Lords and Ladies - Terry Pratchett [85]
They didn’t say much. They just laughed a lot. They were a merry folk, especially when they were twisting your arm to see how far it could go.
The elves spoke to one another in their own language. Then one of them turned to Shawn, and indicated the armory door.
“We wish the lady to come out,” it said. “You must say to her, if she does not come out, we will play with you some more.”
“What will you do to us if she does come out?” said Shawn.
“Oh, we shall still play with you,” said the elf. “That’s what makes it so much fun. But she must hope, must she not? Talk to her now.”
He was pushed up to the door. He knocked on it, in what he hoped was a respectful way.
“Um. Miss Queen?”
Magrat’s voice was muffled.
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Shawn.”
“I know.”
“I’m out here. Um. I think they’ve hurt Miss Tockley. Um. They say they’ll hurt me some more if you don’t come out. But you don’t have to come out because they daren’t come in there because of all the iron. So I shouldn’t listen to them if I was you.”
There were some distant clankings, and then a twang.
“Miss Magrat?”
“Ask her,” said the elf, “if there is any food and water in there.”
“Miss, they say—”
One of the elves jerked him away. Two of them took up station either side of the doorway, and one put his pointed ear to it.
Then it knelt down and peered through the keyhole, taking care not to come too near the metal of the lock.
There was a sound no louder than a click. The elf remained motionless for a moment, and then keeled over gently, without a sound.
Shawn blinked.
There was about an inch of crossbow bolt sticking out of its eye. The feathers had been sheared off by its passage through the keyhole.
“Wow,” he said.
The armory door swung open, revealing nothing but darkness.
One of the elves started to laugh.
“So much for him,” it said. “How stupid…Lady? Will you listen to your warrior?”
He gripped Shawn’s broken arm, and twisted.
Shawn tried not to scream. Purple lights flashed in front of his eyes. He wondered what would happen if he passed out.
He wished his mum was here.
“Lady,” said the elf, “if you—”
“All right,” said Magrat’s voice, from somewhere in the darkness. “I’m going to come out. You must promise not to hurt me.”
“Oh, indeed I do, lady.”
“And you’ll let Shawn go.”
“Yes.”
The elves on either side of the doorway nodded at each other.
“Please?” Magrat pleaded.
“Yes.”
Shawn groaned. If it had been Mum or Mistress Weatherwax, they’d have fought to the death. Mum was right—Magrat always was the nice soft one…
…who’d just fired a crossbow through a keyhole.
Some eighth sense made Shawn shift his weight. If the elf relaxed his grip for just one second, Shawn was ready to stagger.
Magrat appeared in the doorway. She was carrying an ancient wooden box with the word “Candles” on the side in peeling paint.
Shawn looked hopefully along the corridor.
Magrat smiled brightly at the elf beside him. “This is for you,” she said, handing over the box. The elf took it automatically. “But you mustn’t open it. And remember you promised not to hurt me.”
The elves closed in behind Magrat. One of them raised a hand, with a stone knife in it.
“Lady?” said the elf holding the box, which was rocking gently in its hands.
“Yes?” said Magrat, meekly.
“I lied to you.”
The knife plunged toward her back.
And shattered.
The elf looked at Magrat’s innocent expression, and opened the box.
Greebo had spent an irritating two minutes in that box. Technically, a cat locked in a box may be alive or it may be dead. You never know until you look. In fact, the mere act of opening the box will determine the state of the cat, although in this case there were three determinate states the cat could be in: these being Alive, Dead, and Bloody Furious.
Shawn dived sideways as Greebo went off like a Claymore mine.
“Don’t worry about him,” said Magrat dreamily, as the