Wyrd Sisters - Terry Pratchett [24]
He found that almost as annoying as trees. A jolly good riot, now, that would have been more—more appropriate. One could have ridden out and hanged people, there would have been the creative tension so essential to the proper development of the state. Back down on the plains, if you kicked people they kicked back. Up here, when you kicked people they moved away and just waited patiently for your leg to fall off. How could a king go down in history ruling a people like that? You couldn’t oppress them any more than you could oppress a mattress.
He had raised taxes and burned a few villages on general principles, just to show everyone who they were dealing with. It didn’t seem to have any effect.
And then there were these witches. They haunted him.
“Fool!”
The Fool, who had been having a quiet doze behind the throne, awoke in terror.
“Yes!”
“Come hither, Fool.”
The Fool jingled miserably across the floor.
“Tell me, Fool, does it always rain here?”
“Marry, nuncle—”
“Just answer the question,” said Lord Felmet, with iron patience.
“Sometimes it stops, sir. To make room for the snow. And sometimes we get some right squand’ring orgulous fogs,” said the Fool.
“Orgulous?” said the duke, absently.
The Fool couldn’t stop himself. His horrified ears heard his mouth blurt out: “Thick, my lord. From the Latatian orgulum, a soup or broth.”
But the duke wasn’t listening. Listening to the prattle of underlings was not, in his experience, particularly worthwhile.
“I am bored, Fool.”
“Let me entertain you, my lord, with many a merry quip and lightsome jest.”
“Try me.”
The Fool licked his dry lips. He hadn’t actually expected this. King Verence had been happy enough just to give him a kick, or throw a bottle at his head. A real king.
“I’m waiting. Make me laugh.”
The Fool took the plunge.
“Why, sirrah,” he quavered, “why may a caudled fillhorse be deemed the brother to a hiren candle in the night?”
The duke frowned. The Fool felt it better not to wait.
“Withal, because a candle may be greased, yet a fillhorse be without a fat argier,” he said and, because it was part of the joke, patted Lord Felmet lightly with his balloon on a stick and twanged his mandolin.
The duke’s index finger tapped an abrupt tattoo on the arm of the throne.
“Yes?” he said. “And then what happened?”
“That, er, was by way of being the whole thing,” said the Fool, and added, “My grandad thought it was one of his best.”
“I daresay he told it differently,” said the duke. He stood up. “Summon my huntsmen. I think I shall ride out on the chase. And you can come too.”
“My lord, I cannot ride!”
For the first time that morning Lord Felmet smiled.
“Capital!” he said. “We will give you a horse that can’t be ridden. Ha. Ha.”
He looked down at his bandages. And afterward, he told himself, I’ll get the armorer to send me up a file.
A year went past. The days followed one another patiently. Right back at the beginning of the multiverse they had tried all passing at the same time, and it hadn’t worked.
Tomjon sat under Hwel’s rickety table, watching his father as he walked up and down between the lattys, waving one arm and talking. Vitoller always waved his arms when he spoke; if you tied his hands behind his back he would be dumb.
“All right,” he was saying, “how about The King’s Brides?”
“Last year,” said the voice of Hwel.
“All right, then. We’ll give them Mallo, the Tyrant of Klatch,” said Vitoller, and his larynx smoothly changed gear as his voice became a great rolling thing that could rattle the windows across the width of the average town square. “‘In blood I came, And by blood rule, That none will dare assay these walls of blood—’”
“We did it the year before,” said Hwel calmly. “Anyway, people are fed up with kings. They want a bit of a chuckle.”
“They are not fed up with my kings,” said Vitoller. “My dear boy, people do not come to the theater to laugh, they come to Experience, to Learn, to Wonder—”
“To laugh,” said Hwel, flatly. “Have a look at this one.”
Tomjon heard the rustle of paper and