Lords And Ladies Part 4

"Oh, dear," murmured Nanny.

"Oh. Well, then I expect you'll be wanting to be off," said Granny, her voice like knives. "Back to your palace, I'll be bound."

"Yes!"

Magrat picked up her broomstick.

Granny's arm shot out very fast and grabbed the handle.

"Oh, no," she said, "you don't. Queens ride around in golden coaches and whatnot. Each to their own. Brooms is for witches. witches."

"Now come on, you two," began Nanny Ogg, one of nature's mediators. "Anyway, someone can be a queen and a w-"

"Who cares?" said Magrat, dropping the broomstick. "I don't have to bother with that sort of thing anymore."

She turned, clutched at her dress, and ran. She became a figure outlined against the sunset.

"You daft old besom, Esme," said Nanny Ogg. "Just because she's getting wed."

"You know what she'd say if we told her," said Granny Weatherwax. "She'd get it all wrong. The Gentry. Circles. She'd say it was...nice. Best for her if she's out of it." Best for her if she's out of it."

"They ain't been active for years and years," said Nanny. "We'll need some help. I mean...when did you you last go up to the Dancers?" last go up to the Dancers?"

"You know how it is," said Granny. "When it's so quiet...you don't think about 'em."

"We ought to have kept 'em cleared."

"True."

"We better get up there first thing tomorrow," said Nanny Ogg.

"Yes."

"Better bring a sickle, too."

There isn't much of the kingdom of Lancre where you could drop a football and not have it roll away from you. Most of it is moorland and steeply forested hillside, giving way to sharp and ragged mountains where even trolls wouldn't go and valleys so deep that they have to pipe the sunlight in.

There was an overgrown path up to the moorland where the Dancers stood, even though it was only a few miles from the town. Hunters tracked up there sometimes, but only by accident. It wasn't that the hunting was bad but, well- -there were the stones.

Stone circles were common enough everywhere in the mountains. Druids built them as weather computers and since it was always cheaper to build a new 33-MegaLith circle than upgrade an old slow one there were generally plenty of ancient ones around.

No druids ever came near the Dancers.

The stones weren't shaped. They weren't even positioned in any particularly significant way. There wasn't any of that stuff about the sun striking the right stone at dawn on the right day. Someone had just dragged eight red rocks into a rough circle.

But the weather was different. People said that, if it started to rain, it always began to fall inside the circle a few seconds after after it had started outside, as if the rain was coming from further away. If clouds crossed the sun, it'd be a moment or two before the light faded inside the circle. it had started outside, as if the rain was coming from further away. If clouds crossed the sun, it'd be a moment or two before the light faded inside the circle.

William Scrope is going to die in a couple of minutes. It has to be said that he shouldn't have been hunting deer out of season, and especially not the fine stag he was tracking, and certainly not a fine stag of the Ramtop Red species, which is officially endangered although not as endangered, right now, as William Scrope.

It was ahead of him, pus.h.i.+ng through the bracken, making so much noise that a blind man could have tracked it.

Scrope waded through after it.

Mist was still hanging around the stones, not in a blanket but in long raggedy strings.

The stag reached the circle now, and stopped. It trotted back and forth once or twice, and then looked up at Scrope.

He raised the crossbow.

The stag turned, and leapt between the stones.

There were only confused impressions from then on. The first was of- -distance. The circle was a few yards across, it shouldn't suddenly appear to contain so much The circle was a few yards across, it shouldn't suddenly appear to contain so much distance. distance.

And the next was of- -speed. Something was coming out of the circle, a white dot growing bigger and bigger. Something was coming out of the circle, a white dot growing bigger and bigger.

He knew he'd aimed the bow. But it was whirled out of his hands as the thing struck, and suddenly there was only the sensation of- -peace.

And the brief remembrance of pain.

William Scrope died.

William Scrope looked through his hands at the crushed bracken. The reason that it was crushed was that his own body was sprawled upon it.

His newly deceased eyes surveyed the landscape.

There are no delusions for the dead. Dying is like waking up after a really good party, when you have one or two seconds of innocent freedom before you recollect all the things you did last night which seemed so logical and hilarious at the time, and then you remember the really amazing amazing thing you did with a lampshade and two balloons, which had them in thing you did with a lampshade and two balloons, which had them in st.i.tches, st.i.tches, and now you realize you're going to have to look a lot of people in the eye today and you're sober now and so are they but and now you realize you're going to have to look a lot of people in the eye today and you're sober now and so are they but you can both remember. you can both remember.

"Oh," he said.

The landscape flowed around the stones. It was all so obvious now, when you saw it from the outside...

Obvious. No walls, only doors. No edges, only corners- WILLIAM SCROPE.

"Yes?"

IF YOU WOULD PLEASE STEP THIS WAY.

"Are you a hunter?"

I LIKE TO THINK I AM A PICKER-UP OF UNCONSIDERED TRIFLES.

Death grinned hopefully. Scrope's post-physical brow furrowed.

"What? Like...sherry, custard...that sort of thing?"

Death sighed. Metaphors were wasted on people. Sometimes he felt that no one took him seriously enough.

I TAKE AWAY PEOPLE'S LIVES IS WHAT I MEAN, he said testily.

"Where to?"

WE SHALL HAVE TO SEE, WON'T WE?

William Scrope was already fading into the mist.

"That thing that got me-"

YES?.

"I thought they were extinct!"

"NO. THEY JUST WENT AWAY.

"Where to?"

Death extended a bony digit.

OVER THERE. THERE.

Magrat hadn't originally intended to move into the palace before the wedding, because people would talk. Admittedly a dozen people lived in the palace, which had a huge number of rooms, but she'd still be under the same roof, under the same roof, and that was good enough. Or bad enough. and that was good enough. Or bad enough.

That was before. Now her blood was sizzling. Let people talk. She had a pretty good idea which people they'd be, too. Which person, anyway. Witch Witch person. Hah. Let them talk all they liked. person. Hah. Let them talk all they liked.

She got up early and packed her possessions, such as they were. It wasn't exactly her cottage, and most of the furniture went with it. Witches came and went, but witches' cottages went on forever, usually with the same thatch they started with.

But she did did own the set of magical knives, the mystic colored cords, the a.s.sorted grails and crucibles, and a box full of rings, necklaces, and bracelets heavy with the hermetic symbols of a dozen religions. She tipped them all into a sack. own the set of magical knives, the mystic colored cords, the a.s.sorted grails and crucibles, and a box full of rings, necklaces, and bracelets heavy with the hermetic symbols of a dozen religions. She tipped them all into a sack.

Then there were the books. Goodie Whemper had been something of a bookworm among witches. There were almost a dozen. She hesitated about the books, and finally she let them stay on the shelves.

There was the statutory pointy hat. She'd never liked it anyway, and had always avoided wearing it. Into the sack with it.

She looked around wild-eyed until she spotted the small cauldron in the inglenook. That'd do. Into the sack with that, that, and then tie the neck with string. and then tie the neck with string.

On the way up to the palace she crossed the bridge over Lancre Gorge and tossed the sack into the river.

It bobbed for a moment in the strong current, and then sank.

She'd secretly hoped for a string of multicolored bubbles, or even a hiss. But it just sank. Just as if it wasn't anything very important.

Another world, another castle...

The elf galloped over the frozen moat, steam billowing from its black horse and from the thing it carried over its neck.

It rode up the steps and into the hall itself, where the Queen sat amidst her dreams...

"My lord Lankin?"

"A stag!"

It was still alive. Elves were skilled at leaving things alive, often for weeks.

"From out of the circle?"

"Yes, lady!" lady!"

"It's weakening. Did I not tell you?"

"How long long? How long long?"

"Soon. Soon. What went through the other way?"

The elf tried to avoid her face.

"Your...pet, lady."

"No doubt it won't go far." The Queen laughed. "No doubt it will have an amusing time..."

It rained briefly at dawn.

There's nothing nastier to walk through than shoulder-high wet bracken. Well, there is. There are an uncountable number of things nastier to walk through, especially if they're shoulder-high. But here and now, thought Nanny Ogg, it was hard to think of more than one or two.

They hadn't landed inside the Dancers, of course. Even birds birds detoured rather than cross that airs.p.a.ce. Migrating spiders on gossamer threads floating half a mile up curved around it. Clouds split in two and flowed around it. detoured rather than cross that airs.p.a.ce. Migrating spiders on gossamer threads floating half a mile up curved around it. Clouds split in two and flowed around it.

Mist hung around the stones. Sticky, damp mist.

Nanny hacked vaguely at the clinging bracken with her sickle.

"You there, Esme?" she muttered.

Granny Weatherwax's head rose from a clump of bracken a few feet away.

"There's been things going on," she said, in a cold and deliberate tone.