Lords And Ladies

Finally, Magrat's voice returned from some distant apogee, slightly hoarse.

'Aren't you supposed to ask me?' she demanded.

'What? Urn. No, actually,' said Verence. 'No. Kings don't ask. I looked it up. I'm the king, you see, and you are, no offence meant, a subject. I don't have to ask.'

Magrat's mouth opened for the scream of rage but, at last, her brain jolted into operation.

Yes, it said, of course you can yell at him and sweep away. And he'll probably come after you.

Very probably.

Urn.

Maybe not that probably. Because he might be a nice little man with gentle runny eyes but he's also a king and he's been looking things up. But very probably quite probably

But. . .

Do you want to bet the rest of your life? Isn't this what you wanted anyway? Isn't it what you came here hoping for? Really?

Verence was looking at her with some concern.

'Is it the witching?' he said. 'You don't have to give that up entirely, of course. I've got a great respect for witches. And you can be a witch queen, although I think that means you have to wear rather revealing clothes and keep cats and give people poisoned apples. I read that somewhere. The witching's a problem, is it?'

'No,' Magrat mumbled, 'it's not that. . . um . . . did you mention a crown?'

'You've got to have a crown,' said Verence. 'Queens do. I looked it up.'

Her brain cut in again. Queen Magrat, it suggested. It held up the mirror of the imagination . . .

'You're not upset, are you?' said Verence.

'What? Oh. No. Me? No.'

'Good. That's all sorted out, then. I think that just about covers everything, don't you?'

'Um-'

Verence rubbed his hands together.

'We're doing some marvellous things with legumes,' he said, as if he hadn't just completely rearranged Magrat's life without consulting her. 'Beans, peas . . . you know. Nitrogen fixers. And marl and lime, of course. Scientific husbandry. Come and look at this.'

He bounced away enthusiastically.

'You know,' he said, 'we could really make this kingdom work.'

Magrat trailed after him.

So that was all settled, then. Not a proposal, just a statement. She hadn't been quite sure how the moment would be, even in the darkest hours of the night, but she'd had an idea that roses and sunsets and bluebirds might just possibly be involved. Clover had not figured largely Beans and other leguminous nitrogen fixers were not a central feature.

On the other hand Magrat was, at the core, far more practical than most people believed who saw no further than her vague smile and collection of more than three hundred pieces of occult jewellery, none of which worked.

So this was how you got married to a king. It all got arranged for you. There were no white horses. The past flipped straight into the future, carrying you with it.

Perhaps that was normal. Kings were busy people. Magrat's experience of marrying them was limited.

'Where are we going?' she said.

'The old rose garden.'

Ah . . . well, this was more like it.

Except that there weren't any roses. The walled garden had been stripped of its walks and arbors and was now waist high in green stalks with white flowers. Bees were furiously at work in the blossoms.

'Beans?' said Magrat.

'Yes! A specimen crop. I keep bringing the farmers up here to show them,' said Verence. He sighed. 'They nod and mumble and smile but I'm afraid they just go off and do the same old things.'

'I know,' said Magrat. 'The same thing happened when I tried to give people lessons in natural childbirth.'

Verence raised an eyebrow. Even to him the thought of Magrat giving lessons in childbirth to the fecund and teak-faced women of Lancre was slightly unreal.

'Really? How had they been having babies before?' he said.

'Oh, any old way,' said Magrat. They looked at the little buzzing bean field.

'Of course, when you're queen, you won't need to-' Verence began.

It happened softly, almost like a kiss, as light as the touch of sunlight.

There was no wind, only a sudden heavy calmness that made the ears pop.

The stems bent and broke, and lay down in a circle. The bees roared, and fled.

The three witches arrived at the standing stone together.

They didn't even bother with explanations. There were some things you know.

'In the middle of my bloody herbs!' said Granny Weatherwax.

'On the palace garden!' said Magrat.

'Poor little mite! And he was holding it up to show me, too!' said Nanny Ogg.

Granny Weatherwax paused.

'What're you talking about, Gytha Ogg?' she said.

'Our Pewsey was growing mustard-and-cress on a flannel for his Nan,' said Nanny Ogg, patiently. 'He shows it to me, right enough, and just as I bends down and — splat! Crop circle!'

'This,' said Granny Weatherwax, 'is serious. It's been years since they've been as bad as this. We all know what it means, don't we. What we've got-'

'Um,' said Magrat.

'-to do now is-'

'Excuse me,' said Magrat. There were some things you had to be told.

'Yes?'

'I don't know what it means,' said Magrat. 'I mean, old Goodie Whemper-'

'-maysherestinpeace-' the older witches chorused.

'-told me once that the circles were dangerous, but she never said anything about why.'

The older witches shared a glance.

'Never told you about the Dancers?' said Granny Weatherwax.

'Never told you about the Long Man?' said Nanny Ogg.

'What Dancers? You mean those old stones up on the moor?'

'All you need to know right now,' said Granny Weatherwax, 'is that we've got to put a stop to Them.'

'What Them?'

Granny radiated innocence. . .

'The circles, of course,' she said.

'Oh, no,' said Magrat. 'I can tell by the way you said it.

You said Them as though it was some sort of curse. It wasn't just a them, it was a them with a capital The.'

The old witches looked awkward again.

'And who's the Long Man?' said Magrat.

'We do not,' said Granny, 'ever talk about the Long Man.'

'No harm in telling her about the Dancers, at any rate,' mumbled Nanny Ogg.

'Yes, but . . . you know . . . I mean . . . she's Magrat,' said Granny.