Carpe Jugulum

'And your eyesight is prob'ly not as good as mine owin' to too much readin',' said Granny.



'Blind as a bat, that's right.'



'All right.'



And so, at cross purposes and lurching occasionally, they reached the stables.



The mule shook its head at Granny Weatherwax when they arrived at its loose box. It knew trouble when it saw her.



'It's a bit cantankerous,' said Oats.



'Is it?' said Granny. 'Then we shall see what we can do.'



She walked unsteadily over to the creature and pulled one of its ears down to the level of her mouth. She whispered something. The mule blinked.



'That's sorted out, then,' she said. 'Help me up.'



'Just let me put the bridle on-'



'Young man, I might be temp'ry not at my best, but when I need a bridle on any creature they can put me to bed with a shovel. Give me a hand up, and kindly avert your face whilst so doing.'



Oats gave up and made a stirrup of his hands to help her into the saddle.



'Why don't I come with you?'



'There's only one mule. Anyway, you'd be a hindrance. I'd be worrying about you all the time.'



She slid gently off the other side of the saddle and landed in the straw. The wowhawk fluttered up and perched on a beam, and if Oats had been paying attention he'd have wondered how a hooded bird could fly so confidently.



'Drat!'



'Madam, I do know something about medicine! You are in no state to ride anything!'



'Not right now, I admit,' said Granny, her voice slightly muffled. She pulled some straw away from her face and waved a hand wildly to be helped up. 'But you just wait until I find my feet...'



'All right! All right! Supposing I ride and you hang on behind me? You can't weigh more than the harmonium, and I managed that all right.'



Granny looked owlishly at him. She seemed drunk, at that stage when hitherto unconsidered things seem a good idea, like another drink. Then she appeared to reach a decision.



'Oh... if you insist..'



Oats found a length of rope and, after some difficulties caused by Granny's determined belief that she was doing him some sort of favour, got her strapped into a pillion position.



'Just so long as you understand that I didn't ax you to come along and I don't need your help,' said Granny.



Ax.



'Ask, then,' said Granny. 'Slipped into a bit of rural there.'



Oats stared ahead for a while. Then he dismounted, lifted Granny down, propped her up while she protested, disappeared into the night, came back shortly carrying the axe from the forge, used more rope to tie it to his waist, and mounted up again.



'You're learnin',' said Granny.



As they left she raised an arm. The wowhawk fluttered down and settled on her wrist.



The air in the rocking coach was acquiring a distinct personality.



Magrat sniffed. 'I'm sure I changed Esme not long ago...'



After a fruitless search of the baby they looked under the seat. Greebo was lying asleep with his legs in the air.



'Isn't that just like him?' said Nanny. 'He can't see an open door without going through it, bless 'im. And he likes to be near his mum.'



'Could we open a window?' said Magrat.



'The rain'll get in.'



'Yes, but the smell will go out.' Magrat sighed. 'You know, we've left at least one bag of toys. Verence was really very keen on those mobiles.'



'I still think it's a bit early to start the poor little mite on education,' said Nanny, as much to take Magrat's mind off the current dangers as from a desire to strike a blow for ignorance.



'Environment is so very important,' said Magrat solemnly.



'Did I hear he told you to read improvin' books



and listen to posh music while you were expecting?' said Nanny, as the coach rushed through a puddle.



'Well, the books were all right, but the piano doesn't work properly- and all I could hear was Shawn practising the trumpet solo,' said Magrat.



'It's not his fault if no one wants to join in,' said Nanny. She steadied herself as the coach lurched. 'Good turn of speed on this thing.'



'I wish we hadn't forgotten the bath, too,' Magrat mused. 'And I think we left the bag with the toy farm. And we're low on nappies...'



'Let's have a look at her,' Nanny said.



Baby Esme was passed across the swaying coach.



'Yes, let's have a look at you...' said Nanny.



The small blue eyes focused on Nanny Ogg. The pink face on the small lolling head gave her a speculative look, working out whether she'd do as a drink or a toilet.



'That's good, at this age,' said Nanny. 'Focusing like that. Unusual in a babby.'



'If she is at this age,' said Magrat darkly.



'Hush, now. If Granny's in there she's not interfering. She never interferes. Anyway, it wouldn't be her mind in there, that's not how she works it.'



'What is it, then?'



'You've seen her do it. What do you think?'



'I'd say... all the things that make her her,' Magrat ventured.



'That's about right. She wraps 'em all up and puts 'em somewhere safe.'



'You know how she can even be silent in her own special way.'



'Oh, yes. No one can be quiet like Esme. You can hardly hear yourself think for the silence.'



They bounced in their seats as the coach sprang in and out of a pothole.



'Nanny?'



'Yes, love?'



'Verence will be all right, won't he?'



'Yep. I'd trust them little devils with anything except a barrel of stingo or a cow. Even Granny says the Kelda's damn good-'



'The Kelda?'



'Sort of a wise lady. I think the current one's called Big Aggie. You don't see much of their women. Some say there's only ever one at a time, and she's the Kelda an' has a hundred kids at a go.'



'That sounds... very...' Magrat began.



'Nah, I reckons they're a bit like the dwarfs and there's hardly any difference except under the loincloth,' said Nanny.



'I expect Granny knows,' said Magrat.



'And she ain't sayin',' said Nanny. 'She says it's their business.'



'And... he'll be all right with them?'



'Oh, yes.'



'He's very... kind, you know.' Magrat 's sentence hung in the air.



'That's nice.'



'And a good king, as well.'



Nanny nodded.



'It's just that I wish people took him... more seriously,' Magrat went on.



'It's a shame,' said Nanny.



'He does work very hard. And he worries about



everything. But people just seem to ignore him.'



Nanny wondered how to approach it.



'He could try having the crown taken in a bit,' she ventured, as the coach bounced over another rut. 'There's plenty of dwarfs up at Copperhead'd be glad to make it smaller for him.'



'It is the traditional crown, Nanny.'



'Yes, but if it wasn't for his ears it'd be a collar on the poor man,' said Nanny. 'He could try bellowing a bit more, too.'



'Oh, he couldn't do that, he hates shouting!'



'That's a shame. People like to see a bit of bellowing in a king. The odd belch is always popular, too. Even a bit of carousing'd help, if he could manage it. You know, quaffing and such.'



'I think he thinks that isn't what people want. He's very conscious of the needs of today's citizen.'



'Ah, well, I can see where there's a problem, then,' said Nanny. 'People need something today but they generally need something else tomorrow. Just tell him to concentrate on bellowing and carousing.'



'And belching?'



'That's optional.'



'And...'



'Yes, dear?'



'He'll be all right, will he?'



'Oh, yes. Nothing's going to happen to him. It's like that chess stuff, see? Let the Queen do the fightin', 'cos if you lose the King you've lost everything.'



'And us?'



'Oh, we're always all right. You remember that. We happen to other people.'



A lot of people were happening to King Verence. He lay in a sort of warm, empty daze, and every time he opened his eyes it was to see scores of the Feegle watching him in the firelight. He overheard snatches of conversation or, more correctly, argument.



'... he's oor kingie noo?'



'Aye, sortaley.'



'That pish of a hobyah?'



'Hushagob! Wman's sicken, can y'no yard?'



'Aye, mucken! Born sicky, imhoe!'



Verence felt a small yet powerful kick on his foot.



'See you, kingie? A'ye a lang stick o'midlin or wha', bigjobs?'



'Yes, well done,' he mumbled.



The interrogating Feegle spat near his ear.



'Ach, I wouldna' gi'ye skeppens for him-'



There was a sudden silence, a real rarity in any space containing at least one Feegle. Verence swivelled his eyes sideways.



Big Aggie had emerged from the smoke.



Now that he could see her clearly, the dumpy creature looked like a squat version of Nanny Ogg. And there was something about the eyes. Verence was technically an absolute ruler and would continue to be so provided he didn't make the mistake of repeatedly asking Lancrastians to do anything they didn't want to do. He was aware that the commander-in-chief of his armed forces was more inclined to take orders from his mum than his king.



Whereas Big Aggie didn't even have to say anything. Everyone just watched her, and then went and got things done.



Big Aggie's man appeared at her side.



'Ye'll be wantin' to save yer ladie and yer bairn, Big Aggie's thinkin',' he said.



Verence nodded. He didn't feel strong enough to do anything else.



'But ye'll still be verra crassick from loss o' blud, Big Aggie reckons. The heelins put something in their bite that makes ye biddable.'



Verence agreed absolutely. Anything anyone said was all right by him.



Another pixie appeared through the smoke, carrying an earthenware bowl. White suds slopped over the top.



'Ye canna be kinging lyin' down,' said Big Aggie's man. 'So she's made up some brose for ye...'



The pixie lowered the bowl, which looked as though it was full of cream, although dark lines spiralled on its surface. Its bearer stood back reverentially.



'What's in it?' Verence croaked.



'Milk,' said Big Aggie's man promptly. 'And some o' Big Aggie's brewin'. An' herbs.'



Verence grasped the last word thankfully. He shared with his wife the curious but unshakeable conviction that anything with herbs in it was safe and wholesome and nourishing.



'So you'll be having a huge dram,' said the 'old pixie. 'And then we'll be finding you a sword.



'I've never used a sword,' said Verence, trying to pull himself into a sitting position. 'I- I believe violence is the last resort...'



'Ach, weel, so long as ye've brung yer bucket and spade,' said Big Aggie's man. 'Now you just drink up, kingie. Ye'll soon see things differently.'



The vampires glided easily over the moonlit clouds. There was no weather up here and, to Agnes's surprise, no chill either.



'I thought you turned into bats!' she shouted to Vlad.



'Oh, we could if we wanted to,' he laughed. 'But that's a bit too melodramatic for Father. He says we should not conform to crass stereotypes.'



A girl glided alongside them. She looked rather like Lacrimosa; that is, she looked like someone who admired the way Lacrimosa looked and so had tried to look like her. I bet she's not a natural brunette, said Perdita. And if I used that much mascara I'd at least try not to look like Harry the Happy Panda.



'This is Morbidia,' said Vlad. 'Although she's been calling herself Tracy lately, to be cool. Mor- Tracy, this is Agnes.'



'What a good name!' said Morbidia. 'How clever of you to come up with it! Vlad, everyone wants to stop off at Escrow. Can we?'



'It's my real-' Agnes began, but her words were carried away on the wind.



'I thought we were going to the castle,' said Vlad.



'Yes, but some of us haven't fed for days and that old woman was hardly even a snack and the Count won't allow us to feed in Lancre yet and he says it'll be all right and it's not much out of our way.'



'Oh. Well, if Father says...'



Morbidia swooped away.



'We haven't been to Escrow for weeks,' said Vlad. 'It's a pleasant little town.'



'You're going to feed there?' said Agnes.



'It's not what you think.'



'You don't know what I think.'



'I can guess, though.' He smiled at her. 'I wonder if Father said yes because he wants you to see? It's so easy to be frightened of what you don't know. And then, perhaps, you could be a sort of ambassador. You could tell Lancre what life under the Magpyrs is really like.'



'People being dragged out of their beds, blood on the walls, that sort of thing?'



'There you go again, Agnes. It's most unfair. Once people find out you're a vampire they act as if you're some kind of monster.'



They curved gently through the night air.



'Father's rather proud of his work in Escrow,' said Vlad. 'I think you'll be impressed. And then perhaps I could dare hope-'



No.



'I'm really being rather understanding about this, Agnes.'



'You attacked Granny Weatherwax! You bit her.'



'Symbolically. To welcome her into the family.'



'Oh, really? Oh, that makes it all better, does it? And she'll be a vampire?'



'Certainly. A good one, I suspect. But that's only horrifying if you believe being a vampire is a bad thing. We don't. You'll come to see that we're right, in time,' said Vlad. 'Yes, Escrow would be good for you. For us. We shall see what can be done...'



Agnes stared.



He does smile nicely... He's a vampire! All right, but apart from that- Oh, apart from that, eh? Nanny would tell you to make the most of it. That might work for Nanny, but can you imagine kissing that? Yes, I can. I will admit, he does smile nicely, and he looks good in those waistcoats, but look at what he is- Do you notice? Notice what? There's something different about him. He's just trying to get round us, that's all. No... there's something...new...



'Father says Escrow is a model community,' said Vlad. 'it shows what happens if ancient enmity is put aside and humans and vampires learn to live in peace. Yes. It's not far now. Escrow is the future.'



A low ground mist drifted between the trees, curling up in little tongues as the mule's hooves disturbed it. Rain dripped off the branches. There was even a bit of sullen thunder now, not the outgoing sort that cracks the sky but the other sort, which hangs around the horizons and gossips nastily with other storms.



Mightily Oats had tried a conversation with himself a few times, but the problem with a conversation was that the other person had to join in. Occasionally he heard a snore from behind him. When he looked around, the wowhawk on her shoulder flapped its wings in his face.



Sometimes the snoring would stop with a grunt, and a hand would tap him on a shoulder and point out a direction which looked like every other direction.



It did so now.



'What's that you're singing?' Granny demanded.



'I wasn't singing very loudly.'



'What's it called?'



'It's called "Om Is In His Holy Temple".'



'Nice tune,' said Granny.



'It keeps my spirits up,' Oats admitted. A wet twig slapped his face. After all, he thought, I may have a vampire behind me, however good she is.



'You take comfort from it, do you?'



'I suppose so.'



'Even that bit about "smiting evil with thy sword"? That'd worry me, if I was an Omnian. Do you get just a little sort of tap for a white lie but minced up for murder? That's the sort of thing that'd keep me awake o' nights.'



'Well, actually... I shouldn't be singing it at all, to be honest. The Convocation of Ee struck it from the songbook as being incompatible with the ideals of modern Omnianism.'



'That line about crushing infidels?'



'That's the one, yes.'



'You sung it anyway, though.'



'It's the version my grandmother taught me,' said oats.



'She was keen on crushing infidels?'



'Well, mainly I think she was in favour of crushing Mrs Ahrim next door, but you've got the right idea, yes. She thought the world would be a better place with a bit more crushing and smiting.'



'Prob'ly true.'



'Not as much smiting and crushing as she'd like, though, I think,' said Oats. 'A bit judgemental, my grandmother.'



'Nothing wrong with that. Judging is human.'



'We prefer to leave it ultimately to Om,' said Oats and, out here in the dark, that statement sounded lost and all alone.



'Bein' human means judgin' all the time,' said the voice behind him. 'This and that, good and bad, making choices every day... that's human.'



'And are you so sure you make the right decisions?'



'No. But I do the best I can.'



'And hope for mercy, eh?'



A bony finger prodded him in the back.



'Mercy's a fine thing, but judgin' comes first. Otherwise you don't know what you're bein' merciful about. Anyway, I always heard you Omnians were keen on smitin' and crushin'.'



'Those were... different days. We use crushing arguments now.'



'And long pointed debates, I suppose?'



'Well, there are two sides to every question...'



'What do you do when one of 'em's wrong?'



The reply came back like an arrow.



'I meant that we are enjoined to see things from the other person's point of view,' said Oats patiently.



'You mean that from the point of view of a torturer, torture is all right?'



'Mistress Weatherwax, you are a natural disputant.'



'No, I ain't!'



'You'd certainly enjoy yourself at the Synod, anyway. They've been known to argue for days about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.'



He could almost feel Granny's mind working. At last she said, 'What size pin?'



'I don't know that, I'm afraid.'



'Well, if it's a ordinary household pin, then there'll be sixteen.'



'Sixteen angels?'



'That's right.'



,Why?,



'I don't know. Perhaps they like dancing.'



The mule picked its way down a bank. The mist was getting thicker here.



'You've counted sixteen?' said Oats eventually.



'No, but it's as good an answer as any you'll get. And that's what your holy men discuss, is it?'



'Not usually. There is a very interesting debate raging at the moment about the nature of sin, for example.'



'And what do they think? Against it, are they?'



'It's not as simple as that. It's not a black and white issue. There are so many shades of grey.'



'Nope.'



'Pardon?'



'There's no greys, only white that's got grubby. I'm surprised you don't know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That's what sin is.'



'It's a lot more complicated than that-'



'No. It ain't. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they're getting worried that they won't like the truth. People as things, that's where it starts.'



'Oh, I'm sure there are worse crimes-'



'But they starts with thinking about people as things...'



Granny's voice tailed off. Oats let the mule walk on for a few minutes, and then a snort told him that Granny had awoken again.



'You strong in your faith, then?' she said, as if she couldn't leave things alone.



Oats sighed. 'I try to be.'



'But you read a lot of books, I'm thinking. Hard to have faith, ain't it, when you read too many books?'



Oats was glad she couldn't see his face. Was the old woman reading his mind through the back of his head?



'Yes,' he said.



'Still got it, though?'



'Yes.'



'Why?'



'If I didn't, I wouldn't have anything.'



He waited for a while, and then tried a counterattack.



'You're not a believer yourself, then, Mistress Weatherwax?'



There were a few moments' silence as the mule picked its way over the mossy tree roots. Oats thought he heard, behind them, the sound of a horse, but then it was lost in the sighing of the wind.



'Oh, I reckon I believes in tea, sunrises, that sort of thing,' said Granny.



'I was referring to religion.'



'I know a few gods in these parts, if that's what you mean.'



Oats sighed. 'Many people find faith a great solace,' he said. He wished he was one of them.



'Good.'



'Really? Somehow I thought you'd argue.'



'It's not my place to tell 'em what to believe, if they act decent.'



'But it's not something that you feel drawn to, perhaps, in the darker hours?'



'No. I've already got a hot water bottle.'



The wowhawk fluttered its wings. Oats stared into the damp, dark mist. Suddenly he was angry.



'And that's what you think religion is, is it?' he said, trying to keep his temper.



'I gen'rally don't think about it at all,' said the voice behind him.



It sounded fainter. He felt Granny clutch his arm to steady herself...



'Are you all right?' he said.



'I wish this creature would go faster... I ain't entirely myself.'



'We could stop for a rest.'



'No! Not far now! Oh, I've been so stupid...'



The thunder grumbled. He felt her grip lessen, and heard her hit the ground.



Oats leapt down. Granny Weatherwax was lying awkwardly on the moss, her eyes closed. He took her wrist. There was a pulse there, but it was horribly weak. She felt icy cold.



When he patted her face she opened her eyes.



'If you raise the subject of religion at this point,' she wheezed, 'I'll give you such a hidin'...' Her eyes shut again.



Oats sat down to get his breath back. Icy cold... yes, there was something cold about all of her, as though she always pushed heat away. Any kind of warmth.



He heard the sound of the horse again, and the faint jingle of a harness. It stopped a little way away.



'Hello?' said Oats, standing up. He strained to see the rider in the darkness, but there was just a dim shape further along the track.



'Are you following us? Hello?'



He took a few steps and made out the horse, head bowed against the rain. The rider was just a darker shadow in the night.