Bond drat clang . . .

Nanny Ogg had no bathroom but she did have a tin bath, which normally hung on a nail on the back of the privy. Now she was dragging it indoors. It was almost up the garden, after being bounced off various trees, walls, and garden gnomes on the way.

Three large black kettles steamed by her fireside. Beside them were half a dozen towels, the loofah, the pumice stone, the soap, the soap for when the first soap got lost, the ladle for fishing spiders out, the waterlogged rubber duck with the prolapsed squeaker, the bunion chisel, the big scrubbing brush, the small scrubbing brush, the scrubbing brush on a stick for difficult crevices, the banjo, the thing with the pipes and spigots that no one ever really knew the purpose of, and a bottle of Klatchian Nights bath essence, one drop of which could crinkle paint.

Bong clang slam . . .

Everyone in Lancre had learned to recognize Nanny's pre-ablutive activities, out of self-defense.

"But it ain't April!" neighbours told themselves, as they drew the curtains.

In the house just up the hill from Nanny Ogg's cottage Mrs. Skindle grabbed her husband's arm.

"The goat's still outside!"

"Are you mad? I ain't going out there! Not now!"

"You know what happened last time! It was paralysed all down one side for three days, man, and we couldn't get it down off the roof!"

Mr. Skindle poked his head out of the door. It had all gone quiet. Too quiet.

"She's probably pouring the water in," he said.

"You've got a minute or two," said his wife. "Go on, or we'll be drinking yoghurt for weeks."

Mr. Skindle took down a halter from behind the door, and crept out to where his goat was tethered near the hedge. It too had learned to recognize the bathtime ritual, and was rigid with apprehension.

There was no point in trying to drag it. Eventually he picked it up bodily.

There was a distant but insistent sloshing noise, and the bonging sound of a floating pumice stone bouncing on the side of a tin bath.

Mr. Skindle started to run.

Then there was the distant tinkle of a banjo being tuned.

The world held its breath.

Then it came, like a tornado sweeping across a prairie.

"AAaaaaeeeeeee-"

Three flowerpots outside the door cracked, one after the other. Shrapnel whizzed past Mr. Skindle's ear.

"-wizzaaardsah staaafff has a knobontheend, knobontheend-"

He threw the goat through the doorway and leapt after it. His wife was waiting, and slammed the door shut behind him.

The whole family, including the goat, got under the table.

It wasn't that Nanny Ogg sang badly. It was just that she could hit notes which, when amplified by a tin bath half full of water, ceased to be sound and became some sort of invasive presence.

There had been plenty of singers whose high notes could smash a glass, but Nanny's high C could clean it.

The Lancre Morris Men sat glumly on the turf, passing an earthenware jug between them. It had not been a good rehearsal.

"Don't work, does it?" said Thatcher. "'S'not funny, that I do know," said Weaver. "Can't see the king killing himself laughing at us playing a bunch of mechanical artisans not being very good at doin' a play."

"You're just no good at it," said Jason. "We're sposed to be no good at it," said Weaver. "Yeah, but you're no good at acting like someone who's ho good at acting," said Tinker. "I don't know how, but you ain't. You can't expect all the fine lords and ladies-"

A breeze blew over the moor, tasting of ice at midsummer.

"-to laugh at us not being any good at being no good at acting."

"I don't see what's funny about a bunch of rude artisans trying to do a play anyway," said Weaver.

Jason shrugged.

"It says all the gentry-"

A tang on the wind, the sharp tin taste of snow . . .

"-in Ankh-Morpork laughed at it for weeks and weeks," he said. "It was on Broad Way for three months."

"What's Broad Way?"

"That's where all the theatres are. The Dysk, Lord Wynkin's Men, the Bearpit . . ."

"They'd laugh at any damn thing down there," said Weaver. "Anyway, they all think we're all simpletons up here. They all think we say oo-aah and sings daft folk songs and has three brain cells huddlin' together for warmth 'cos of drinking scumble all the time."

"Yeah. Pass that jug."

"Swish city bastards."

"They don't know what it's like to be up to the armpit in a cow's backside on a snowy night. Hah!"

"And there ain't one of 'em that — what're you talking about? You ain't got a cow."

"No, but I know what it's like."

"They don't know what it's like to get one wellie sucked off in a farmyard full of gyppoe and that horrible moment where you waves the foot around knowin' that wherever you puts it down it's going to go through the crust."

The stoneware jug glugged gently as it was passed from hand to unsteady hand.

"True. That's very true. And you ever seen 'em Morris dancing? "Muff to make you hang up your hanky."

"What, Morris dancing in a city?"

"Well, down in Sto Helit, anyway. Bunch o' soft wizards and merchants. I watched 'em a whole hour and there wasn't even a groinin'."

"Swish city bastards. Comin' up here, takin' our jobs. . ."

"Don't be daft. They don't know what a proper job is."

The jug glugged, but with a deeper tone, suggesting that it contained a lot of emptiness.

"Bet they've never been up to the armpit-"

"The point is. The point is. The point. The point is. Hah. All laughin' at decent rude artisans, eh? I mean. I mean. I mean. What's it all about? I mean. I mean. I mean. Play's all about some mechanical. . . rude buggers makin' a pig's ear out of doin' a play about a bunch of lords and ladies-"

A chill in the air, sharp as icicles . . .

"It needs something else."

"Right. Right."

"A mythic element."

"Right. My point. My point. My point. Needs a plot they can go home whistlin'. Exactly."

"So it should be done here, in the open air. Open to the sky and the hills."

Jason Ogg wrinkled his brows. They were always pretty wrinkled anyway, whenever he was dealing with the complexities of the world. Only when it came to iron did he know exactly what to do. But he held up a wavering finger and tried to count his fellow thespians. Given that the jug was now empty, this was an effort. There seemed, on average, to be seven other people. But he had a vague, nagging feeling that something wasn't right.

"Out here," he said, uncertainly.

"Good idea," said Weaver.

"Wasn't it your idea?" said Jason.

"I thought you said it."

"I thought you did."

"Who cares who said it?" said Thatcher. "'S'a good idea. Seems . . . right."

"What was that about the miffic quality?"

"What's miffic?"

"Something you've got to have," said Weaver, theatrical expert. "Very important, your miffics."

"Me mam said no one was to go-" Jason began.

"We shan't be doing any dancing or anything," said Carter. "I can see you don't want people skulking around up here by 'emselves, doin' magic. But it can't be wrong if everyone comes here. I mean, the king and everyone. Your mam, too. Hah, I'd like to see any girls with no drawers on get past her!"

"I don't think it's just-" Jason began.

"And the other one'll be there, too," said Weaver.

They considered Granny Weatherwax.

"Cor, she frightens the life out of me, her," said Thatcher, eventually. "The way she looks right through you. I wouldn't say a word against her, mark you, a fine figure of a woman," he said loudly, and then added rather more quietly, "but they do say she creeps around the place o'nights, as a hare or a bat or something. Changes her shape and all. Not that I believes a word of it," he raised his voice, then let it sink again, "but old Weezen over in Slice told me once he shot a hare in the leg one night and next day she passed him on the lane and said 'Ouch' and gave him a right ding across the back of his head."

"My dad said," said Weaver, "that one day he was leading our old cow to market and it took ill and fell down in the lane near her cottage and he couldn't get it to move and he went up to her place and he knocked on the door and she opened it and before he could open his mouth she said, "Yer cow's ill, Weaver" . . . just like that . . . And then she said-"

"Was that the old brindled cow what your dad had?" said Carter.

"No, it were my uncle had the brindled cow, we had the one with the crumpled horn," said Weaver. "Anyway-"

"Could have sworn it was brindled," said Carter. "I remember my dad looking at it over the hedge one day and saying, 'That's fine brindling on that cow, you don't get brindling like that these days.' That was when you had that old field alongside Cabb's Well."

"We never had that field, it was my cousin had that field," said Weaver. "Anyway-"

"You sure?"

"Anyway," said Weaver, she said, "You wait there, I'll give you something for it," and she goes out into her back kitchen and comes back with a couple of big red pills, and she-"

"How'd it get crumpled, then?" said Carter.

"-and she gave him one of the pills and said, 'What you do, you raise the old cow's tail and shove this pill where the sun don't shine, and in half a minute she'll be up and running as fast as she can,' and he thanked her, and then as he was going out of the door he said, 'What's the other pill for?' and she gave him a look and said, 'Well, you want to catch her, don't you?'"

"That'd be that deep valley up near Slice," said Carter.

They looked at him.

"What, exactly, are you talking about?" said Weaver.

"It's right behind the mountain," said Carter, nodding knowingly. "Very shady there. That's what she meant, I expect. The place where the sun doesn't shine. Long way to go for a pill, but I suppose that's witches for you."

Weaver winked at the others.

"Listen," he said, "I'm telling you she meant . . . well, where the monkey put his nut."

Carter shook his head.

"No monkeys in Slice," he said. His face became suffused with a slow grin. "Oh, I get it! She was daft!"

"Them playwriters down in Ankh," said Baker, "boy, they certainly know about us. Pass me the jug."

Jason turned his head again. He was getting more and more uneasy. His hands, which were always in daily contact with iron, were itching.

"Reckon we ought to be getting along home now, lads," he managed.

"'S'nice night," said Baker, staying put. "Look at them stars a-twinklin'."

"Turned a bit cold, though," said Jason.

"Smells like snow," said Carter.

"Oh, yeah," said Baker. "That's right. Snow at midsummer. That's what they get where the sun don't shine."

"Shutup, shutup, shutup," said Jason.

"What's up with you?"

"It's wrong! We shouldn't be up here! Can't you feel it?"

"Oh, sit down, man," said Weaver. "It's fine. Can't feel nothing but the air. And there's still more scumble in the jug."

Baker leaned back.

"I remember an old story about this place," he said. "Some man went to sleep up here once, when he was out hunting."

The bottle glugged in the dusk.

"So what? I can do that," said Carter. "I go to sleep every night, reg'lar."

"Ah, but this man, when he woke up and went home, his wife was carrying on with someone else and all his children had grown up and didn't know who he was."

"Happens to me just about every day," said Weaver gloomily.

Baker sniffed.

"You know, it does smell a bit like snow. You know? That kind of sharp smell."

Thatcher leaned back, cradling his head on his arm.

"Tell you what," he said, "if I thought my old woman'd marry someone else and my hulking great kids'd bugger off and stop eating up the larder every day I'd come up here with a blanket like a shot. Who's got that jug?"

Jason took a pull out of nervousness, and found that he felt better as the alcohol dissolved his synapses.

But he made an effort.

"Hey, lads," he slurred, "'ve got 'nother jug coolin' in the water trough down in the forge, what d'you say? We could all go down there now. Lads? Lads?"

There was the soft sound of snoring.

"Oh, lads."

Jason stood up.

The stars wheeled.

Jason fell down, very gently. The jug rolled out of his hands and bounced across the grass.

The stars twinkled, the breeze was cold, and it smelled of snow.

The king dined alone, which is to say, he dined at one end of the big table and Magrat dined at the other. But they managed to meet up for a last glass of wine in front of the fire.

They always found it difficult to know what to say at moments like this. Neither of them was used to spending what might be called quality time in the company of another person. The conversation tended toward the cryptic.

And mostly it was about the wedding. It's different, for royalty. For one thing, you've already got everything. The traditional wedding list with the complete set of Tupperware and the twelve-piece dining set looks a bit out of place when you've already got a castle with so many furnished rooms that have been closed up for so long that the spiders have evolved into distinct species in accordance with strict evolutionary principles. And you can't simply multiply it all up and ask for An Army in a Red and White Motif to match the kitchen wallpaper. Royalty, when they marry, either get very small things, like exquisitely constructed clockwork eggs, or large bulky items, like duchesses.

And then there's the guest list. It's bad enough at an ordinary wedding, what with old relatives who dribble and swear, brothers who get belligerent after one drink, and various people who Aren't Talking to other people because of What They Said About Our Sharon. Royalty has to deal with entire countries who get belligerent after one drink, and entire kingdoms who Have Broken Off Diplomatic Relations after what the Crown Prince Said About Our Sharon. Verence had managed to work that all out, but then there were the species to consider. Trolls and dwarfs got on all right in Lancre by the simple expedient of having nothing to do with one another, but too many of them under one roof, especially if drink was flowing, and especially if it was flowing in the direction of the dwarfs, and people would Be Breaking People's Arms Off because of what, more or less, Their Ancestors Said About Our Sharon.

And then there's other things . . .

"How's the girl they brought in?"

"I've told Millie to keep an eye on her. What are they doing, those two?"

"I don't know."

You're king, aren't you?"

Verence shifted uneasily.

"But they're witches. I don't like to ask them questions."

"Why not?"

"They might give me answers. And then what would I do?"

"What did Granny want to talk to you about?"

"Oh . . . you know . . . things . . ."

"It wasn't about . . . sex, was it?"

Verence suddenly looked like a man who had been expecting a frontal attack and suddenly finds nasty things happening behind him.

"No! Why?"

"Nanny was trying to give me motherly advice. It was all I could do to keep a straight face. Honestly, they both treat me as if I'm a big child."

"Oh, no. Nothing like that."

They sat on either side of the huge fireplace, both crimson with embarrassment.

Then Magrat said: "Er . . . you did send off for that book, did you? You know . . . the one with the woodcuts?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, I did."

"It ought to have arrived by now."

"Well, we only get a mail coach once a week. I expect it'll come tomorrow. I'm fed up with running down there every week in case Shawn gets there first."

"You are king. You could tell him not to."

"Don't like to, really. He's so keen."

A large log crackled into two across the iron dogs.

"Can you really get books about. . . that?"

"You can get books about anything."

They both stared at the fire. Verence thought: she doesn't like being a queen, I can see that, but that's what you are when you marry a king, all the books say so . . .

And Magrat thought: he was much nicer when he was a man with silver bells on his hat and slept every night on the floor in front of his master's door. I could talk to him then . . .

Verence clapped his hands together.

"Well, that's about it, then. Busy day tomorrow, what with all the guests coming and everything."

"Yes. It's going to be a long day."

"Very nearly the longest day. Haha."

"Yes."

"I expect they've put warming pans in our beds."

"Has Shawn got the hang of it now?"

"I hope so. I can't afford any more mattresses."

It was a great hall. Shadows piled up in the corners, clustered at either end.

"I suppose," said Magrat, very slowly, as they stared at the fire, "they haven't really had many books here in Lancre. Up until now."

"Literacy is a great thing."

"They got along without them, I suppose."

"Yes, but not properly. Their husbandry is really very primitive."

Magrat looked at the fire. Their wifery wasn't up to much either, she thought.

"So we'd better be off to bed, then, do you think?"

"I suppose so."

Verence took down two silver candlesticks, and lit the candles with a taper. He handed one to Magrat.

"Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight."

They kissed, and turned away, and headed for their own rooms.

The sheets on Magrat's bed were just beginning to turn brown. She pulled out the warming pan and dropped it out of the window.

She glared at the garderobe.

Magrat was probably the only person in Lancre who worried about things being biodegradable. Everyone else just hoped things would last and knew that damn near everything went rotten if you left it long enough.

At home — correction, at the cottage where she used to live — there had been a privy at the bottom of the garden.

She'd approved of it. With a regular bucket of ashes and a copy of last year's Almanack on a nail and a bunch-of-grapes cut out on the door it functioned quite effectively. About once every few months she'd have to dig a big hole and get someone to help her move the shed itself.

The garderobe was this: a sort of small roofed-in room inside the wall, with a wooden seat positioned over a large square hole that went down all the way to the foot of the castle wall far below, where there was an opening from which biodegradability took place once a week by means of an organodynamic process known as Shawn Ogg and his wheelbarrow. That much Magrat understood. It kind of fitted in with the whole idea of royalty and commonality. What shocked her were the hooks.

They were for storing clothes in the garderobe. Millie had explained that the more expensive furs and things were hung there. Moths were kept away by the draught from the hole and . . . the smell[23].

Magrat had put her foot down about that, at least.

Now she lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

Of course she wanted to marry Verence, even with his weak chin and slightly runny eyes. In the pit of the night Magrat knew that she was in no position to be choosy, and getting a king in the circumstances was a stroke of luck.

It was just that she had preferred him when he'd been a Fool. There's something about a man who tinkles gently as he moves.

It was just that she could see a future of bad tapestry and sitting looking wistfully out of the window.

It was just that she was fed up with books of etiquette and lineage and Twurp's Peerage of the Fifteen Mountains and the Sto Plains.

You had to know this kind of thing, to be a queen. There were books full of the stuff in the Long Gallery, and she hadn't even explored the far end. How to address the third cousin of an earl. What the pictures on shields meant, all those lions passant and regardant. And the clothes weren't getting any better. Magrat had drawn the line at a wimple, and she wasn't at all happy about the big pointy hat with the scarf dangling from it. It probably looked beautiful on the Lady of Shallot, but on Magrat it looked as though someone had dropped a big ice cream on her neck.

Nanny Ogg sat in front of her fire in her dressing gown, smoking her pipe and idly cutting her toenails. There was the occasional ping and ricochet from distant parts of the room, and a small tinkle as an oil lamp was smashed.

Granny Weatherwax lay on her bed, still and cold. In her blue-veined hands, the words: I AM NOT DEAD . . .

Her mind drifted across the forest, searching, searching. . .

The trouble was, she could not go where there were no eyes to see or ears to hear.

So she never noticed the hollow near the stones, where eight men slept.

And dreamed . . .

Lancre is cut off from the rest of the lands of mankind by a bridge over Lancre Gorge, above the shallow but poisonously fast and treacherous Lancre River[24].

The coach pulled up at the far end.

There was a badly painted red, black, and white post across the road.

The coachman sounded his horn.

"What's up?" said Ridcully, leaning out of the window.

"Troll bridge."

"Whoops."

After a while there was a booming sound under the bridge, and a troll clambered over the parapet. It was quite overdressed, for a troll. In addition to the statutory loincloth, it was wearing a helmet. Admittedly it had been designed for a human head, and was attached to the much larger troll head by string, but there probably wasn't a better word than "wearing."

"What's up?" said the Bursar, waking up.

"There's a troll on the bridge," said Ridcully, "but it's underneath a helmet, so it's probably official and will get into serious trouble if it eats people[25]. Nothing to worry about."

The Bursar giggled, because he was on the upcurve of whatever switchback his mind was currently riding.

The troll appeared at the coach window.

"Afternoon, your lordships," it said. "Customs inspection."

"I don't think we have any," babbled the Bursar happily. "I mean, we used to have a tradition of rolling boiled eggs downhill on Soul Cake Tuesday, but-"

"I means," said the troll, "do you have any beer, spirits, wines, liquors, hallucinogenic herbage, or books of a lewd or licentious nature?"

Ridcully pulled the Bursar back from the window.

"No," he said.

"No?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"Would you like some?"

"We haven't even got," said the Bursar, despite Ridcully's efforts to sit on his head, "any billygoats."

There are some people that would whistle "Yankee Doodle" in a crowded bar in Atlanta.

Even these people would consider it tactless to mention the word "billygoat" to a troll.

The troll's expression changed very slowly, like a glacier eroding half a mountain. Ponder tried to get under the seat.

"So we'll just trit-trot along, shall we?" said the Bursar, his voice by now slightly muffled.

"He doesn't mean it," said the Archchancellor quickly. "It's the dried frog talking."

"You don't want to eat me," said the Bursar. "You want to eat my brother, he's much mfmfph mfmfph . . ."

"Well, now," said the troll, "seems to me that-" He spotted Casanunda.

"Oh-ho," he said, "dwarf smuggling, eh?"

"Don't be ridiculous, man," said Ridcully, "there's no such thing as dwarf smuggling."

"Yeah? Then what's that you've got there?"

"I'm a giant," said Casanunda.

"Giants are a lot bigger."

"I've been ill."

The troll looked perplexed. This was post-graduate thinking for a troll. But he was looking for trouble. He found it on the roof of the coach, where the Librarian had been sunbathing.

"What's in that sack up there?"

"That's not a sack. That's the Librarian."

The troll prodded the large mass of red hair.

"Ook. . ."

"What? A monkey?"

"Oook?"

Several minutes later, the travellers leaned on the parapet, looking down reflectively at the river far below.

"Happen often, does it?" said Casanunda.

"Not so much these days," said Ridcully. "It's like — what's that word, Stibbons? About breedin' and passin' on stuff to yer kids?"

"Evolution," said Ponder. The ripples were still sloshing against the banks.

"Right. Like, my father had a waistcoat with embroidered peacocks on it, and he left it to me, and now I've got it. They call it hereditarery-"

"No, that's not-" Ponder began, with no hope whatsoever that Ridcully would listen.

"-so anyway, most people left back home know the difference between apes and monkeys now," said Ridcully. "Evolution, that is. It's hard to breed when you've got a headache from being bounced up and down on the pavement."

The ripples had stopped now.

"Do you think trolls can swim?" said Casanunda.

"No. They just sink and walk ashore," said Ridcully He turned, and leaned back on his elbows. "This really takes me back, you know. The old Lancre River. There's trout down there that'd take your arm off."

"Not just trout," said Ponder, watching a helmet emerge from the water.

"And limpid pools further up," said Ridcully. "Full of, of, of . . . limpids, stuff like that. And you can bathe naked and no one'd see. And water meadows full of . . . water, don'tyerknow, and flowers and stuff." He sighed. "You know, it was on this very bridge that she told me she-"

"He's got out of the river," said Ponder. But the troll wasn't moving very fast, because the Librarian was nonchalantly levering one of the big stones out of the parapet.

"On this very bridge I asked-"

"That's a big club he's got," said Casanunda.

"This bridge, I may say, was where I nearly-"

"Could you stop holding that rock in such a provocative way?" said Ponder.

"Oook."

"It'd be a help."

"The actual bridge, if anyone's interested, is where my whole life took a diff-"

"Why don't we just go on?" said Ponder. "He's got a steep climb."

"Good thing for him he hasn't got up here, eh?" said Casanunda. Ponder swiveled the Librarian around and pushed him toward the coach.

"This is the bridge, in fact, where-"

Ridcully turned around.

"Are you coming or not?" said Casanunda, with the reins in his hand.

"I was actually having a quality moment of misty nostalgic remembrance," said Ridcully. "Not that any of you buggers noticed, of course."

Ponder held the door open.

"Well, you know what they say. You can't cross the same river twice, Archchancellor," he said.

Ridcully stared at him.

"Why not? This is a bridge."

On the roof of the coach the Librarian picked up the coach-horn, bit the end of it reflectively — well, you never knew — and then blew it so hard that it uncurled.

It was early morning in Lancre town, and it was more or less deserted. Farmers had got up hours before to curse and swear and throw a bucket at the cows and had then gone back to bed.

The sound of the horn bounced off the houses.

Ridcully leapt out of the coach and took a deep, theatrical breath.

"Can't you smell that?" he said. "That's real fresh mountain air, that is." He thumped his chest.

"I've just trodden in something rural," said Ponder. "Where is the castle, sir?"

"I think it could be that huge black towering thing looming over the town," said Casanunda.

The Archchancellor stood in the middle of the square and turned slowly with his arms spread wide.

"See that tavern?" he said. "Hah! If I had a penny for every time they threw me out of there, I'd have . . . five dollars and thirty-eight pence. And over there is the old forge, and there's Mrs. Persifleur's, where I had lodgings. See that peak up there? That's Copperhead, that is. I climbed that one day with old Carbonaceous the troll. Oh, great days, great days. And see that wood down there, on the hill? That's where she-"

His voice trailed into a mumble. "Oh, my word. It all comes back to me . . . What a summer that was. They don't make 'em like that anymore." He sighed. "You know," he said, "I'd give anything to walk through those woods with her again. There were so many things we never — oh, well. Come on."

Ponder looked around at Lancre. He'd been born and raised in Ankh-Morpork. As far as he was concerned, the countryside was something that happened to other people, and most of them had four legs. As far as he was concerned, the countryside was like raw chaos before the universe, which was to say something with cobbles and walls, something civilized, was created.