Lords And Ladies

They're built into witchcraft. If you want to really upset a witch, do her a favour which she has no means of repaying. The unfulfilled obligation will nag at her like a hangnail.

Granny Weatherwax had been riding the hare's mind all night. Now she owed it something. There's be bread and milk left outside for a few days.

You had to repay, good or bad. There was more than one type of obligation. That's what people never really understood, she told herself as she stepped back into the kitchen. Magrat hadn't understood it, nor that new girl. Things had to balance. You couldn't set out to be a good witch or a bad witch. It never worked for long. All you could try to be was a witch, as hard as you could.

She sat down by the cold hearth, and resisted a temptation to comb her ears.

They had broken in somewhere. She could feel it in the trees, in the minds of tiny animals. She was planning something. Something soon. There was of course nothing special about midsummer in the occult sense, but there was in the minds of people. And the minds of people was where eleves were strong.

Granny knew that sooner or later she'd have to face the Queen. Not Magrat, but the real Queen.

And she would lose.

She'd worked all her life on controlling the insides of her own head. She'd prided herself on being the best there was.

But no longer. Just when she needed all her self reliance, she couldn't rely on her mind. She could sense the probing of the Queen — she could remember the feel of that mind, from all those decades ago. And she seemed to have her usual skill at Borrowing. But herself — if she didn't leave little notes for herself, she'd be totally at sea. Being a witch meant knowing exactly who you were and where you were, and she was losing the ability to know both. Last night she'd found herself setting the table for two people. She'd tried to walk into a room she didn't have. And soon she'd have to fight an elf.

If you fought an elf and lost. . . then, if you were lucky, you would die.

Magrat was brought breakfast in bed by a giggling Millie

Chillum.

'Guests are arriving already, ma'am. And there's flags and everything down in the square! And Shawn has found the coronation coach!'

'How can you lose a coach?' said Magrat.

'It was locked up in one of the old stables, ma'am. He's giving it a fresh coat of gold paint right now.'

'But we're going to be married here,' said Magrat. 'We don't have to go anywhere.'

'The king said perhaps you could both ride around a bit. Maybe as far as Bad Ass, he said. With Shawn Ogg as a military escort. So people can wave and shout hooray. And then come back here.'

Magrat put on her dressing gown and crossed to the tower window. She could see down over the outer walls and into Lancre town square, which was already quite full of people. It would have been a market day in any case, but people were erecting benches as well and the Maypole was already up. There were even a few dwarfs and trolls, politely maintaining a distance from one another.

'I just saw a monkey walk across the square,' said

Magrat.

'The whole world's coming to Lancre!' said Millie, who had once been as far as Slice.

Magrat caught sight of the distant picture of herself and her fiance.

'This is stupid,' she said to herself, but Millie heard her and was shocked.

'What can you mean, ma'am?'

Magrat spun around.

'All this! For me!'

Millie backed away in sudden fright.

'I'm just Magrat Garlick! Kings ought to marry princesses and duchesses and people like that! People who are used to it! I don't want people shouting hooray just because I've gone by in a coach! And especially not people who've known me all my life! All this — this,' her frantic gesture took in the hated garderobe, the huge four-poster bed, and the dressing room full of stiff and expensive clothes, 'this stuff . . . it's not for me! It's for some kind of idea. Didn't you ever get those cut- outs, those dolls, you know, when you were a girl . . . dolls you cut out, and there were cut-out clothes as well? And you could make her anything you wanted? That's me! It's . . . it's like the bees! I'm being turned into a queen whether I want to or not! That's what's happening to me!'

'I'm sure the king bought you all those nice clothes because-'

'I don't mean just clothes. I mean people'd be shouting hooray if — if anyone went past in the coach!'

'But you were the one who fell in love with the king, ma'am,' said Millie, bravely.

Magrat hesitated for a moment. She'd never quite analysed that emotion. Eventually she said, 'No. He wasn't king then. No one knew he was going to be king. He was just a sad, nice little man in a cap and bells who everyone ignored.'

Millie backed away a bit more.

'I expect it's nerves, ma'am,' she gabbled. 'Everyone feels nervous on the day before their wedding. Shall I . . . shall I see if I can make you some herbal-'

'I'm not nervous! And I can do my own herbal tea if I happen to want any!'

'Cook's very particular who goes into the herb garden, ma'am,' said Millie.

'I've seen that herb garden! It's all leggy sage and yellowy parsley! If you can't stuff it up a chicken's bum, she doesn't think it's an herb! Anyway . . . who's queen in this vicinity?'

'I thought you didn't want to be, ma'am?' said Millie.

Magrat stared at her. For a moment she looked as if she was arguing with herself.

Millie might not have been the best-informed girl in the world, but she wasn't stupid. She was at the door and through it just as the breakfast tray hit the wall.

Magrat sat down on the bed with her head in her hands.

She didn't want to be queen. Being a queen was like being an actor, and Magrat had never been any good at acting. She'd always felt she wasn't very good at being Magrat, if it came to that.

The bustle of the pre-nuptial activities rose up from the town. There'd be folk dancing, of course — there seemed to be no way of preventing it — and probably folk singing would be perpetrated. And there'd be dancing bears and comic jugglers and the greasy pole competition, which for some reason Nanny Ogg always won. And bowling-with-a-pig. And the bran tub, which Nanny Ogg usually ran; it was a brave man who plunged his hand into a bran tub stocked by a witch with a broad sense of humour. Magrat had always liked the fairs. Up until now.

Well, there were still some things she could do.

She dressed herself in her commoner's clothes for the ' last time, and let herself out and down the back stairs to the widdershins tower and the room where Diamanda lay

Magrat had instructed Shawn to keep a good fire going in the grate, and Diamanda was still sleeping, peacefully, the unwakeable sleep.

Magrat couldn't help noticing that Diamanda was strikingly good-looking and, from what she'd heard, quite brave enough to stand up to Granny Weatherwax. She could hardly wait to get her better so that she could envy her properly.

The wound seemed to be healing up nicely, but there seemed to be —

Magrat strode to the bellpull in the comer and hauled on it.

After a minute or two Shawn Ogg arrived, panting. There was gold paint on his hands.

'What,' said Magrat, 'are all these things?'

'Um. Don't like to say, ma'am . . .'

'One happens to be . . . very nearly . . . the queen,' said Magrat.

'Yes, but the king said . . . well. Granny said-'