wall of the keep.
The elf laughed. This was going to be more enjoyable than it'd suspected.
Magrat pulled herself over the windowsill and collapsed, panting, on the floor. Then she staggered across to the door, which was missing its key. But there were two heavy wooden bars, which she slotted into place.
There was a wooden shutter for the window.
They'd never let her get away with it again. She'd been expecting an arrow but . . . no, something as simple as that wouldn't have been enough fun.
She glared at the darkness. So . . . there was this room. She didn't even know which one it was. She found a candlestick and a bundle of matches and, after some scrabbling, got it lit.
There were some boxes and cases piled by the bed. So . . . a guest room.
The thoughts trickled through the silence of her brain, one after another.
She wondered if they'd sing to her, and if she could stand it again. Maybe if you knew what to expect. . .
There was a gentle tap at the door.
'We have your
Magrat stared desperately around the room.
It was as featureless as guest bedrooms everywhere. Jug and basin on a stand, the horrible garderobe alcove inadequately concealed behind a curtain, the bed which had a few bags and bundles tossed on it, a battered chair with all the varnish gone and a small square of carpet made grey with age and ground-in dust.
The door rattled. 'Let me in, sweet lady.'
The window was no escape this time. There was the bed to hide under, and that'd work for all of two seconds, wouldn't it?
Her eye was drawn by some kind of horrible magic back to the room's garderobe, lurking behind its curtain.
Magrat lifted the lid. The shaft was definitely wide enough to admit a body. Garderobes were notorious in that respect. Several unpopular kings had met their end, as it were, in the garderobe, at the hands of an assassin with good climbing ability, a spear, and a fundamental approach to politics.
Something hit the door hard.
'Lady, shall I sing to you?'
Magrat reached a decision.
It was the hinges that gave way eventually, the rusty bolts finally losing their grip on the stone.
The alcove's half-drawn curtain moved in the breeze.
The elf smiled, strode to the curtain, and pulled it aside.
The oak lid was up.
The elf looked down.
Magrat rose up behind it like a white ghost and hit it hard across the back of the neck with the chair, which shattered.
The elf tried to turn and keep its balance, but there was still enough chair left in Magrat's hands for her to catch it on the desperate upswing. It toppled backward, flailed at the lid, and only succeeded in pulling it shut behind it. Magrat ' heard a thump and a scream of rage as it dropped into the noisome darkness. It'd be too much to hope that the fall would kill it. After all, it'd land in something soft.
'Not just high,' said Magrat to herself, 'but stinking.'
Hiding under the bed is only good for about two seconds, but sometimes two seconds is enough.
She let go of the chair. She was shaking. But she was still alive, and that felt good. That's the thing about being alive. You're alive to enjoy it.
Magrat peered out into the passage.
She had to move. She picked up a stricken chair leg for the little comfort that it gave, and ventured out.
There was a scream again, from the direction of the Great Hall.
Magrat looked the other way, toward the Long Gallery She ran. There had to be a way out, somewhere, some gate, some window . . .
Some enterprising monarch had glazed the windows some time ago. The moonlight shone through in big silver blocks, interspersed with squares of deep shadow.
Magrat ran from light to shade, light to shade, down the endless room. Monarch after monarch flashed past, like a speeded-up film. King after king, all whiskers and crowns and beards. Queen after queen, all corsages and stiff bodices and Lappet-faced wowhawks and small dogs and—
Some shape, some trick of moonlight, some expression on a painted face somehow cut through her terror and caught her eye. That was a portrait she'd never seen before. She'd never walked down this far. The idiot vapidity of the assembled queens had depressed her. But this one . . .
This one, somehow, reached out to her.
She stopped.
It couldn't have been done from life. In the days of this queen, the only paint known locally was a sort of blue, and generally used on the body But a few generations ago King Lully I had been a bit of a historian and a romantic. He'd researched what was known of the early days of Lancre, and where actual evidence had been a bit sparse he had, in the best traditions of the keen ethnic historian, inferred from revealed self-evident wisdom[34] and extrapolated from associated sources[35].
He'd commissioned the portrait of Queen Ynci the Short-Tempered, one of the founders of the kingdom.
She had a helmet with wings and a spike on it and a mass of black hair plaited into dreadlocks with blood as a setting lotion. She was heavily made-up in the woad-and-blood-and-spirals school of barbarian cosmetics. She had a 42 D-cup breastplate and shoulder pads with spikes. She had knee pads with spikes on, and spikes on her sandals, and a rather short skirt in the fashionable tartan and blood motif. One hand rested nonchalantly on a double-headed battle axe with a spike on it, the other caressed the hand of a captured enemy warrior. The rest of the captured enemy warrior was hanging from various pine trees in the background. Also in the picture was Spike, her favourite war pony, of the now extinct Lancre hill breed which was the same general shape and disposition as a barrel of gunpowder, and her war chariot, which picked up the popular spiky theme. It had wheels you could shave with.
Magrat stared.
They'd never mentioned this.
They'd told her about tapestries, and embroidery, and farthingales, and how to shake hands with lords. They'd never told her about spikes.
There was a sound at the end of the gallery, from back the way she'd come. She grabbed her skirts and ran.
There were footsteps behind her, and laughter.
Left down the cloisters, then along the dark passage above the kitchens, and past the—
A shape moved in the shadows. Teeth flashed. Magrat raised the chair leg, and stopped in mid-strike.
'Greebo?'
Nanny Ogg's cat rubbed against her legs. His hair was flat against his body. This unnerved Magrat even more. This was Greebo, undisputed king of Lancre's cat population and father of most of it, in whose presence wolves trod softly and bears climbed trees. He was frightened.
'Come here, you bloody idiot!'
She grabbed him by the scruff of his scarred neck and ran on, while Greebo gratefully sank his claws into her arm to the bone[36] and scrambled up to her shoulder.
She must be somewhere near the kitchen now, because that was Greebo's territory. This was an unknown and shadowy area, terror incognita, where the flesh of carpets and the plaster pillars ran out and the stone bone of the castle showed through.
She was sure there were footsteps behind her, very fast and light.
