Wyrd Sisters

pride and arrogance.
    “We thought we were talking to a subject ,” he said. “Now do as we say!”
    Granny’s face was immobile for several seconds as she worked out what to do next. Then she smiled to herself, said lightly, “As you wish,” and went and dislodged Hwel, who was still writing.
    The dwarf gave a stiff bow.
    “None of that,” snapped Tomjon. “What do I do next?”
    “I don’t know. Do you want me to write an acceptance speech?”
    “I told you. I don’t want to be king!”
    “Could be a problem with an acceptance speech, then,” the dwarf agreed. “Have you really thought about this? Being king is a great role.”
    “But it’s the only one you get to play!”
    “Hmm. Well, just tell them ‘no,’ then.”
    “Just like that? Will it work?”
    “It’s got to be worth a try.”
    A group of Lancre dignitaries were approaching with the crown on a cushion. They wore expressions of constipated respect coupled with just a hint of self-satisfaction. They carried the crown as if it was a Present for a Good Boy.
    The Mayor of Lancre coughed behind his hand.
    “A proper coronation will take some time to arrange,” he began, “but we would like—”
    “No,” said Tomjon.
    The mayor hesitated. “Pardon?” he said.
    “I won’t accept it.”
    The mayor hesitated again. His lips moved and his eyes glazed slightly. He felt that he had got lost somewhere, and decided it would be best to start again.
    “A proper coronation will take—” he ventured.
    “It won’t,” said Tomjon. “I will not be king.”
    The mayor was mouthing like a carp.
    “Hwel?” said Tomjon desperately. “You’re good with words.”
    “The problem we’ve got here,” said the dwarf, “is that ‘no’ is apparently not among the options when you are offered a crown. I think he could cope with ‘maybe.’”
    Tomjon stood up, and grabbed the crown. He held it above his head like a tambourine.
    “Listen to me, all of you,” he said. “I thank you for your offer, it’s a great honor. But I can’t accept it. I’ve worn more crowns than you can count, and the only kingdom I know how to rule has got curtains in front of it. I’m sorry.”
    Dead silence greeted this. They did not appear to have been the right words.
    “Another problem,” said Hwel conversationally, “is that you don’t actually have a choice. You are the king, you see. It’s a job you are lined up for when you’re born.”
    “I’d be no good at it!”
    “That doesn’t matter. A king isn’t something you’re good at, it’s something you are.”
    “You can’t leave me here! There’s nothing but forests!”
    Tomjon felt the suffocating cold sensation again, and the slow buzzing in his ears. For a moment he thought he saw, faint as a mist, a tall sad man in front of him, stretching out a hand in supplication.
    “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I really am.”
    Through the fading shape he saw the witches, watching him intently.
    Beside him Hwel said, “The only chance you’d have is if there was another heir. You don’t remember any brothers and sisters, do you?”
    “I don’t remember anyone! Hwel, I—”
    There was another ferocious argument among the witches. And then Magrat was striding, striding across the hall, moving like a tidal wave, moving like a rush of blood to the head, shaking off Granny Weatherwax’s restraining hand, bearing down on the throne like a piston, and dragging the Fool behind her.

    “I say?”
    “Er. Hallo ee !”
    “Er, I say, excuse me, can anyone hear us?”
    The castle up above was full of hubbub and general rejoicing, and there was no one to hear the polite and frantic voices that echoed along the dungeon passages, getting politer and more frantic with each passing hour.
    “Um, I say? Excuse me? Billem’s got this terrible thing about rats, if you don’t mind. Cooeee!”
    Let the camera of the mind’s eye pan slowly back along the dim, ancient corridors, taking in the dripping fungi, the rusting chains, the damp, the shadows…
    “Can anyone hear us? Look, it’s really too much. There’s been some laughable mistake, look, the wigs come right off…”
    Let the plaintive echoes dwindle among the cobwebbed corners and rodent-haunted tunnels, until they’re no more than a reedy whisper on the cusp of hearing.
    “ I say? I say, excuse me, help ?”
    Someone is bound to come down here again one of these days.

    Some time afterward Magrat asked Hwel if he believed in long