'Well spotted.'
'It was the head under your arm,' said Verence, pleased with himself. 'That gave me a clue.'
'Does it bother you? I can put it back on if it bothers you,' said the old ghost helpfully. He extended his free hand. 'Pleased to meet you. I'm Champot, King of Lancre.'
'Verence. Likewise.' He peered down at the old king's features and added, 'Don't seem to recall seeing your picture in the Long Gallery . . .'
'Oh, all that was after my time,' said Champot dismissively.
'How long have you been here, then?'
Champot reached down and rubbed his nose. 'About a thousand years,' he said, his voice tinged with pride. 'Man and ghost.'
'A thousand years!'
'I built this place, in fact. Just got it nicely decorated when my nephew cut my head off while I was asleep. I can't tell you how much that upset me.'
'But . . . a thousand years . . .' Verence repeated, weakly.
Champot took his arm. 'It's not that bad,' he confided, as he led the unresisting king across the courtyard. 'Better than being alive, in many ways.'
'They must be bloody strange ways, then!' snapped Verence. 'I liked being alive!'
Champot grinned reassuringly. 'You'll soon get used to it,' he said.
'I don't want to get used to it!'
'You've got a strong morphogenic field,' said Champot. 'I can tell. I look for these things. Yes. Very strong, I should say.'
'What's that?'
'I was never very good with words, you know,' said Champot. 'I always found it easier to hit people with something. But I gather it all boils down to how alive you were. When you were alive, I mean. Something called—' he paused – 'animal vitality. Yes, that was it. Animal vitality. The more you had, the more you stay yourself, as it were, if you're a ghost. I expect you were one hundred per cent alive, when you were alive,' he added.
Despite himself, Verence felt flattered. 'I tried to keep myself busy,' he said. They had strolled through the wall into the Great Hall, which was now empty. The sight of the trestle tables triggered an automatic reaction in the king.
'How do we go about getting breakfast?' he said.
Champot's head looked surprised.
'We don't,' he said. 'We're ghosts.'
'But I'm hungry!'
'You're not, you know. It's just your imagination.'
There was a clattering from the kitchens. The cooks were already up and, in the absence of any other instructions, were preparing the castle's normal breakfast menu. Familiar smells were wafting up from the dark archway that led to the kitchens.
Verence sniffed.
'Sausages,' he said dreamily. 'Bacon. Eggs. Smoked fish.' He stared at Champot. 'Black pudding,' he whispered.
'You haven't actually got a stomach,' the old ghost pointed out. 'It's all in the mind. Just force of habit. You just think you're hungry.'
'I think I'm ravenous.'
'Yes, but you can't actually touch anything, you see,' Champot explained gently. 'Nothing at all.'
Verence lowered himself gently on to a bench, so that he did not drift through it, and sank his head in his hands. He'd heard that death could be bad. He just hadn't realised how bad.