'Yes,' said Granny. 'But much more important.'
Tomjon gripped the arms of the throne.
'Fetch me Hwel,' he said.'
'No, you must do it like that. It's precedent, you see, first you meet the—'
'I said, fetch me the dwarf. Didn't you hear me, woman?' This time Tomjon got the spin and pitch of his voice just right, but Granny rallied magnificently.
'I don't think you quite realise who you are talking to, young man,' she said.
Tomjon half rose in his seat. He had played a great many kings, and most of them weren't the kind of kings who shook hands graciously and asked people whether they enjoyed their work. They were far more the type of kings who got people to charge into battle at five o'clock on a freezing morning and still managed to persuade them that this was better than being in bed. He summoned them all, and treated Granny Weatherwax to a blast of royal hauteur, pride and arrogance.
'We thought we were talking to a subject,' he said. 'Now do as we say!'
Granny's face was immobile for several seconds as she worked out what to do next. Then she smiled to herself, said lightly, 'As you wish,' and went and dislodged Hwel, who was still writing.
The dwarf gave a stiff bow.
'None of that,' snapped Tomjon. 'What do I do next?'
'I don't know. Do you want me to write an acceptance speech?'
'I told you. I don't want to be king!'
'Could be a problem with an acceptance speech, then,' the dwarf agreed. 'Have you really thought about this? Being king is a great role.'
'But it's the only one you get to play!'
'Hmm. Well, just tell them “no”, then.'
'Just like that? Will it work?'
'It's got to be worth a try.'
A group of Lancre dignitaries were approaching with the crown on a cushion. They wore expressions of constipated respect coupled with just a hint of self-satisfaction. They carried the crown as if it was a Present for a Good Boy.
The Mayor of Lancre coughed behind his hand.
'A proper coronation will take some time to arrange,' he began, 'but we would like—'
'No,' said Tomjon.
The mayor hesitated. 'Pardon?' he said.
'I won't accept it.'
The mayor hesitated again. His lips moved and his eyes glazed slightly. He felt that he had got lost somewhere, and decided it would be best to start again.
'A proper coronation will take—' he ventured.
'It won't,' said Tomjon. 'I will not be king.'
The mayor was mouthing like a carp.
'Hwel?' said Tomjon desperately. 'You're good with words.'
The problem we've got here,' said the dwarf, 'is that “no” is apparently not among the options when you are offered a crown. I think he could cope with “maybe”.'