But. . . well . . . eight months. Anything could have happened in eight months. She should have come straight back from Genua, but the other two had been enjoying themselves.
She wiped the dust off her mirror and examined herself critically. Not a lot to work with, really. No matter what she did with her hair it took about three minutes for it to tangle itself up again, like a garden hosepipe left in a shed.[4] She'd bought herself a new green dress, but what had looked exciting and attractive on the plaster model looked like a furled umbrella on a Magrat.
Whereas Verence had been here reigning for eight months. Of course, Lancre was so small that you couldn't lie down without a passport, but he was a genuine king and genuine kings tended to attract young women looking for career opportunities in the queening department.
She did her best with the dress and dragged a vengeful brush through her hair.
Then she went up to the castle.
Guard duty at Lancre castle was the province of anyone who didn't have much of anything else to do at the moment. On duty today was Nanny Ogg's youngest son Shawn, in ill-fitting chain-mail. He brought himself to what he probably thought was attention as Magrat pattered past, and then dropped his pike and hurried after her.
“Can you slow down a bit, please, miss?”
He overtook her, ran up the steps to the door, picked up a trumpet that was hanging from a nail by a bit of string, and blew an amateurish fanfare. Then he looked panicky again.
“Wait right there, miss, right there . ., count to five, and then knock,” he said, and darted through the door, slamming it behind him.
Magrat waited, and then tried the knocker.
After a few seconds Shawn opened the door. He was red in the face and had a powdered wig on back to front.
“Yeeeuss?” he drawled, and tried to look like a butler.
“You've still got your helmet on under the wig,” said Magrat helpfully.
Shawn deflated. His eyes swivelled upward.
“Everyone at the haymaking?” said Magrat.
Shawn raised his wig, removed the helmet, and put the wig back. Then he distractedly put the helmet back on top of the wig.
“Yes, and Mr. Spriggins the butler is in bed with his trouble again,” said Shawn. “There's only me, miss. And I've got to get the dinner started before I'm off 'ome because Mrs. Scorbic is poorly.”
“You don't have to show me in,” said Magrat. “I do know the way.”
“No, it's got to be done proper,” said Shawn. “You just keep movin' slow and leave it to me.”
He ran on ahead and flung open some double doors-
“Meeeyisss Magraaaaat Garrrrrliick!”
-and scurried toward the next set of doors.
By the third pair he was out of breath, but he did his best.
“Meeeyisss . . . Magraaaaa . . . Garrrrrliick . . . His Majesteeeyyaa the Ki - Oh, bugger, now where's he gone?”
The throne room was empty.
They eventually found Verence II, King of Lancre, in the stable yard.
Some people are born to kingship. Some achieve kingship, or at least Arch-Generalissimo-Father-of-His-Countryship. But Verence had kingship thrust upon him. He hadn't been raised to it, and had only arrived at the throne by way of one of those complicated mix-ups of fraternity and parentage that are all too common in royal families.
He had in fact been raised to be a Fool, a man whose job it was to caper and tell jokes and have custard poured down his trousers. This had naturally given him a grave and solemn approach to life and a grim determination never to laugh at anything ever again, especially in the presence of custard.
In the role of ruler, then, he had started with the advantage of ignorance. No one had ever told him how to be a king, so he had to find out for himself. He'd sent off for books on the subject. Verence was a great believer in the usefulness of knowledge derived from books.
He had formed the unusual opinion that the job of a king is to make the kingdom a better place for everyone to live in.