Wyrd Sisters

A portrait of some long-dead king fell off the wall. The duke screamed.

The Fool stumbled in, trying to keep his balance on a floor that was now heaving like the sea, and the duke staggered out of bed and grabbed the little man by his jerkin.

‘What’s happening?’ he hissed. ‘Is it an earthquake?’

‘We don’t have them in these parts, my lord,’ said the Fool, and was knocked aside as a chaise-longue drifted slowly across the carpet.

The duke dashed to the window, and looked out at the forests in the moonlight. The white-capped trees shook in the still night air.

A slab of plaster crashed on to the floor. Lord Felmet spun around and this time his grip lifted the Fool a foot off the floor.

Among the very many luxuries the duke had dispensed with in his life was that of ignorance. He liked to feel he knew what was going on. The glorious uncertainties of existence held no attraction for him.

‘It’s the witches, isn’t it?’ he growled, his left cheek beginning to twitch like a landed fish. ‘They’re out there, aren’t they? They’re putting an Influence on the castle, aren’t they?’

‘Marry, nuncle—’ the Fool began.

‘They run this country, don’t they?’

‘No, my lord, they’ve never—’

‘Who asked you?’

The Fool was trembling with fear in perfect anti-phase to the castle, so that he was the only thing that now appeared to be standing perfectly still.

‘Er, you did, my lord,’ he quavered.

‘Are you arguing with me?’

‘No, my lord!’

‘I thought so. You’re in league with them, I suppose?’

‘My lord!’ said the Fool, really shocked.

‘You’re all in league, you people!’ the duke snarled. ‘The whole bunch of you! You’re nothing but a pack of ringleaders!’

He flung the Fool aside and thrust the tall windows open, striding out into the freezing night air. He glared out over the sleeping kingdom.

‘Do you all hear me?’ he screamed. ‘I am the king!’

The shaking stopped, catching the duke off-balance. He steadied himself quickly, and brushed the plaster dust off his nightshirt.

‘Right, then,’ he said.

But this was worse. Now the forest was listening. The words he spoke vanished into a great vacuum of silence.

There was something out there. He could feel it. It was strong enough to shake the castle, and now it was watching him, listening to him.

The duke backed away, very carefully, fumbling behind him for the window catch. He stepped carefully into the room, shut the windows and hurriedly pulled the curtains across.

‘I am the king,’ he repeated, quietly. He looked at the Fool, who felt that something was expected of him.

The man is my lord and master, he thought. I have eaten his salt, or whatever all that business was. They told me at Guild school that a Fool should be faithful to his master until the very end, after all others have deserted him. Good or bad doesn’t come into it. Every leader needs his Fool. There is only loyalty. That’s the whole thing. Even if he is clearly three-parts bonkers, I’m his Fool until one of us dies.

To his horror he realized the duke was weeping.

The Fool fumbled in his sleeve and produced a rather soiled red and yellow handkerchief embroidered with bells. The duke took it with an expression of pathetic gratitude and blew his nose. Then he held it away from him and gazed at it with demented suspicion.

‘Is this a dagger I see before me?’ he mumbled.^{24}

‘Um. No, my lord. It’s my handkerchief, you see. You can sort of tell the difference if you look closely. It doesn’t have as many sharp edges.’

‘Good fool,’ said the duke, vaguely.

Totally mad, the Fool thought. Several bricks short of a bundle. So far round the twist you could use him to open wine bottles.

‘Kneel beside me, my Fool.’

The Fool did so. The duke laid a soiled bandage on his shoulder.

‘Are you loyal, Fool?’ he said. ‘Are you trustworthy?’

‘I swore to follow my lord until death,’ said the Fool hoarsely.

The duke pressed his mad face close to the Fool, who looked up into a pair of bloodshot eyes.

‘I didn’t want to,’ he hissed conspiratorially. ‘They made me do it. I didn’t want—’

The door swung open. The duchess filled the doorway. In fact, she was nearly the same shape.

‘Leonal!’ she barked.

The Fool was fascinated by what happened to the duke’s eyes. The mad red flame vanished, was sucked backwards, and was replaced by the hard blue stare he had come to recognize. It didn’t mean, he realized, that the duke was any less mad. Even the coldness of his sanity was madness in a way. The duke had a mind that ticked like a clock and, like a clock, it regularly went cuckoo.

Lord Felmet looked up calmly.

‘Yes, my dear?’

‘What is the meaning of all this?’ she demanded.

‘Witches, I suspect,’ said Lord Felmet.

‘I really don’t think—’ the Fool began. Lady Felmet’s glare didn’t merely silence him, it almost nailed him to the wall.

‘That is clearly apparent,’ she said. ‘You are an idiot.’

‘A Fool, my lady.’

‘As well,’ she added, and turned back to her husband.

‘So,’ she said, smiling grimly. ‘Still they defy you?’

The duke shrugged. ‘How should I fight magic?’ he said.