Carpe Jugulum - Terry Pratchett [50]
That meant the cellars. Logical, really, but not good.
You’re doing this to impress me, said Perdita. You’re doing it to try to be extrovert and dynamic.
Shut up, Agnes thought.
A voice outside said, “Put them down there and puth off.”
That was the one who called himself Igor. Agnes wished she’d thought of a weapon.
“Get rid of me, would they?” the voice went on, against a background of disappearing footsteps. “Thith ith all going to end in tearth. It’th all very well for them, but who hath to go and thweep up the dutht, eh? That’th what I’d like to know. Who’th it hath to pull their headth out of the pickle jarth? Who’th it hath to find them under the ithe? I mutht’ve pulled out more thtaketh than I’ve had wriggly dinnerth…”
Light flooded in as the coffin lid was removed.
Igor stared at Agnes. Agnes stared at Igor.
Igor unfroze first. He smiled—he had a geometrically interesting smile, because of the row of stitches right across it—and said, “Dear me, thomeone’th been lithening to too many thtorieth. Got any garlic?”
“Masses,” Agnes lied.
“Won’t work. Any holy water?”
“Gallons.”
“It—”
A coffin lid smacked down on Igor’s head, making an oddly metallic sound. He reached up slowly to rub the spot, and then turned around. This time the lid smacked into his face.
“Oh…thit,” he said, and folded up. Oats appeared, face aglow with adrenaline and righteousness.
“I smote him mightily!”
“Good, good, let’s get out of here! Help me up!”
“My wrath descended upon him like—”
“It was a heavy lid and he’s not that young,” said Agnes. “Look, I used to play down here, I know how to get to the back stairs—”
“He’s not a vampire? He looks like one. First time I’ve ever seen a patchwork man…”
“He’s a servant. Now, please come—” Agnes paused. “Can you make holy water?”
“What, here?”
“I mean bless it, or dedicate it to Om, or…boil the hell out of it, perhaps,” said Agnes.
“There is a small ceremony I can—” He stopped. “That’s right! Vampires can be stopped by holy water!”
“Good. We’ll go via the kitchens, then.”
The huge kitchens were almost empty. They never bustled these days, since the royal couple were not the sort who demanded three meat courses with every meal, and at the moment there was only Mrs. Scorbic the cook in there, calmly rolling out pastry.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Scorbic,” said Agnes, deciding the best course was to march past and rely on the authority of the pointy hat. “We’ve just dropped in for some water, don’t worry, I know where the pump is, but if you’ve got a couple of empty bottles that would be helpful.”
“That’s right, dear,” said Mrs. Scorbic.
Agnes stopped and turned.
Mrs. Scorbic was famously acerbic, especially on the subject of soya, nut cutlets, vegetarian meals and any vegetable that couldn’t be boiled until it was yellow. Even the King hesitated to set foot in her kitchen, but whereas he only got an angry silence, lesser mortals got the full force of her generalized wrath. Mrs. Scorbic was permanently angry, in the same way that mountains are permanently large.
Today she was wearing a white dress, a white apron, a big white mob cap and a white bandage around her throat. She also looked, for want of any better word, happy.
Agnes urgently waved Oats toward the pump. “Find something to fill up,” she hissed, and then said brightly, “How are you feeling, Mrs. Scorbic?”
“All the better for you asking, miss.”
“I expect you’re busy with all these visitors?”
“Yes, miss.”
Agnes coughed. “And, er, what did you give them for breakfast?”
The cook’s huge pink brow wrinkled. “Can’t remember, miss.”
“Well done.”
Oats nudged her. “I’ve filled up a couple of empty bottles and I said the Purification Rite of Om over them.”
“And that will work?”
“You must have faith.”
The cook was watching them amiably.
“Thank you, Mrs. Scorbic,” said Agnes. “Please get on with…whatever you were doing.”
“Yes, miss.” The cook