Lords and Ladies

right?”
    They all looked at Pewsey, who was sitting in a suspicious puddle on the floor in the corner with a bag of sweets and a sticky ring around his mouth.
    “Right as rain,” said Nanny Ogg. “Nothing worse’n a bit of sunburn. He screams his head off at the least little thing, bless him,” she said proudly, as if this was some kind of rare talent.
    “Gytha?” said Granny, from under the towel.
    “Yes?”
    “You knows I don’t normally touch strong licker, but I’ve heard you mention the use of brandy for medicinal purposes.”
    “Coming right up.”
    Granny raised her towel and focused one eye on Magrat.
    “Good afternoon, your pre-majesty,” she said. “Come to be gracious at me, have you?”
    “Well done,” said Magrat, coldly. “Can one have a word with you, Na—Mrs. Ogg? Outside?”
    “Right you are, your queen,” said Nanny.
    In the alley outside Magrat spun around with her mouth open.
    “You—”
    Nanny held up her hand.
    “I know what you’re going to say,” she said. “But there wasn’t any danger to the little mite.”
    “But you—”
    “Me?” said Nanny. “I hardly did anything . They didn’t know he was going to run into the circle, did they? They both reacted just like they normally would, didn’t they? Fair’s fair.”
    “Well, in a way, but—”
    “No one cheated ,” said Nanny.
    Margrat sagged into silence. Nanny patted her on the shoulder.
    “So you won’t be telling anyone you saw me wave the bag of sweets at him, will you?” she said.
    “No, Nanny.”
    “There’s a good going-to-be-queen.”
    “Nanny?”
    “Yes, dear?”
    Magrat took a deep breath.
    “How did Verence know when we were coming back?”
    It seemed to Magrat that Nanny thought for just a few seconds too long.
    “Couldn’t say,” she said at last. “Kings are a bit magical, mind. They can cure dandruff and that. Probably he woke up one morning and his royal prerogative gave him a tickle.”
    The trouble with Nanny Ogg was that she always looked as if she was lying. Nanny Ogg had a pragmatic attitude to the truth; she told it if it was convenient and she couldn’t be bothered to make up something more interesting.
    “Keeping busy up there, are you?” she said.
    “One’s doing very well, thank you,” said Magrat, with what she hoped was queenly hauteur .
    “Which one?” said Nanny.
    “Which one what?”
    “Which one’s doing very well?”
    “Me!”
    “You should have said,” said Nanny, her face poker straight. “So long as you’re keeping busy, that’s the important thing.”
    “He knew we were coming back,” said Magrat firmly. “He’d even got the invitations sorted out. Oh, by the way…there’s one for you—”
    “I know, one got it this morning,” said Nanny. “Got all that fancy nibbling on the edges and gold and everything. Who’s Ruservup?”
    Magrat had long ago got a handle on Nanny Ogg’s world-view.
    “RSVP,” she said. “It means you ought to say if you’re coming.”
    “Oh, one’ll be along all right, catch one staying away,” said Nanny. “Has one’s Jason sent one his invite yet? Thought not. Not a skilled man with a pen, our Jason.”
    “Invitation to what?” said Magrat. She was getting fed up with ones.
    “Didn’t Verence tell one?” said Nanny. “It’s a special play that’s been written special for you.”
    “Oh, yes,” said Magrat. “The Entertainment.”
    “Right,” said Nanny. “It’s going to be on Midsummer’s Eve.”

    “It’s got to be special, on Midsummer’s Eve,” said Jason Ogg.
    The door to the smithy had been bolted shut. Within were the eight members of the Lancre Morris Men, six times winners of the Fifteen Mountains All-Comers Morris Championship, * now getting to grips with a new art form.
    “I feel a right twit,” said Bestiality Carter, Lancre’s only baker. “A dress on! I just hope my wife doesn’t see me!”
    “Says here,” said Jason Ogg, his enormous forefinger hesitantly tracing its way along the page, “that it’s a beaut-i-ful story of the love of the Queen of the Fairies—that’s you, Bestiality—”
    “—thank you very much—”
    “—for a mortal man. Plus a hum-our-rus int-ter-lude with Comic Artisans…”
    “What’s an artisan?” said Weaver the thatcher.
    “Dunno. Type of well, I reckon.” Jason scratched his head. “Yeah. They’ve got ’em down on the plains. I repaired a pump for one once. Artisan wells.”
    “What’s comic about