Terry Pratchett - Wyrd Sisters

To where the third man had been.

There was the distant drumming of hooves on the turf, and then silence.

Nanny Ogg hobbled forward.

'I could catch him,' she said. 'What do you think?'

Granny shook her head. She sat down on a rock and looked at the child in her arms. It was a boy, no more than two years old, and quite naked under the blanket. She rocked him vaguely and stared at nothing.

Nanny Ogg examined the two corpses with the air of one for whom laying-out holds no fears.

'Perhaps they were bandits,' said Magrat tremulously.

Nanny shook her head.

'A strange thing,' she said. 'They both wear this same badge. Two bears on a black and gold shield. Anyone know what that means?'

'It's the badge of King Verence,' said Magrat.

'Who's he?' said Granny Weatherwax.

'He rules this country,' said Magrat.

'Oh. That king,' said Granny, as if the matter was hardly worth noting.

'Soldiers fighting one another. Doesn't make sense,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Magrat, you have a look in the coach.'

The youngest witch poked around inside the bodywork and came back with a sack. She upended it, and something thudded on to the turf.

The storm had rumbled off to the other side of the mountain now, and the watery moon shed a thin gruel of light over the damp moorland. It also gleamed off what was, without any doubt, an extremely important crown.

'It's a crown,' said Magrat. 'It's got all spiky bits on it.'

'Oh, dear,' said Granny.

The child gurgled in its sleep. Granny Weatherwax didn't hold with looking at the future, but now she could feel the future looking at her.

She didn't like its expression at all.

King Verence was looking at the past, and had formed pretty much the same view.

'You can see me?' he said.

'Oh, yes. Quite clearly, in fact,' said the newcomer.

Verence's brows knotted. Being a ghost seemed to require considerably more mental effort than being alive; he'd managed quite well for forty years without having to think more than once or twice a day, and now he was doing it all me time.

'Ah,' he said. 'You're a ghost, too.'

'Well spotted.'

'It was the head under your arm,' said Verence, pleased with himself. 'That gave me a clue.'

'Does it bother you? I can put it back on if it bothers you,' said the old ghost helpfully. He extended his free hand. 'Pleased to meet you. I'm Champot, King of Lancre.'

'Verence. Likewise.' He peered down at the old king's features and added, 'Don't seem to recall seeing your picture in the Long Gallery . . .'

'Oh, all that was after my time,' said Champot dismissively.

'How long have you been here, then?'

Champot reached down and rubbed his nose. 'About a thousand years,' he said, his voice tinged with pride. 'Man and ghost.'

'A thousand years!'

'I built this place, in fact. Just got it nicely decorated when my nephew cut my head off while I was asleep. I can't tell you how much that upset me.'

'But . . . a thousand years . . .'Verence repeated, weakly.

Champot took his arm. 'It's not that bad,' he confided, as he led the unresisting king across the courtyard. 'Better than being alive, in many ways.'

'They must be bloody strange ways, then!' snapped Verence. 'I liked being alive!'

Champot grinned reassuringly. 'You'll soon get used to it,' he said.

'I don't want to get used to it!'

'You've got a strong morphogenic field,' said Champot. 'I can tell. I look for these things. Yes. Very strong, I should say.'

'What's that?'

'I was never very good with words, you know,' said Champot. 'I always found it easier to hit people with something. But I gather it all boils down to how alive you were. When you were alive, I mean. Something called—' he paused – 'animal vitality. Yes, that was it. Animal vitality. The more you had, the more you stay yourself, as it were, if you're a ghost. I expect you were one hundred per cent alive, when you were alive,' he added.

Despite himself, Verence felt flattered. 'I tried to keep myself busy,' he said. They had strolled through the wall into the Great Hall, which was now empty. The sight of the trestle tables triggered an automatic reaction in the king.

'How do we go about getting breakfast?' he said.

Champot's head looked surprised.

'We don't,' he said. 'We're ghosts.'

'But I'm hungry!'

'You're not, you know. It's just your imagination.'

There was a clattering from the kitchens. The cooks were already up and, in the absence of any other instructions, were preparing the castle's normal breakfast menu. Familiar smells were wafting up from the dark archway that led to the kitchens.

Verence sniffed.

'Sausages,' he said dreamily.'Bacon. Eggs. Smoked fish.' He stared at Champot. 'Black pudding,' he whispered.

'You haven't actually got a stomach,' the old ghost pointed out. 'It's all in the mind. Just force of habit. You just think you're hungry.'

'I think I'm ravenous.'

'Yes, but you can't actually touch anything, you see,' Champot explained gently. 'Nothing at all.'

Verence lowered himself gently on to a bench, so that he did not drift through it, and sank his head in his hands. He'd heard that death could be bad. He just hadn't realised how bad.

He wanted revenge. He wanted to get out of this suddenly horrible castle, to find his son. But he was even more terrified to find that what he really wanted, right now, was a plate of kidneys.

A damp dawn flooded across the landscape, scaled the battlements of Lancre Castle, stormed the keep and finally made it through the casement of the solar.

Duke Felmet stared out gloomily at the dripping forest. There was such a lot of it. It wasn't, he decided, that he had anything against trees as such, it was just that the sight of so much of them was terribly depressing. He kept wanting to count them.

'Indeed, my love,' he said.

The duke put those who met him in mind of some sort of lizard, possibly the type that lives on volcanic islands, moves once a day, has a vestigial third eye and blinks on a monthly basis. He considered himself to be a civilised man more suited to the dry air and bright sun of a properly-organised climate.

On the other hand, he mused, it might be nice to be a tree. Trees didn't have ears, he was pretty sure of this. And they seemed to manage without the blessed state of matrimony. A male oak tree – he'd have to look this up – a male oak tree just shed its pollen on the breeze and all the business with the acorns, unless it was oak apples, no, he was pretty sure it was acorns, took place somewhere else . . .

'Yes, my precious,' he said.

Yes, trees had got it all worked out. Duke Felmet glared at the forest roof. Selfish bastards.

'Certainly, my dear,' he said.

'What?' said the duchess.

The duke hesitated, desperately trying to replay the monologue of the last five minutes. There had been something about him being half a man, and . . . infirm on purpose? And he was sure there had been a complaint about the coldness of the castle. Yes, that was probably it. Well, those wretched trees could do a decent day's work for once.

'I'll have some cut down and brought in directly, my cherished,' he said.

Lady Felmet was momentarily speechless. This was by way of being a calendar event. She was a large and impressive woman, who gave people confronting her for the first time the impression that they were seeing a galleon under full sail; the effect was heightened by her unfortunate belief that red velvet rather suited her. However, it didn't set off her complexion. It matched it.

The duke often mused on his good luck in marrying her. If it wasn't for the engine of her ambition he'd be just another local lord, with nothing much to do but hunt, drink and exercise his droit de seigneur [2] Whatever that was. He'd never found anyone prepared to explain it to him. But it was definitely something a feudal lord ought to have and, he was pretty sure, it needed regular exercise. He imagined it was some kind of large hairy dog. He was definitely going to get one, and damn well exercise it. .