Carpe Jugulum

'You don't look better.'



'Young man, if we're going to wait for me to look interestin' we'll be here for years.'



She raised a hand and the wowhawk flew down out of the shadows.



'Good thing you were able to get a fire going, all the same,' she said, without turning round.



'I have always found that if I put my trust in Om a way will be found,' said Oats, hurrying after her.



'I reckon Om helps those who helps themselves,' said Granny.



Through the town of Escrow the windows glowed as lamps were lit and there was the sound of doors being unbolted. Over all, the bell went on ringing out through the fog.



'Normally we congregate in the town square,' said Vlad.



'It's the middle of the night!' said Agnes.



'Yes, but it doesn't happen very often, and our covenant says never more than twice in a month,' said Vlad. 'Do you see how prosperous the place is? People are safe in Escrow. They've seen reason. No shutters on the windows, do you see? They don't have to bar their windows or hide in the cellar, which I have to admit is what people do in the... less well regulated areas of our country. They exchanged fear for security. They-' He stumbled, and steadied himself against a wall. Then he rubbed his forehead. 'Sorry. I felt a little... strange. What was I saying?'



'How should I know?' snapped Agnes. 'You were talking about how happy everyone is because the vampires visit, or something.'



'Oh, yes. Yes. Because of co-operation, not enmity. Because...' he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face '... because... well, you'll see... is it rather cold here?'



'Just clammy,' said Agnes.



'Let's get to the square,' Vlad muttered. 'I'm sure I shall feel better.'



It was just ahead. Torches had been lit. People had congregated there, most of them with blankets across their shoulders or a coat over their night clothes, standing around in aimless groups like people who'd heard the fire alarm but hadn't seen the smoke.



One or two of them caught sight of Vlad and there was a certain amount of coughing and shuffling.



Other vampires were descending through the mist. The Count landed gently and nodded to Agnes.



'Ah, Miss Nitt,' he said vaguely. 'Are we all here, Vlad?'



The bell stopped. A moment later Lacrimosa descended.



'You've still got her?' she said to Vlad, raising her eyebrows. 'Oh, well...'



'I will just have a brief chat to the mayor,' said the Count. 'He appreciates being kept informed.'



Agnes watched him walk towards a small, dumpy man who, despite getting out of bed in the middle of a wet night, seemed to have had the foresight to put on a gold chain of office.



She noticed the vampires taking up positions in a line in front of the belltower, about four or five feet apart. They joked and called out to one another, except for Lacrimosa, who was glaring directly at her.



The Count was deep in conversation with the mayor, who was staring down at his feet.



Now, across the square, the people were beginning to form lines. A couple of small children pulled away from their parents' hands and chased one another up and down the lines of people, laughing.



And the suspicion bloomed slowly in Agnes like a great black, red-edged rose.



Vlad must have felt her body stiffen, because



his grip tightened on her arm.



'I know what you're thinking-' he began.



'You don't know what I'm thinking but I'll tell you what I'm thinking,' she said, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. 'You're-'



'Listen, it could be so much worse, it used to be so much worse-'



The Count bustled. 'Good news,' he said, 'Three children have just turned twelve.' He smiled at Agnes. 'We have a little... ceremony, before the main lottery. A rite of passage, as it were. I think they look forward to it, to tell you the truth.'



He's watching you to see how you react, said Perdita. Vlad is just stupid and Lacrimosa would weave your hair into a face flannel if she had the chance but this one will go for the throat if you so much as blink at the wrong time... so don't blink at the wrong time, thank you, because even figments of the imagination want to live...



But Agnes felt the terror rising around her. And it was wrong, the wrong kind of terror, a numbing, cold, sick feeling that froze her where she stood. She had to do something, do anything, break its horrible grip



it was Vlad who spoke.



'It's nothing dramatic,' he said quickly. 'A little drop of blood... Father went to the school and explained all about citizenship...'



'How nice,' she croaked. 'Do they get a badge?' It must have been Perdita behind that; she couldn't imagine Agnes being so tasteless, even in the cause of sarcasm.



'Hah, no. But what a good idea,' said the Count, giving her another quick smile. 'Yes... perhaps a badge, or a small plaque. Something to be treasured in later life. I shall make a mental note of this. And so. .. let us begin. Ah, the mayor has assembled the dear children...'



There was a shout somewhere at the back of the crowd and, for a moment, Agnes caught sight of a man trying to press forward. The mayor nodded at a couple of the nearby men. They hurried back into the crowd. There was a scuffle in the shadows. She thought she heard a woman's scream, suddenly muffled. A door slammed.



As the mayor turned back, he met Agnes's stare. She looked away, not wanting to see that expression. People were good at imagining hells, and some they occupied while they were alive.



'Shall we get on?' said the Count.



'Will you let go of my arm, Vlad?' said Agnes sweetly.



They're just waiting for you to react, whispered Perdita. Oh, said Agnes inside her head, so I should just stand here and watch? Like everybody else? I just thought I'd point it out. What's been done to them? They're like pigs queueing for Hogswatch! I think they saw reason, said Agnes. Oh well... just wipe that smile off Lacrimosa's face, that's all I ask...



They could move very fast. Even a scream wouldn't work. She might be able to get in one good wallop, and that would be it. And perhaps she'd wake up as a vampire, and not know the difference between good and evil. But that wasn't the point. The point was here and now, because here and now she did.



She could see every drop of moisture hanging in the air, smell the woodsmoke from damped-down fires, hear the rats in the thatch of the houses. Her senses were working overtime, to make the most of the last few seconds



'I don't see why!' Lacrimosa's voice cut through the mist like a saw.



Agnes blinked. The girl had reached her father and was glaring at him.



'Why do you always start?' she demanded.



'Lacrimosa! What has got into you? I am the head of the clan!'



'Oh, really? For ever?'



The Count looked astonished. 'Well, yes. Of course!'



'So we'll always be pushed around by you, for ever? We'll just be your children for ever?'



'My dear, what do you think you-'



'And don't try that voice on me! That only works on the meat! So I'll be sent to my room for being disobedient for ever?'



'We did let you have your own rack-'



'Oh, yes! And for that I have to nod and smile and be nice with meat?'



'Don't you dare talk to your father like that!' screamed the Countess.



'And don't talk about Agnes like that!' snarled Vlad.



'Did I use the word Agnes? Did I refer to her in any way?' said Lacrimosa, coldly. 'I don't believe I did. I wouldn't dream of mentioning her at all.'



'I can't be having with this arguing!' shouted the Count.



'That's it, isn't it?' said Lacrimosa. 'We don't argue! We just do what you say, for ever.'



'We agreed-'



'No, you agreed, and no one disagreed with you. Vlad was right!'



'Indeed?' said the Count, turning to his son. 'Right about what, prey?'



Vlad's mouth opened and shut once or twice as he hastily assembled a coherent sentence. 'I may have mentioned that the whole Lancre business might be considered unwise-'



'Oh,' said the Countess. 'You know so much about wisdom all of a sudden and you're barely two hundred?'



'Unwise?' said the Count.



'I'd say stupid!' said Lacrimosa. 'Little badges? Gifts? We don't give anything! We're vampiresl We take what we want, like this-'



She reached out, grabbed a man standing near her, and turned, mouth open and hair flying.



And stopped, as if she'd been frozen.



Then she buckled, one hand reaching for her throat, and glared at her father.



'What... did you do?' she gasped. 'My throat... feels... You did something!'



The Count rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Lacci-'



'And don't call me thatl You know how I hate that!'



There was a brief scream from one of the lesser vampires behind them. Agnes couldn't remember his name, it was probably Fenrir or Maledicta or something, but she did recall that he preferred to be known as Gerald. He sagged to his knees, clawing at his throat. None of the other vampires looked very happy, either. A couple of them were kneeling and groaning, to the bewilderment of the citizens.



'I don't... feel very well,' said the Countess, swaying slightly. 'I did say I didn't think wine was a good idea...'



The Count turned and stared at Agnes. She took a step back.



'It's you, isn't it?' he said.



'Of course it is!' moaned Lacrimosa. 'You know that old woman put her self somewhere, and she must've known Vlad was soppy on that lump!'



She's not in here, is she? said Perdita. Don't you know? Agnes thought, backing away again. Well, I don't think she is, but is it me doing the thinking? Look, she's hidden her self in that priest, we know it. No, we don't, you just thought that'd be a smart thing for her to do because everyone would think she's hiding in the baby.



'Why don't you just crawl back into your coffin and rot, you slimy little maggot,' Agnes said. It wasn't that good, but impromptu insults are seldom well crafted.



Lacrimosa leapt at her, but something else was wrong. Instead of gliding through the air like velvet death she lurched like a bird with a broken wing. But fury let her rear up in front of Agnes, one claw out to scratch-



Agnes hit her as hard as she could and felt Perdita get behind the blow as well. It shouldn't have been possible for it to connect, the girl was quick enough to run around Agnes three times before it could, but it did.



The people of Escrow watched a vampire stagger back, bleeding.



The mayor raised his head.



Agnes went into a crouch, fists raised.



'I don't know where Granny Weatherwax went,' she said. 'Maybe she is in here with me, eh?' A flash of mad inspiration struck her and she added, in Granny's sharp tones, 'And if you strike me down again I'll bite my way up through your boots!'



'A nice try, Miss Nitt,' said the Count, striding towards her. 'But I don't think so-'



He stopped, clutching at the gold chain that was suddenly around his neck.



Behind him the mayor hauled on it with all his weight, forcing the vampire to the ground.



The citizens looked at one another, and all moved at once.



Vampires rose into the air, trying to gain height, kicking at clutching hands. Torches were snatched from walls. The night was suddenly full of screams.



Agnes looked up at Vlad, who was staring in horror. Lacrimosa was surrounded by a closing ring of people.



'You'd better run,' she said, 'or they'll-'



He turned and lunged, and the last thing she saw was teeth.



The track downhill was worse than the climb. Springs had erupted in every hollow, and every path was a rivulet.



As Granny and oats lurched from mud slough to bog, Oats reflected on the story in the Book of Om  -  the story, really  -  about the prophet Brutha and his journey with Om across the burning desert, which had ended up changing Omnianism for ever. It had replaced swords with sermons, which at least caused fewer deaths except in the case of the really very long ones, and had broken the Church into a thousand pieces which had then started arguing with one another and finally turned out Oats, who argued with himself.



Oats wondered how far across the desert Brutha would have got if he'd been trying to support Granny Weatherwax. There was something unbending about her, something hard as rock. By about halfway the blessed prophet might, he felt guiltily, have yielded to the temptation to... well, at least say something unpleasant, or give a meaningful sigh. The old woman had got very crotchety since being warmed up. She seemed to have something on her mind.



The rain had stopped but the wind was sharp, and there were still occasional stinging bursts of hail.



'Won't be long now,' he panted.



'You don't know that,' said Granny, splashing through black, peaty mud.



'No, you're absolutely right,' said Oats. 'I was just saying that to be cheerful.'



'Hasn't worked,' said Granny.



'Mistress Weatherwax, would you like me to leave you here?' said Oats.



Granny sniffed. 'Wouldn't worry me,' she said.



'Would you like me to?' said Oats.



'It's not my mountain,' said Granny. 'I wouldn't be one to tell people where they should be.'



'I'll go if you want me to,' said Oats.



'I never asked you to come,' said Granny simply.



'You'd be dead if I hadn't!'



'That's no business of yours.'



'My god, Mistress Weatherwax, you try me sorely.'



'Your god, Mister Oats, tries everyone. That's what gods generally does, and that's why I don't truck with 'em. And they lays down rules all the time.'



'There have to be rules, Mistress Weatherwax.'



'And what's the first one that your Om requires, then?'



'That believers should worship no other god but Om,' said Oats promptly.



'Oh yes? That's gods for you. Very self-centred, as a rule.'



'I think it was to get people's attention,' said Oats. 'There are many commandments about dealing well with other people, if that's what you're getting at.'



'Really? And s'pose someone doesn't want to believe in Om and tries to live properly?'



'According to the prophet Brutha, to live properly is to believe in Om.'



'Oho, that's clever! He gets you coming and going,' said Granny. 'It took a good thinker to come up with that. Well done. What other clever things did he say?'



'He doesn't say things to be clever,' said Oats hotly. 'But, since you ask, he said in his Letter to the Simonites that it is through other people that we truly become people.'



'Good. He got that one right.'



'And he said that we should take light into dark places.'



Granny didn't say anything.



'I thought I'd mention that,' said Oats, 'because when you were... you know, kneeling, back in the forge ... you said something very similar...'



Granny stopped so suddenly that Oats nearly fell over.



'I did what?'



'You were mumbling and-'



'I was talkin' in my... sleep?'



'Yes, and you said something about darkness being where the light needs to be, which I remember because in the Book of Om-'



'You listened?'



'No, I wasn't listening, but I couldn't help hearing, could I? And you sounded as if you were having an argument with someone...'



'Can you remember everything I said?'



'I think so.'



Granny staggered on a little, and stopped in a puddle of black water that began to rise over her boots.



'Can you forget?' she said.



'Pardon?'



'You wouldn't be so unkind as to pass on to anyone else the ramblings of a poor of woman who was probably off her head, would you?' said Granny slowly.



Oats thought for a moment. 'What ramblings were these, Mistress Weatherwax?'



Granny seemed to sag with relief.



'Ah. Good thing you asked, really, bein' as there weren't any.'



Black bubbles arose from the bog around Granny Weatherwax as the two of them watched each other. Some sort of truce had been declared.



'I wonder, young man, if you would be so good as to pull me out?'



This took some time and involved a branch from a nearby tree and, despite Oats's best efforts, Granny's first foot came out of its boot. And once one boot has said goodbye in a peat bog, the other one is bound, to follow out of fraternal solidarity.



Granny ended up on what was comparatively dry and comparatively land wearing a pair of the heaviest-looking socks Oats had ever seen. They looked as if they could shrug off a hammer blow.



'They was good boots,' said Granny, looking at the bubbles. 'Oh, well, let's get on.'



She staggered a little as she set off again, but to Oats's admiration managed to stay upright. He was beginning to form yet another opinion of the old woman, who caused a new opinion to arise about once every half-hour, and it was this: she needed someone to beat. If she didn't have someone to beat, she'd probably beat herself.



'Shame about your little book of holy words...' she said, when she was further down the track.



There was a long pause before Oats replied.



'I can easily get another,' he said levelly.



'Must be hard, not having your book of words.'



'It's only paper.'



'I shall ask the King to see about getting you another book of words.'



'I wouldn't trouble him.'



'Terrible thing to have to burn all them words, though.'



'The worthwhile ones don't burn.'



'You're not too stupid, for all that you wear a funny hat,' said Granny.



'I know when I'm being pushed, Mistress Weatherwax.'



'Well done.'



They walked on in silence. A shower of hail bounced off Granny's pointy hat and Oats's wide brim.



Then Granny said, 'It's no good you trying to make me believe in Om, though.'



'Om forbid that I should try, Mistress Weatherwax. I haven't even given you a pamphlet, have I?'



'No, but you're trying to make me think, "Oo, what a nice young man, his god must be something special if nice young men like him helps old ladies like me," aren't you?'



No.



'Really? Well, it's not working. People you can believe in, sometimes, but not gods. And I'll tell you this, Mister Oats...'



He sighed. 'Yes?'



She turned to face him, suddenly alive. 'It'd be as well for you if I didn't believe,' she said,



prodding him with a sharp finger. 'This Om... anyone seen him?'



'It is said three thousand people witnessed his manifestation at the Great Temple when he made the Covenant with the prophet Brutha and saved him from death by torture on the iron turtle-'



'But I bet that now they're arguing about what they actually saw, eh?'



'Well, indeed, yes, there are many opinions-'



'Right. Right. That's people for you. Now if I'd seen him, really there, really alive, it'd be in me like a fever. If I thought there was some god who really did care two hoots about people, who watched 'em like a father and cared for 'em like a mother... well, you wouldn't catch me sayin' things like "There are two sides to every question," and "We must respect other people's beliefs." You wouldn't find me just being gen'rally nice in the hope that it'd all turn out right in the end, not if that flame was burning in me like an unforgivin' sword. And I did say burnin', Mister Oats, 'cos that's what it'd be. You say that you people don't burn folk and sacrifice people any more, but that's what true faith would mean, y'see? Sacrificin' your own life, one day at a time, to the flame, declarin' the truth of it, workin' for it, breathin' the soul of it. Thars religion. Anything else is just... is just bein' nice. And a way of keepin' in touch with the neighbours.'



She relaxed slightly, and went on in a quieter voice: 'Anyway, that's what I'd be, if I really believed. And I don't think that's fashionable right now, 'cos it seems that if you sees evil now you have to wring your hands and say, "Oh deary me, we must debate this." That's my two penn'orth, Mister Oats. You be happy to let things lie. Don't chase faith, 'cos you'll never catch it.' She added, almost as an aside, 'But, perhaps, you can live faithfully.'



Her teeth chattered as a gust of icy wind flapped her wet dress around her legs.



'You got another book of holy words on you?' she added.



'No,' said Oats, still shocked. He thought: my god, if she ever finds a religion, what would come out of these mountains and sweep across the plains? My god... I just said, 'My god'...



'A book of hymns, maybe?' said Granny.



No.'



'A slim volume o' prayers, suitable for every occasion?'



'No, Granny Weatherwax.'



'Damn.' Granny slowly collapsed backwards, folding up like an empty dress.



He rushed forward and caught her before she landed in the mud. One thin white hand gripped his wrist so hard that he yelped. Then she relaxed, and sagged in his grasp.



Something made Oats look up.



A hooded figure sat on a white horse a little way away, outlined in the faintest blue fire.



'Go away!' he screamed. 'You be gone right now or... or...'



He lowered the body on to some tufts of grass, grabbed a handful of mud and flung it into the gloom. He ran after it, punching wildly at a shape that was suddenly no more than shadows and curling mist.



He dashed back, picked up Granny Weatherwax, slung her over his shoulder and ran on, downhill.



The mist behind him formed a shape on a white horse.



Death shook his head.



IT WASN'T EVEN AS IF I SAID ANYTHING, he said.



Waves of black heat broke over Agnes, and then there was a pit, and a fall into hot, suffocating darkness.



She felt the desire. It was tugging her forward like a current.



Well, she thought dreamily, at least I'll lose some weight...



Yes, said Perdita, but all the eyeliner you'll have to wear must add a few pounds...



The hunger filled her now, accelerating her.



And there was light, behind her, shining past her. She felt the fall gradually slow as if she'd hit invisible feathers, and then the world spun and she was rising again, moving up faster than an eagle stoops, towards an expanding circle of cold white-



It couldn't possibly be words that she heard. There was no sound but a faint rushing noise. But it was the shadow of words, the effect they leave in the mind after they have been said, and she felt her own voice rushing in to fill the shape that had appeared there. I... can't... be... having... with...this...



Light exploded.



And someone was about to hammer a stake through her heart.



'Stdt?' she said, knocking the hand away. She spluttered for a moment and then spat the lemon out of her mouth. 'Hey, stop that!' she tried again, this time with all the authority she could muster. 'What the heck are you doing? Do I look like a vampire?'



The man with the stake and mallet hesitated, and then tapped a finger to the side of his neck.



Agnes reached to hers, and found two raised weals.



'He must have missed!' she said, pushing the stake away and sitting up. 'Who took my stocking off? Who took off my left stocking? Is that boiling vinegar I can smell? What're all these poppyseeds doing poured down my bra? If it wasn't a woman who took my stocking off there's going to be some serious trouble, I can tell you!'



The crowd around the table looked at one another, suddenly uncertain in the face of her rage. Agnes glanced up as something brushed her ear. Hanging over her were stars and crosses and circles and more complex designs she recognized as religious symbols. She'd never felt inclined to believe in religion, but she knew what it looked like.



'And this is just a very tasteless display,' she said.



'She doesn't act like a vampire,' said a man. 'She doesn't look like one. And she did fight the others.'



' We saw that one bite her!' said a woman.



'Bad aim in poor light,' said Agnes, knowing that it wasn't. There was a hunger welling up. It was not like the black urge she'd felt in the dark, but sharp and urgent all the same. She had to give in to it.



'I'd kill for a cup of tea,' she added.



That seemed to clinch it. Tea wasn't the liquid usually associated with vampires.



'And for goodness' sake let me shake some of these poppyseeds out,' she went on, adjusting her bosom. 'I feel like a wholemeal loaf.'



They moved aside as she swung her legs off the table, which now meant that she could see the vampire lying on the floor. She nearly thought of it as the other vampire.



It was a man wearing a long frock coat and a fancy waistcoat, both covered in mud and blood; there was a stake through his heart. Further identification, though, would have to await finding where they'd put his head.



'I see you got one, then,' she said, trying not to, be sick.



'Got two,' said the man with the hammer. 'Set fire to the other one. They killed the mayor and Mr Vlack.'



'You mean the rest got away?' said Agnes.



'Yes. They're still strong but they can't fly much.'



Agnes indicated the headless vampire. 'Er... is that one Vlad?' she said.



'Which one was he?'



'The one that... bit me. Tried to bite me,' she corrected herself.



'We can check. Piotr, show her the head.'



A young man obediently went to the fireplace, pulled on a glove, lifted the lid of a big saucepan and held up a head by its hair.



'That's not Vlad,' said Agnes, swallowing. No, said Perdita, Vlad was taller.



'They'll be heading back to their castle,' said Piotr. 'On foot! You should see them trying to fly! It's like watching chickens panicking.'



'The castle...'said Agnes.



'They'll have to make it before cock-crow,' said Piotr, with some satisfaction. 'And they can't cut through the woods, 'cos of the werewolves.'



'What? I thought werewolves and vampires would get along fine,' said Agnes.



'Oh, maybe it looks like that,' said Piotr. 'But they're watching one another all the time to see who's going to be the first to blink.' He looked around the room. 'We don't mind the werewolves,' he went on, to general agreement. 'They leave us alone most of the time because we don't run fast enough to be interesting.'



He looked Agnes up and down.



'What was it you did to the vampires?' he said.



'Me? I didn't do- I don't know,' said Agnes.



'They couldn't even bite us properly.'



'And they were squabbling like kids when they left,' said the man with the mallet.



'You've got a pointy hat,' said Piotr. 'Did you put a spell on them?'



'I- I don't know. I really don't.' And then natural honesty met witchcraft. One aspect of witchcraft is the craftiness, and it's seldom unwise to take the credit for unexplained but fortuitous events. 'I may have done,' she added.



'Well, we're going after them,' said Piotr.



'Won't they have got well away?'



'We can cut through the woods.'



Blood tinted the rain that ran off the wound on Jason Ogg's shoulder. He dabbed at it with a cloth.



'Reckon I'll be hammerin' left-handed for a week or two,' he said, wincing.



'They got very good fields of fire,' said Shawn, who had taken refuge behind the beer barrel used so recently to wet the baby's head. 'I mean, it's a castle. A frontal attack simply won't work.'



He sighed, and shielded his guttering candle to keep the wind from blowing it out. They'd tried a frontal attack nevertheless, and the only reason no one had been killed was that the drink seemed to be flowing freely within the keep. As it was, one or two people would be limping for a while. Then they'd tried what Jason persisted in referring to as a backal attack, but there were arrow slots even over the kitchens. One man creeping up to the walls very slowly  -  a sidle attack, as Shawn had thought of it  -  had worked, but since all the doors were very solidly barred this had just meant that he'd stood there feeling like a fool.



He was trying to find some help in the ancient military journals of General Tacticus, whose intelligent campaigning had been so successful that he'd lent his very name to the detailed prosecution of martial endeavour, and had actually found a section headed What to Do If One Army Occupies a Well-fortified and Superior Ground and the Other Does Not, but since the first sentence read 'Endeavour to be the one inside' he'd rather lost heart.



The rest of the Lancre militia cowered behind buttresses and upturned carts, waiting for him to lead them.



There was a respectful clang as Big Jim Beef, who was acting as cover for two other part-time soldiers, saluted his commander.



'I reckon,' he ventured, 'dat if we got big fires goin' in frun' of the doors we could smoke dem out.'



'Good idea,' said Jason.



'That's the King's door,' Shawn protested. 'He's already been a bit sharp with me for not cleaning the privy pit this week-'