Tomjon stood up, and grabbed the crown. He held it above his head like a tambourine.
'Listen to me, all of you,' he said. 'I thank you for your offer, it's a great honour. But I can't accept it. I've worn more crowns than you can count, and the only kingdom I know how to rule has got curtains in front of it. I'm sorry.'
Dead silence greeted this. They did not appear to have been the right words.
'Another problem,' said Hwel conversationally, 'is that you don't actually have a choice. You are the king, you see. It's a job you are lined up for when you're born.'
'I'd be no good at it!'
'That doesn't matter. A king isn't something you're good at, it's something you are.'
'You can't leave me here! There's nothing but forests!'
Tomjon felt the suffocating cold sensation again, and the slow buzzing in his ears. For a moment he thought he saw, faint as a mist, a tall sad man in front of him, stretching out a hand in supplication.
'I'm sorry,' he whispered. 'I really am.'
Through the fading shape he saw the witches, watching him intently.
Beside him Hwel said, 'The only chance you'd have is if there was another heir. You don't remember any brothers and sisters, do you?'
'I don't remember anyone! Hwel, I—'
There was another ferocious argument among the witches. And then Magrat was striding, striding across the hall, moving like a tidal wave, moving like a rush of blood to the head, shaking off Granny Weatherwax's restraining hand, bearing down on the throne like a piston, and dragging the Fool behind her.
'I say?'
'Er. Halloee!'
'Er, I say, excuse me, can anyone hear us?'
The castle up above was full of hubbub and general rejoicing, and there was no-one to hear the polite and frantic voices that echoed along the dungeon passages, getting politer and more frantic with each passing hour.
'Um, I say? Excuse me? Billem's got this terrible thing about rats, if you don't mind. Cooeee!'
Let the camera of the mind's eye pan slowly back along the dim, ancient corridors, taking in the dripping fungi, the rusting ehains, the damp, the shadows . . .
'Can anyone hear us? Look, it's really too much. There's been some laughable mistake, look, the wigs come right off. . .'
Let the plaintive echoes dwindle among the cobwebbed corners and rodent-haunted tunnels, until they're no more than a reedy whisper on the cusp of hearing.
'I say? I say, excuse me, help?'
Someone is bound to come down here again one of these days.
Some time afterwards Magrat asked Hwel if he believed in long engagements. The dwarf paused in the task of loading up the latty.[22]
'About a week, maximum,' he said at last. 'With matinees, of course.'
A month went past. The early damp-earth odours of autumn drifted over the velvety-dark moors, where the watery starlight was echoed by one spark of a fire.
The standing stone was back in its normal place, but still poised to run if any auditors came into view.
The witches sat in careful silence. This was not going to rate among the hundred most exciting coven meetings of all time. If Mussorgsky had seen them, the night on the bare mountain would have been over by teatime.
Then Granny Weatherwax said, 'It was a good banquet, I thought.'
'I was nearly sick,' said Nanny Ogg proudly. 'And my Shirl helped out in the kitchen and brought me home some scraps.'