|
The wind howled. Lightning stabbed at the earth erratically, like an inefficient assassin. Thunder rolled back and forth across the dark, rain-lashed hills. The night was as black as the inside of a cat. It was the kind of night, you could believe, on which gods moved men as though they were pawns on the chessboard of fate. In the middle of this elemental storm a fire gleamed among the dripping furze bushes like the madness in a weasel's eye. It illuminated three hunched figures. As the cauldron bubbled an eldritch voice shrieked: 'When shall we three meet again?' There was a pause. Finally another voice said, in far more ordinary tones: 'Well, I can do next Tuesday.'
The duchess swept out to find someone else to berate, and left Lord Felmet looking gloomily at the landscape. It started to rain. It was on this cue that there came a thunderous knocking at the castle door. It seriously disturbed the castle porter, who was playing Cripple Mister Onion with the castle cook and the castle's Fool in the warmth of the kitchen. He growled and stood up.
'There is a knocking without,' he said.
'Without what?' said the Fool.
'Without the door, idiot.'
The Fool gave him a worried look.
'A knocking without a door?' he said suspiciously. 'This isn't some kind of Zen, is it?'
When the porter had grumbled off in the direction of the gatehouse the cook pushed another farthing into the kitty and looked sharply over his cards at the Fool.
'What's a Zen?' he said.
The Fool's bells tinkled as he sorted through his cards. Without thinking, he said:
'Oh, a sub-sect of the Turnwise Klatch philosophical system of Sumtin, noted for its simple austerity and the offer of personal tranquillity and wholeness achieved through meditation and breathing techniques; an interesting aspect is the asking of apparently nonsensical questions in order to widen the doors of perception.'
'How's that again?' said the cook suspiciously.
He was on edge. When he'd taken the breakfast up to the Great Hall he'd kept getting the feeling that something was trying to take the tray out of his hands. And as if that wasn't bad enough, this new duke had sent him back for . . . He shuddered. Oatmeal! And a runny boiled egg! The cook was too old for this sort of thing. He was set in his ways. He was a cook in the real feudal tradition. If it didn't have an apple in its mouth and you couldn't roast it, he didn't want to serve it. The Fool hesitated with a card in his hand, suppressed his panic and thought quickly.
'I'faith, nuncle,' he squeaked, 'thou't more full of questions than a martlebury is of mizzensails.' The cook relaxed.
'Well, okay,' he said, not entirely satisfied.
The Fool lost the next three hands, just to be on the safe side. The porter, meanwhile, unfastened the hatch in the wicket gate and peered out.
'Who dost knock without?' he growled.
The soldier, drenched and terrified though he was, hesitated.
'Without? Without what?' he said.
'If you're going to bugger about, you can bloody well stay without all day,' said the porter calmly.
'No! I must see the duke upon the instant!' shouted the guard. 'Witches are abroad!'
Granny very carefully lifted the crown off her head - it was an effort, it didn't like it much - and laid it on the table.
'So that's being a king for you, is it?' she said softly. 'I wonder why they all want the job?'
'Do you take sugar?' said Magrat, behind her.
'You'd have to be a born fool to be a king,' said Granny.
'Sorry?' Granny turned.
'Didn't see you come in,' she said.
'What was it you said?'
'Sugar in your tea?'
'Three spoons,' said Granny promptly.
It was one of the few sorrows of Granny Weatherwax's life that, despite all her efforts, she'd arrived at the peak of her career with a complexion like a rosy apple and all her teeth. No amount of charms could persuade a wart to take root on her handsome if slightly equine features, and vast intakes of sugar only served to give her boundless energy. A wizard she'd consulted had explained it was on account of her having a metabolism, which at least allowed her to feel vaguely superior to Nanny Ogg, who she suspected had never even seen one.
Magrat dutifully dug out three heaped ones. It would be nice, she thought wistfully, if someone could say 'thank you' occasionally. She became aware that the crown was staring at her.
'You can feel it, can you?' said Granny.
'I said, didn't I? Crowns call out!'
'It's horrible.'
'No, no. It's just being what it is. It can't help it.'
'But it's magic!'
'It's just being what it is,' Granny repeated.
'It's trying to get me to try it on,' said Magrat, her hand hovering.
'It does that, yes.'
'But I shall be strong,' said Magrat.
'So I should think,' said Granny, her expression suddenly curiously wooden. 'What's Gytha doing?'
'She's giving the baby a wash in the sink,' said Magrat vaguely. 'How can we hide something like this? What'd happen if we buried it really deeply somewhere?'
'A badger'd dig it up,' said Granny wearily. 'Or someone'd go prospecting for gold or something. Or a tree'd tangle its roots around it and then be blown over in a storm, and then someone'd pick it up and put it on-'
Hwel shrugged. Destiny was funny stuff, he knew. You couldn't trust it. Often you couldn't even see it. Just when you knew you had it cornered, it turned out to be something else - coincidence, maybe, or providence. You barred the door against it, and it was standing behind you. Then just when you thought you had it nailed down it walked away with the hammer. He used destiny a lot. As a tool for his plays it was even better than a ghost. There was nothing like a bit of destiny to get the old plot rolling. But it was a mistake to think you could spot the shape of it. And as for thinking it could be controlled.
 |
Subscribe to this comment's feed