Carpe Jugulum - Terry Pratchett [88]
“…ton!”
“Ton!”
“Um, it’s, er, right…”
“Tetra!”
The Kelda dropped something on the fire. A white flame roared up, etching the room in black and white. Verence blinked.
When he managed to see again there was a crossbow bolt sticking in the wall just by his ear.
The Kelda growled some order, while white light still danced around the walls. The bearded pixie rattled his sticks again.
“Now ye must walk awa’. Noo!”
The Feegle let Verence go. He took a few tottering steps and collapsed on the floor, but the pixies weren’t watching him.
He looked up.
His shadow twisted on the wall where it had been pinned. It writhed for a moment, trying to clutch at the arrow with insubstantial hands, and then faded.
Verence raised his hand. There seemed to be a shadow there, too, but at least this one looked as if it was the regular kind.
The old pixie hobbled over to him.
“All fine now,” he said.
“You shot my shadow?” said Verence.
“Aye, ye could call it a shade,” said the pixie. “It’s the ’fluence they put on ye. But ye’ll be up and aboot in no time.”
“A boot?”
“Aboot the place,” said the pixie evenly. “All hail, your kingy. I’m Big Aggie’s Man. Ye’d call me the prime minister, I’m hazardin’. Will ye no’ have a huge dram and a burned bannock while yer waitin’?”
Verence rubbed his face. He did feel better already. The fog was drifting away.
“How can I ever repay you?” he said.
The pixie’s eyes gleamed happily.
“Oh, there’s a wee bitty thing the carlin’ Ogg said you could be givin’ us, hardly important at all,” he said.
“Anything,” said Verence.
A couple of pixies came up staggering under a rolled-up parchment, which was unfolded in front of Verence. The old pixie was suddenly holding a quill pen.
“It’s called a signature,” he said, as Verence stared at the tiny handwriting. “An’ make sure ye initial all the sub-clauses and codicils. We of the Nac mac Feegle are a simple folk,” he added, “but we write verra comp-lic-ated documents.”
Mightily Oats blinked at Granny over the top of his praying hands. She saw his gaze slide sideways to the ax, and then back to her.
“You wouldn’t reach it in time,” said Granny, without moving. “Should’ve got hold of it already if you were goin’ to use it. Prayer’s all very well. I can see where it can help you get your mind right. But an ax is an ax no matter what you believes.”
Oats relaxed a little. He’d expected a leap for the throat.
“If Hodgesaargh’s made any tea, I’m parched,” said Granny. She leaned against the anvil, panting. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand move slowly.
“I’ll get—I’ll ask—I’ll—”
“Man with his head screwed on properly, that falconer. A biscuit wouldn’t come amiss.”
Oats’s hand reached the ax handle.
“Still not quick enough,” said Granny. “Keep hold of it, though. Ax first, pray later. You look like a priest. What’s your god?”
“Er…Om.”
“That a he god or a she god?”
“A he. Yes. A he. Definitely a he.” It was one thing the Church hadn’t schismed over, strangely. “Er…you don’t mind, do you?”
“Why should I mind?”
“Well…your colleagues keep telling me the Omnians used to burn witches…”
“They never did,” said Granny.
“I’m afraid I have to admit that the records show—”
“They never burned witches,” said Granny. “Probably they burned some old ladies who spoke up or couldn’t run away. I wouldn’t look for witches bein’ burned,” she added, shifting position. “I might look for witches doin’ the burning, though. We ain’t all nice.”
Oats remembered the Count talking about contributing to the Arca Instrumentorum…
Those books were ancient! But so were vampires, weren’t they? And they were practically canonical! The freezing knife of doubt wedged itself deeper in his brain. Who knew who really wrote anything? What could you trust? Where was the holy writ? Where was the truth?
Granny pulled herself to her feet and tottered over the bench, where Hodgesaargh has left his jar of flame. She examined it carefully.
Oats tightened his grip on the ax. It was, he had to admit, slightly more comforting than prayer at the moment. Perhaps you could start