Carpe Jugulum

technically new to all this, down at genetic level they knew that when the mob is at the gate the mobee should be screaming defiance in a burning laboratory or engaged in a cliffhanger struggle with some hero on the battlements.
    He shouldn’t be lighting a cigar.
    They fell silent, scythes and pitchforks hovering in mid-shake. The only sound was the cracking of the torches.
    The Count blew a smoke ring.
    “Good evening,” he said, as it drifted away. “You must be the mob.”
    Someone at the back of the crowd, who hadn’t been keeping up to date, threw a stone. Count Magpyr caught it without looking.
    “The pitchforks are good,” he said. “I like the pitchforks. As pitchforks they certainly pass muster. And the torches, well, that goes without saying. But the scythes…no, no, I’m afraid not. They simply will not do. Not a good mob weapon, I have to tell you. Take it from me. A simple sickle is much better. Start waving scythes around and someone could lose an ear. Do try to learn.”
    He ambled over to a very large man who was holding a pitchfork.
    “And what is your name, young man?”
    “Er…Jason Ogg, sir.”
    “The blacksmith?”
    “Yessir?”
    “Wife and family doing well?”
    “Yessir.”
    “Well done. Got everything you need?”
    “Er…yessir.”
    “Good man. Carry on. If you could keep the noise down over dinner, I would be grateful, but of course I appreciate you have a vital traditional role to play. I’ll have the servants bring out some mugs of hot toddy shortly.” He knocked the ash off his cigar. “Oh, and may I introduce you to Sergeant Kraput, known to his friends as ‘Bent Bill,’ I believe, and this gentlemen here picking his teeth with his knife is Corporal Svitz, who I understand has no friends at all. I suppose it is faintly possible that he will make some here. They and their men, who I suppose could be called soldiers in a sort of informal, easy-come easy-go, cut-and-thrust sort of way”—here Corporal Svitz leered and flicked a gobbet of anonymous rations from a yellowing molar—“will be going on duty in, oh, about an hour. Purely for reasons of security, you understand.”
    “An’ then we’ll gut yer like a clam and stuff yer with straw,” said Corporal Svitz.
    “Ah. This is technical military language of which I know little,” said the Count. “I do so hope there is no unpleasantness.”
    “I don’t,” said Sergeant Kraput.
    “What scamps they are,” said the Count. “Good evening to you all. Come, gentlemen.”
    He stepped back into the courtyard. The gates, their wood so heavy and toughened with age that it was like iron, swung shut.
    On the other side of it was silence, followed by the puzzled mumbling of players who have had their ball confiscated.
    The Count nodded at Vlad and flung out his hands theatrically.
    “Ta-da! And that is how we do it—”
    “And d’you think you’d do it twice?” said a voice from the steps.
    The vampires looked up at the three witches.
    “Ah, Mrs. Ogg,” said the Count, waving the soldiers away impatiently. “And your majesty. And Agnes…Now…was it three for a girl. Or three for a funeral?”
    The stone cracked under Nanny’s feet as Magpyr walked forward.
    “Do you think I’m stupid, dear ladies?” he said. “Did you really think I’d let you run around if there was the least chance that you could harm us?”
    Lightning crackled across the sky.
    “I can control the weather,” said the Count. “And lesser creatures which, let me tell you, includes humans. And yet you plot away and think you can have some kind of…of duel ? What a lovely image. However…”
    The witches were lifted off their feet. Hot air curled around them. A rising wind outside made the torches of the mob stream flames like flags.
    “What happened to us harnessing the power of all three of us together?” hissed Magrat.
    “That rather depended on him standing still!” said Nanny.
    “Stop this at once!” Magrat shouted. “And how dare you smoke in my castle! That can have a very serious effect on people around you!”
    “Is anyone going to say ‘You’ll never get away with it’?” said the Count, ignoring her. He walked up the steps. They bobbed helplessly along ahead of him, like so many balloons. The hall doors slammed shut after him.
    “Oh, someone must,” he said.
    “You won’t get away with this!”
    The Count beamed. “And I didn’t even see your lips move—”
    “Depart from here and return to the