‘I suppose I could help father pay off on the Dysk,’ he said.
‘That would be nice, yes,’ said Hwel.
He spun the crown in his fingers and listened glumly to the talk flowing back and forth over his head.
‘Fifteen years?’ said the Mayor of Lancre.
‘We had to,’ said Granny Weatherwax.
‘I thought the baker was a bit early last week.’
‘No, no,’ said the witch impatiently. ‘It doesn’t work like that. No-one’s lost anything.’
‘According to my figuring,’ said the man who doubled as Lancre’s beadle, town clerk and gravedigger, ‘we’ve all lost fifteen years.’
‘No, we’ve all gained them,’ said the mayor. ‘It stands to reason. Time’s like this sort of wiggly road, see, but we took a short cut across the fields.’
‘Not at all,’ said the clerk, sliding a sheet of paper across the table. ‘Look here . . .’
Tomjon let the waters of debate close over him again.
Everyone wanted him to be king. No-one thought twice about what he wanted. His views didn’t count.
Yes, that was it. No-one wanted him to be king, not precisely him. He just happened to be convenient.
Gold does not tarnish, at least physically, but Tomjon felt that the thin band of metal in his hands had an unpleasant depth to its lustre. It had sat on too many troubled heads. If you held it to your ear, you could hear the screams.
He became aware of someone else looking at him, their gaze playing across his face like a blowlamp on a lolly. He looked up.
It was the third witch, the young . . . the youngest one, with the intense expression and the hedgerow hairstyle. Sitting next to old Fool as though she owned a controlling interest.
It wasn’t his face she was examining. It was his features. Her eyeballs were tracking him from nape to nose like a pair of calipers. He gave her a little brave smile, which she ignored. Just like everyone else, he thought.
Only the Fool noticed him, and returned the smile with an apologetic grin and a tiny conspiratorial wave of the fingers that said: ‘What are we doing here, two sensible people like us?’ The woman was looking at him again, turning her head this way and that and narrowing her eyes. She kept glancing at Fool and back to Tomjon. Then she turned to the oldest witch, the only person in the entire hot, damp room who seemed to have acquired a mug of beer, and whispered in her ear.
The two started a spirited, whispered conversation. It was, thought Tomjon, a particularly feminine way of talking. It normally took place on doorsteps, with all the participants standing with their arms folded and, if anyone was so ungracious as to walk past, they’d stop abruptly and watch them in silence until they were safely out of earshot.
He became aware that Granny Weatherwax had stopped talking, and that the entire hall was staring at him expectantly.
‘Hallo?’ he said.
‘It might be a good idea to hold the coronation tomorrow,’ said Granny. ‘It’s not good for a kingdom to be without a ruler. It doesn’t like it.’
She stood up, pushed back her chair, and came and took Tomjon’s hand. He followed her unprotestingly across the flagstones and up the steps to the throne, where she put her hands on his shoulders and pressed him gently down on to the threadbare red plush cushions.
There was a scraping of benches and chairs. He looked around in panic.
‘What’s happening now?’ he said.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Granny firmly. ‘Everyone wants to come and swear loyalty to you. You just nod graciously and ask everyone what they do and if they enjoy it. Oh, and you’d better give them the crown back.’
Tomjon removed it quickly.
‘Why?’ he said.
‘They want to present it to you.’
‘But I’ve already got it!’ said Tomjon desperately.
Granny gave a patient sigh.
‘Only in the wossname, real sense,’ she said. ‘This is more ceremonial.’
‘You mean unreal?’
‘Yes,’ said Granny. ‘But much more important.’
Tomjon gripped the arms of the throne.
‘Fetch me Hwel,’ he said.’
‘No, you must do it like that. It’s precedent, you see, first you meet the—’
‘I said, fetch me the dwarf. Didn’t you hear me, woman?’ This time Tomjon got the spin and pitch of his voice just right, but Granny rallied magnificently.
‘I don’t think you quite realise who you are talking to, young man,’ she said.
Tomjon half rose in his seat. He had played a great many kings, and most of them weren’t the kind of kings who shook hands graciously and asked people whether they enjoyed their work. They were far more the type of kings who got people to charge into battle at five o’clock on a freezing morning and still managed to persuade them that this was better than being in bed. He summoned them all, and treated Granny Weatherwax to a blast of royal hauteur, pride and arrogance.
‘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.’
‘You can’t leave me here! There’s nothing but forests!’
Tomjon felt the suffocating cold sensation again, and the slow buzzing in his ears. For a moment he thought he saw, faint as a mist, a tall sad man in front of him, stretching out a hand in supplication.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I really am.’
Through the fading shape he saw the witches, watching him intently.
Beside him Hwel said, ‘The only chance you’d have is if there was another heir. You don’t remember any brothers and sisters, do you?’
‘I don’t remember anyone! Hwel, I—’
There was another ferocious argument among the witches. And then Magrat was striding, striding across the hall, moving like a tidal wave, moving like a rush of blood to the head, shaking off Granny Weatherwax’s restraining hand, bearing down on the throne like a piston, and dragging the Fool behind her.
‘I say?’
‘Er. Halloee!’
‘Er, I say, excuse me, can anyone hear us?’
The castle up above was full of hubbub and general rejoicing, and there was no-one to hear the polite and frantic voices that echoed along the dungeon passages, getting politer and more frantic with each passing hour.
‘Um, I say? Excuse me? Billem’s got this terrible thing about rats, if you don’t mind. Cooeee!’
Let the camera of the mind’s eye pan slowly back along the dim, ancient corridors, taking in the dripping fungi, the rusting ehains, the damp, the shadows . . .