Lords and Ladies - Terry Pratchett [112]
“I brung the sugar bowl, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg.
Granny eyed it hungrily, and then looked at the bees that were taking off from her head like planes from a stricken carrier.
“Pour a dzzrop of water on it, then, and tip it out on the table for them.”
She stared triumphantly at their faces as Nanny Ogg bustled off.
“I done it with beezzz! No one can do it with beezzz, and I done it! You endzzz up with your mind all flying in different directionzzz! You got to be good to do it with beezzz!”
Nanny Ogg sloshed the bowl of makeshift syrup across the table. The swarm descended.
“You’re alive?” Ridcully managed.
“That’s what a univerzzity education doezz for you,” said Granny, trying to massage some life into her arms. “You’ve only got to be sitting up and talking for five minutzz and they can work out you’re alive.”
Nanny Ogg handed her a glass of water. It hovered in the air for a moment and then crashed to the floor, because Granny had tried to grasp it with her fifth leg.
“Zzorry.”
“I knew you wasn’t certain!” said Nanny.
“Czertain? Of courze I waz certain! Never in any doubt whatsoever.”
Magrat thought about the will.
“You never had a moment’s doubt?”
Granny Weatherwax had the grace not to look her in the eye. Instead, she rubbed her hands together.
“What’s been happening while I’ve been away?”
“Well,” said Nanny, “Magrat stood up to the—”
“Oh, I knew she’d do that. Had the wedding, have you?”
“Wedding?” The rest of them exchanged glances.
“Of course not!” said Magrat. “Brother Perdore of the Nine Day Wonderers was going to do it and he was knocked out cold by an elf, and anyway people are all—”
“Don’t let’s have any excuses,” said Granny briskly. “Anyway, a senior wizard can conduct a service at a pinch, ain’t that right?”
“I, I, I think so,” said Ridcully, who was falling behind a bit in world events.
“Right. A wizard’s only a priest without a god and a damp handshake,” said Granny.
“But half the guests have run away!” said Magrat.
“We’ll round up some more,” said Granny.
“Mrs. Scorbic will never get the wedding feast done in time!”
“You’ll have to tell her to,” said Granny.
“The bridesmaids aren’t here!”
“We’ll make do.”
“I haven’t got a dress!”
“What’s that you’ve got on?”
Magrat looked down at the stained chain-mail, the mud-encrusted breastplate, and the few damp remnants of white silk that hung over them like a ragged tabard.
“Looks good to me,” said Granny. “Nanny’ll do your hair.”
Magrat reached up instinctively, removed the winged helmet, and patted her hair. Bits of twigs and fragments of heather had twisted themselves in it with comb-breaking complexity. It never looked good for five minutes together at the best of times; now it was a bird’s nest.
“I think I’ll leave it,” she said.
Granny nodded approvingly.
“That’s the way of it,” she said. “It’s not what you’ve got that matters, it’s how you’ve got it. Well, we’re just about ready, then.”
Nanny leaned toward her and whispered.
“What? Oh, yes. Where’s the groom?”
“He’s a bit muzzy. Not sure what happened,” said Magrat.
“Perfectly normal,” said Nanny, “after a stag night.”
There were difficulties to overcome:
“We need a Best Man.”
“Ook.”
“Well, at least put some clothes on.”
Mrs. Scorbic the cook folded her huge pink arms.
“Can’t be done,” she said firmly.
“I thought perhaps just some salad and quiche and some light—” Magrat said, imploringly.
The cook’s whiskery chin stuck out firmly.
“Them elves turned the whole kitchen upside down,” she said. “It’s going to take me days to get it straight. Anyway, everyone knows raw vegetables are bad for you, and I can’t be having with them eggy pies.”
Magrat looked beseechingly at Nanny Ogg; Granny Weatherwax had wandered off into the gardens, where she was getting a tendency to stick her nose in flowers right out of her system.
“Nothin’ to do with me,” said Nanny. “It’s not my kitchen, dear.”
“No, it’s mine. I’ve been cook here for years,” said Mrs. Scorbic, “and I knows how things should be done, and I’m not going to be ordered around in my