Wyrd Sisters

duke focused unsteadily on him.
    “You swore loyalty unto death, my Fool,” he hissed.
    “Yes, my lord. I’m sorry.”
    “You’re dead .”
    The duke snatched a dagger from Wimsloe’s unresisting hand, darted forward, and plunged it to the hilt into the Fool’s heart. Magrat screamed.
    The Fool rocked back and forth unsteadily.
    “Thank goodness that’s over,” he said, as Magrat pushed her way through the actors and clasped him to what could charitably be called her bosom. It struck the Fool that he had never looked a bosom squarely in the face, at least since he was a baby, and it was particularly cruel of the world to save the experience until after he was dead.
    He gently moved one of Magrat’s arms and pulled the despicable horned cowl from his head, and tossed it as far as possible. He didn’t have to be a Fool anymore or, he realized, bother about vows or anything. What with bosoms as well, death seemed to be an improvement.
    “I didn’t do it,” said the duke.
    No pain, thought the Fool. Funny, that. On the other hand, you obviously can’t feel pain when you are dead. It would be wasted.
    “You all saw that I didn’t do it,” said the duke.
    Death gave the Fool a puzzled look. Then he reached into the recesses of his robes and pulled out an hourglass. It had bells on it. He gave it a gentle shake, which made them tinkle.
    “I gave no orders that any such thing should be done,” said the duke calmly. His voice came from a long way off, from wherever his mind was now. The company stared at him wordlessly. It wasn’t possible to hate someone like this, only to feel acutely embarrassed about being anywhere near him. Even the Fool felt embarrassed, and he was dead.
    Death tapped the hourglass, and then peered at it to see if it had gone wrong.
    “You are all lying,” said the duke, in tranquil tones. “Telling lies is naughty.”
    He stabbed several of the nearest actors in a dreamy, gentle way, and then held up the blade.
    “You see?” he said. “No blood! It wasn’t me.” He looked up at the duchess, towering over him now like a red tsunami over a small fishing village.
    “It was her,” he said. “She did it.”
    He stabbed her once or twice, on general principles, and then stabbed himself and let the dagger drop from his fingers.
    After a few seconds reflection he said, in a voice far nearer the worlds of sanity, “You can’t get me now.”
    He turned to Death. “Will there be a comet?” he said. “There must be a comet when a prince dies. I’ll go and see, shall I?”
    He wandered away. The audience broke into applause.
    “You’ve got to admit he was real royalty,” said Nanny Ogg, eventually. “It only goes to show, royalty goes eccentric far better than the likes of you and me.”
    Death held the hourglass to his skull, his face radiating puzzlement.
    Granny Weatherwax picked up the fallen dagger and tested the blade with her finger. It slid into the handle quite easily, with a faint squeaking noise.
    She passed it to Nanny.
    “There’s your magic sword,” she said.
    Magrat looked at it, and then back at the Fool.
    “Are you dead or not?” she said.
    “I must be,” said the Fool, his voice slightly muffled. “I think I’m in paradise.”
    “No, look, I’m serious.”
    “I don’t know. But I’d like to breathe.”
    “Then you must be alive.”
    “Everyone’s alive,” said Granny. “It’s a trick dagger. Actors probably can’t be trusted with real ones.”
    “After all, they can’t even keep a cauldron clean,” said Nanny.
    “Whether everyone is alive or not is a matter for me,” said the duchess. “As ruler it is my pleasure to decide. Clearly my husband has lost his wits.” She turned to her soldiers. “And I decree—”
    “Now!” hissed King Verence in Granny’s ear. “Now!”
    Granny Weatherwax drew herself up.
    “Be silent, woman!” she said. “The true King of Lancre stands before you!”
    She clapped Tomjon on the shoulder.
    “What, him?”
    “Who, me?”
    “Ridiculous,” said the duchess. “He’s a mummer, of sorts.”
    “She’s right, miss,” said Tomjon, on the edge of panic. “My father runs a theater, not a kingdom.”
    “He is the true king. We can prove it,” said Granny.
    “Oh, no,” said the duchess. “We’re not having that. There’s no mysterious returned heirs in this kingdom. Guards—take him.”
    Granny Weatherwax held up a hand. The soldiers lurched from foot to foot,