Lords and Ladies

side of the path another elf took aim. And then its world flowed away from it…
    This is the inside of the mind of an elf:
    Here are the normal five senses but they are all subordinate to the sixth sense. There is no formal word for it on the Discworld, because the force is so weak that it is only ever encountered by observant blacksmiths, who call it the Love of Iron. Navigators might have discovered it were it not that the Disc’s standing magical field is much more reliable. But bees sense it, because bees sense everything. Pigeons navigate by it. And everywhere in the multiverse elves use it to know exactly where they are.
    It must be hard for humans, forever floundering through inconvenient geography. Humans are always slightly lost. It’s a basic characteristic. It explains a lot about them.
    Elves are never lost at all. It’s a basic characteristic. It explains a lot about them.
    Elves have absolute position. The flow of the silvery force dimly outlines the landscape. Creatures generate small amounts of it themselves, and become perceptible in the flux. Their muscles crackle with it, their minds buzz with it. For those who learn how, even thoughts can be read by the tiny local changes in the flow.
    For an elf, the world is something to reach out and take. Except for the terrible metal that drinks the force and deforms the flux universe like a heavy weight on a rubber sheet and blinds them and deafens them and leaves them rudderless and more alone than most humans could ever be …
    The elf toppled forward.
    Ponder Stibbons lowered the sword.
    Almost everyone else would not have thought much about it. But Ponder’s wretched fate was to look for patterns in an uncaring world.
    “But I hardly touched him,” he said, to no one except himself.

    “‘And I kissed her in the shrubbery where the nightingales’—sing it, you bastards! Two, three!”
    They didn’t know where they were. They didn’t know where they’d been. They were not fully certain who they were. But the Lancre Morris Men had reached some sort of state now where it was easier to go on than stop. Singing attracted elves, but singing also fascinated them…
    The dancers whirled and hopped, gyrated and skipped along the paths. They pranced through isolated hamlets, where elves left whoever they were torturing to draw closer in the light of the burning buildings…
    “‘With a WACK foladiddle-di-do, sing too-rahli-ay!’”
    Six sticks did their work, right on the beat.
    “Where’re we goin’, Jason?”
    “I reckon we’ve gone down Slippery Hollow and’re circling back toward the town,” said Jason, hopping past Baker. “Keep goin’, Carter!”
    “The rain’s got in the keys, Jason!”
    “Don’t matter! They don’t know the difference! It’s good enough for folk music!”
    “I think I broke my stick on that last one, Jason!”
    “Just you keep dancing, Tinker! Now, lads…how about Gathering Peasecods ? We might as well get some practice in, since we’re here…”
    “There’s some people up ahead,” said Tailor, as he skipped past, “I can see torches an’ that.”
    “Human, two, three, or more elves?”
    “Dunno!”
    Jason spun and danced back.
    “Is that you, our Jason?”
    Jason cackled as the voice echoed among the dripping trees.
    “It’s our mam! And our Shawn. And—and lots of people! We’ve made it, lads!”
    “Jason,” said Carter.
    “Yes?”
    “I ain’t sure I can stop!”

    The Queen examined her face in a mirror attached to the tent pole.
    “Why?” said Granny. “What is it you see?”
    “Whatever I want to see,” said the Queen. “You know that. And now…let us ride to the castle. Tie her hands together. But leave her legs free.”

    It rained again, gently, although around the stones it turned to sleet. The water dripped off Magrat’s hair and temporarily unraveled the tangles.
    Mist coiled out from among the trees where summer and winter fought.
    Magrat watched the elven court mount up. She made out the figure of Verence, moving like a puppet. And Granny Weatherwax, tied behind the Queen’s horse by a long length of rope.
    The horses splashed through the mud. They had silver bells on their harness, dozens of them.
    The elves in the castle, the night of ghosts and shadows, all of this was just a hard knot in her memory. But the jingling of the bells was like a nailfile rubbed across her teeth.
    The Queen halted the procession a few yards away.
    “Ah, the brave girl,” she said.