Lords And Ladies

"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 snatched the book from Shawn's hands and looked at the title page.

"'Martial Arts"? Martial 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. The 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 scumble hangover. The best 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[26].

His clothes were soaked with dew.

His head felt full of wisps and whispers.

He stared at the stones.

The scumble 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 bugger. 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 bugger," said Barker, 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 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 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: God Bless 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.