“That’s what a univerzzity education doezz for you,” said Granny, trying to massage some life into her arms. “You’ve only got to be sitting up and talking for five minutzz and they can work out you’re alive.”
Nanny Ogg handed her a glass of water. It hovered in the air for a moment and then crashed to the floor, because Granny had tried to grasp it with her fifth leg.
“Zzorry.”
“I knew you wasn’t certain!” said Nanny.
“Czertain? Of courze I waz certain! Never in any doubt whatsoever.”
Magrat thought about the will.
“You never had a moment’s doubt?”
Granny Weatherwax had the grace not to look her in the eye. Instead, she rubbed her hands together.
“What’s been happening while I’ve been away?”
“Well,” said Nanny, “Magrat stood up to the-”
“Oh, I knew she’d do that. Had the wedding, have you?”
“Wedding?” The rest of them exchanged glances.
“Of course not!” said Magrat. “Brother Perdore of the Nine Day Wonderers was going to do it and he was knocked out cold by an elf, and anyway people are all-”
“Don’t let’s have any excuses,” said Granny briskly. “Anyway, a senior wizard can conduct a service at a pinch, ain’t that right?”
“I, I, I think so,” said Ridcully, who was falling behind a bit in world events.
“Right. A wizard’s only a priest without a god and a damp handshake,” said Granny
“But half the guests have run away!” said Magrat.
“We’ll round up some more,” said Granny
“Mrs. Scorbic will never get the wedding feast done in time!”
“You’ll have to tell her to,” said Granny.
“The bridesmaids aren’t here!”
“We’ll make do.”
“I haven’t got a dress!”
“What’s that you’ve got on?”
Magrat looked down at the stained chain-mail, the mud-encrusted breastplate, and the few damp remnants of white silk that hung over them like a ragged tabard.
“Looks good to me,” said Granny “Nanny’ll do your hair.”
Magrat reached up instinctively, removed the winged helmet, and patted her hair. Bits of twigs and fragments of heather had twisted themselves in it with comb-breaking complexity It never looked good for five minutes together at the best of times; now it was a bird’s nest.
“I think I’ll leave it,” she said.
Granny nodded approvingly
“That’s the way of it,” she said. “It’s not what you’ve got that matters, it’s how you’ve got it. Well, we’re just about ready, then.”
Nanny leaned toward her and whispered.
“What? Oh, yes. Where’s the groom?”
“He’s a bit muzzy. Not sure what happened,” said Magrat.
“Perfectly normal,” said Nanny, “after a stag night.”
There were difficulties to overcome:
“We need a Best Man.”
“Ook.”
“Well, at least put some clothes on.”
Mrs. Scorbic the cook folded her huge pink arms.
“Can’t be done,” she said firmly.
“I thought perhaps just some salad and quiche and some light-” Magrat said, imploringly.
The cook’s whiskery chin stuck out firmly.
“Them elves turned the whole kitchen upside down,” she said. “It’s going to take me days to get it straight. Anyway, everyone knows raw vegetables are bad for you, and I can’t be having with them eggy pies.”
Magrat looked beseechingly at Nanny Ogg; Granny Weatherwax had wandered off into the gardens, where she was getting a tendency to stick her nose in flowers right out of her system.
“Nothin’ to do with me,” said Nanny. “It’s not my kitchen, dear.”
“No, it’s mine. I’ve been cook here for years,” said Mrs. Scorbic, “and I knows how things should be done, and I’m not going to be ordered around in my own kitchen by some chit of a girl.”
Magrat sagged. Nanny tapped her on the shoulder.
“You might need this at this point,” she said, and handed Magrat the winged helmet.
“The king’s been very happy with-” Mrs. Scorbic began.
There was a click. She looked down the length of a crossbow and met Magrat’s steady gaze.
“Go ahead,” said the Queen of Lancre softly, “bake my quiche.”
Verence sat in his nightshirt with his head in his hands. He could remember hardly anything about the night, except a feeling of coldness. And no one seemed very inclined to tell him.
There was a faint creak as the door opened.
He looked up. “Glad to see you’re up and about already,” said Granny Weatherwax. “I’ve come to help you dress.”
“I’ve looked in the garderobe,” said Verence. “The . . . elves, was it? . . . they ransacked the place. There’s nothing I can wear.”
Granny looked around the room. Then she went to a low chest and opened it. There was a faint tinkling of bells, and a flash of red and yellow.
“I thought you never threw them away,” she said. “And you ain’t put on any weight, so they’ll still fit. On with the motley. Magrat’ll appreciate it.”
“Oh, no,” said Verence. “I’m very firm about this. I’m king now. It’d be demeaning for Magrat to marry a Fool. I’ve got a position to maintain, for the sake of the kingdom. Besides, there is such a thing as pride.”
Granny stared at him for so long that he shifted uncomfortably.
“Well, there is,” he said.
Granny nodded, and walked toward the doorway.
“Why’re you leaving?” said Verence nervously.
“I ain’t leaving,” said Granny, quietly, “I’m just shutting the door.”
And then there was the incident with the crown.
Ceremonies and Protocols of The Kingdom of Lancre was eventually found after a hurried search of Verence’s bedroom. It was very clear about the procedure. The new queen was crowned, by the king, as part of the ceremony. It wasn’t technically difficult for any king who knew which end of a queen was which, which even the most inbred king figured out in two goes.
But it seemed to Ponder Stibbons that the ritual wobbled a bit at this point.
It seemed, in fact, that just as he was about to lower the crown on the bride’s head he glanced across the hall to where the skinny old witch was standing. And nearly everyone else did too, including the bride.
The old witch nodded very slightly.
Magrat was crowned.
Wack-fol-a-diddle, etc.
The bride and groom stood side by side, shaking hands with the long line of guests in that dazed fashion normal at this point in the ceremony.
“I’m sure you’ll be very happy-”
“Thank you.”
“Ook!”
“Thank you.”
“Nail it to the counter, Lord Ferguson, and damn the cheesemongers!”
“Thank you.”
“Can I kiss the bride?”
It dawned on Verence that he was being addressed by fresh air. He looked down.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “you are-?”
“My card,” said Casanunda.
Verence read it. His eyebrows rose.
“Ah,” he said. “Uh. Urn. Well, well, well. Number two, eh?”
“I try harder,” said Casanunda.
Verence looked around guiltily, and then bent down until his mouth was level with the dwarfs ear.
“Could I have a word with you in a minute or two?”
The Lancre Morris Men got together again for the first time at the reception. They found it hard to talk to one another. Several of them jigged up and down absentmindedly as they talked.
“All right,” said Jason, “anyone remember? Really remember?”
“I remember the start,” said Tailor the other weaver.
“Definitely remember the start. And the dancing in the woods. But the Entertainment-”
“There was elves in it,” said Tinker the tinker. “That’s why it all got buggered up,” said Thatcher the carter. “There was a lot of shouting, too.”
“There was someone with horns on,” said Carter, “and a great big-”
“It was all,” said Jason, “a bit of a dream.”
“Hey, look over there, Carter,” said Weaver, winking at the others, “there’s that monkey. You’ve got something to ask it, ain’t you?”
Carter blinked. “Coo, yes,” he said.
“Shouldn’t waste a golden opportunity if I was you,” said Weaver, with the happy malice often shown by the clever to the simple.
The Librarian was chatting to Ponder and the Bursar. He looked around as Carter prodded him.
“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 . . .