Lords And Ladies

And mostly it was about the wedding. It's different, for royalty. For one thing, you've already got everything. The traditional wedding list with the complete set of Tupperware and the twelve-piece dining set looks a bit out of place when you've already got a castle with so many furnished rooms that have been closed up for so long that the spiders have evolved into distinct species in accordance with strict evolutionary principles. And you can't simply multiply it all up and ask for An Army in a Red and White Motif to match the kitchen wallpaper. Royalty, when they marry, either get very small things, like exquisitely constructed clockwork eggs, or large bulky items, like duchesses.

And then there's the guest list. It's bad enough at an ordinary wedding, what with old relatives who dribble and swear, brothers who get belligerent after one drink, and various people who Aren't Talking to other people because of What They Said About Our Sharon. Royalty has to deal with entire countries who get belligerent after one drink, and entire kingdoms who Have Broken Off Diplomatic Relations after what the Crown Prince Said About Our Sharon. Verence had managed to work that all out, but then there were the species to consider. Trolls and dwarfs got on all right in Lancre by the simple expedient of having nothing to do with one another, but too many of them under one roof, especially if drink was flowing, and especially if it was flowing in the direction of the dwarfs, and people would Be Breaking People's Arms Off because of what, more or less, Their Ancestors Said About Our Sharon.

And then there's other things . . .

"How's the girl they brought in?"

"I've told Millie to keep an eye on her. What are they doing, those two?"

"I don't know."

You're king, aren't you?"

Verence shifted uneasily.

"But they're witches. I don't like to ask them questions."

"Why not?"

"They might give me answers. And then what would I do?"

"What did Granny want to talk to you about?"

"Oh . . . you know . . . things . . ."

"It wasn't about . . . sex, was it?"

Verence suddenly looked like a man who had been expecting a frontal attack and suddenly finds nasty things happening behind him.

"No! Why?"

"Nanny was trying to give me motherly advice. It was all I could do to keep a straight face. Honestly, they both treat me as if I'm a big child."

"Oh, no. Nothing like that."

They sat on either side of the huge fireplace, both crimson with embarrassment.

Then Magrat said: "Er . . . you did send off for that book, did you? You know . . . the one with the woodcuts?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, I did."

"It ought to have arrived by now."

"Well, we only get a mail coach once a week. I expect it'll come tomorrow. I'm fed up with running down there every week in case Shawn gets there first."

"You are king. You could tell him not to."

"Don't like to, really. He's so keen."

A large log crackled into two across the iron dogs.

"Can you really get books about. . . that?"

"You can get books about anything."

They both stared at the fire. Verence thought: she doesn't like being a queen, I can see that, but that's what you are when you marry a king, all the books say so . . .

And Magrat thought: he was much nicer when he was a man with silver bells on his hat and slept every night on the floor in front of his master's door. I could talk to him then . . .

Verence clapped his hands together.

"Well, that's about it, then. Busy day tomorrow, what with all the guests coming and everything."

"Yes. It's going to be a long day."

"Very nearly the longest day. Haha."

"Yes."

"I expect they've put warming pans in our beds."

"Has Shawn got the hang of it now?"

"I hope so. I can't afford any more mattresses."

It was a great hall. Shadows piled up in the corners, clustered at either end.

"I suppose," said Magrat, very slowly, as they stared at the fire, "they haven't really had many books here in Lancre. Up until now."

"Literacy is a great thing."

"They got along without them, I suppose."

"Yes, but not properly. Their husbandry is really very primitive."

Magrat looked at the fire. Their wifery wasn't up to much either, she thought.

"So we'd better be off to bed, then, do you think?"

"I suppose so."

Verence took down two silver candlesticks, and lit the candles with a taper. He handed one to Magrat.

"Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight."

They kissed, and turned away, and headed for their own rooms.

The sheets on Magrat's bed were just beginning to turn brown. She pulled out the warming pan and dropped it out of the window.

She glared at the garderobe.

Magrat was probably the only person in Lancre who worried about things being biodegradable. Everyone else just hoped things would last and knew that damn near everything went rotten if you left it long enough.

At home – correction, at the cottage where she used to live – there had been a privy at the bottom of the garden.