Carpe Jugulum

Nanny Ogg asked the Muntab question. 'Where the hell's Muntab?' she said.



'Several thousand miles away, Mrs Ogg. But it has ambitions Hubwards, and if there's war with Borogravia we will certainly have to adopt a position.'



'This one several thousand miles away looks fine by me,' said Nanny. 'And I don't see-'



'I'm afraid you don't,' said Verence. 'Nor should you have to. But affairs in distant countries can suddenly end up close to home. If Klatch sneezes, Ankh-Morpork catches a cold. We have to pay attention. Are we always to be part of the Ankh-Morpork hegemony? Are we not in a unique position as we reach the end of the Century of the Fruitbat? The countries widdershins of the Ramtops are beginning to make themselves felt. The "werewolf economies", as the Patrician in Ankh-Morpork calls them. New powers are emerging. Old countries are blinking in the sunlight of the dawning millennium. And of course we have to maintain friendships with all blocs. And so on. Despite a turbulent past, Omnia is a friendly country... or, at least,' he admitted, 'I'm sure they would be friendly if they knew about Lancre. Being unpleasant to the priests of its state religion will serve us no good purpose. I'm sure we will not regret it.'



'Let's hope we won't,' said Nanny. She gave Verence a withering look. 'And I remember you when you were just a man in a funny hat.'



Even this didn't work. Verence merely sighed again and turned towards the door.



'I still am, Nanny,' he said. 'It's just that this one's a lot heavier. And now I must go, otherwise we shall be keeping our guests waiting. Ah, Shawn...'



Shawn Ogg had appeared at the door. He saluted.



'How's the army coming along, Shawn?'



'I've nearly finished the knife, sir.[6] Just got to do the nose-hair tweezers and the folding saw, sir. But actually I'm here as herald at the moment, sir.'



'Ah, it must be time.' `



'Yes, sir.'



'A shorter fanfare this time, Shawn, I think,' said the King. 'While I personally appreciate your skill, an occasion like this calls for something a little simpler than several bars of "Pink Hedgehog Rag".'



'Yes, Sir.'



'Let us go, then.'



They went out into the main passage just as Magrat's group was passing, and the King took her hand.



Nanny Ogg trailed after them. The King was right, in a way. She did feel... unusual, ill-tempered and snappish, as if she'd put on a vest that was too tight. Well, Granny would be here soon enough, and she knew how to talk to kings.



You needed a special technique for that, Nanny reasoned; for example, you couldn't say things like 'Who died and made you King?', because they'd know. 'You and whose army?' was another difficult one, although in this case Verence's army consisted of Shawn and a troll and was unlikely to be a serious threat to Shawn's own mother if he wanted to be allowed to eat his tea indoors.



She pulled Agnes to one side as the procession reached the top of the big staircase and Shawn went on ahead.



'We'll get a good view from the minstrel gallery,' she hissed, dragging Agnes into the king oak structure just as the trumpet began the royal fanfare.



'That's my boy,' she added proudly, when the final flourish caused a stir.



'Yes, not many royal fanfares end with "shave and a haircut, no legs"[7],' said Agnes.



'Puts people at their ease, though,' said Shawn's loyal mum.



Agnes looked down at the throng and caught sight of the priest again. He was moving through the press of guests.



'I found him, Nanny,' she said. 'He didn't make it hard, I must say. He won't try anything in a crowd, will he?'



'Which one is it?'



Agnes pointed. Nanny stared, and then turned to her.



'Sometimes I think the weight of that damn crown is turning Verence's head,' she said. 'I reckon he really doesn't know what he's lettin' into the kingdom. When Esme gets here she's going to go through this priest like cabbage soup.'



By now the guests had got themselves sorted out on either side of the red carpet that began at the bottom of the stairs. Agnes glanced up at the royal couple, waiting awkwardly, just out of sight, for the appropriate moment to descend, and thought: Granny Weatherwax says you make your own right time. They're the royal family. All they need to do is walk down the stairs and it'd be the right time. They're doing it wrong.



Several of the Lancre guests were glancing at the big double doors, shut for this official ceremony. They'd be thrown open later, for the more public and enjoyable part, but right now they looked...



... like doors that would soon creak back and frame a figure against the firelight.



She could see the image so clearly.



The exercises Granny had reluctantly given her were working, Perdita thought.



There was a hurried conversation among the royal party and then Millie hurried back up the stairs and towards the witches.



'Mag- the Queen says, is Granny Weatherwax coming or not?' she panted.



'Of course she is,' said Nanny.



'Only, well, the King's getting a bit... upset. He said it did say RSVP on the invitation,' said Millie, trying not to meet Nanny eye to eye.



'Oh, witches never reservups,' said Nanny. 'They just come.'



Millie put her hand in front of her mouth and gave a nervous little cough. She glanced wretchedly towards Magrat, who was making frantic hand signals.



'Only, well, the Queen says we'd better not hold things up, so, er, would you be godmother, Mrs Ogg?'



The wrinkles doubled on Nanny's face as she smiled.



'Tell you what,' she said brightly. 'I'll come and sort of stand in until Granny gets here, shall I?'



Once again, Granny Weatherwax paced up and down in the spartan greyness of her kitchen. Occasionally she'd glance at the floor. There was quite a gap under the door, and sometimes things could be blown anywhere. But she'd already searched a dozen times. She must've got the cleanest floor in the country by now. Anyway, it was too late.



Even so... Uberwald...[8]



She strode up and down a few more times.



'I'll be blowed if I'll give 'em the satisfaction,' she muttered.



She sat down in her rocking chair, stood up again so quickly that the chair almost fell over, and went back to the pacing.



'I mean, I've never been the kind of person to put myself forward,' she said to the air. 'I'm not the sort to go where I'm not welcome, I'm sure.'



She went to make a cup of tea, fumbling with the kettle with shaking hands, and dropped the lid of her sugar bowl, breaking it.



A light caught her eye. The half moon was visible over the lawn.



'Anyway, it's not as if I've not got other things to do,' she said. 'Can't all be rushing off to parties the whole time... wouldn't have gone anyway.'



She found herself flouncing around the corners of the floor again and thought: if I'd found it, the Wattley boy would have knocked at an empty cottage. I'd have gone and enjoyed meself. And John Ivy'd be sitting alone now...



'Drat!'



That was the worst part about being good  -  it caught you coming and going.



She landed in the rocking chair again and pulled her shawl around her against the chill. She hadn't kept the fire in. She hadn't expected to be at home tonight.



Shadows filled the corners of the room, but she couldn't be bothered to light the lamp. The candle would have to do.



As she rocked, glaring at the wall, the shadows lengthened.



Agnes followed Nanny down into the hall. She probably wasn't meant to, but very few people will argue with a hat of authority.



Small countries were normal along this part of the Ramtops. Every glacial valley, separated from its neighbours by a route that required a scramble or, at worst, a ladder, more or less ruled itself. There seemed to Agnes to be any number of kings, even if some of them did their ruling in the evenings after they'd milked the cows. A lot of them were here, because a free meal is not to be sneezed at. There were also some senior dwarfs from Copperhead and, standing well away from them, a group of trolls. They weren't carrying weapons, so Agnes assumed they were politicians. Trolls weren't strictly subjects of King Verence, but they were there to say, in official body language, that playing football with human heads was something no one did any more, much. Hardly at all, really. Not roun' here, certainly. Dere's practic'ly a law against it.



The witches were ushered to the area in front of the thrones, and then Millie scurried away.



The Omnian priest nodded at them.



'Good, um, evening,' he said, and completely failed to set fire to anyone. He wasn't very old and had a rather ripe boil beside his nose. Inside Agnes, Perdita made a face at him.



Nanny Ogg grunted. Agnes risked a brief smile. The priest blew his nose noisily.



'You must be some of these, um, witches I've heard so much about,' he said. He had an amazing smile. It appeared on his face as if someone had operated a shutter. One moment it wasn't there, the next moment it was. And then it was gone.



'Um, yes,' said Agnes.



'Hah,' said Nanny Ogg, who could haughtily turn her back on people while looking them in the eye.



'And I am, I am, aaaa...' said the priest. He stopped, and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Oh, I am sorry. The mountain air doesn't agree with me. I am the Quite Reverend Mightily Oats.'



'You are?' said Agnes. To her amazement, the man began to redden. The more she looked at him, the more she realized that he wasn't much older than she was.



'That is, Mightily-Praiseworthy-Are-Ye-Who-ExaltethOm Oats,' he said. 'It's much shorter in Omnian, of course. Have you by any chance heard the Word of Om?'



'Which one? "Fire"?' said Nanny Ogg. 'Hah!'



The nascent religious war was abruptly cut short by the first official royal fanfare to end with a few bars from the 'Hedgehog Cakewalk'. The royal couple began to descend the stairs.



'And we'll have none of your heathen ways, thank you very much,' muttered Nanny Ogg behind the pastor. 'No sloshing water or oil or sand around or cutting any bits off and if I hears a single word I understand, well, I'm standing behind you with a pointy stick.'[9]



From the other side he heard, 'He's not some kind of horrible inquisitor, Nanny!'



'But my pointy stick's still a pointy stick, my girl!'



What's got into her? Agnes thought, watching the pastor's ears turn red. That's the way Granny would act. Perdita added: Perhaps she thinks she's got to carry on like that because that old bat's not here yet.



Agnes was quite shocked at hearing herself think that.



'You do things our way here, all right?' said Nanny.



'The, um, King did explain it all to me, um,' said the pastor. 'Er, do you have anything for a headache. I'm afraid I-'



'You put the key in one hand and let her grip the crown with the other,' Nanny Ogg went on.



'Yes, um, he did-'



'Then you tell her what her name is and her mum's name and her dad's name, mumbling a bit over the latter if the mum ain't sure-'



'Nanny! This is royalty!'



'Hah, I could tell you stories, gel... and then, see, you give her to me and I tell her, too, and then I give her back and you tell the people what her name is, an' then you give her to me, and then I give her to her dad, and he takes her out through the doors and shows her to everyone, everyone throws their hats in the air and shouts "Hoorah!" and then it's all over bar the drinks and horses' doovers and findin' your own hat. Start extemporizin' on the subject of sin and it'll go hard with you.'



'What is, um, your role, madam?'



'I'm the godmother!'



'Which, um, god?' The young man was trembling slightly.



'It's from Old Lancre,' said Agnes hurriedly. 'It means something like "goodmother". It's all right... as witches we believe in religious toleration...'



'That's right,' said Nanny Ogg. 'But only for the right religions, so you watch your step!'



The royal parents had reached the thrones. Magrat took her seat and, to Agnes's amazement, gave her a sly wink.



Verence didn't wink. He stood there and coughed loudly.



'Ahem!'



'I've got a pastille somewhere,' said Nanny, her hand reaching towards her knickerleg.



'Ahem!' Verence's eyes darted towards his throne.



What had appeared to be a grey cushion rolled over, yawned, gave the King a brief glance, and started to wash itself.



'Oh, Greebo!' said Nanny. 'I was wonderin' where you'd got to...'



'Could you please remove him, Mrs Ogg?' said the King.



Agnes glanced at Magrat. The Queen had half turned away, with her elbow on the arm of the throne and her hand covering her mouth. Her shoulders were shaking.



Nanny grabbed her cat off the throne.



'A cat can look at a king,' she said.



'Not with that expression, I believe,' said Verence. He waved graciously at the assembled company, just as the castle's dock began to strike midnight.



'Please begin, Reverend.'



'I, um, did have a small suitable homily on the subject of, um, hope for the-' the Quite Reverend Oats began, but there was a grunt from Nanny and he suddenly seemed to jerk forward slightly. He blinked once or twice and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. 'But alas I fear we have no time,' he concluded quickly.



Magrat leaned over and whispered something in her husband's ear. Agnes heard him say, 'Well, dear, I think we have to, whether she's here or not...'



Shawn scurried up, slightly out of breath and with his wig on sideways. He was carrying a cushion. On the faded velvet was the big iron key of the castle.



Millie Chillum carefully handed the baby to the priest, who held it gingerly.



It seemed to the royal couple that he suddenly started to speak very hesitantly. Behind him, Nanny Ogg's was an expression of extreme interest that was nevertheless made up of one hundred per cent artificial additives. They also had the impression that the poor man was suffering from frequent attacks of cramp.



'-we are gathered here together in the sight of... um... one another...'



'Are you all right, Reverend?' said the King, leaning forward.



'Never better, sir, um, I assure you,' said Oats miserably, '... and I therefore name thee... that is, you.. .'



There was a deep, horrible pause.



Glassy faced, the priest handed the baby to Millie. Then he removed his hat, took a small scrap of paper from the lining, read it, moved his lips a few times as he said the words to himself, and then replaced the hat on his sweating forehead and took the baby again.



'I name you... Esmerelda Margaret Note Spelling of Lancre!'



The shocked silence was suddenly filled.



'Note Spelling?' said Magrat and Agnes together.



'Esmerelda?' said Nanny.



The baby opened her eyes.



And the doors swung back.



Choices. It was always choices...



There'd been that man down in Spackle, the one that'd killed those little kids. The people'd sent for her and she'd looked at him and seen the guilt writhing in his head like a red worm, and then she'd taken them to his farm and showed them where to dig, and he'd thrown himself down and asked her for mercy, because he said he'd been drunk and it'd all been done in alcohol.



Her words came back to her. She'd said, in sobriety: end it in hemp.



And they'd dragged him off and hanged him in a hempen rope and she'd gone to watch because she owed him that much, and he'd cursed, which was unfair because hanging is a clean death, or at least cleaner than the one he'd have got if the villagers had dared defy her, and she'd seen the shadow of Death come for him, and then behind Death came the smaller, brighter figures, and then-



In the darkness, the rocking chair creaked as it thundered back and forth.



The villagers had said justice had been done, and she'd lost patience and told them to go home, then, and pray to whatever gods they believed in that it was never done to them. The smug mask of virtue triumphant could be almost as horrible as the face of wickedness revealed.



She shuddered at a memory. Almost as horrible, but not quite.



The odd thing was, quite a lot of villagers had turned up to his funeral, and there had been mutterings from one or two people on the lines of, yes, well, but overall he wasn't such a bad chap... and anyway, maybe she made him say it. And she'd got the dark looks.



Supposing there was justice for all, after all? For every unheeded beggar, every harsh word, every neglected duty, every slight... every choice... Because that was the point, wasn't it? You had to choose. You might be right, you might be wrong, but you had to choose, knowing that the rightness or wrongness might never be clear or even that you were deciding between two sorts of wrong, that there was no right anywhere. And always, always, you did it by yourself. You were the one there, on the edge, watching and listening. Never any tears, never any apology, never any regrets... You saved all that up in a way that could be used when needed.



She never discussed this with Nanny Ogg or any of the other witches. That would be breaking the secret. Sometimes, late at night, when the conversation tiptoed around to that area, Nanny might just drop in some line like 'Old Scrivens went peacefully enough at the finish' and may or may not mean something by it. Nanny, as far as she could see, didn't agonize very much. To her, some things obviously had to be done, and that was that. Any of the thoughts that hung around she kept locked up tight, even from herself. Granny envied her.



Who'd come to her funeral when she died?



They didn't ask her!



Memories jostled. Other figures marched out into the shadows around the candlelight.



She'd done things and been places, and found ways to turn anger outwards that had surprised even her. She'd faced down others far more powerful than she was, if only she'd allowed them to believe it. She'd given up so much, but she'd learned a lot...



It was a sign. She knew it'd come sooner or later... They'd realized it, and now she was no more use...



What had she ever earned? The reward for toil had been more toil. If you dug the best ditches they gave you a bigger shovel.



And you got these bare walls, this bare floor, this cold cottage. '



The darkness in the corners grew out into the room and began to tangle in her hair.



They didn't ask her!



She'd never, ever asked for anything in return. And the trouble with not asking for anything in return was that sometimes you didn't get it.



She'd always tried to face towards the light. She'd always tried to face towards the light. But the harder you stared into the brightness the harsher it burned into you until, at last, the temptation picked you up and bid you turn around to see how long, rich, strong and dark, streaming away behind you, your shadow had become-



Someone mentioned her name.



There was a moment of light and noise and bewilderment.



And then she awoke and looked at the darkness flowing in, and saw things in black and white.



'So sorry... delays on the road, you know how it is...'



The newcomers hurried in and joined the crowd, who paid little attention because they were watching the unplanned entertainment around the thrones.



'Note Spelling?'



'Definitely a bit tricky,' said Nanny. 'Esmerelda, now, that was a good one. Gytha would have been good too, but Esmerelda, yes, you can't argue with it. But you know kids. They'll all be calling her Spelly.'



'If she's lucky,' said Agnes gloomily.



'I didn't expect anyone to say it!' Magrat hissed.



'I just wanted to make sure she didn't end up with "Magrat'!'



Mightily Oats was standing with his eyes cast upwards and his hands clasped together. Occasionally he made a whimpering sound.



'We can change it, can't we?' said King Verence. 'Where's the Royal Historian?'



Shawn coughed. 'It's not Wednesday evening and I'll have to go and fetch the proper hat, sire-'



'Can we change it or not, man?'



'Er... it has been said, sire. At the official time. I think it's her name now, but I'll need to go and look it up. Everyone heard it, sire.'



'No, you can't change it,' said Nanny, who as the Royal Historian's mum took it as read that she knew more than the Royal Historian. 'Look at old Moocow Poorchick over in Slice, for one.'



'What happened to him, then?' said the King sharply.



'His full name is James What The Hell's That Cow Doing In Here Poorchick,' said Magrat.



'That was a very strange day, I do remember that,' said Nanny.



'And if my mother had been sensible enough to tell Brother Perdore my name instead of coming over all bashful and writing it down, life would have been a whole lot different,' said Magrat. She glanced nervously at Verence. 'Probably worse, of course.'



'So I've got to take Esmerelda out to her people and tell them one of her middle names is Note Spelling?' said Verence.



'Well, we did once have a king called My God He's Heavy the First,' said Nanny. 'And the beer's been on for the last couple of hours so, basic'ly, you'll get a cheer whatever you say.'



Besides, thought Agnes, I know for a fact there's people out there called Syphilidae Wilson and Yodel Lightley and Total Biscuit.[10]



Verence smiled. 'Oh well... let me have her...'



'Whifm...' said Mightily Oats.



'... and perhaps someone ought to give this man a drink.'



'I'm so terribly, terribly sorry,' whispered the priest, as the King walked between the lines of guests.



'Been on the drink already, I expect,' said Nanny.



'I never ever touch alcohol!' moaned the priest. He dabbed at his streaming eyes with a handkerchief.



'I knew there was something wrong with you as soon as I looked at you,' said Nanny. 'Where's Esme, then?'



'I don't know, Nanny!' said Agnes.



'She'd know about this, you mark my words. This'll be a feather in her cap, right enough, a princess named after her. She'll be crowing about it for months. I'm going to see what's going on.'



She stumped off.



Agnes grabbed the priest's arm.



'Come along, you,' she sighed.



'I really cannot, um, express how sorry-'



'It's a very strange evening all round.'



'I've, I've, I've never, um, heard of the custom before-'



'People put a lot of importance on words in these parts.'



'I'm very much afraid the King will give a bad, um, report of me to Brother Melchio...'



'Really.'



There are some people who could turn even the most amiable character into a bully and the priest seemed to be one of them. There was something... sort of damp about him, the kind of helpless hopelessness that made people angry rather than charitable, the total certainty that if the whole world was a party he'd still find the kitchen.



She seemed to be stuck with him. The VIPs were all crowded around the open doors, where loud cheering indicated that the people of Lancre thought that Note Spelling was a nice name for a future queen.



'Perhaps you should just sit there and try to get a grip,' she said. 'There's going to be dancing later on.'



'Oh, I don't dance,' said Mightily Oats. 'Dancing is a snare to entrap the weak-willed.'



'Oh. Well, I suppose there's the barbecue outside...'



Mightily Oats dabbed at his eyes again.



'Um, any fish?'



'I doubt it.'



'We eat only fish this month.'



'Oh.' But a deadpan voice didn't seem to work. He still wanted to talk to her.



'Because the prophet Brutha eschewed meat, um, when he was wandering in the desert, you see.'



'Each mouthful forty times?'



'Pardon?'



'Sorry, I was thinking of something else.' Against her better judgement, Agnes let curiosity enter her life. 'What meat is there to eat, in a desert?'



'Um, none, I think.'



'So he didn't exactly refuse to eat it, did he?' Agnes scanned the gathering crowds, but no one seemed anxious to join in this little discussion.



'Um... you'd have to, um, ask Brother Melchio that. I'm so sorry. I think I have a migraine coming on...'



You don't believe anything you're saying, do you? Agnes thought. Nervousness and a sort of low-grade terror was radiating off him. Perdita added: What a damp little maggot!



'I've got to go and... er... to go and... I've got to go and... help,' said Agnes, backing away. He nodded. As she left, he blew his nose again, produced a small black book from a pocket, sighed, and hurriedly opened it at a bookmark.



She picked up a tray to add some weight to the alibi, stepped towards the food table, turned to look back at the hunched figure as out of place as



a lost sheep, and walked into someone as solid as a tree.



'Who is that strange person?' said a voice by her ear. Agnes heard Perdita curse her for jumping sideways, but she recovered and managed to smile awkwardly at the person who'd spoken.



He was a young man and, it dawned on her, a very attractive one. Attractive men were not in plentiful supply in Lancre, where licking your hand and smoothing your hair down before taking a girl out was considered swanky.



He's got a ponytail! squeaked Perdita. Now that is cool!



Agnes felt the blush start somewhere in the region of her knees and begin its inevitable acceleration upwards.



'Er... sorry?' she said.



'You can practically smell him,' said the man. He inclined his head slightly towards the sad priest. 'Looks rather like a scruffy little crow, don't you think?'



'Er... yes,' Agnes managed. The blush rounded the curve of her bosom, red hot and rising. A ponytail on a man was unheard of in Lancre, and the cut of his clothes also suggested that he'd spent time somewhere where fashion changed more than once a lifetime. No one in Lancre had ever worn a waistcoat embroidered with peacocks.



Say something to him! Perdita screamed within.



'Wstfgl?' said Agnes. Behind her, Mightily Oats had got up and was inspecting the food suspiciously.



'I beg your pardon?'



Agnes swallowed, partly because Perdita was trying to shake her by the throat.



'He does look as if he's about to flap away, doesn't he?' she said. Oh, please, don't let me giggle...



The man snapped his fingers. A waiter hurrying past with a tray of drinks turned through ninety degrees.



'Can I get you a drink, Miss Nitt?'



'Er... white wine?' Agnes whispered.



'No, you don't want white wine, the red is much more... colourful,' he said, taking a glass and handing it to her. 'What is our quarry doing now... Ah, applying himself to a biscuit with a very small amount of pate on it, I see...'



Ask him his name! Perdita yelled. No, that'd be forward of me, Agnes thought. Perdita screamed, You were built forward, you stupid lump-



'Please let me introduce myself. I'm Vlad,' he said kindly. 'Oh, now he's... yes, he's about to pounce on. .. yes, a prawn vol-au-vent. Prawns up here, eh? King Verence has spared no expense, has he?'



'He had them brought up on ice all the way from Genua,' Agnes mumbled.



'They do very good seafood there, I believe.'



'Never been,' Agnes mumbled. Inside her head Perdita lay down and cried.



'Maybe we could visit it one day, Agnes,' said Vlad.



The blush was at Agnes's neck.



'It's very hot in here, don't you think?' said Vlad.



'It's the fire,' said Agnes gratefully. 'It's over there,' she added, nodding to where quite a large amount of a tree was burning in the hall's enormous fireplace and could only have been missed by a man with a bucket on his head.



'My sister and I have-' Vlad began.



'Excuse me, Miss Nitt?'



'What is it, Shawn?' Drop dead, Shawn Ogg, said Perdita.



'Mum says you're to come at once, miss. She's down in the yard. She says it's important.'



'It always is,' said Agnes. She gave Vlad a quick smile. 'Excuse me, I have to go and help an old lady.'



'I'm sure we'll meet again, Agnes,' said Vlad.



'Oh, er... thank you.'



She hurried out and was halfway down the steps before she remembered she hadn't told him her name.



Two steps further she thought: well, he could have asked someone.



Two steps after that Perdita said: Why would he ask anyone your name?



Agnes cursed the fact that she had grown up with an invisible enemy.



'Come and look at this!' hissed Nanny, grabbing her by the arm as she reached the courtyard. She was dragged out to the carriages parked near the stables. Nanny waved a finger to the door of the nearest one.



'See that?' she said.



'It looks very impressive,' said Agnes.



'See the crest?'



'Looks like... a couple of black and white



birds. Magpies, aren't they?'



'Yeah, but look at the writin',' said Nanny Ogg, with that dark relish old ladies reserve for nastily portentous things.



'Carpe Jugulum,' read Agnes aloud. 'That's... well, Carpe Diem is "Seize the Day", so this means-'



"'Go for the Throat",' said Nanny. 'You know what our king has done, so we can play our part in this new changin' world order thing and get money for hedges because Klatch gets a nosebleed when Ankh-Morpork stubs its toe? He's gone an' invited some bigwigs from Uberwald, that's what he's done. Oh, deary deary me. Vampires and werewolves, werewolves and vampires. We'll all be murdered in one another's beds.' She walked up to the front of the coach and tapped on the wood near the driver, who was sitting hunched up in an enormous cloak. 'Where're you from, Igor?'



The shadowy figure turned.



'What maketh you think my name ith... Igor?'



'Lucky guess?' said Nanny.



'You think everyone from Uberwald ith called Igor, do you? I could have any one of a thouthand different nameth, woman.'