Lords and Ladies

it then, shall I?” said Magrat, as feathers filled the air.
    Magrat had been gloomily unsurprised to learn that there was a precise class and gender distinction in falconry—Verence, being king, was allowed a gyrfalcon, whatever the hell that was, any earls in the vicinity could fly a peregrine, and priests were allowed sparrowhawks. Commoners were just about allowed a stick to throw. * Magrat found herself wondering what Nanny Ogg would be allowed—a small chicken on a spring, probably.
    There was no specific falcon for a witch but, as a queen, the Lancre rules of falconry allowed her to fly the wowhawk or Lappet-faced Worrier. It was small and shortsighted and preferred to walk everywhere. It fainted at the sight of blood. And about twenty wowhawks could kill a pigeon, if it was a sick pigeon. She’d spent an hour with one on her wrist. It had wheezed at her, and eventually it had dozed off upside down.
    But at least Hodgesaargh had a job to do. The castle was full of people doing jobs. Everyone had something useful to do except Magrat. She just had to exist. Of course, everyone would talk to her, provided she talked to them first. But she was always interrupting something important. Apart from ensuring the royal succession, which Verence had sent off for a book about, she—
    “You just keep back there, girl. You don’t want to come no further,” said a voice.
    Magrat bridled.
    “Girl? One happens to be very nearly of the royal blood by marriage!”
    “Maybe, but the bees don’t know that,” said the voice.
    Magrat stopped.
    She’d stepped out beyond what were the gardens from the point of view of the royal family and into what were the gardens from the point of view of everyone else—beyond the world of hedges and topiary and herb gardens and into the world of old sheds, piles of flowerpots, compost and, just here, beehives.
    One of the hives had the lid off. Beside it, in the middle of a brown cloud, smoking his special bee pipe, was Mr. Brooks.
    “Oh,” she said, “it’s you, Mr. Brooks.”
    Technically, Mr. Brooks was the Royal Beekeeper. But the relationship was a careful one. For one thing, although most of the staff were called by their last names Mr. Brooks shared with the cook and the butler the privilege of an honorific. Because Mr. Brooks had secret powers. He knew all about honey flows and the mating of queens. He knew about swarms, and how to destroy wasps’ nests. He got the general respect shown to those, like witches and blacksmiths, whose responsibilities are not entirely to the world of the humdrum and everyday—people who, in fact, know things that others don’t about things that others can’t fathom. And he was generally found doing something fiddly with the hives, ambling across the kingdom in pursuit of a swarm, or smoking his pipe in his secret shed which smelled of old honey and wasp poison. You didn’t offend Mr. Brooks, not unless you wanted swarms in your privy while he sat cackling in his shed.
    He carefully replaced the lid on the hive and walked away. A few bees escaped from the gaping holes in his beekeeping veil.
    “Afternoon, your ladyship,” he conceded.
    “Hello, Mr. Brooks. What’ve you been doing?”
    Mr. Brooks opened the door of his secret shed, and rummaged about inside.
    “They’re late swarming,” said the beekeeper. “I was just checking up on ’em. Fancy a cup of tea, girl?”
    You couldn’t stand on ceremony with Mr. Brooks. He treated everyone as an equal, or more often as a slight inferior; it probably came of ruling thousands, every day. And at least she could talk to him. Mr. Brooks had always seemed to her as close to a witch as it was possible to be while still being male.
    The shed was stuffed full of bits of hive, mysterious torture instruments for extracting honey, old jars, and a small stove on which a grubby teapot steamed next to a huge saucepan.
    He took her silence for acceptance, and poured out two mugs.
    “Is it herbal?” she quavered.
    “Buggered if I know. It’s just brown leaves out of a tin.”
    Magrat looked uncertainly into a mug which pure tannin was staining brown. But she rallied. One thing you had to do when you were queen, she knew, was Put Commoners at their Ease. She cast around for some easeful question.
    “It must be very interesting, being a beekeeper,” she said.
    “Yes. It is.”
    “One’s often wondered—”
    “What?”
    “How do you actually milk them?”

The unicorn prowled through the