Lords and Ladies

folded her huge pink arms.
    “Can’t be done,” she said firmly.
    “I thought perhaps just some salad and quiche and some light—” Magrat said, imploringly.
    The cook’s whiskery chin stuck out firmly.
    “Them elves turned the whole kitchen upside down,” she said. “It’s going to take me days to get it straight. Anyway, everyone knows raw vegetables are bad for you, and I can’t be having with them eggy pies.”
    Magrat looked beseechingly at Nanny Ogg; Granny Weatherwax had wandered off into the gardens, where she was getting a tendency to stick her nose in flowers right out of her system.
    “Nothin’ to do with me,” said Nanny. “It’s not my kitchen, dear.”
    “No, it’s mine. I’ve been cook here for years,” said Mrs. Scorbic, “and I knows how things should be done, and I’m not going to be ordered around in my own kitchen by some chit of a girl.”
    Magrat sagged. Nanny tapped her on the shoulder.
    “You might need this at this point,” she said, and handed Magrat the winged helmet.
    “The king’s been very happy with—” Mrs. Scorbic began.
    There was a click. She looked down the length of a crossbow and met Magrat’s steady gaze.
    “Go ahead,” said the Queen of Lancre softly, “bake my quiche.”

    Verence sat in his nightshirt with his head in his hands. He could remember hardly anything about the night, except a feeling of coldness. And no one seemed very inclined to tell him.
    There was a faint creak as the door opened.
    He looked up.
    “Glad to see you’re up and about already,” said Granny Weatherwax. “I’ve come to help you dress.”
    “I’ve looked in the garderobe,” said Verence. “The…elves, was it?…they ransacked the place. There’s nothing I can wear.”
    Granny looked around the room. Then she went to a low chest and opened it. There was a faint tinkling of bells, and a flash of red and yellow.
    “I thought you never threw them away,” she said. “And you ain’t put on any weight, so they’ll still fit. On with the motley. Magrat’ll appreciate it.”
    “Oh, no,” said Verence. “I’m very firm about this. I’m king now. It’d be demeaning for Magrat to marry a Fool. I’ve got a position to maintain, for the sake of the kingdom. Besides, there is such a thing as pride.”
    Granny stared at him for so long that he shifted uncomfortably.
    “Well, there is,” he said.
    Granny nodded, and walked toward the doorway.
    “Why’re you leaving?” said Verence nervously.
    “I ain’t leaving,” said Granny, quietly, “I’m just shutting the door.”

    And then there was the incident with the crown.
    Ceremonies and Protocols of The Kingdom of Lancre was eventually found after a hurried search of Verence’s bedroom. It was very clear about the procedure. The new queen was crowned, by the king, as part of the ceremony. It wasn’t technically difficult for any king who knew which end of a queen was which, which even the most inbred king figured out in two goes.
    But it seemed to Ponder Stibbons that the ritual wobbled a bit at this point.
    It seemed, in fact, that just as he was about to lower the crown on the bride’s head he glanced across the hall to where the skinny old witch was standing. And nearly everyone else did too, including the bride.
    The old witch nodded very slightly.
    Magrat was crowned.
    Wack-fol-a-diddle, etc.

    The bride and groom stood side by side, shaking hands with the long line of guests in that dazed fashion normal at this point in the ceremony.
    “I’m sure you’ll be very happy—”
    “Thank you.”
    “Ook!”
    “Thank you.”
    “Nail it to the counter, Lord Ferguson, and damn the cheesemongers!”
    “Thank you.”
    “Can I kiss the bride?”
    It dawned on Verence that he was being addressed by fresh air. He looked down.
    “I’m sorry,” he said, “you are—?”
    “My card,” said Casanunda.
    Verence read it. His eyebrows rose.
    “Ah,” he said. “Uh. Um. Well, well, well. Number two, eh?”
    “I try harder,” said Casanunda.
    Verence looked around guiltily, and then bent down until his mouth was level with the dwarf’s ear.
    “Could I have a word with you in a minute or two?”

    The Lancre Morris Men got together again for the first time at the reception. They found it hard to talk to one another. Several of them jigged up and down absentmindedly as they talked.
    “All right,” said Jason, “anyone remember? Really remember?”
    “I remember the start,” said Tailor the