Now he was inspecting a complicated piece of equipment. It had a pair of shafts for a horse, and the rest of it looked like a cartful of windmills.
He glanced up, and smiled in an absentminded way.
“Oh, hello,” he said. “All back safe then?”
“Um-” Magrat began.
“It's a patent crop rotator,” said Verence. He tapped the machine. “Just arrived from Ankh-Morpork. The wave of the future, you know. I've really been getting interested in agricultural improvement and soil efficiency. We'll really have to get cracking on this new three-field system.”
Magrat was caught off balance.
“But I think we've only got three fields,” she said, “and there isn't much soil in-”
“It's very important to maintain the correct relationship between grains, legumes, and roots,” said Verence, raising his voice. “Also, I'm seriously considering clover. I should be interested to know what you think!”
“Um-”
“And I think we should do something about the pigs!” Verence shouted, “The Lancre Stripe! Is very hardy! But we could really bring the poundage up! By careful cross-breeding! With, say, the Sto Saddleback! I'm having a boar sent up - Shawn, will you only stop blowing that damn trumpet!”
Shawn lowered the trumpet.
“I'm doin' a fanfare, your majesty.”
“Yes, yes, but you're not supposed to go on. A few brief notes are a sufficiency.” Verence sniffed. “And something's burning.”
“Oh, blow . . . it's the carrots . . .” Shawn hurried away
“That's better,” said Verence. “Where were we?”
“Pigs, I think,” said Magrat, “but I really came to-”
“It all comes down to the soil,” said Verence. “Get the soil right, and everything else follows. Incidentally, I'm arranging the marriage for Midsummer Day I thought you'd like that.”
Magrat's mouth formed an 0.
“We could move it, of course, but not too much because of the harvest,” said Verence.
“I've had some invitations sent out already, to the more obvious guests,” said Verence.
“And I thought it might be a nice idea to have some sort of fair or festival beforehand,” said Verence.
“I asked Boggi's in Ankh-Morpork to send up their best dressmaker with a selection of materials and one of the maids is about your size and I think you'll be very pleased with the result,” said Verence.
“And Mr. Ironfoundersson, the dwarf, came down the mountain specially to make the crown,” said Verence.
“And my brother and Mr. Vittoller's Men can't come because they're touring Klatch, apparently, but Hwel the playsmith has written a special play for the wedding entertainment. Something even rustics can't muck up, he says,” said Verence.
“So that's all settled then?” said Verence.
Finally, Magrat's voice returned from some distant apogee, slightly hoarse.
“Aren't you supposed to ask me?” she demanded.
“What? Urn. No, actually,” said Verence. “No. Kings don't ask. I looked it up. I'm the king, you see, and you are, no offence meant, a subject. I don't have to ask.”
Magrat's mouth opened for the scream of rage but, at last, her brain jolted into operation.
Yes, it said, of course you can yell at him and sweep away. And he'll probably come after you.