Magrat peered out into the passage.

She had to move. She picked up a stricken chair leg for the little comfort that it gave, and ventured out.

There was a scream again, from the direction of the Great Hall.

Magrat looked the other way, toward the Long Gallery She ran. There had to be a way out, somewhere, some gate, some window . . .

Some enterprising monarch had glazed the windows some time ago. The moonlight shone through in big silver blocks, interspersed with squares of deep shadow.

Magrat ran from light to shade, light to shade, down the endless room. Monarch after monarch flashed past, like a speeded-up film. King after king, all whiskers and crowns and beards. Queen after queen, all corsages and stiff bodices and Lappet-faced wowhawks and small dogs and—

Some shape, some trick of moonlight, some expression on a painted face somehow cut through her terror and caught her eye. That was a portrait she'd never seen before. She'd never walked down this far. The idiot vapidity of the assembled queens had depressed her. But this one . . .

This one, somehow, reached out to her.

She stopped.

It couldn't have been done from life. In the days of this queen, the only paint known locally was a sort of blue, and generally used on the body But a few generations ago King Lully I had been a bit of a historian and a romantic. He'd researched what was known of the early days of Lancre, and where actual evidence had been a bit sparse he had, in the best traditions of the keen ethnic historian, inferred from revealed self-evident wisdom[34] and extrapolated from associated sources[35].

He'd commissioned the portrait of Queen Ynci the Short-Tempered, one of the founders of the kingdom.

She had a helmet with wings and a spike on it and a mass of black hair plaited into dreadlocks with blood as a setting lotion. She was heavily made-up in the woad-and-blood-and-spirals school of barbarian cosmetics. She had a 42 D-cup breastplate and shoulder pads with spikes. She had knee pads with spikes on, and spikes on her sandals, and a rather short skirt in the fashionable tartan and blood motif. One hand rested nonchalantly on a double-headed battle axe with a spike on it, the other caressed the hand of a captured enemy warrior. The rest of the captured enemy warrior was hanging from various pine trees in the background. Also in the picture was Spike, her favourite war pony, of the now extinct Lancre hill breed which was the same general shape and disposition as a barrel of gunpowder, and her war chariot, which picked up the popular spiky theme. It had wheels you could shave with.

Magrat stared.

They'd never mentioned this.

They'd told her about tapestries, and embroidery, and farthingales, and how to shake hands with lords. They'd never told her about spikes.

There was a sound at the end of the gallery, from back the way she'd come. She grabbed her skirts and ran.

There were footsteps behind her, and laughter.

Left down the cloisters, then along the dark passage above the kitchens, and past the—

A shape moved in the shadows. Teeth flashed. Magrat raised the chair leg, and stopped in mid-strike.

"Greebo?"

Nanny Ogg's cat rubbed against her legs. His hair was flat against his body. This unnerved Magrat even more. This was Greebo, undisputed king of Lancre's cat population and father of most of it, in whose presence wolves trod softly and bears climbed trees. He was frightened.

"Come here, you bloody idiot!"

She grabbed him by the scruff of his scarred neck and ran on, while Greebo gratefully sank his claws into her arm to the bone[36] and scrambled up to her shoulder.

She must be somewhere near the kitchen now, because that was Greebo's territory. This was an unknown and shadowy area, terror incognita, where the flesh of carpets and the plaster pillars ran out and the stone bone of the castle showed through.

She was sure there were footsteps behind her, very fast and light.

If she hurried around the next comer—

In her arms, Greebo tensed like a spring. Magrat stopped.

Around the next comer—

Without her apparently willing it, the hand holding the broken wood came up, moving slowly back.

She stepped to the comer and stabbed in one movement. There was a triumphant hiss which turned into a screech as the wood scraped down the side of the waiting elfs neck. It reeled away Magrat bolted for the nearest doorway, weeping in panic, and wrenched at the handle. It swung open. She darted through, slammed the door, flailed in the dark for the bars, felt them clonk home, and collapsed on to her knees.

Something hit the door outside.

After a while Magrat opened her eyes, and then wondered if she really had opened her eyes, because the darkness was no less dark. There was a feeling of space in front of her. There were all sorts of things in the castle, old hidden rooms, anything . . . there could be a pit there, there could be anything. She fumbled for the doorframe, guided herself upright, and then groped cautiously in the general direction of the wall.

There was a shelf. This was a candle. And this was a bundle of matches.

So, she insisted above her own heartbeat, this was a room that got used recently. Most people in Lancre still used tinderboxes. Only the king could afford matches all the way from Ankh-Morpork. Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg got them too, but they didn't buy them. They got given them. It was easy to get given things, if you were a witch.

Magrat lit the stub of candle, and turned to see what kind of room she'd scuttled into.

Oh, no . . .

"Well, well," said Ridcully "There's a familiar tree."

"Shut up."

"I thought someone said we just had to walk up hill," said Ridcully.

"Shut up."

"I remember once when we were in these woods you let

"me-"

"Shut up."

Granny Weatherwax sat down on a stump.

"We're being mazed," she said. "Someone's playing tricks on us."

"I remember a story once," said Ridcully, "where these two children were lost in the woods and a lot of birds came and covered them with leaves." Hope showed in his voice like a toe peeking out from under a crinoline.

"Yes, that's just the sort of bloody stupid thing a bird would think of," said Granny. She rubbed her head.

"She's doing it," she said. "It's an elvish trick. Leading travellers astray. She's mucking up my head. My actual head. Oh, she's good. Making us go where she wants. Making us go round in circles. Doing it to me."

"Maybe you've got your mind on other things," said Ridcully, not quite giving up hope.

"Course I've got my mind on other things, with you falling over all the time and gabbling a lot of nonsense," said Granny. "If Mr. Cleverdick Wizard hadn't wanted to dredge up things that never existed in the first place I wouldn't be here, I'd be in the centre of things, knowing what's going on." She clenched her fists.

"Well, you don't have to be," said Ridcully. "It's a fine night. We could sit here and-"

"You're falling for it too," said Granny. "All that dreamy-weamy, eyes-across-a-crowded-room stuff. Can't imagine how you keep your job as head wizard."

"Mainly by checking my bed carefully and makin' sure someone else has already had a slice of whatever it is I'm eating," said Ridcully, with disarming honesty. "There's not much to it, really. Mainly it's signin' things and having a good shout-"

Ridcully gave up.

"Anyway, you looked pretty surprised when you saw me," he said. "Your face went white."

"Anyone'd go white, seeing a full-grown man standing there looking like a sheep about to choke," said Granny.

"You really don't let up, do you?" said Ridcully. "Amazing. You don't give an inch."

Another leaf drifted past.

Ridcully didn't move his head.

"You know," he said, his voice staying quite level, "either autumn comes really early in these parts, or the birds here are the ones out of that story I mentioned, or someone's in the tree above us."

"I know."

"You know?"

"Yes, because I've been paying attention while you were dodging the traffic in Memory Lane," said Granny. "There's at least five of 'em, and they're right above us. How's those magic fingers of yours?"

"I could probably manage a fireball."

"Wouldn't work. Can you carry us out of here?"

"Not both of us."

"Just you?"

"Probably, but I'm not going to leave you."

Granny rolled her eyes. "It's true, you know," she said. "All men are swains. Push off, you soft old bugger. They're not intending to kill me. At least, not yet. But they don't hardly know nothing about wizards and they'll chop you down without thinking."

"Now who's being soft?"

"I don't want to see you dead when you could be doin' something useful."

"Running away isn't useful."

"It's going to be a lot more useful than staying here."

"I'd never forgive myself if I went."

"And I'd never forgive you if you stayed, and I'm a lot more unforgiving than you are," said Granny. "When it's all over, try to find Gytha Ogg. Tell her to look in my old box. She'll know what's in there. And if you don't go now-"

An arrow hit the stump beside Ridcully.

"The buggers are firing at me!" he shouted. "If I had my crossbow-"

"I should go and get it, then," said Granny.

"Right! I'll be back instantly!"

Ridcully vanished. A moment later several lumps of castle masonry dropped out of the space he had just occupied.

"That's him out of the way, then," said Granny, to no one in particular.

She stood up, and gazed around at the trees.

"All right," she said, "here I am. I ain't running. Come and get me. Here I am. All of me."

Magrat calmed down. Of course it existed. Every castle had one. And of course this one was used. There was a trodden path through the dust to the rack a few feet away from the door, where a few suits of unravelling chain-mail hung on a rack, next to the pikes.

Shawn probably came in here every day.

It was the armoury.

Greebo hopped down from Magrat's shoulders and wandered off down the cobwebbed avenues, in his endless search for anything small and squeaky.

Magrat followed him, in a daze.

The kings of Lancre had never thrown anything away. At least, they'd never thrown anything away if it was possible to kill someone with it.

There was armour for men. There was armour for horses. There was armour for fighting dogs. There was even armour for ravens, although King Gumt the Stupid's plan for an aerial attack force had never really got off the ground. There were more pikes, and swords, cutlasses, rapiers, epees, broadswords, flails, momingstars, maces, clubs, and huge knobs with spikes. They were all piled together and, in those places where the roof had leaked, were rusted into a lump. There were longbows, short bows, pistol bows, stirrup bows, and crossbows, piled like firewood and stacked with the same lack of care. Odd bits of armour were piled in more heaps, and were red with rust. In fact rust was everywhere. The whole huge room was full of the death of iron.

Magrat went on, like some clockwork toy that won't change direction until it bumps into something.

The candlelight was reflected dully in helmets and breastplates. The sets of horse armour in particular were terrible, on their rotting wooden frames — they stood like exterior skeletons, and, like skeletons, nudged the mind into thoughts of mortality. Empty eye sockets stared sightlessly down at the little candlelit figure.

"Lady?"

The voice came from outside the door, far behind Magrat. But it echoed around her, bouncing off the centuries of mouldering armaments.

They can't come in here, Magrat thought. Too much iron. In here, I'm safe.

"If lady wants to play, we will fetch her friends."

As Magrat turned, the light caught the edge of something, and gleamed.

Magrat pulled aside a huge shield.

"Lady?"

Magrat reached out.

"Lady?"

Magrat's hands held a rusty iron helmet, with wings.

"Come dance at the wedding, lady."

Magrat's hands closed on a well-endowed breastplate, with spikes.

Greebo, who had been tracking mice through a prone suit of armour, stuck his head out of a leg.

A change had come over Magrat. It showed in her breathing. She'd been panting, with fear and exhaustion. Then, for a few seconds, there was no sound of her breathing at all. And finally it returned. Slowly. Deeply. Deliberately.

Greebo saw Magrat, who he'd always put down as basically a kind of mouse in human shape, lift the hat with the wings on it and put it on her head.

Magrat knew all about the power of hats.

In her mind's ear she could hear the rattle of the chariots.

"Lady? We will bring your friends to sing to you."

She turned.

The candlelight sparkled off her eyes.

Greebo drew back into the safety of his armour. He recalled a particular time when he'd leapt out on a vixen. Normally Greebo could take on a fox without raising a sweat but, as it turned out, this one had cubs. He hadn't found out until he chased her into her den. He'd lost a bit of one ear and quite a lot of fur before he'd got away.

The vixen had a very similar expression to the one Magrat had now.

"Greebo? Come here!"

The cat turned and tried to find a place of safety in the suit's breastplate. He was beginning to doubt he'd make it through the knight.

Elves prowled the castle gardens. They'd killed the fish in the ornamental pond, eventually.

Mr. Brooks was perched on a kitchen chair, working at a crevice in the stable wall.

He'd been aware of some sort of excitement, but it was involving humans and therefore of secondary importance. But he did notice the change in the sound from the hives, and the splintering of wood.

A hive had already been tipped over. Angry bees clouded around three figures as feet ripped through comb and honey and brood.

The laughter stopped as a white-coated, veiled figure appeared over the hedge. It raised a long metal tube.

No one ever knew what Mr. Brooks put in his squirter. There was old tobacco in it, and boiled-up roots, and bark scrapings, and herbs that even Magrat had never heard of. It shot a glistening stream over the hedge which hit the middle elf between the eyes, and sprayed over the other two.

Mr. Brooks watched dispassionately until their struggles stopped.

"Wasps," he said.

Then he went and found a box, lit a lantern and, with great care and delicacy, oblivious to the stings, began to repair the damaged combs.

* * *

Shawn couldn't feel much in his arm anymore, except in the hot dull way that indicated at least one broken bone, and he knew that two of his fingers shouldn't be looking like that. He was sweating, despite being only in his vest and drawers. He should never have taken his chain-mail off, but it's hard to say no when an elf is pointing a bow at you. Shawn knew what, fortunately, many people didn't — chain-mail isn't much defence against an arrow. It certainly isn't when the arrow is being aimed between your eyes.

He'd been dragged along the corridors to the armoury. There were at least four elves, but it was hard to see their faces. Shawn remembered when the travelling Magic Lanthorn show had come to Lancre. He'd watched entranced as different pictures had been projected on to one of Nanny Ogg's bedsheets. The elf faces put him in mind of that. There were eyes and a mouth in there somewhere, but everything else seemed to be temporary, the elves' features passing across their faces like the pictures on the screen.

They didn't say much. They just laughed a lot. They were a merry folk, especially when they were twisting your arm to see how far it could go.

The elves spoke to one another in their own language. Then one of them turned to Shawn, and indicated the armoury door.

"We wish the lady to come out," it said. "You must say to her, if she does not come out, we will play with you some more."

"What will you do to us if she does come out?" said Shawn.

"Oh, we shall still play with you," said the elf. "That's what makes it so much fun. But she must hope, must she not? Talk to her now."

He was pushed up to the door. He knocked on it, in what he hoped was a respectful way.

"Urn. Miss Queen?"

Magrat's voice was muffled.

"Yes?"

"It's me, Shawn."

"I know."

"I'm out here. Um. I think they've hurt Miss Tockley. Um. They say they'll hurt me some more if you don't come out. But you don't have to come out because they daren't come in there because of all the iron. So I shouldn't listen to them if I was you."

There were some distant clankings, and then a twang.

"Miss Magrat?"

"Ask her," said the elf, "if there is any food and water in there."

"Miss, they say-"

One of the elves jerked him away. Two of them took up station either side of the doorway, and one put his pointed ear to it.

Then it knelt down and peered through the keyhole, taking care not to come too near the metal of the lock.

There was a sound no louder than a click. The elf remained motionless for a moment, and then keeled over gently, without a sound.

Shawn blinked.

There was about an inch of crossbow bolt sticking out of its eye. The feathers had been sheared off by its passage through the keyhole.

"Wow," he said.

The armoury door swung open, revealing nothing but darkness.

One of the elves started to laugh.

"So much for him," it said. "How stupid . . . Lady? Will you listen to your warrior?"

He gripped Shawn's broken arm, and twisted.

Shawn tried not to scream. Purple lights flashed in front of his eyes. He wondered what would happen if he passed out.

He wished his mum was here.

"Lady," said the elf, "if you-"

"All right," said Magrat's voice, from somewhere in the darkness. "I'm going to come out. You must promise not to hurt me."

"Oh, indeed I do, lady."

"And you'll let Shawn go."

"Yes."

The elves on either side of the doorway nodded at each other.

"Please?" Magrat pleaded.

"Yes."

Shawn groaned. If it had been Mum or Mistress Weatherwax, they'd have fought to the death. Mum was right — Magrat always was the nice soft one . . .

. . . who'd just fired a crossbow through a keyhole.

Some eighth sense made Shawn shift his weight. If the elf relaxed his grip for just one second, Shawn was ready to stagger.

Magrat appeared in the doorway. She was carrying an ancient wooden box with the word "Candles" on the side in peeling paint.

Shawn looked hopefully along the corridor.

Magrat smiled brightly at the elf beside him. "This is for you," she said, handing over the box. The elf took it automatically. "But you mustn't open it. And remember you promised not to hurt me."

The elves closed in behind Magrat. One of them raised a hand, with a stone knife in it.

"Lady?" said the elf holding the box, which was rocking gently in its hands.

"Yes?" said Magrat, meekly.

"I lied to you."

The knife plunged toward her back.

And shattered.

The elf looked at Magrat's innocent expression, and opened the box.

Greebo had spent an irritating two minutes in that box. Technically, a cat locked in a box may be alive or it may be dead. You never know until you look. In fact, the mere act of opening the box will determine the state of the cat, although in this case there were three determinate states the cat could be in: these being Alive, Dead, and Bloody Furious.

Shawn dived sideways as Greebo went off like a Claymore mine.

"Don't worry about him," said Magrat dreamily, as the elf flailed at the maddened cat. "He's just a big softy."

She drew a knife out of the folds of her dress, turned, and stabbed the elf behind her. It wasn't an accurate thrust, but it didn't have to be. Not with an iron blade.

She completed the movement by daintily raising the hem of her dress and kicking the third elf just under the knee.

Shawn saw a flash of metal as her foot retreated under the silk again.

She elbowed the screaming elf aside, trotted into the doorway, and came back with a crossbow.

"Shawn," she said, "which one hurt you?"

"All of them," said Shawn, weakly. "But the one fighting Greebo stabbed Diamanda."

The elf pulled Greebo off his face. Green-blue blood was streaming from a dozen wounds and Greebo hung on to its arm as he was flailed against the wall.

"Stop it," said Magrat.

The elf looked down at the bow, and froze.

"I will not beg for mercy," it said.

"Good," said Magrat, and fired.

That left one elf rolling in circles on the flagstones, clutching at its knee.

Magrat stepped daintily over the body of another elf, vanished into the armoury for a moment, and came back with an axe.

The elf stopped moving, and focused all its attention on her.

"Now," said Magrat, conversationally, "I'm not going to lie to you about your chances, because you haven't got any. I'm going to ask you some questions. But first of all, I'm going to get your attention."

The elf was expecting it, and managed to roll aside as the axe splintered the stones.

"Miss?" said Shawn weakly, as Magrat raised the axe again.

"Yes?"

"Mum says they don't feel pain, miss."

"No? But they can certainly be put to inconvenience."

Magrat lowered the axe.

"Of course, there's armour," she said. "We could put this one in a suit of armour. How about it?"

"No!"

The elf tried to pull away across the floor.

"Why not?" said Magrat. "Better than axes, yes?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"It is like being buried in the earth," hissed the elf. "No eyes, no ears, no mouth!"

"Chain-mail, then," said Magrat.

"No!"

"Where is the king? Where is everyone?"

"I will not say!"

"All right."

Magrat vanished into the armoury again, and came back dragging a suit of chain-mail.

The elf tried to scramble away.

"You won't get it on," said Shawn, from where he lay. "You'll never get it over its arms-"

Magrat picked up the axe.

"Oh, no," said Shawn. "Miss!"

"You will never get him back," said the elf. "She has him."

"We shall see," said Magrat. "All right, Shawn. What shall we do with it?"

In the end they dragged it into a storeroom next to the dungeon and manacled it to the bars of the window. It was still whimpering at the touch of the iron as Magrat slammed the door.

Shawn was trying to keep at a respectful distance. It was the way Magrat kept smiling all the time.

"Now let's have a look at that arm of yours," she said.

"I'm all right," said Shawn, "but they stabbed Diamanda in the kitchen."

"Was it her I heard screaming?"

"Uh. Partly. Uh." Shawn stared down in fascination at the dead elves as Magrat stepped over them.

"You killed them," he said.

"Did I do it wrong?"

"Um. No," said Shawn cautiously. "No, you did it . . . quite well, really."

"And there's one in the pit," said Magrat. "You know . . . the pit. What day is it?"

"Tuesday."

"And you clean it out on . . . ?"

"Wednesdays. Only I missed last Wednesday because I had-"

"Then we probably don't need to worry about it. Are there anymore around?"

"I. . . don't think so. Uh. Miss Queen?"

"Yes, Shawn?"

"Could you put the axe down, please? I'd feel a lot better if you put the axe down. The axe. Miss Queen. You keep swinging it about. It could go off at any second."

"What axe?"

"The one you're holding."

"Oh, this axe." Magrat appeared to notice it for the first time. "That arm looks bad. Let's get down to the kitchen and I'll splint it. Those fingers don't look good, either. Did they kill Diamanda?"

"I don't know. And I don't know why. I mean, she was helping them."

"Yes. Wait a moment." Magrat disappeared one more time into the armoury, and came back carrying a sack. "Come on. Greebo!"

Greebo gave her a sly look, and stopped washing himself.

"D'you know a funny thing about Lancre?" said Magrat, as they sidled down the stairs.

"What's that, miss?"

"We never throw anything away. And you know another thing?"

"No, miss."

"They couldn't have painted her from life, of course. I mean, people didn't paint portraits in those days. But the armour . . . hah! All they had to do was look. And you know

what?"

Shawn suddenly felt frightened. He'd been scared before, but it had been immediate and physical. But Magrat, like this, frightened him more than the elves. It was like being charged by a sheep.

"No, miss?" he said.

"No one told me about her. You'd think it's all tapestry and walking around in long dresses!"

"What, miss?"

Magrat waved an arm expressively.

"All this!"

"Miss!" said Shawn, from knee level.

Magrat looked down.

"What?"

"Please put the axe down!"

"Oh. Sorry."

Hodgesaargh spent his nights in a little shed adjoining the mews. He too had received an invitation to the wedding, but it had been snatched from his hand and eaten in mistake for one of his fingers by Lady Jane, an ancient and evil-tempered gyrfalcon. So he'd gone through his usual nightly routine, bathing his wounds and eating a meal of stale bread and ancient cheese and going to bed early to bleed gently by candlelight over a copy of Beaks and Talons.

He looked up at a sound from the mews, picked up the candlestick, and wandered out.

An elf was looking at the birds. It had Lady Jane perched on its arm.

Hodgesaargh, like Mr. Brooks, didn't take much interest in events beyond his immediate passion. He was aware that there were a lot of visitors in the castle and, as far as he was concerned, anyone looking at the hawks was a fellow enthusiast.

"That's my best bird," he said proudly. "I've nearly got her trained. She's very good. I'm training her. She's very intelligent. She knows eleven words of command."

The elf nodded solemnly. Then it slipped the hood off the bird's head, and nodded toward Hodgesaargh.

"Kill," it commanded.

Lady Jane's eyes glittered in the torchlight. Then she leapt, and hit the elf full in the throat with two sets of talons and a beak.

"She does that with me, too," said Hodgesaargh. "Sorry about that. She's very intelligent."

* * *

Diamanda was lying on the kitchen floor, in a pool of blood. Magrat knelt beside her.

"She's still alive. Just." She grabbed the hem of her dress, and tried to rip it.

"Damn the thing. Help me, Shawn."

"Miss?"

"We need bandages!"

"But-"

"Oh, stop gawping."

The skirt tore. A dozen lace roses unravelled.

Shawn had never been privy to what queens wore under their clothes, but even starting with certain observations concerning Millie Chillum and working his way up, he'd never considered metal underwear.

Magrat thumped the breastplate.

"Fairly good fit," she said, defying Shawn to point out that in certain areas there was quite a lot of air between the metal and Magrat. "Not that a few tucks and a rivet here and there wouldn't help. Don't you think it looks good?"

"Oh, yes," said Shawn. "Uh. Sheet iron is really you."

"You really think so?"

"Oh, yes," said Shawn, inventing madly. "You've got the figure for it."

She set and splinted his arm and fingers, working methodically, using strips of silk as bandages. Diamanda was less easy. Magrat cleaned and stitched and bandaged, while Shawn sat and watched, trying to ignore the insistent hot-ice pain from his arm.

He kept repeating, "They just laughed and stabbed her. She didn't even try to run away. It was like they were playing."

For some reason Magrat shot a glance at Greebo, who had the decency to look embarrassed.

"Pointy ears and hair you want to stroke," she said, vaguely. "And they can fascinate you. And when they're happy they make a pleasing noise."

"What?"

"Just thinking to myself." Magrat stood up. "OK. I'll build up the fire and fetch a couple of crossbows and load them up for you. And you keep the door shut and let no one in, d'you hear? And if I don't come back . . . try and go somewhere where there's people. Get up to the dwarfs at Copperhead. Or the trolls."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to see what's happened to everyone."

Magrat opened the sack she'd brought down from the armoury. There was a helmet in it. It had wings on, and to Shawn's mind was quite impractical[37]. There was also a pair of mail gloves and a choice assortment of rusty weaponry.

"But there's probably more of those things out there!"

"Better out there than in here."

"Can you fight?"