"I don't think you quite realize who you are talking to, young man," she said.

Tomjon half rose in his seat. He had played a great many kings, and most of them weren't the kind of kings who shook hands graciously and asked people whether they enjoyed their work. They were far more the type of kings who got people to charge into battle at five o'clock on a freezing morning and still managed to persuade them that this was better than being in bed and still managed to persuade them that this was better than being in bed. He summoned them all, and treated Granny Weatherwax to a blast of royal hauteur, pride and arrogance.

"We thought we were talking to a subject subject," he said. "Now do as we say!"

Granny's face was immobile for several seconds as she worked out what to do next. Then she smiled to herself, said lightly, "As you wish," and went and dislodged Hwel, who was still writing.

The dwarf gave a stiff bow.

"None of that," snapped Tomjon. "What do I do next?"

"I don't know. Do you want me to write an acceptance speech?"

"I told you. I don't want to be king!"

"Could be a problem with an acceptance speech, then," the dwarf agreed. "Have you really thought about this? Being king is a great role."

"But it's the only one you get to play!"

"Hmm. Well, just tell them 'no,' then."

"Just like that? Will it work?"

"It's got to be worth a try."

A group of Lancre dignitaries were approaching with the crown on a cushion. They wore expressions of constipated respect coupled with just a hint of self-satisfaction. They carried the crown as if it was a Present for a Good Boy.

The Mayor of Lancre coughed behind his hand.

"A proper coronation will take some time to arrange," he began, "but we would like-"

"No," said Tomjon.

The mayor hesitated. "Pardon?" he said.

"I won't accept it."

The mayor hesitated again. His lips moved and his eyes glazed slightly. He felt that he had got lost somewhere, and decided it would be best to start again.

"A proper coronation will take-" he ventured.

"It won't," said Tomjon. "I will not be king."

The mayor was mouthing like a carp.

"Hwel?" said Tomjon desperately. "You're good with words."

"The problem we've got here," said the dwarf, "is that 'no' is apparently not among the options when you are offered a crown. I think he could cope with 'maybe.'"

Tomjon stood up, and grabbed the crown. He held it above his head like a tambourine.

"Listen to me, all of you," he said. "I thank you for your offer, it's a great honor. But I can't accept it. I've worn more crowns than you can count, and the only kingdom I know how to rule has got curtains in front of it. I'm sorry."

Dead silence greeted this. They did not appear to have been the right words.

"Another problem," said Hwel conversationally, "is that you don't actually have a choice. You are are the king, you see. It's a job you are lined up for when you're born." the king, you see. It's a job you are lined up for when you're born."

"I'd be no good at it!"

"That doesn't matter. A king isn't something you're good at, it's something you are."

"You can't leave me here! There's nothing but forests!"

Tomjon felt the suffocating cold sensation again, and the slow buzzing in his ears. For a moment he thought he saw, faint as a mist, a tall sad man in front of him, stretching out a hand in supplication.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I really am."

Through the fading shape he saw the witches, watching him intently.

Beside him Hwel said, "The only chance you'd have is if there was another heir. You don't remember any brothers and sisters, do you?"

"I don't remember anyone! Hwel, I-"

There was another ferocious argument among the witches. And then Magrat was striding, striding across the hall, moving like a tidal wave, moving like a rush of blood to the head, shaking off Granny Weatherwax's restraining hand, bearing down on the throne like a piston, and dragging the Fool behind her.

"I say?"

"Er. Halloee!"

"Er, I say, excuse me, can anyone hear us?"

The castle up above was full of hubbub and general rejoicing, and there was no one to hear the polite and frantic voices that echoed along the dungeon pa.s.sages, getting politer and more frantic with each pa.s.sing hour.

"Um, I say? Excuse me? Billem's got this terrible thing thing about rats, if you don't mind. Cooeee!" about rats, if you don't mind. Cooeee!"

Let the camera of the mind's eye pan slowly back along the dim, ancient corridors, taking in the dripping fungi, the rusting chains, the damp, the shadows...

"Can anyone hear us? Look, it's really too much. There's been some laughable mistake, look, the wigs come right off..."

Let the plaintive echoes dwindle among the cobwebbed corners and rodent-haunted tunnels, until they're no more than a reedy whisper on the cusp of hearing.

"I say? I say, excuse me, help?"

Someone is bound to come down here again one of these days.

Some time afterward Magrat asked Hwel if he believed in long engagements. The dwarf paused in the task of loading up the latty.*

"About a week, maximum," he said at last. "With matinees, of course."

A month went past. The early damp-earth odors of autumn drifted over the velvety-dark moors, where the watery starlight was echoed by one spark of a fire.

The standing stone was back in its normal place, but still poised to run if any auditors came into view.

The witches sat in careful silence. This was not going to rate among the hundred most exciting coven meetings of all time. If Mussorgsky had seen them, the night on the bare mountain would have been over by teatime.

Then Granny Weatherwax said, "It was a good banquet, I thought."

"I was nearly sick," said Nanny Ogg proudly. "And my Shirl helped out in the kitchen and brought me home some sc.r.a.ps."

"I heard," said Granny coldly. "Half a pig and three bottles of fizzy wine went missing, they say."

"It's nice that some people think of the old folk," said Nanny Ogg, completely unabashed. "I got a coronation mug, too." She produced it. "It says 'Viva Verence II Rex.' Fancy him being called Rex. I can't say it's a good likeness, mind you. I don't recall him having a handle sticking out of his ear."

There was another long, terribly polite pause. Then Granny said, "We were a bit surprised you weren't there, Magrat."

"We thought you'd be up at the top of the table, kind of thing," said Nanny. "We thought you'd have moved in up there."

Magrat stared fixedly at her feet.

"I wasn't invited," she said meekly.

"Well, I don't know about invited invited," said Granny. "We weren't invited invited. People don't have to invite witches, they just know we'll turn up if we want to. They soon find room for us," she added, with some satisfaction.

"You see, he's been very busy," said Magrat to her feet. "Sorting everything out, you know. He's very clever, you know. Underneath."

"Very sober lad," said Nanny.

"Anyway, it's full moon," said Magrat quickly. "You've got to go to coven meetings at full moon, no matter what other pressing engagements there may be."

"Have y-?" Nanny Ogg began, but Granny nudged her sharply in the ribs.

"It's a very good thing he's paying so much attention to getting the kingdom working again," said Granny, soothingly. "It shows proper consideration. I daresay he'll get around to everything, sooner or later. It's very demanding, being a king."

"Yes," said Magrat, her voice barely audible.

The silence that followed was almost solid. It was broken by Nanny, in a voice as bright and brittle as ice.

"Well, I brought a bottle of that fizzy wine with me," she said. "In case he'd...in case...in case we felt like a drink," she rallied, and waved it at the other two.

"I don't want any," said Magrat sullenly.

"You drink up, girl," said Granny Weatherwax. "It's a chilly night. It'd be good for your chest."

She squinted at Magrat as the moon drifted out from behind its cloud.

"Here," she said. "Your hair looks a bit grubby. It looks as though you haven't washed it for a month."

Magrat burst into tears.

The same moon shone down on the otherwise unremarkable town of Rham Nitz, some ninety miles from Lancre.

Tomjon left the stage to thunderous applause at the concluding act of The Troll of Ankh The Troll of Ankh. A hundred people would go home tonight wondering whether trolls were really as bad as they had hitherto thought although, of course, this wouldn't actually stop them disliking them in any way whatsoever.

Hwel patted him on the back as he sat down at the makeup table and started sc.r.a.ping off the thick gray sludge that was intended to make him look like a walking rock.

"Well done," he said. "The love scene-just right. And when you turned around and roared at the wizard I shouldn't think there was a dry seat in the house."

"I know."

Hwel rubbed his hands together.

"We can afford a tavern tonight," he said. "So if we just-"

"We'll sleep in the carts," said Tomjon firmly, squinting at himself in the shard of mirror.

"But you know how much the Fo-the king gave us! It could be feather beds all the way home!"

"It's straw mattresses and a good profit for us," said Tomjon. "And that'll buy you G.o.ds from heaven and demons from h.e.l.l and the wind and the waves and more trapdoors than you can count, my lawn ornament."

Hwel's hand rested on Tomjon's shoulder for a moment. Then he said, "You're right, boss."

"Certainly I am. How's the play going?"

"Hmm? What play?" said Hwel, innocently.

Tomjon carefully removed a plaster brow ridge.

"You know," he said. "That one. The Lancre King."

"Oh. Coming along. Coming along, you know. I'll get it right one of these days." Hwel changed the subject with speed. "You know, we could work our way down to the river and take a boat home. That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"But we could work our way home over land and pick up some more cash. That would be better, wouldn't it?" Tomjon grinned. "We took one hundred and three pence tonight; I counted heads during the Judgment speech. That's nearly one silver piece after expenses."