Wyrd Sisters

have a knighthood.”
    This was no. 302, and the Fool knew better than to let a feed line go hungry. “Marry, nuncle,” he said wearily, ignoring the spasm of pain that crawled across the duke’s face, “if’n I had a Knighthood (Night Hood), why, it would keep my ears Warm in Bedde; i’faith, if many a Knight is a Fool, why, should a—”
    “Yes, yes, all right,” snapped Lord Felmet. In fact he was feeling much better already. His porridge hadn’t been over-salted this evening, and there was a decently empty feel about the castle. There were no more voices on the cusp of hearing.
    He sat down on the throne. It felt really comfortable for the first time.
    The duchess sat beside him, her chin on her hand, watching the Fool intently. This bothered him. He thought he knew where he stood with the duke, it was just a matter of hanging on until his madness curved back to the cheerful stage, but the duchess genuinely frightened him.
    “It seems that words are extremely powerful,” she said.
    “Indeed, lady.”
    “You must have made a lengthy study.”
    The Fool nodded. The power of words had sustained him through the hell of the Guild. Wizards and witches used words as if they were tools to get things done, but the Fool reckoned that words were things in their own right.
    “Words can change the world,” he said.
    Her eyes narrowed.
    “So you have said before. I remain unconvinced. Strong men change the world,” she said. “Strong men and their deeds. Words are just like marzipan on a cake. Of course you think words are important. You are weak, you have nothing else.”
    “Your ladyship is wrong.”
    The duchess’s fat hand drummed impatiently on the arm of her throne.
    “You had better,” she said, “be able to substantiate that comment.”
    “Lady, the duke wishes to chop down the forests, is this not so?”
    “The trees talk about me,” whispered Lord Felmet. “I hear them whisper when I go riding. They tell lies about me!”
    The duchess and the Fool exchanged glances.
    “But,” the Fool continued, “this policy has met with fanatical opposition.”
    “What?”
    “People don’t like it.”
    The duchess exploded. “What does that matter?” she roared. “We rule! They will do what we say or they will be pitilessly executed!”
    The Fool bobbed and capered and waved his hands in a conciliatory fashion.
    “But, my love, we will run out of people,” murmured the duke.
    “No need, no need!” said the Fool desperately. “You don’t have to do that at all! What you do is, you—” he paused for a moment, his lips moving quickly—“you embark upon a far-reaching and ambitious plan to expand the agricultural industry, provide long-term employment in the sawmills, open new land for development, and reduce the scope for banditry.”
    This time the duke looked baffled. “How will I do that?” he said.
    “Chop down the forests.”
    “But you said—”
    “Shut up, Felmet,” said the duchess. She subjected the Fool to another long, thoughtful stare.
    “Exactly how,” she said, eventually, “does one go about knocking over the houses of people one does not like?”
    “Urban clearance,” said the Fool.
    “I was thinking of burning them down.”
    “ Hygienic urban clearance,” the Fool added promptly.
    “And sowing the ground with salt.”
    “Marry, I suspect that is hygienic urban clearance and a program of environmental improvements. It might be a good idea to plant a few trees as well.”
    “No more trees!” shouted Felmet.
    “Oh, it’s all right. They won’t survive. The important thing is to have planted them.”
    “But I also want us to raise taxes,” said the duchess.
    “Why, nuncle—”
    “And I am not your nuncle.”
    “N’aunt?” said the Fool.
    “No.”
    “Why…prithee…you need to finance your ambitious program for the country.”
    “Sorry?” said the duke, who was getting lost again.
    “He means that chopping down trees costs money,” said the duchess. She smiled at the Fool. It was the first time he had ever seen her look at him as if he was other than a disgusting little cockroach. There was still a large element of cockroach in her glance, but it said: good little cockroach, you have learned a trick.
    “Intriguing,” she said. “But can your words change the past?”
    The Fool considered this.
    “More easily, I think,” he said. “Because the past is what people remember, and memories are words. Who knows how a king behaved a thousand