Lords And Ladies

'You've been over to Slice, then, have you?' he said, in his cheery open way.

The Librarian gave him a look of polite incomprehension.

'Oook?'

Carter looked perplexed.

'That's where you put your nut, ain't it?'

The Librarian gave him another odd look, and shook his head.

'Oook.'

'Weaver!' Carter shouted, 'the monkey says he didn't put his nut where the sun don't shine! You said he did! You didn't, did you? He said you did.' He turned to the Librarian. 'He didn't. Weaver. See, I knew you'd got it wrong. You're daft. There's no monkeys in Slice.'

Silence flowed outward from the two of them.

Ponder Stibbons held his breath.

'This is a lovely party,' said the Bursar to a chair, 'I wish I was here.'

The Librarian picked up a large bottle from the table. He tapped Carter on the shoulder. Then he poured him a large drink and patted him on the head.

Ponder relaxed and turned back to what he was doing. He'd tied a knife to a bit of string and was gloomily watching it spin round and round . . .

On his way home that night Weaver was picked up by a mysterious assailant and dropped into the Lancre. No one ever found out why. Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, especially simian ones. They're not all that subtle.

Others went home that night.

'She'll be getting ideas above her station in life,' said Granny Weatherwax, as the two witches strolled through the scented air.

'She's a queen. That's pretty high,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Almost as high as witches.'

'Yes . . . well . . . but you ain't got to give yourself airs,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'We're advantaged, yes, but we act with modesty and we don't Put Ourselves Forward. No one could say I haven't been decently modest all my life.'

'You've always been a bit of a shy violet, I've always said,' said Nanny Ogg. 'I'm always telling people, when it comes to humility you won't find anyone more humile than Esme Weatherwax.'

'Always keep myself to myself and minded my own business-'

'Barely known you were there half the time,' said Nanny Ogg.

'I was talking, Gytha.'

'Sorry.' They walked along in silence for a while. It was a warm dry evening. Birds sang in the trees.

Nanny said, 'Funny to think of our Magrat being married and everything.'

'What do you mean, everything?'

'Well, you know — married,' said Nanny. 'I gave her a few tips. Always wear something in bed. Keeps a man interested.'

'You always wore your hat.'

'Right.' Nanny waved a sausage on a stick. She always believed in stocking up on any free food that was available.

'I thought the wedding feast was very good, didn't you? And Magrat looked radiant, I thought.'

'I thought she looked hot and flustered.'

'That is radiant, with brides.'

'You're right, though,' said Granny Weatherwax, who was walking a little way ahead. 'It was a good dinner. I never had this Vegetarian Option stuff before.'

'When I married Mr. . Ogg, we had three dozen oysters at our wedding feast. Mind you, they didn't all work.'

'And I like the way they give us all a bit o' the wedding cake in a little bag,' said Granny.

'Right. You know, they says, if you puts a bit under your pillow, you dream of your future husb . . .' Nanny Ogg's tongue tripped over itself.

She stopped, embarrassed, which was unusual in an Ogg.

'It's all right,' said Granny 'I don't mind.'

'Sorry, Esme.'

'Everything happens somewhere. I know. I know. Everything happens somewhere. So it's all the same in the end.'

'That's very continuinuinuum thinking, Esme.'

'Cake's nice,' said Granny, 'but. . . right now . . . don't know why . . . what I could really do with, Gytha, right now . . . is a sweet.'

The last word hung in the evening air like the echo of a gunshot.

Nanny stopped. Her hand flew to her pocket, where the usual bag of fluff-encrusted boiled sweets resided. She stared at the back of Esme Weatherwax's head, at the tight bun of grey hair under the brim of the pointy hat.

'Sweet?' she said.

'I expect you've got another bag now,' said Granny, without looking around.

'Esme-'

'You got anything to say, Gytha? About bags of sweets?'

Granny Weatherwax still hadn't turned around.

Nanny looked at her boots.

'No, Esme,' she said meekly.

'I knew you'd go up to the Long Man, you know. How'd you get in?'

'Used one of the special horseshoes.'

Granny nodded. 'You didn't ought to have brung him into it, Gytha.'

'Yes, Esme.'

'He's as tricky as she is.'

'Yes, Esme.'

'You're trying preemptive meekness on me.'

'Yes, Esme.'

They walked a little further.

'What was that dance your Jason and his men did when they'd got drunk?' said Granny.

'It's the Lancre Stick and Bucket Dance, Esme.'

'It's legal, is it?'

'Technically they shouldn't do it when there's women present,' said Nanny. 'Otherwise it's sexual morrisment.'

'And I thought Magrat was very surprised when you recited that poem at the reception.'

'Poem?'

'The one where you did the gestures.'

'Oh, that poem.'

'I saw Verence making notes on his napkin.'

Nanny reached again into the shapeless recesses of her clothing and produced an entire bottle of champagne you could have sworn there was no room for.

'Mind you, I thought she looked happy,' she said. 'Standing there wearing about half of a torn muddy dress and chain-mail underneath. Hey, d'you know what she told me?'

'What?'

'You know that ole painting of Queen Ynci? You know, the one with the iron bodice? Her with all the spikes and knives on her chariot? Well, she said she was sure the . . . the spirit of Ynci was helping her. She said she wore the armour and she did things she'd never dare do.'

'My word,' said Granny, noncommittally.