Wyrd Sisters

'We thought we were talking to a subject,' he said. 'Now do as we say!'

Granny's face was immobile for several seconds as she worked out what to do next. Then she smiled to herself, said lightly, 'As you wish,' and went and dislodged Hwel, who was still writing.

The dwarf gave a stiff bow.

'None of that,' snapped Tomjon. 'What do I do next?'

'I don't know. Do you want me to write an acceptance speech?'

'I told you. I don't want to be king!'

'Could be a problem with an acceptance speech, then,' the dwarf agreed. 'Have you really thought about this? Being king is a great role.'

'But it's the only one you get to play!'

'Hmm. Well, just tell them 'no', then.'

'Just like that? Will it work?'

'It's got to be worth a try.'

A group of Lancre dignitaries were approaching with the crown on a cushion. They wore expressions of constipated respect coupled with just a hint of self-satisfaction. They carried the crown as if it was a Present for a Good Boy.

The Mayor of Lancre coughed behind his hand.

'A proper coronation will take some time to arrange,' he began, 'but we would like —'

'No,' said Tomjon.

The mayor hesitated. 'Pardon?' he said.

'I won't accept it.'

The mayor hesitated again. His lips moved and his eyes glazed slightly. He felt that he had got lost somewhere, and decided it would be best to start again.

'A proper coronation will take—' he ventured.

'It won't,' said Tomjon. 'I will not be king.'

The mayor was mouthing like a carp.

'Hwel?' said Tomjon desperately. 'You're good with words.'

The problem we've got here,' said the dwarf, 'is that 'no' is apparently not among the options when you are offered a crown. I think he could cope with 'maybe'.'

Tomjon stood up, and grabbed the crown. He held it above his head like a tambourine.

'Listen to me, all of you,' he said. 'I thank you for your offer, it's a great honour. But I can't accept it. I've worn more crowns than you can count, and the only kingdom I know how to rule has got curtains in front of it. I'm sorry.'

Dead silence greeted this. They did not appear to have been the right words.

'Another problem,' said Hwel conversationally, 'is that you don't actually have a choice. You are the king, you see. It's a job you are lined up for when you're born.'

'I'd be no good at it!'

'That doesn't matter. A king isn't something you're good at, it's something you are.'