Carpe Jugulum (6 page)

“So sorry…delays on the road, you know how it is…”

The newcomers hurried in and joined the crowd, who paid little attention because they were watching the unplanned entertainment around the thrones.

“Note Spelling?”

“Definitely a bit tricky,” said Nanny. “Esmerelda, now,
that
was a good one. Gytha would have been good too, but Esmerelda, yes, you can’t argue with it. But you know kids. They’ll all be calling her Spelly.”

“If she’s lucky,” said Agnes gloomily.

“I didn’t expect anyone to
say
it!” Magrat hissed. “I just wanted to make sure she didn’t end up with ‘Magrat’!”

Mightily Oats was standing with his eyes cast upward and his hands clasped together. Occasionally he made a whimpering sound.

“We can change it, can’t we?” said King Verence. “Where’s the Royal Historian?”

Shawn coughed. “It’s not Wednesday evening and I’ll have to go and fetch the proper hat, sire—”

“Can we change it or not, man?”

“Er…it has been
said
, sire. At the official time. I
think
it’s her name now, but I’ll need to go and look it up. Everyone heard it, sire.”

“No, you can’t change it,” said Nanny, who as the Royal Historian’s mum took it as read that she knew more than the Royal Historian. “Look at old Moocow Poorchick over in Slice, for one.”

“What happened to him, then?” said the King sharply.

“His full name is James What the Hell’s That Cow Doing in Here Poorchick,” said Magrat.

“That was a very strange day, I do remember that,” said Nanny.

“And if my mother had been sensible enough to
tell
Brother Perdore
my
name instead of coming over all bashful and writing it down, life would have been a whole lot different,” said Magrat. She glanced nervously at Verence. “Probably worse, of course.”

“So I’ve got to take Esmerelda out to her people and tell them one of her middle names is Note Spelling?” said Verence.

“Well, we did once have a king called My God He’s Heavy the First,” said Nanny. “And the beer’s been on for the last couple of hours so, basic’ly, you’ll get a cheer whatever you say.”

Besides, thought Agnes, I know for a fact there’s people out there called Syphilidae Wilson and Yodel Lightley and Total Biscuit.
*

Verence smiled. “Oh well…let me have her…”

“Whifm…” said Mightily Oats.

“…and perhaps someone ought to give this man a drink.”

“I’m so terribly, terribly sorry,” whispered the priest, as the King walked between the lines of guests.

“Been on the drink already, I expect,” said Nanny.

“I never ever touch alcohol!” moaned the priest. He dabbed at his streaming eyes with a handkerchief.

“I knew there was something wrong with him as soon as I looked at him,” said Nanny. “Where’s Esme, then?”

“I don’t
know
, Nanny!” said Agnes.

“She’d know about this, you mark my words. This’ll be a feather in her cap, right enough, a princess named after her. She’ll be crowing about it for months. I’m going to see what’s going on.”

She stumped off.

Agnes grabbed the priest’s arm.

“Come along, you,” she sighed.

“I really cannot, um, express how sorry—”

“It’s a very strange evening all round.”

“I’ve, I’ve, I’ve never, um, heard of the custom before—”

“People put a lot of importance on words in these parts.”

“I’m very much afraid the King will give a bad, um, report of me to Brother Melchio…”

“Really.”

There are some people who could turn even the most amiable character into a bully and he seemed to be one of them. There was something…sort of
damp
about him, the kind of helpless hopelessness that made people angry rather than charitable, the total certainty that if the whole
world
was a party he’d still find the kitchen.

She seemed to be stuck with him. The VIPs were all crowded around the open doors, where loud cheering indicated that the people of Lancre thought that Note Spelling was a nice name for a future queen.

“Perhaps you should just sit there and try to get a grip,” she said. “There’s going to be dancing later on.”

“Oh, I don’t dance,” said Mightily Oats. “Dancing is a snare to entrap the weak-willed.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose there’s a barbecue outside…”

Mightily Oats dabbed at his eyes again.

“Um, any fish?”

“I doubt it.”

“We eat only fish this month.”

“Oh.” But a deadpan voice didn’t seem to work. He still wanted to talk to her.

“Because the prophet Brutha eschewed meat, um, when he was wandering in the desert, you see.”

“Each mouthful forty times?”

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, I was thinking of something else.” Against her better judgment, Agnes let curiosity enter her life. “What meat
is
there to eat, in a desert?”

“Um, none, I think.”

“So he didn’t exactly refuse to eat it, did he?” Agnes scanned the gathering crowds, but no one seemed anxious to join in this little discussion.

“Um…you’d have to, um, ask Brother Melchio that. I’m so sorry. I think I have a migraine coming on…”

You don’t believe anything you’re saying, do you? Agnes thought. Nervousness and a sort of low-grade terror was radiating off him. Perdita added:
What a damp little maggot!

“I’ve got to go and…er…to go and…I’ve got to go and…help,” said Agnes, backing away. He nodded. As she left, he blew his nose again, produced a small black book from a pocket, sighed, and hurriedly opened it at a bookmark.

She picked up a tray to add some weight to the alibi, stepped toward the food table, turned to look back at the hunched figure as out of place as a lost sheep, and walked into someone as solid as a tree.

“Who is that strange person?” said a voice by her ear. Agnes heard Perdita curse her for jumping sideways, but she recovered and managed to smile awkwardly at the person who’d spoken.

He was a young man and, it dawned on her, a very attractive one. Attractive men were not in plentiful supply in Lancre, where licking your hand and smoothing your hair down before taking a girl out was considered swanky.

He’s got a ponytail!
squeaked Perdita.
Now
that is
cool!

Agnes felt the blush start somewhere in the region of her knees and begin its inevitable acceleration upward.

“Er…sorry?” she said.

“You can practically smell him,” said the man. He inclined his head slightly toward the sad priest. “Looks rather like a scruffy little crow, don’t you think?”

“Er…yes,” Agnes managed. The blush rounded the curve of her bosom, red hot and rising. A ponytail on a man was unheard of in Lancre, and the cut of his clothes also suggested that he’d spent time somewhere where fashion changed more than once a lifetime.
No one
in Lancre had ever worn a waistcoat embroidered with peacocks.

Say something to him!
Perdita screamed within.

“Wstfgl?” said Agnes. Behind her, Mightily Oats had got up and was inspecting the food suspiciously.

“I beg your pardon?”

Agnes swallowed, partly because Perdita was trying to shake her by the throat.

“He does look as if he’s about to flap away, doesn’t he,” she said.
Oh, please, don’t let me giggle…

The man snapped his fingers. A waiter hurrying past with a tray of drinks turned through ninety degrees.

“Can I get you a drink, Miss Nitt?”

“Er…white wine?” Agnes whispered.

“No, you don’t want white wine, the red is much more…colorful,” he said, taking a glass and handing it to her. “What is our quarry doing now…ah, applying himself to a biscuit with a very small amount of pâté on it, I see…”

Ask him his name!
Perdita yelled. No, that’d be forward of me, Agnes thought. Perdita screamed,
You were
built
forward, you stupid lump—

“Please let me introduce myself. I’m Vlad,” he said, kindly. “Oh, now he’s…yes, he’s about to pounce on…yes, a prawn vol-au-vent. Prawns up here, eh? King Verence has spared no expense, has he?”

“He had them brought up on ice all the way from Genua,” Agnes mumbled.

“They
do
very good seafood there, I believe.”

“Never been,” Agnes mumbled. Inside her head Perdita laid down and cried.

“Maybe we could visit it one day, Agnes,” said Vlad.

The blush was at Agnes’s neck.

“It’s
very
hot in here, don’t you think?” said Vlad.

“It’s the fire,” said Agnes gratefully. “It’s over there,” she added, nodding to where quite a large amount of a tree was burning in the hall’s enormous fireplace and could only have been missed by a man with a bucket on his head.

“My sister and I have—” Vlad began.

“Excuse me, Miss Nitt?”

“What
is
it, Shawn?”
Drop dead, Shawn Ogg,
said Perdita.

“Mum says you’re to come at once, miss. She’s down in the yard. She says it’s important.”

“It always is,” said Agnes. She gave Vlad a quick smile. “Excuse me, I have to go and help an old lady.”

“I’m sure we’ll meet again, Agnes,” said Vlad.

“Oh, er…thank you.”

She hurried out and was halfway down the steps before she remembered she hadn’t told him her name.

Two steps farther she thought: well, he could have asked someone.

Two steps after that Perdita said:
Why would
he
ask anyone
your
name?

Agnes cursed the fact that she had grown up with an invisible enemy.

“Come and look at this!” hissed Nanny, grabbing her by the arm as she reached the courtyard. She was dragged out to the carriages parked near the stables. Nanny waved a finger to the door of the nearest one.

“See that?” she said.

“It looks very impressive,” said Agnes.

“See the crest?”

“Looks like…a couple of black and white birds. Magpies, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, but look at the writin’,” said Nanny Ogg, with that dark relish old ladies reserve for nastily portentous things.

“‘Carpe Jugulum,’” read Agnes aloud. “That’s…well,
Carpe Diem
is ‘Seize the Day,’ so this means—”

“‘Go for the Throat,’” said Nanny. “You know what our king has done, so we can play our part in this new changin’ world order thing and get money for hedges because Klatch gets a nosebleed when Ankh-Morpork stubs its toe? He’s gone an’ invited some bigwigs from Uberwald, that’s what he’s done. Oh,
deary
deary me. Vampires and werewolves, werewolves and vampires. We’ll all be murdered in one another’s beds.” She walked up to the front of the coach and tapped on the wood near the driver, who was sitting hunched up in an enormous cloak. “Where’re you from, Igor?”

The shadowy figure turned.

“What maketh you think my name ith…Igor?”

“Lucky guess?” said Nanny.

“You think everyone from Uberwald ith called Igor, do you? I could have any one of a thouthand different nameth, woman.”

“Look, I’m Nanny Ogg and thith, excuse me, this is Agnes Nitt. And you are…?”

“My name ith…well, it’th Igor, ath a matter of facththth,” said Igor. He raised a hasty finger. “But it might not have been!”

“It’s a chilly night. Can we get you something?” said Nanny cheerfully.

“Perhaps a towel?” said Agnes.

Nanny nudged her in the ribs to be silent. “A glass of wine, p’raps?” she said.

“I do not drink…wine,” said Igor haughtily.

“I’ve got some brandy,” said Nanny, hitching up her skirt.

“Oh
right
, I drink
brandy
like thtink.”

Knickerleg elastic twanged in the gloom.

“So,” said Nanny, passing up the flask, “what’re you doing this far from home, Igor?”

“Why’th there a thtupid troll down there on the…bridge?” said Igor, taking the flask in one large hand which, Agnes noticed, was a mass of scars and stitches.

“Oh, that’s Big Jim Beef. The King lets him live under there provided he looks official when we’ve got comp’ny comin’.”

“Beef ith an odd name for a troll.”

“He likes the sound of it,” said Nanny. “It’s like a man calling himself Rocky, I suppose. So…I used to know an Igor from Uber-wald. Walked with a limp. One eye a bit higher than the other. Had the same manner of…speaking. Very good at brain juggling, too.”

“That thoundth like my Uncle Igor,” said Igor. “He worked for the mad doctor at Blinz. Ha, an’ he wath a
proper
mad doctor, too, not like the mad doctorth you get thethe dayth. And the thervantth? Even worthe. No pride thethe dayth.” He tapped the brandy flask for emphasis. “When Uncle Igor wath thent out for a geniuth’th brain, that’th what you damn well got. There wath none of thith fumble-finger thtuff and then pinching a brain out of the ‘Really Inthane’ jar and hopin’ no one’d notithe. They alwayth do, anyway.”

Nanny took a step back. The only sensible way to hold a conversation with Igor was when you had an umbrella.

“I think I’ve heard of that chap,” she said. “Didn’t he stitch folk together out of dead parts?”

“No! Really?” said Agnes, shocked. “Ow!”

“That’th right. Ith there a problem?”

“No, I call it prudent,” said Nanny, taking her foot off Agnes’s toe. “My mum was a dab hand at sewing a new sheet from bits of old ones, and people’re worth more than linen. So he’s your master now, is he?”

“No, my Uncle Igor thtill workth for him. Been thtruck by lightning three hundred timeth and thtill putth in a full night’th work.”

“Have a drop more of that brandy, it’s very cold out here,” said Nanny. “So who is
your
master, Igor?”

“Call them marthterth?” said Igor, with sudden venom and a light shower. “Huh! Now the
old
Count, he
wath
a gentleman of the old thcool.
He
knew how it all workth. Proper evening dreth
at all timeth
, that’th the rule!”