Lords and Ladies - Terry Pratchett [61]
There were ambling footsteps behind him, and he turned to see a short, red-faced youth in ill-fitting and baggy chain-mail, which made him look like a lizard that had lost a lot of weight very quickly.
“Where’s the coach driver?” said Shawn Ogg.
“He’s ill,” said Ridcully. “He had a sudden attack of bandits. What do we do with the mail?”
“I take the palace stuff, and we generally leave the sack hanging up on a nail outside the tavern so that people can help themselves,” said Shawn.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” said Ponder.
“Don’t think so. It’s a strong nail,” said Shawn, rummaging in the sack.
“I meant, don’t people steal letters?”
“Oh, they wouldn’t do that, they wouldn’t do that. One of the witches’d go and stare at ’em if they did that.” Shawn stuffed a few packages under his arm and hung the sack on the aforesaid nail.
“Yes, that’s another thing they used to have round here,” said Ridcully. “Witches! Let me tell you about the witches round here—”
“Our mum’s a witch,” said Shawn conversationally, rummaging in the sack.
“As fine a body of women as you could hope to meet,” said Ridcully, with barely a hint of mental gear-clashing. “And not a bunch of interfering power-mad old crones at all, whatever anyone might say.”
“Are you here for the wedding?”
“That’s right. I’m the Archchancellor of Unseen University, this is Mr. Stibbons, a wizard, this—where are you? Oh, there you are—this is Mr. Casanunda—”
“Count,” said Casanunda. “I’m a Count.”
“Really? You never said.”
“Well, you don’t, do you? It’s not the first thing you say.”
Ridcully’s eyes narrowed.
“But I thought dwarfs didn’t have titles,” he said.
“I performed a small service for Queen Agantia of Skund,” said Casanunda.
“Did you? My word. How small?”
“Not that small.”
“My word. And that’s the Bursar, and this is the Librarian.” Ridcully took a step backward, waved his hands in the air, and silently mouthed the words: Don’t Say Monkey.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Shawn, politely.
Ridcully felt moved to investigate.
“The Librarian,” he repeated.
“Yes. You said.” Shawn nodded at the orang-utan. “How d’you do?”
“Ook.”
“You might be wondering why he looks like that,” Ridcully prompted.
“No, sir.”
“No?”
“My mum says none of us can help how we’re made,” said Shawn.
“What a singular lady. And what is her name?” said Ridcully.
“Mrs. Ogg, sir.”
“Ogg? Ogg? Name rings a bell. Any relation to Sobriety Ogg?”
“He was my dad, sir.”
“Good grief. Old Sobriety’s son? How is the old devil?”
“Dunno, sir, what with him being dead.”
“Oh dear. How long ago?”
“These past thirty years,” said Shawn.
“But you don’t look any older than twen—” Ponder began. Ridcully elbowed him sharply in the ribcage.
“This is the countryside,” he hissed. “People do things differently here. And more often.” He turned back to Shawn’s pink and helpful face.
“Things seem to be waking up a bit,” he said, and indeed shutters were coming down around the square. “We’ll get some breakfast in the tavern. They used to do wonderful breakfasts.” He sniffed again, and beamed.
“Now that,” he said, “is what I call fresh air.”
Shawn looked around carefully.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “That’s what we call it, too.”
There was the sound of someone frantically running, and then a pause, and King Verence II appeared around the corner, walking slowly and calmly with a very red face.
“Certainly gives people a rosy complexion,” said Ridcully cheerfully.
“It’s the king!” hissed Shawn. “And me without my trumpet!”
“Um,” said Verence. “Post been yet, Shawn?”
“Oh, yes, sire!” said Shawn, almost as flustered as the king. “Got it right here. Don’t you worry about it! I’ll open it all up and have it on your desk right away, sire!”
“Um…”
“Something the matter, sire?”
“Um…I think perhaps…”
Shawn was already tearing at the wrappers.
“Here’s that book on etiquette you’ve been waiting for, sire, and the pig stockbook, and…what’s this one…?”
Verence made a grab for it. Shawn automatically tried to hang on to it. The wrapping split, and the large bulky book thumped on to the cobbles.