Wyrd Sisters

ornament.”
    Hwel’s hand rested on Tomjon’s shoulder for a moment. Then he said, “You’re right, boss.”
    “Certainly I am. How’s the play going?”
    “Hmm? What play?” said Hwel, innocently.
    Tomjon carefully removed a plaster brow ridge.
    “You know,” he said. “That one. The Lancre King.”
    “Oh. Coming along. Coming along, you know. I’ll get it right one of these days.” Hwel changed the subject with speed. “You know, we could work our way down to the river and take a boat home. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
    “But we could work our way home over land and pick up some more cash. That would be better, wouldn’t it?” Tomjon grinned. “We took one hundred and three pence tonight; I counted heads during the Judgment speech. That’s nearly one silver piece after expenses.”
    “You’re your father’s son, and no mistake,” said Hwel.
    Tomjon sat back and looked at himself in the mirror.
    “Yes,” he said, “I thought I had better be.”

    Magrat didn’t like cats and hated the idea of mousetraps. She’d always felt that it should be possible to come to some sort of arrangement with creatures like mice so that all available food was rationed in the best interest of all parties. This was a very humanitarian outlook, which is to say that it was not a view shared by mice, and therefore her moonlit kitchen was alive.
    When there was a knocking at the door the entire floor appeared to rush toward the walls.
    After a few seconds the knocking came again.
    There was another pause. Then the knocking rattled the door on its hinges, and a voice cried, “Open in the name of the king!”
    A second voice said, in hurt tones, “You don’t have to shout like that. Why did you shout like that? I didn’t order you to shout like that. It’s enough to frighten anybody, shouting like that.”
    “Sorry, sire! It goes with the job, sire!”
    “Just knock again. A bit more gently, please.”
    The knocking might have been a bit softer. Magrat’s apron dropped off its hook on the back of the door.
    “Are you sure I can’t do it myself?”
    “It’s not done, sire, kings knocking at humble cottage doors. Best leave it to me. OPEN IN THE—”
    “Sergeant!”
    “Sorry, sire. Forgot myself.”
    “Try the latch.”
    There was the sound of someone being extremely hesitant.
    “Don’t like the sound of that, sire,” said the invisible sergeant. “Could be dangerous. If you want my advice, sire, I’d set fire to the thatch.”
    “Set fire?”
    “Yessire. We always do that if they don’t answer the door. Brings them out a treat.”
    “I don’t think that would be appropriate, sergeant. I think I’ll try the latch, if it’s all the same to you.”
    “Breaks my heart to see you do it, sire.”
    “Well, I’m sorry.”
    “You could at least let me buff it up for you.”
    “No!”
    “Well, couldn’t I just set fire to the privy—?”
    “Absolutely not!”
    “That chicken house over there looks as if it would go up like—”
    “ Sergeant !”
    “Sire!”
    “Go back to the castle!”
    “What, and leave you all alone, sire?”
    “This is a matter of extreme delicacy, sergeant. I am sure you are a man of sterling qualities, but there are times when even a king needs to be alone. It concerns a young woman, you understand.”
    “Ah. Point taken, sire.”
    “Thank you. Help me dismount, please.”
    “Sorry about all that, sire. Tactless of me.”
    “Don’t mention it.”
    “If you need any help getting her alight—”
    “ Please go back to the castle, sergeant.”
    “Yes, sire. If you’re sure, sire. Thank you, sire.”
    “Sergeant?”
    “Yes, sire?”
    “I shall need someone to take my cap and bells back to the Fools’ Guild in Ankh-Morpork now I’m leaving. It seems to me you’re the ideal man.”
    “Thank you, sire. Much obliged.”
    “It’s your, ah, burning desire to be of service.”
    “Yes, sire?”
    “Make sure they put you up in one of the guest rooms.”
    “Yes, sire. Thank you, sire.”
    There was the sound of a horse trotting away. A few seconds later the latch clonked and the Fool crept in.
    It takes considerable courage to enter a witch’s kitchen in the dark, but probably no more than it takes to wear a purple shirt with velvet sleeves and scalloped edges. It had this in its favor, though. There were no bells on it.
    He had brought a bottle of sparkling wine and a bouquet of flowers, both of which had gone flat during the journey. He laid