Carpe Jugulum

Verence. “Where’s the Royal Historian?”
    Shawn coughed. “It’s not Wednesday evening and I’ll have to go and fetch the proper hat, sire—”
    “Can we change it or not, man?”
    “Er…it has been said , sire. At the official time. I think it’s her name now, but I’ll need to go and look it up. Everyone heard it, sire.”
    “No, you can’t change it,” said Nanny, who as the Royal Historian’s mum took it as read that she knew more than the Royal Historian. “Look at old Moocow Poorchick over in Slice, for one.”
    “What happened to him, then?” said the King sharply.
    “His full name is James What the Hell’s That Cow Doing in Here Poorchick,” said Magrat.
    “That was a very strange day, I do remember that,” said Nanny.
    “And if my mother had been sensible enough to tell Brother Perdore my name instead of coming over all bashful and writing it down, life would have been a whole lot different,” said Magrat. She glanced nervously at Verence. “Probably worse, of course.”
    “So I’ve got to take Esmerelda out to her people and tell them one of her middle names is Note Spelling?” said Verence.
    “Well, we did once have a king called My God He’s Heavy the First,” said Nanny. “And the beer’s been on for the last couple of hours so, basic’ly, you’ll get a cheer whatever you say.”
    Besides, thought Agnes, I know for a fact there’s people out there called Syphilidae Wilson and Yodel Lightley and Total Biscuit. *
    Verence smiled. “Oh well…let me have her…”
    “Whifm…” said Mightily Oats.
    “…and perhaps someone ought to give this man a drink.”
    “I’m so terribly, terribly sorry,” whispered the priest, as the King walked between the lines of guests.
    “Been on the drink already, I expect,” said Nanny.
    “I never ever touch alcohol!” moaned the priest. He dabbed at his streaming eyes with a handkerchief.
    “I knew there was something wrong with him as soon as I looked at him,” said Nanny. “Where’s Esme, then?”
    “I don’t know , Nanny!” said Agnes.
    “She’d know about this, you mark my words. This’ll be a feather in her cap, right enough, a princess named after her. She’ll be crowing about it for months. I’m going to see what’s going on.”
    She stumped off.
    Agnes grabbed the priest’s arm.
    “Come along, you,” she sighed.
    “I really cannot, um, express how sorry—”
    “It’s a very strange evening all round.”
    “I’ve, I’ve, I’ve never, um, heard of the custom before—”
    “People put a lot of importance on words in these parts.”
    “I’m very much afraid the King will give a bad, um, report of me to Brother Melchio…”
    “Really.”
    There are some people who could turn even the most amiable character into a bully and he seemed to be one of them. There was something…sort of damp about him, the kind of helpless hopelessness that made people angry rather than charitable, the total certainty that if the whole world was a party he’d still find the kitchen.
    She seemed to be stuck with him. The VIPs were all crowded around the open doors, where loud cheering indicated that the people of Lancre thought that Note Spelling was a nice name for a future queen.
    “Perhaps you should just sit there and try to get a grip,” she said. “There’s going to be dancing later on.”
    “Oh, I don’t dance,” said Mightily Oats. “Dancing is a snare to entrap the weak-willed.”
    “Oh. Well, I suppose there’s a barbecue outside…”
    Mightily Oats dabbed at his eyes again.
    “Um, any fish?”
    “I doubt it.”
    “We eat only fish this month.”
    “Oh.” But a deadpan voice didn’t seem to work. He still wanted to talk to her.
    “Because the prophet Brutha eschewed meat, um, when he was wandering in the desert, you see.”
    “Each mouthful forty times?”
    “Pardon?”
    “Sorry, I was thinking of something else.” Against her better judgment, Agnes let curiosity enter her life. “What meat is there to eat, in a desert?”
    “Um, none, I think.”
    “So he didn’t exactly refuse to eat it, did he?” Agnes scanned the gathering crowds, but no one seemed anxious to join in this little discussion.
    “Um…you’d have to, um, ask Brother Melchio that. I’m so sorry. I think I have a migraine coming on…”
    You don’t believe anything you’re saying, do you? Agnes thought. Nervousness and a sort of low-grade terror was radiating off him. Perdita added: What a damp little