Lords And Ladies

'Yes I do. I'm getting married tomorrow. One way or the other.'

'But-'

'Shut up!'

She's going to get killed, Shawn thought. It's enough to be able to pick up a sword. You have to know which end to poke into the enemy. I'm supposed to be on guard and she's going to get killed—

But—

But—

She shot one of them in the eye, right through the keyhole. I couldn't have done that. I'd have said something like 'Hands up!' first. But they were in the way and she just. . . got them out of her way.

She's still going to die. She's just probably going to die bravely.

I wish my mum was here.

Magrat finished rolling up the stained remnant of the wedding dress and stowed it in the sack.

'Have we got any horses?'

'There's . . . elf horses in the courtyard, miss. But I don't think you'll be able to ride one.'

It struck Shawn immediately that this wasn't the right thing to say.

It was black, and larger than what Magrat had to think of as a human horse. It rolled red eyes at her, and tried to get into position to kick.

Magrat managed to mount only by practically tethering every leg to the rings in the stable wall, but when she was on, the horse changed. It had the docility of the severely whipped, and seemed to have no mind of its own.

'It's the iron,' said Shawn.

'What does it do to them? It can't hurt.'

'Don't know, miss. Seems they just freeze up, kind of thing.'

'Drop the portcullis after I'm through.'

'Miss-'

'Are you going to tell me not to go?'

'But-'

'Shut up, then.'

'But-'

'I remember a folksong about a situation just like this,' said Magrat. 'This girl had her fiance stolen by the Queen of the Elves and she didn't hang around whining, she jolly well got on her horse and went and rescued him. Well, I'm going to do that too.'

Shawn tried to grin.

'You're going to sing7' he said.

'I'm going to fight. I've got everything to fight for, haven't I? And I've tried everything else.'

Shawn wanted to say: but that's not the same! Going and fighting when you're a real person isn't like folksongs! In real life you die! In folksongs you just have to remember to keep one finger in your ear and how to get to the next chorus! In real life no one goes wack-fol-a-diddle-di-do-sing-too-rah-li-ay!

But he said:

'But, miss, if you don't come back-'

Magrat turned in the saddle.

'I'll be back.'

Shawn watched her urge the sluggish horse into a trot and disappear over the drawbridge.

'Good luck!' he shouted.

Then he lowered the portcullis and went back into the keep, where there were three loaded crossbows on the kitchen table.

There was also the book on martial arts that the king had sent for specially.

He pumped up the fire, turned a chair to face the door, and turned to the Advanced Section.

Magrat was halfway down the road to the square when the adrenaline wore off and her past life caught up with her.

She looked down at the armour, and the horse, and thought: I'm out of my mind.

It was that bloody letter. And I was frightened. I thought I'd show everyone what I'm made of. And now they'll probably find out: I'm made of lots of tubes and greeny purple wobbly bits.

I was just lucky with those elves. And I didn't think. As soon as I think, I get things wrong. I don't think I'll be that lucky again . . .

Luck?

She thought wistfully of her bags of charms and talismans at the bottom of the river. They'd never really worked, if her life was anything to go by, but maybe — it was a horrible thought — maybe they'd just stopped it getting worse.

There were hardly any lights in the town, and a lot of the houses had their shutters up.

The horse's hooves clattered loudly on the cobbles.

Magrat peered into the shadows. Once, they'd just been shadows. Now they could be gateways to anything.

Clouds were pressing in from the Hub. Magrat shivered.

This was something she'd never seen before.

It was true night.

Night had fallen in Lancre, and it was an old night. It was not the simple absence of day, patrolled by the moon and stars, but an extension of something that had existed long before there was any light to define it by absence. It was unfolding itself from under tree roots and inside stones, crawling back across the land.

Magrat's sack of what she considered to be essential props might be at the bottom of the river but she had been a witch for more than ten years, and she could feel the terror in the air.

People remember badly. But societies remember well, the swarm remembers, encoding the information to slip it past the censors of the mind, passing it on from grandmother to grandchild in little bits of nonsense they won't bother to forget. Sometimes the truth keeps itself alive in devious ways despite the best efforts of the official keepers of information. Ancient fragments chimed together now in Magrat's head.

Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen . . .

From ghosties and bogles and long-leggity beasties . . .

My mother said I never should . . .

We dare not go a-hunting, for fear . . .

And things that go bump . . .

Play with the fairies in the wood . . .

Magrat sat on the horse she didn't trust and gripped the sword she didn't know how to use while the ciphers crept out of memory and climbed into a shape.