Lords and Ladies - Terry Pratchett [83]
“You’re falling for it too,” said Granny. “All that dreamy-weamy, eyes-across-a-crowded-room stuff. Can’t imagine how you keep your job as head wizard.”
“Mainly by checking my bed carefully and makin’ sure someone else has already had a slice of whatever it is I’m eating,” said Ridcully, with disarming honesty. “There’s not much to it, really. Mainly it’s signin’ things and having a good shout—”
Ridcully gave up.
“Anyway, you looked pretty surprised when you saw me,” he said. “Your face went white.”
“Anyone’d go white, seeing a full-grown man standing there looking like a sheep about to choke,” said Granny.
“You really don’t let up, do you?” said Ridcully. “Amazing. You don’t give an inch.”
Another leaf drifted past.
Ridcully didn’t move his head.
“You know,” he said, his voice staying quite level, “either autumn comes really early in these parts, or the birds here are the ones out of that story I mentioned, or someone’s in the tree above us.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes, because I’ve been paying attention while you were dodging the traffic in Memory Lane,” said Granny. “There’s at least five of ’em, and they’re right above us. How’s those magic fingers of yours?”
“I could probably manage a fireball.”
“Wouldn’t work. Can you carry us out of here?”
“Not both of us.”
“Just you?”
“Probably, but I’m not going to leave you.”
Granny rolled her eyes. “It’s true, you know,” she said. “All men are swains. Push off, you soft old bugger. They’re not intending to kill me. At least, not yet. But they don’t hardly know nothing about wizards and they’ll chop you down without thinking.”
“Now who’s being soft?”
“I don’t want to see you dead when you could be doin’ something useful.”
“Running away isn’t useful.”
“It’s going to be a lot more useful than staying here.”
“I’d never forgive myself if I went.”
“And I’d never forgive you if you stayed, and I’m a lot more unforgiving than you are,” said Granny. “When it’s all over, try to find Gytha Ogg. Tell her to look in my old box. She’ll know what’s in there. And if you don’t go now—”
An arrow hit the stump beside Ridcully.
“The buggers are firing at me!” he shouted. “If I had my crossbow—”
“I should go and get it, then,” said Granny.
“Right! I’ll be back instantly!”
Ridcully vanished. A moment later several lumps of castle masonry dropped out of the space he had just occupied.
“That’s him out of the way, then,” said Granny, to no one in particular.
She stood up, and gazed around at the trees.
“All right,” she said, “here I am. I ain’t running. Come and get me. Here I am. All of me.”
Magrat calmed down. Of course it existed. Every castle had one. And of course this one was used. There was a trodden path through the dust to the rack a few feet away from the door, where a few suits of unraveling chain-mail hung on a rack, next to the pikes.
Shawn probably came in here every day.
It was the armory.
Greebo hopped down from Magrat’s shoulders and wandered off down the cobwebbed avenues, in his endless search for anything small and squeaky.
Magrat followed him, in a daze.
The kings of Lancre had never thrown anything away. At least, they’d never thrown anything away if it was possible to kill someone with it.
There was armor for men. There was armor for horses. There was armor for fighting dogs. There was even armor for ravens, although King Gurnt the Stupid’s plan for an aerial attack force had never really got off the ground. There were more pikes, and swords, cutlasses, rapiers, epees, broadswords, flails, morningstars, maces, clubs, and huge knobs with spikes. They were all piled together and, in those places where the roof had leaked, were rusted into a lump. There were longbows, short bows, pistol bows, stirrup bows, and crossbows, piled like firewood and stacked with the same lack of care. Odd bits of armor were piled in more heaps, and were red with rust. In fact rust was everywhere. The whole huge room was full of the death of iron.
Magrat went on, like some clockwork toy that won’t change direction until it bumps into something.
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