Lords And Ladies

Unfortunately, this meant that service had to be by means of Mr. Spriggins the butler, who had a bad memory, a nervous twitch and a rubber knee, and a sort of medieval elevator system that connected with the kitchen and sounded like the rattle of a tumbril. The elevator shaft was a kind of heat sink. Hot food was cold by the time it arrived. Cold food got colder. No one knew what would happen to ice cream, but it would probably involve some rewriting of the laws of thermodynamics.

Also, the cook couldn't get the hang of vegetarianism. The traditional palace cuisine was heavy in artery-clogging dishes so full of saturated fats that they oozed out in great wobbly globules. Vegetables existed as things to soak up spare gravy, and were generally boiled to a uniform shade of yellow in any case. Magrat had tried explaining things to Mrs. Scorbic the cook, but the woman's three chins wobbled so menacingly at words like "vitamins" that she'd made an excuse to back out of the kitchen.

At the moment she was making do with an apple. The cook knew about apples. They were big roasted floury things scooped out and filled with raisins and cream. So Magrat had resorted to stealing a raw one from the apple loft. She was also plotting to find out where the carrots were kept.

Verence was distantly visible behind the silver candlesticks and a pile of account books.

Occasionally they looked up and smiled at each other. At least, it looked like a smile but it was a little hard to be sure at this distance.

Apparently he'd just said something.

Magrat cupped her hands around her mouth.

"Pardon?"

"We need a-"

"Sorry?"

"What?"

"What?"

Finally Magrat got up and waited while Spriggins, purple in the face with the effort, moved her chair down toward Verence. She could have done it herself, but it wasn't what queens did.

"We ought to have a Poet Laureate," said Verence, marking his place in a book. "Kingdoms have to have one. They write poems for special celebrations."

"Yes?"

"I thought perhaps Mrs. Ogg? I hear she's quite an amusing songstress."

Magrat kept a straight face.

"I . . . er . . . I think she knows lots of rhymes for certain words," she said.

"Apparently the going rate is fourpence a year and a butt of sack," said Verence, peering at the page. "Or it may be a sack of butt."

"What exactly will she have to do?" said Magrat.

"It says here the role of the Poet Laureate is to recite poems on State occasions," said Verence.

Magrat had witnessed some of Nanny Ogg's humorous recitations, especially the ones with the gestures. She nodded gravely.

"Provided," she said, "and I want to be absolutely sure you understand me on this, provided she takes up her post after the wedding."

"Oh, dear? Really?"

"After the wedding."

"Oh."

"Trust me."

"Well, of course, if it makes you happy-"

There was a commotion outside the double doors, which were flung back. Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax stamped in, with Shawn trying to overtake them.

"Oooaaww, Mum! I'm supposed to go in first to say who it is!"

"We'll tell them who we are. Wotcha, your majesties," said Nanny.

"Blessing be upon this castle," said Granny. "Magrat, there's some doctorin' needs doing. Here."

Granny swept a candlestick and some crockery on to the floor with a dramatic motion and laid Diamanda on the table. In fact there were several acres of table totally devoid of any obstruction, but there's no sense in making an entrance unless you're prepared to make a mess.

"But I thought she was fighting you yesterday!" said Magrat.

"Makes no difference," said Granny. "Morning, your majesty."

King Verence nodded. Some kings would have shouted for the guards at this point but Verence did not because he ' was sensible, this was Granny Weatherwax and in any case the only available guard was Shawn Ogg, who was trying to straighten out his trumpet.

Nanny Ogg had drifted over to the sideboard. It wasn't that she was callous, but it had been a busy few hours and there was a lot of breakfast that no one seemed to be interested in.

"What happened to her?" said Magrat, inspecting the girl carefully.

Granny looked around the room. Suits of armour, shields hanging on the walls, rusty old swords and pikes . . . probably enough iron here . . .

"She was shot by an elf-"

"But-" said Magrat and Verence at the same time.

"Don't ask questions now, got no time. Shot by an elf. Them horrible arrows of theirs. They make the mind go wandering off all by itself. Now – can you do anything?"

Despite her better nature, Magrat felt a spark of righteous ire.

"Oh, so suddenly I'm a witch again when you-"

Granny Weatherwax sighed.

"No time for that, either," she said. "I'm just askin'. All you have to do is say no. Then I'll take her away and won't bother you again."

The quietness of her voice was so unexpected that Magrat tripped over her own anger, and tried to right herself.

"I wasn't saying I wouldn't, I was just-"

"Good."

There was a series of clangs as Nanny Ogg lifted the silver tureen lids.

"Hey, they've got three kinds of eggs!"