ha. Ha.'

He looked down at his bandages. And afterwards, he told himself, I'll get the armourer to send me up a file.

A year went past. The days followed one another patiently. Right back at the beginning of the multiverse they had tried all passing at the same time, and it hadn't worked.

Tomjon sat under Hwel's rickety table, watching his father as he walked up and down between the lattys, waving one arm and talking. Vitoller always waved his arms when he spoke; if you tied his hands behind his back he would be dumb.

'All right,' he was saying, 'how about The King's Brides?'

'Last year,' said the voice of Hwel.

'All right, then. We'll give them Mallo, the Tyrant of Klatch,' said Vitoller, and his larynx smoothly changed gear as his voice became a great rolling thing that could rattle the windows across the width of the average town square. ' “In blood I came, And by blood rule, That none will dare assay these walls of blood—” '

'We did it the year before,' said Hwel calmly. 'Anyway, people are fed up with kings. They want a bit of a chuckle.'

'They are not fed up with my kings,' said Vitoller. 'My dear boy, people do not come to the theatre to laugh, they come to Experience, to Learn, to Wonder—'

'To laugh,' said Hwel, flatly. 'Have a look at this one.'

Tomjon heard the rustle of paper and the creak of wicker-work as Vitoller lowered his weight on to a props basket.

'A Wizard of Sons,' Vitoller read. 'Or, Please Yourself:

Hwel stretched his legs under the table and dislodged Tomjon. He hauled the boy out by one ear.

'What's this?' said Vitoller. 'Wizards? Demons? Imps? Merchants?'

'I'm rather pleased with Act II, Scene IV,' said Hwel, propelling the toddler towards the props box. 'Comic Washing Up with Two Servants.'

'Any death-bed scenes?' said Vitoller hopefully.

'No-o,' said Hwel. 'But I can do you a humorous monologue in Act III.'

'A humorous monologue!'

'All right, there's room for a soliloquy in the last act,' said Hwel hurriedly. 'I'll write one tonight, no problem.'

'And a stabbing,' said Vitoller, getting to his feet. 'A foul murder. That always goes down well.'

He strode away to organise the setting up of the stage.

Hwel sighed, and picked up his quill. Somewhere behind the sacking walls was the town of Hangdog, which had somehow allowed itself to be built in a hollow perched in the nearly sheer walls of a canyon. There was plenty of flat ground in the Ramtops. The problem was that nearly all of it was vertical.

Hwel didn't like the Ramtops, which was odd because it was traditional dwarf country and he was a dwarf. But he'd been banished from his tribe years ago, not only because of his claustrophobia but also because he had a tendency to daydream. It was felt by the local dwarf king that this is not a valuable talent for someone who is supposed to swing a pickaxe without forgetting what he is supposed to hit with it, and so Hwel had been given a very small bag of gold, the tribe's heartfelt best wishes, and a firm goodbye.

It had happened that Vitoller's strolling players had been passing through at the time, and the dwarf had ventured one small copper coin on a performance of The Dragon of the Plains. He had watched it without a muscle moving in his face, gone back to his lodgings, and in the morning had knocked on Vitoller's latty with the first draft of King Under the Mountain. It wasn't in fact very good, but Vitoller had been perceptive enough to see that inside the hairy bullet head was an imagination big enough to bestride the world and so, when the strolling players strolled off, one of them was running to keep up . . .