Lords And Ladies

'I do happen to be king, you know,' said Verence reproachfully.

'You stupid king, your majesty,'

'Thank you.'

'I mean it doesn't mean it's not true! Maybe it gets a little muddled over the years, folks forget details, they forget why they do things. Like the horseshoe thing.'

'I know my granny had one over the door,' said the king.

'There you are. Nothing to do with its shape. But if you lives in an old cottage and you're poor, it's probably the nearest bit of iron with holes in it that you can find.'

'Ah.'

'The thing about elves is they've got no . . . begins with m,' Granny snapped her fingers irritably.

'Manners?'

'Hah! Right, but no.'

'Muscle? Mucus? Mystery?'

'No. No. No. Means like . . . seein' the other person's point of view.'

Verence tried to see the world from a Granny Weatherwax perspective, and suspicion dawned.

'Empathy?'

'Right. None at all. Even a hunter, a good hunter, can feel for the quarry. That's what makes 'em a good hunter. Elves aren't like that. They're cruel for fun, and they can't understand things like mercy. They can't understand that anything apart from themselves might have feelings. They laugh a lot, especially if they've caught a lonely human or a dwarf or a troll. Trolls might be made out of rock, your majesty, but I'm telling you that a troll is your brother compared to elves. In the head, I mean.'

'But why don't I know all this?'

'Glamour. Elves are beautiful. They've got,' she spat the word, 'style. Beauty. Grace. That's what matters. If cats looked like frogs we'd realize what nasty, cruel little bastards they are. Style. That's what people remember. They remember the glamour. All the rest of it, all the truth of it, becomes . . . old wives' tales.'

'Magrat's never said anything about them.'

Granny hesitated.

'Magrat doesn't know too much about elves,' she said. 'Hah. She ain't even a young wife yet. They're not something that gets talked about a lot these days. It's not good to talk about them. It's better if everyone forgets about them. They . . . come when they're called. Not called like 'Cooee.' Called inside people's heads. It's enough for people just to want them to be here.'

Verence waved his hands in the air.

'I'm still learning about monarchy,' he said. 'I don't understand this stuff.'

'You don't have to understand. You're a king. Listen. You know about weak places in the world? Where it joins other worlds?'

'No.'

'There's one up on the moor. That's why the Dancers were put up around it. They're a kind of wall.'

'But sometimes the barriers between worlds is weaker, see? Like tides. At circle time.'

'Ah.'

'And if people act stupidly then, even the Dancers can't keep the gateway shut. 'Cos where the world's thin, even the wrong thought can make the link.'

'Ah.'

Verence felt the conversation had orbited back to that area where he could make a contribution.

'Stupidly?' he said.

'Calling them. Attracting them.'

'Ah. So what do I do?'

'Just go on reigning. I think we're safe. They can't get through. I've stopped the girls, so there'll be no more channeling. You keep this one firmly under lock and key, and don't tell Magrat. No sense in worrying her, is there? Something came through, but I'm keeping an eye on it.'

Granny rubbed her hands together in grim satisfaction.

'I think I've got it sorted,' she said.

She blinked.

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

'What did I just say?' she said.

'Uh. You said you thought you'd got it sorted,' said the king.

Granny Weatherwax blinked.

'That's right,' she said. 'I said that. Yes. And I'm in the castle, aren't I? Yes.'

'Are you all right. Mistress Weatherwax?' said the king, his voice taut with sudden worry.

'Fine, fine. Fine. In the castle. And the children are all right, too?'

'Sorry?'

She blinked again.

'What?'

'You don't look well. . .'

Granny screwed up her face and shook her head. 'Yes. The castle. I'm me, you're you, Gytha's upstairs with Magrat. That's right.' She focused on the king. 'Just a bit of . . . of overtiredness there. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about at all.'

Nanny Ogg looked doubtfully at Magrat's preparation.

'A mouldy bread poultice doesn't sound very magical to me,' she said.

'Goodie Whemper used to swear by it. But I don't know what we can do about the coma.'

Magrat thumbed hopefully through the crackling, ancient pages. Her ancestral witches had written things down pretty much as they occurred to them, so that quite important spells and observations would be interspersed with comments about the state of their feet.

'It says here 'The smalle pointy stones sometimes found are knowne as Elf-shot, beinge the heads of Elf arrows from Times Past.' ' That's all I can find. And there's a drawing. But I've seen these little stones around, too.'

'Oh, there's lots of them,' said Nanny, bandaging Diamanda's shoulder. 'Dig 'em up all the time, in my garden.'

'But elves don't shoot people! Elves are good.'

'They probably just fired at Esme and the girl in fun, like?'

'But-'

'Look, dear, you're going to be queen. It's an important job. You look after the king now, and let me and Esme look after . . . other stuff.'

'Being Queen? It's all tapestry and walking around in unsuitable dresses! I know Granny. She doesn't like anything that's . . . that's got style and grace. She's so sour.'

'I daresay she's got her reasons,' said Nanny amiably. 'Well, that's got the girl patched up. What shall we do with her now?'

'We've got dozens of spare bedrooms,' said Magrat, 'and they're all ready for the guests. We can put her in one of them. Um. Nanny?'

'Yes?'

'Would you like to be a bridesmaid?'

'Not really, dear. Bit old for that sort of thing.' Nanny hovered. 'There isn't anything you need to ask me, though, is there?'

'What do you mean?'

'What with your mum being dead and you having no female relatives and everything. . .'

Magrat still looked puzzled.

'After the wedding, is what I'm hinting about,' said Nanny.