Terry Pratchett - Carpe Jugulum

The trouble was that no one on the road took him seriously. He could stop the coaches all right, but people tended to say, ‘What? I say, it’s a lowwayman. What up? A bit short, are you? Hur, hur, hur,’ and he would be forced to shoot them in the knee.

He blew on his hands to warm them, and looked up at the sound of an approaching coach.

He was about to ride out of his meagre hiding place in the thicket when he saw the other highwayman trot out from the wood opposite.

The coach came to a halt. Casanunda couldn’t hear what transpired, but the highwayman rode around to one of the doors and leaned down to speak to the occupants …

… and a hand reached out and plucked him off his horse and into the coach.

It rocked on its springs for a while, and then the door burst open and the highwayman tumbled out and lay still on the road.

The coach moved on …

Casanunda waited a little while and then rode down to the body. His horse stood patiently while he untied the ladder and dismounted.

He could tell the highwayman was stone dead. Living people are expected to have some blood in them.

The coach stopped at the top of a rise a few miles further on, before the road began the long winding fall towards Lancre and the plains.

The four passengers got out and walked to the start of the drop.

The clouds were rolling in behind them but here the air was frosty clear, and the view stretched all the way to the Rim under the moonlight. Down below, scooped out of the mountains, was the little kingdom.

‘Gateway to the world,’ said the Count de Magpyr.

‘And entirely undefended,’ said his son.

‘On the contrary. Possessed of some extremely effective defences,’ said the Count. He smiled in the night. ‘At least … until now …’

‘Witches should be on our side,’ said the Countess.

‘ She will be soon, at any rate,’ said the Count. ‘A most … interesting woman. An interesting family . Uncle used to talk about her grandmother. The Weatherwax women have always had one foot in shadow. It’s in the blood. And most of their power comes from denying it. However,’ and his teeth shone as he grinned in the dark, ‘she will soon find out on which side her bread is buttered.’

‘Or her gingerbread is gilded,’ said the Countess.

‘Ah, yes. How nicely put. That’s the penalty for being a Weatherwax woman, of course. When they get older they start to hear the clang of the big oven door.’

‘I’ve heard she’s pretty tough, though,’ said the Count’s son. ‘A very sharp mind.’

‘Let’s kill her!’ said the Count’s daughter.

‘Really, Lacci dear, you can’t kill everything .’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘No. I rather like the idea of her being … useful. And she sees everything in black and white. That’s always a trap for the powerful. Oh, yes . A mind like that is so easily … led. With a little help.’

There was a whirr of wings under the moonlight and something bi-coloured landed on the Count’s shoulder.

‘And this …’ said the Count, stroking the magpie and then letting it go. He pulled a square of white card from an inner pocket of his jacket. Its edge gleamed briefly. ‘Can you believe it? Has this sort of thing ever happened before? A new world order indeed …’

‘Do you have a handkerchief, sir?’ said the Countess. ‘Give it to me, please. You have a few specks …’

She dabbed at his chin and pushed the bloodstained handkerchief back into his pocket.

‘There,’ she said.

‘There are other witches,’ said the son, like someone turning over a mouthful that was proving rather tough to chew.

‘Oh, yes. I hope we will meet them. They could be entertaining.’

They climbed back into the coach.

Back in the mountains, the man who had tried to rob the coach managed to get to his feet, which seemed for a moment to be caught in something. He rubbed his neck irritably and looked around for his horse, which he found standing behind some rocks a little way away.

When he tried to lay a hand on the bridle it passed straight through the leather and the horse’s neck, like smoke. The creature reared up and galloped madly away.

It was not, the highwayman thought muzzily, going to be a good night. Well, he’d be damned if he’d lose a horse as well as some wages. Who the hell were those people? He couldn’t quite remember what had happened in the carriage, but it hadn’t been enjoyable.

The highwayman was of that simple class of men who, having been hit by someone bigger than them, finds someone smaller than them for the purposes of retaliation. Someone else was going to suffer tonight, he vowed. He’d get another horse, at least.

And, on cue, he heard the sound of hoofbeats on the wind. He drew his sword and stepped out into the road.

‘Stand and deliver!’

The approaching horse halted obediently a few feet away. This was not going to be such a bad night after all, he thought. It really was a magnificent creature, more of a warhorse than an everyday hack. It was so pale that it shone in the light of the occasional star and, by the look of it, there was silver on its harness.

The rider was heavily wrapped up against the cold.

‘Your money or your life!’ said the highwayman.

I’M SORRY?

‘Your money,’ said the highwayman, ‘or your life. Which part of this don’t you understand?’

OH, I SEE. WELL, I HAVE A SMALL AMOUNT OF MONEY.

A couple of coins landed on the frosty road. {7} 7 A reference to the old Eastern European practice of covering a dead friends’ eyes with coins. In the Greek version of this custom, a single coin or obulus was put under the tongue of a deceased person. This was done so that the departed loved one would have some change handy to pay Charon with (the grumpy old ferryman who transported departed souls over the river Styx towards the afterlife — but only if they paid him first). The Eastern European version has a similar background. The highwayman scrabbled for them but could not pick them up, a fact that only added to his annoyance.

‘It’s your life, then!’

The mounted figure shook its head. I THINK NOT. I REALLY DO.

It pulled a long curved stick out of a holster. The highwayman had assumed it was a lance, but now a curved blade sprang out and glittered blue along its edges.

I MUST SAY THAT YOU HAVE AN AMAZING PERSISTENCE OF VITALITY, said the horseman. It was not so much a voice, more an echo inside the head. IF NOT A PRESENCE OF MIND.

‘Who are you?’

I’M DEATH, said Death. AND I REALLY AM NOT HERE TO TAKE YOUR MONEY. WHICH PART OF THIS DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?

Something fluttered weakly at the window of the castle mews. There was no glass in the frame, just thin wooden slats to allow some passage of air.

And there was a scrabbling, and then a faint pecking, and then silence.

The hawks watched.

Outside the window something went whoomph . Beams of brilliant light jerked across the far wall and, slowly, the bars began to char.

Nanny Ogg knew that while the actual party would be in the Great Hall all the fun would be outside, in the courtyard around the big fire. Inside it’d be all quails’ eggs, goose-liver jam and little sandwiches that were four to the mouthful. Outside it’d be roasted potatoes floating in vats of butter and a whole stag on a spit. Later on, there’d be a command performance by that man who put weasels down his trousers, {8} 8 A traditional stunt act in Yorkshire, only with ferrets rather than weasels. a form of entertainment that Nanny ranked higher than grand opera.