Lords and Ladies - Terry Pratchett [36]
And there was the famous maze or, at least, it would be a famous maze. Verence had planted it because he’d heard that stately castles should have a maze and everyone agreed that, once the bushes were a bit higher than their current height of about one foot, it would indeed be a very famous maze and people would be able to get lost in it without having to shut their eyes and bend down.
Magrat drifted disconsolately along the gravel path, her huge wide dress leaving a smooth trail.
There was a scream from the other side of the hedge, but Magrat recognized the voice. There were certain traditions in Lancre castle which she had learned.
“Good morning, Hodgesaargh,” she said.
The castle falconer appeared around the corner, dab-bing at his face with a handkerchief. On his other arm, claws gripping like a torture instrument, was a bird. Evil red eyes glared at Magrat over a razor-sharp beak.
“I’ve got a new hawk,” said Hodgesaargh proudly. “It’s a Lancre crowhawk. They’ve never been tamed before. I’m taming it. I’ve already stopped it pecking myooooow—”
He flailed the hawk madly against the wall until it let go of his nose.
Strictly speaking, Hodgesaargh wasn’t his real name. On the other hand, on the basis that someone’s real name is the name they introduce themselves to you by, he was definitely Hodgesaargh.
This was because the hawks and falcons in the castle mews were all Lancre birds and therefore naturally possessed of a certain “sod you” independence of mind. After much patient breeding and training Hodgesaargh had managed to get them to let go of someone’s wrist, and now he was working on stopping them viciously attacking the person who had just been holding them, i.e., invariably Hodgesaargh. He was nevertheless a remarkably optimistic and good-natured man who lived for the day when his hawks would be the finest in the world. The hawks lived for the day when they could eat his other ear.
“I can see you’re doing very well,” said Magrat. “You don’t think, do you, that they might respond better to cruelty?”
“Oh, no, miss,” said Hodgesaargh, “you have to be kind. You have to build up a bond, you see. If they don’t trust you theyaaaagh—”
“I’ll just leave you to get on with it then, shall I?” said Magrat, as feathers filled the air.
Magrat had been gloomily unsurprised to learn that there was a precise class and gender distinction in falconry—Verence, being king, was allowed a gyrfalcon, whatever the hell that was, any earls in the vicinity could fly a peregrine, and priests were allowed sparrowhawks. Commoners were just about allowed a stick to throw.* Magrat found herself wondering what Nanny Ogg would be allowed—a small chicken on a spring, probably.
There was no specific falcon for a witch but, as a queen, the Lancre rules of falconry allowed her to fly the wowhawk or Lappet-faced Worrier. It was small and shortsighted and preferred to walk everywhere. It fainted at the sight of blood. And about twenty wowhawks could kill a pigeon, if it was a sick pigeon. She’d spent an hour with one on her wrist. It had wheezed at her, and eventually it had dozed off upside down.
But at least Hodgesaargh had a job to do. The castle was full of people doing jobs. Everyone had something useful to do except Magrat. She just had to exist. Of course, everyone would talk to her, provided she talked to them first. But she was always interrupting something important. Apart from ensuring the royal succession, which Verence had sent off for a book about, she—
“You just keep back there, girl. You don’t want to come no further,” said a voice.
Magrat bridled.
“Girl? One happens to be very nearly of the royal blood by marriage!”
“Maybe, but the bees don’t know that,” said the voice.
Magrat stopped.
She’d stepped out beyond what were the gardens from the point of view of the royal family