‘Arrest them,’ she said.
‘No,’ said the Fool, stepping out of the wings.
‘What did you say?’
‘I saw it all,’ said the Fool, simply. ‘I was in the Great Hall that night. You killed the king, my lord.’
‘I did not!’ screamed the duke. ‘You were not there! I did not see you there! I order you not to be there!’
‘You did not dare say this before,’ said Lady Felmet.
‘Yes, lady. But I must say it now.’
The duke focused unsteadily on him.
‘You swore loyalty unto death, my Fool,’ he hissed.
‘Yes, my lord. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re dead.’
The duke snatched a dagger from Wimsloe’s-unresisting hand, darted forward, and plunged it to the hilt into the Fool’s heart. Magrat screamed.
The Fool rocked back and forth unsteadily.
‘Thank goodness that’s over,’ he said, as Magrat pushed her way through the actors and clasped him to what could charitably be called her bosom. It struck the Fool that he had never looked a bosom squarely in the face, at least since he was a baby, and it was particularly cruel of the world to save the experience until after he was dead.
He gently moved one of Magrat’s arms and pulled the despicable horned cowl from his head, and tossed it as far as possible. He didn’t have to be a Fool any more or, he realised, bother about vows or anything. What with bosoms as well, death seemed to be an improvement.
‘I didn’t do it,’ said the duke.
No pain, thought the Fool. Funny, that. On the other hand, you obviously can’t feel pain when you are dead. It would be wasted.
‘You all saw that I didn’t do it,’ said the duke.
Death gave the Fool a puzzled look. Then he reached into the recesses of his robes and pulled out an hourglass. It had bells on it. He gave it a gentle shake, which made them tinkle.
‘I gave no orders that any such thing should be done,’ said the duke calmly. His voice came from a long way off, from wherever his mind was now. The company stared at him wordlessly. It wasn’t possible to hate someone like this, only to feel acutely embarrassed about being anywhere near him. Even the Fool felt embarrassed, and he was dead.
Death tapped the hourglass, and then peered at it to see if it had gone wrong.
‘You are all lying,’ said the duke, in tranquil tones. ‘Telling lies is naughty.’
He stabbed several of the nearest actors in a dreamy, gentle way, and then held up the blade.
‘You see?’ he said. ‘No blood! It wasn’t me.’ He looked up at the duchess, towering over him now like a red tsunami over a small fishing village.
‘It was her,’ he said. ‘She did it.’
He stabbed her once or twice, on general principles, and then stabbed himself and let the dagger drop from his fingers.
After a few seconds reflection he said, in a voice far nearer the worlds of sanity, ‘You can’t get me now.’
He turned to Death. ‘Will there be a comet?’ he said. ‘There must be a comet when a prince dies. I’ll go and see, shall I?’
He wandered away. The audience broke into applause.
‘You’ve got to admit he was real royalty,’ said Nanny Ogg, eventually. ‘It only goes to show, royalty goes eccentric far better than the likes of you and me.’
Death held the hourglass to his skull, his face radiating puzzlement.
Granny Weatherwax picked up the fallen dagger and tested the blade with her finger. It slid into the handle quite easily, with a faint squeaking noise.
She passed it to Nanny.
‘There’s your magic sword,’ she said.
Magrat looked at it, and then back at the Fool.
‘Are you dead or not?’ she said.
‘I must be,’ said the Fool, his voice slightly muffled. ‘I think I’m in paradise.’
‘No, look, I’m serious.’
‘I don’t know. But I’d like to breathe.’
‘Then you must be alive.’
‘Everyone’s alive,’ said Granny. ‘It’s a trick dagger. Actors probably can’t be trusted with real ones.’
‘After all, they can’t even keep a cauldron clean,’ said Nanny.
‘Whether everyone is alive or not is a matter for me,’ said the duchess. ‘As ruler it is my pleasure to decide. Clearly my husband has lost his wits.’ She turned to her soldiers. ‘And I decree—’
‘Now!’ hissed King Verence in Granny’s ear. ‘Now!’
Granny Weatherwax drew herself up.
‘Be silent, woman!’ she said. ‘The true King of Lancre stands before you!’
She clapped Tomjon on the shoulder.
‘What, him?’
‘Who, me?’
‘Ridiculous,’ said the duchess. ‘He’s a mummer, of sorts.’
‘She’s right, miss,’ said Tomjon, on the edge of panic. ‘My father runs a theatre, not a kingdom.’
‘He is the true king. We can prove it,’ said Granny.
‘Oh, no,’ said the duchess. ‘We’re not having that. There’s no mysterious returned heirs in this kingdom. Guards – take him.’
Granny Weatherwax held up a hand. The soldiers lurched from foot to foot, uncertainly.
‘She’s a witch, isn’t she?’ said one of them, tentatively.
‘Certainly,’ said the duchess.
The guards shifted uneasily.
‘We seen where they turn people into newts,’ said one.
‘And then shipwreck them.’
‘Yeah, and alarum the divers.’
‘Yeah.’
‘We ought to talk about this. We ought to get extra for witches.’
‘She could do anything to us, look. She could be a drabe, even.’
‘Don’t be foolish,’ said the duchess. ‘Witches don’t do that sort of thing. They’re just stories to frighten people.’
The guard shook his head.
‘It looked pretty convincing to me.’
‘Of course it did, it was meant—’ the duchess began.
She sighed, and snatched a spear out of the guard’s hand.
‘I’ll show you the power of these witches,’ she said, and hurled it at Granny’s face.
Granny moved her hand across at snakebite speed and caught the spear just behind the head.
‘So,’ she said, ‘and it comes to this, does it?’
‘You don’t frighten me, wyrd sisters,’ said the duchess.
Granny stared her in the eye for a few seconds. She gave a grunt of surprise.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘We really don’t, do we . . .’
‘Do you think I haven’t studied you? Your witchcraft is all artifice and illusion, to amaze weak minds. It holds no fears for me. Do your worst.’
Granny studied her for a while.
‘My worst?’ she said, eventually. Magrat and Nanny Ogg shuffled gently out of her way.
The duchess laughed.
‘You’re clever,’ she said. ‘I’ll grant you that much. And quick. Come on, hag. Bring on your toads and demons, I’ll . . .’
She stopped, her mouth opening and shutting a bit without any words emerging. Her lips drew back in a rictus of terror, her eyes looked beyond Granny, beyond the world, towards something else. One knuckled hand flew to her mouth and she made a little whimpering noise. She froze, like a rabbit that has just seen a stoat and knows, without any doubt, that it is the last stoat that it will ever see.
‘What have you done to her?’ said Magrat, the first to dare to speak. Granny smirked.
‘Headology,’ said Granny, and smirked. ‘You don’t need any Black Aliss magic for it.’
‘Yes, but what have you done?’
‘No-one becomes like she is without building walls inside their head,’ she said. Tve just knocked them down. Every scream. Every plea. Every pang of guilt. Every twinge of conscience. All at once. There’s a little trick to it.’
She gave Magrat a condescending smile. ‘I’ll show you one day, if you like.’
Magrat thought about it. ‘It’s horrible,’ she said.
‘Nonsense,’ Granny smiled terribly. ‘Everyone wants to know their true self. Now, she does.’
‘Sometimes you have to be kind to be cruel,’ said Nanny Ogg approvingly.
‘I think it’s probably the worst thing that could happen to anyone,’ said Magrat, as the duchess swayed backwards and forwards.
‘For goodness’ sake use your imagination, girl,’ said Granny. ‘There are far worse things. Needles under the fingernails, for one. Stuff with pliers.’
‘Red-hot knives up the jacksie,’ said Nanny Ogg. ‘Handle first, too, so you cut your fingers trying to pull them out—’
‘This is simply the worst that I can do,’ said Granny Weatherwax primly. ‘It’s all right and proper, too. A witch should act like that, you know. There’s no need for any dramatic stuff. Most magic goes on in the head. It’s headology. Now, if you’d—’
A noise like a gas leak escaped from the duchess’s lips. Her head jerked back suddenly. She opened her eyes, blinked, and focused on Granny. Sheer hatred suffused her features.
‘Guards!’ she said. ‘I told you to take them!’
Granny’s jaw sagged. ‘What?’ she said. ‘But – but I showed you your true self . . .’
‘I’m supposed to be upset by that, am I?’ As the soldiers sheepishly grabbed Granny’s arms the duchess pressed her face close to Granny’s, her tremendous eyebrows a V of triumphant hatred. ‘I’m supposed to grovel on the floor, is that it? Well, old woman, I’ve seen exactly what I am, do you understand, and I’m proud of it! I’d do it all again, only hotter and longer! I enjoyed it, and I did it because I wanted to!’