Carpe Jugulum - Terry Pratchett [11]
It wasn’t that he was bad falconer. A few other people in Lancre kept hawks and reckoned he was one of the best trainers in the mountains, possibly because he was so single-minded about it. It was just that he trained every feathery little killing machine so well that it became unable to resist seeing what he tasted like.
He didn’t deserve it. Nor did he deserve his ceremonial costume. Usually, when not in the company of King Henry, he just wore working leathers and about three sticking plasters, but what he was wearing now had been designed hundreds of years before by someone with a lyrical view of the countryside and who had never had to run through a bramble bush with a gerfalcon hanging on their ear. It had a lot of red and gold in it and would have looked much better on someone two feet taller who had the legs for red stockings. The hat was best not talked about, but if you had to, you’d talk about it in terms of something big, red and floppy. With a feather in it.
“Miss Nitt?” said Hodgesaargh.
“Sorry…I was looking at your hat.”
“It’s good, isn’t it,” said Hodgesaargh amiably. “This is William. She’s a buzzard. But she thinks she’s a chicken. She can’t fly. I’m having to teach her how to hunt.”
Agnes was craning her neck for any signs of overtly religious activity, but the incongruity of the slightly bedraggled creature on Hodgesaargh’s wrist brought her gaze back down again.
“How?” she said.
“She walks into the burrows and kicks the rabbits to death. And I’ve almost cured her of crowing. Haven’t I, William?”
“William?” said Agnes. “Oh…yes.” To a falconer, she remembered, all hawks were “she.”
“Have you seen any Omnians here?” she whispered, leaning down toward him.
“What kind of bird are they, miss?” said the falconer uneasily. He always seemed to have a preoccupied air when not discussing hawks, like a man with a big dictionary who couldn’t find the index.
“Oh, er…don’t worry about it, then.” She stared at William again and said, “How? I mean, how does a bird like that think he’s—she’s a chicken?”
“Can happen all too easy, miss,” said Hodgesaargh. “Thomas Peerless over in Bad Ass pinched an egg and put it under a broody hen, miss. He didn’t take the chicken away in time. So William thought if her mum was a chicken, then so was she.”
“Well, that’s—”
“And that’s what happens, miss. When I raise them from eggs I don’t do that. I’ve got a special glove, miss—”
“That’s absolutely fascinating, but I’d better go,” said Agnes, quickly.
“Yes, miss.”
She’d spotted the quarry, walking across the hall.
There was something unmistakable about him. It was as if he was a witch. It wasn’t that his black robe ended at the knees and became a pair of legs encased in gray socks and sandals, or that his hat had a tiny crown but a brim big enough to set out your dinner on. It was because wherever he walked, he was in a little empty space that seemed to move around him, just like you got around witches. No one wanted to get too close to witches.
She couldn’t see his face. He was making a beeline for the buffet table.
“Excuse me, Miss Nitt?”
Shawn had appeared at her side. He stood very stiffly, because if he made any sudden turns the oversized wig tended to spin on his head.
“Yes, Shawn?” said Agnes.
“The queen wants a word, miss,” said Shawn.
“With me?”
“Yes, miss. She’s up in the Ghastly Green Drawing Room, miss.” Shawn swiveled slowly. His wig stayed facing the same way.
Agnes hesitated. It was a royal command, she supposed, even if it was only from Magrat Garlick as was, and as such it superseded anything Nanny had asked her to do. Anyway, she had spotted the priest, and it was not as though he was going to set fire to everyone over the canapés. She’d better go.
A little hatch shot open behind the doleful Igor.
“Why’ve we stopped this time?”
“Troll’th in the way, marthter.”
“A what?”
Igor rolled his eyes. “A troll’th in the way,” he said.
The hatch shut. There was a whispered conversation inside the