Lords And Ladies

No one ever knew what Mr. Brooks put in his squirter. There was old tobacco in it, and boiled-up roots, and bark scrapings, and herbs that even Magrat had never heard of. It shot a glistening stream over the hedge which hit the middle elf between the eyes, and sprayed over the other two.

Mr. Brooks watched dispassionately until their struggles stopped.

"Wasps," he said.

Then he went and found a box, lit a lantern and, with great care and delicacy, oblivious to the stings, began to repair the damaged combs.

* * *

Shawn couldn't feel much in his arm anymore, except in the hot dull way that indicated at least one broken bone, and he knew that two of his fingers shouldn't be looking like that. He was sweating, despite being only in his vest and drawers. He should never have taken his chain-mail off, but it's hard to say no when an elf is pointing a bow at you. Shawn knew what, fortunately, many people didn't – chain-mail isn't much defence against an arrow. It certainly isn't when the arrow is being aimed between your eyes.

He'd been dragged along the corridors to the armoury. There were at least four elves, but it was hard to see their faces. Shawn remembered when the travelling Magic Lanthorn show had come to Lancre. He'd watched entranced as different pictures had been projected on to one of Nanny Ogg's bedsheets. The elf faces put him in mind of that. There were eyes and a mouth in there somewhere, but everything else seemed to be temporary, the elves' features passing across their faces like the pictures on the screen.

They didn't say much. They just laughed a lot. They were a merry folk, especially when they were twisting your arm to see how far it could go.

The elves spoke to one another in their own language. Then one of them turned to Shawn, and indicated the armoury door.

"We wish the lady to come out," it said. "You must say to her, if she does not come out, we will play with you some more."

"What will you do to us if she does come out?" said Shawn.

"Oh, we shall still play with you," said the elf. "That's what makes it so much fun. But she must hope, must she not? Talk to her now."

He was pushed up to the door. He knocked on it, in what he hoped was a respectful way.

"Urn. Miss Queen?"

Magrat's voice was muffled.

"Yes?"

"It's me, Shawn."

"I know."

"I'm out here. Um. I think they've hurt Miss Tockley. Um. They say they'll hurt me some more if you don't come out. But you don't have to come out because they daren't come in there because of all the iron. So I shouldn't listen to them if I was you."

There were some distant clankings, and then a twang.

"Miss Magrat?"

"Ask her," said the elf, "if there is any food and water in there."

"Miss, they say-"

One of the elves jerked him away. Two of them took up station either side of the doorway, and one put his pointed ear to it.

Then it knelt down and peered through the keyhole, taking care not to come too near the metal of the lock.

There was a sound no louder than a click. The elf remained motionless for a moment, and then keeled over gently, without a sound.

Shawn blinked.

There was about an inch of crossbow bolt sticking out of its eye. The feathers had been sheared off by its passage through the keyhole.

"Wow," he said.

The armoury door swung open, revealing nothing but darkness.

One of the elves started to laugh.

"So much for him," it said. "How stupid . . . Lady? Will you listen to your warrior?"

He gripped Shawn's broken arm, and twisted.

Shawn tried not to scream. Purple lights flashed in front of his eyes. He wondered what would happen if he passed out.

He wished his mum was here.

"Lady," said the elf, "if you-"

"All right," said Magrat's voice, from somewhere in the darkness. "I'm going to come out. You must promise not to hurt me."

"Oh, indeed I do, lady."

"And you'll let Shawn go."

"Yes."

The elves on either side of the doorway nodded at each other.

"Please?" Magrat pleaded.

"Yes."

Shawn groaned. If it had been Mum or Mistress Weatherwax, they'd have fought to the death. Mum was right – Magrat always was the nice soft one . . .

. . . who'd just fired a crossbow through a keyhole.

Some eighth sense made Shawn shift his weight. If the elf relaxed his grip for just one second, Shawn was ready to stagger.

Magrat appeared in the doorway. She was carrying an ancient wooden box with the word "Candles" on the side in peeling paint.

Shawn looked hopefully along the corridor.

Magrat smiled brightly at the elf beside him. "This is for you," she said, handing over the box. The elf took it automatically. "But you mustn't open it. And remember you promised not to hurt me."

The elves closed in behind Magrat. One of them raised a hand, with a stone knife in it.

"Lady?" said the elf holding the box, which was rocking gently in its hands.

"Yes?" said Magrat, meekly.

"I lied to you."

The knife plunged toward her back.

And shattered.

The elf looked at Magrat's innocent expression, and opened the box.