'Fifteen years?' said the Mayor of Lancre.
'We had to,' said Granny Weatherwax.
'I thought the baker was a bit early last week.'
'No, no,' said the witch impatiently. 'It doesn't work like that. No-one's lost anything.'
'According to my figuring,' said the man who doubled as Lancre's beadle, town clerk and gravedigger, 'we've all lost fifteen years.'
'No, we've all gained them,' said the mayor. 'It stands to reason. Time's like this sort of wiggly road, see, but we took a short cut across the fields.'
'Not at all,' said the clerk, sliding a sheet of paper across the table. 'Look here . . .'
Tomjon let the waters of debate close over him again.
Everyone wanted him to be king. No-one thought twice about what he wanted. His views didn't count.
Yes, that was it. No-one wanted him to be king, not precisely him. He just happened to be convenient.
Gold does not tarnish, at least physically, but Tomjon felt that the thin band of metal in his hands had an unpleasant depth to its lustre. It had sat on too many troubled heads. If you held it to your ear, you could hear the screams.
He became aware of someone else looking at him, their gaze playing across his face like a blowlamp on a lolly. He looked up.
It was the third witch, the young . . . the youngest one, with the intense expression and the hedgerow hairstyle. Sitting next to old Fool as though she owned a controlling interest.
It wasn't his face she was examining. It was his features. Her eyeballs were tracking him from nape to nose like a pair of calipers. He gave her a little brave smile, which she ignored. Just like everyone else, he thought.
Only the Fool noticed him, and returned the smile with an apologetic grin and a tiny conspiratorial wave of the fingers that said: 'What are we doing here, two sensible people like us?' The woman was looking at him again, turning her head this way and that and narrowing her eyes. She kept glancing at Fool and back to Tomjon. Then she turned to the oldest witch, the only person in the entire hot, damp room who seemed to have acquired a mug of beer, and whispered in her ear.
The two started a spirited, whispered conversation. It was, thought Tomjon, a particularly feminine way of talking. It normally took place on doorsteps, with all the participants standing with their arms folded and, if anyone was so ungracious as to walk past, they'd stop abruptly and watch them in silence until they were safely out of earshot.
He became aware that Granny Weatherwax had stopped talking, and that the entire hall was staring at him expectantly.
'Hallo?' he said.
'It might be a good idea to hold the coronation tomorrow,' said Granny. 'It's not good for a kingdom to be without a ruler. It doesn't like it.'
She stood up, pushed back her chair, and came and took Tomjon's hand. He followed her unprotestingly across the flagstones and up the steps to the throne, where she put her hands on his shoulders and pressed him gently down on to the threadbare red plush cushions.
There was a scraping of benches and chairs. He looked around in panic.
'What's happening now?' he said.
'Don't worry,' said Granny firmly. 'Everyone wants to come and swear loyalty to you. You just nod graciously and ask everyone what they do and if they enjoy it. Oh, and you'd better give them the crown back.'
Tomjon removed it quickly.
'Why?' he said.
'They want to present it to you.'
'But I've already got it!' said Tomjon desperately.
Granny gave a patient sigh.
'Only in the wossname, real sense,' she said. 'This is more ceremonial.'
'You mean unreal?'