Magrat struck. It was an unplanned, instinctive blow, its stopping power considerably enhanced by the weight of rings and bangles; her arm whirred around in an arc that connected with her captor's jaw and spun him twice before he folded up in a heap with a quiet little sigh, and incidentally with several symbols of occult significance embossed on his cheek.
Hron gaped at him, and then looked at Magrat. He raised his sword at about the same moment that the Fool cannoned into him, and the two men went down in a struggling heap Like most small men the Fool relied on the initial mad rush to secure an advantage and was at a loss for a follow-through and it would probably have gone hard with him if Hron hadn't suddenly become aware that a breadknife was pressed to his neck.
'Let go of him,' said Magrat, pushing her hair out of her eyes.
He stiffened. 'You're wondering whether I really would cut your throat,' panted Magrat. 'I don't know either. Think of the fun we could have together, finding out.'
She reached down with her other hand and hauled the Few to his feet by his collar.
'Where did that scream come from?' she said, without taking her eyes off the guard.
'It was down this way. They've got her in the torture dungeon and I don't like it, it's going too far, and I couldn't get in and I came to look for someone—'
'Well, you've found me,' said Magrat.
'You,' she said to Hron, 'will stay here. Or run away, for all I care. But you won't follow us.'
He nodded, and stared after them as they hurried down the passage. 'The door's locked,' said the Fool. 'There's all sorts of noises, but the door's locked.'
'Well, it's a dungeon, isn't it?'
'They're not supposed to lock from the inside!'
It was, indeed, unbudgeable. Silence came from the other side – a busy, thick silence that crawled through the cracks and spilled out into the passage, a kind of silence that is worse than screams.
The Fool hopped from one foot to the other as Magrat explored the door's rough surface.
'Are you really a witch?' he said. 'They said you were a witch, are you really? You don't look like a witch, you look very . . . that is . . .'He blushed. 'Not like a, you know, crone at all, but absolutely beautiful . . .' His voice trailed into silence . . .
I am totally in control of the situation, Magrat told herself. I never thought I would be, but I am thinking absolutely clearly.
's that?' said the duke sharply.
'Nothing,' said Nanny. 'Is this going to take long? I haven't had breakfast.'
The Fool lit a match. There was the faintest disturbance in the air beside him, and it went out. He swore, and tried another. This time his shaking hands managed to get it as far as the brazier before it, too, flared and darkened.
'Hurry up, man!' said the duchess, laying out a tray of tools.
'Doesn't seem to want to light—' muttered the Fool, as another match became a fluttering streak of flame and then went out.
The duke snatched the box from his trembling fingers and caught him across the cheek with a handful of rings.
'Can no orders of mine be obeyed?' he screamed. 'Infirm of purpose! Weak! Give me the box!'
The Fool backed away. Someone he couldn't see was whispering things he couldn't quite make out in his ear.
'Go outside,' hissed the duke, 'and see that we are not disturbed!'
The Fool tripped over the bottom step, turned and, with a last imploring look at Nanny, scampered through the door He capered a little bit, out of force of habit.
'The fire isn't completely necessary,' said the Duchess. 'It merely assists. Now, woman, will you confess?'
'What to?' said Nanny.
'It's common knowledge. Treason. Malicious witchcraft. Harbouring the king's enemies. Theft of the crown—'
A tinkling noise made them look down. A blood-stained dagger had fallen off the bench, as though someone had tried to pick it up but just couldn't get the strength together. Nanm heard the king's ghost swear under'its breath, or what would have been its breath.