‘I really think you’re taking this too much to heart, Mrs Ogg,’ he said.
‘Granny Weatherwax won’t like it!’ Nanny played the trump card. To her horror, it didn’t seem to have the desired effect.
‘Granny Weatherwax isn’t King, Mrs Ogg,’ said Verence. ‘And the world is changing. There is a new order. Once upon a time trolls were monsters that ate people but now, thanks to the endeavours of men, and of course trolls, of goodwill and peaceful intent, we get along very well and I hope we understand each other. This is no longer a time when little kingdoms need only worry about little concerns. We’re part of a big world. We have to play that part. For example, what about the Muntab question?’
Nanny Ogg asked the Muntab question. ‘Where the hell’s Muntab?’ she said.
‘Several thousand miles away, Mrs Ogg. But it has ambitions Hubwards, and if there’s war with Borogravia we will certainly have to adopt a position.’
‘This one several thousand miles away looks fine by me,’ said Nanny. ‘And I don’t see-‘
‘I’m afraid you don’t,’ said Verence. ‘Nor should you have to. But affairs in distant countries can suddenly end up close to home. If Klatch sneezes, Ankh-Morpork catches a cold. We have to pay attention. Are we always to be part of the Ankh-Morpork hegemony? Are we not in a unique position as we reach the end of the Century of the Fruitbat? The countries widdershins of the Ramtops are beginning to make themselves felt. The “werewolf economies”, as the Patrician in Ankh-Morpork calls them. New powers are emerging. Old countries are blinking in the sunlight of the dawning millennium. And of course we have to maintain friendships with all blocs. And so on. Despite a turbulent past, Omnia is a friendly country . . . or, at least,’ he admitted, ‘I’m sure they would be friendly if they knew about Lancre. Being unpleasant to the priests of its state religion will serve us no good purpose. I’m sure we will not regret it.’
‘Let’s hope we won’t,’ said Nanny. She gave Verence a withering look. ‘And I remember you when you were just a man in a funny hat.’
Even this didn’t work. Verence merely sighed again and turned towards the door.
‘I still am, Nanny,’ he said. ‘It’s just that this one’s a lot heavier. And now I must go, otherwise we shall be keeping our guests waiting. Ah, Shawn. . .’
Shawn Ogg had appeared at the door. He saluted.
‘How’s the army coming along, Shawn?’
‘I’ve nearly finished the knife, sir.[6] Just got to do the nose-hair tweezers and the folding saw, sir. But actually I’m here as herald at the moment, sir.’
‘Ah, it must be time.’ `
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A shorter fanfare this time, Shawn, I think,’ said the King. ‘While I personally appreciate your skill, an occasion like this calls for something a little simpler than several bars of “Pink Hedgehog Rag”.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Let us go, then.’
They went out into the main passage just as Magrat’s group was passing, and the King took her hand.
Nanny Ogg trailed after them. The King was right, in a way. She did feel . . . unusual, ill-tempered and snappish, as if she’d put on a vest that was too tight. Well, Granny would be here soon enough, and she knew how to talk to kings.
You needed a special technique for that, Nanny reasoned; for example, you couldn’t say things like ‘Who died and made you King?’, because they’d know. ‘You and whose army?’ was another difficult one, although in this case Verence’s army consisted of Shawn and a troll and was unlikely to be a serious threat to Shawn’s own mother if he wanted to be allowed to eat his tea indoors.
She pulled Agnes to one side as the procession reached the top of the big staircase and Shawn went on ahead.
‘We’ll get a good view from the minstrel gallery,’ she hissed, dragging Agnes into the king oak structure just as the trumpet began the royal fanfare.
‘That’s my boy,’ she added proudly, when the final flourish caused a stir.
‘Yes, not many royal fanfares end with “shave and a haircut, no legs”[7],’ said Agnes.
‘Puts people at their ease, though,’ said Shawn’s loyal mum.
Agnes looked down at the throng and caught sight of the priest again. He was moving through the press of guests.
‘I found him, Nanny,’ she said. ‘He didn’t make it hard, I must say. He won’t try anything in a crowd, will he?’
‘Which one is it?’
Agnes pointed. Nanny stared, and then turned to her.
‘Sometimes I think the weight of that damn crown is turning Verence’s head,’ she said. ‘I reckon he really doesn’t know what he’s lettin’ into the kingdom. When Esme gets here she’s going to go through this priest like cabbage soup.’
By now the guests had got themselves sorted out on either side of the red carpet that began at the bottom of the stairs. Agnes glanced up at the royal couple, waiting awkwardly, just out of sight, for the appropriate moment to descend, and thought: Granny Weatherwax says you make your own right time. They’re the royal family. All they need to do is walk down the stairs and it’d be the right time. They’re doing it wrong.
Several of the Lancre guests were glancing at the big double doors, shut for this official ceremony. They’d be thrown open later, for the more public and enjoyable part, but right now they looked . . .
. . . like doors that would soon creak back and frame a figure against the firelight.
She could see the image so clearly.
The exercises Granny had reluctantly given her were working, Perdita thought.
There was a hurried conversation among the royal party and then Millie hurried back up the stairs and towards the witches.
‘Mag- the Queen says, is Granny Weatherwax coming or not?’ she panted.
‘Of course she is,’ said Nanny.
‘Only, well, the King’s getting a bit . . . upset. He said it did say RSVP on the invitation,’ said Millie, trying not to meet Nanny eye to eye.
‘Oh, witches never reservups,’ said Nanny. ‘They just come.’
Millie put her hand in front of her mouth and gave a nervous little cough. She glanced wretchedly towards Magrat, who was making frantic hand signals.
‘Only, well, the Queen says we’d better not hold things up, so, er, would you be godmother, Mrs Ogg?’
The wrinkles doubled on Nanny’s face as she smiled.
‘Tell you what,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ll come and sort of stand in until Granny gets here, shall I?’
Once again, Granny Weatherwax paced up and down in the spartan greyness of her kitchen. Occasionally she’d glance at the floor. There was quite a gap under the door, and sometimes things could be blown anywhere. But she’d already searched a dozen times. She must’ve got the cleanest floor in the country by now. Anyway, it was too late.
Even so . . . Uberwald . . .[8]
She strode up and down a few more times.
‘I’ll be blowed if I’ll give ’em the satisfaction,’ she muttered.
She sat down in her rocking chair, stood up again so quickly that the chair almost fell over, and went back to the pacing.
‘I mean, I’ve never been the kind of person to put myself forward,’ she said to the air. ‘I’m not the sort to go where I’m not welcome, I’m sure.’
She went to make a cup of tea, fumbling with the kettle with shaking hands, and dropped the lid of her sugar bowl, breaking it.
A light caught her eye. The half moon was visible over the lawn.
‘Anyway, it’s not as if I’ve not got other things to do,’ she said. ‘Can’t all be rushing off to parties the whole time . . . wouldn’t have gone anyway.’
She found herself flouncing around the corners of the floor again and thought: if I’d found it, the Wattley boy would have knocked at an empty cottage. I’d have gone and enjoyed meself. And John Ivy’d be sitting alone now . . .
‘Drat!’
That was the worst part about being good – it caught you coming and going.
She landed in the rocking chair again and pulled her shawl around her against the chill. She hadn’t kept the fire in. She hadn’t expected to be at home tonight.
Shadows filled the corners of the room, but she couldn’t be bothered to light the lamp. The candle would have to do.
As she rocked, glaring at the wall, the shadows lengthened.
* * *
Agnes followed Nanny down into the hall. She probably wasn’t meant to, but very few people will argue with a hat of authority.
Small countries were normal along this part of the Ramtops. Every glacial valley, separated from its neighbours by a route that required a scramble or, at worst, a ladder, more or less ruled itself. There seemed to Agnes to be any number of kings, even if some of them did their ruling in the evenings after they’d milked the cows. A lot of them were here, because a free meal is not to be sneezed at. There were also some senior dwarfs from Copperhead and, standing well away from them, a group of trolls. They weren’t carrying weapons, so Agnes assumed they were politicians. Trolls weren’t strictly subjects of King Verence, but they were there to say, in official body language, that playing football with human heads was something no one did any more, much. Hardly at all, really. Not roun’ here, certainly. Dere’s practic’ly a law against it.