there was the logistics of the sideboard. Again, the easy option - them just going over and helping themselves - was out of the question. If kings went round putting their own food on their own plate, the whole system of monarchy would come crashing down.
Unfortunately, this meant that service had to be by means of Mr. Spriggins the butler, who had a bad memory, a nervous twitch and a rubber knee, and a sort of medieval elevator system that connected with the kitchen and sounded like the rattle of a tumbril. The elevator shaft was a kind of heat sink. Hot food was cold by the time it arrived. Cold food got colder. No one knew what would happen to ice cream, but it would probably involve some rewriting of the laws of thermodynamics.
Also, the cook couldn't get the hang of vegetarianism. The traditional palace cuisine was heavy in artery-clogging dishes so full of saturated fats that they oozed out in great wobbly globules. Vegetables existed as things to soak up spare gravy, and were generally boiled to a uniform shade of yellow in any case. Magrat had tried explaining things to Mrs. Scorbic the cook, but the woman's three chins wobbled so menacingly at words like “vitamins” that she'd made an excuse to back out of the kitchen.
At the moment she was making do with an apple. The cook knew about apples. They were big roasted floury things scooped out and filled with raisins and cream. So Magrat had resorted to stealing a raw one from the apple loft. She was also plotting to find out where the carrots were kept.
Verence was distantly visible behind the silver candlesticks and a pile of account books.
Occasionally they looked up and smiled at each other. At least, it looked like a smile but it was a little hard to be sure at this distance.
Apparently he'd just said something.
Magrat cupped her hands around her mouth.
“Pardon?”
“We need a-”
“Sorry?”
“What?”
“What?”
Finally Magrat got up and waited while Spriggins, purple in the face with the effort, moved her chair down toward Verence. She could have done it herself, but it wasn't what queens did.
“We ought to have a Poet Laureate,” said Verence, marking his place in a book. “Kingdoms have to have one. They write poems for special celebrations.”
“Yes?”
“I thought perhaps Mrs. Ogg? I hear she's quite an amusing songstress.”
Magrat kept a straight face.
“I . . . er . . . I think she knows lots of rhymes for certain words,” she said.
“Apparently the going rate is fourpence a year and a butt of sack,” said Verence, peering at the page. “Or it may be a sack of butt.”
“What exactly will she have to do?” said Magrat.
“It says here the role of the Poet Laureate is to recite poems on State occasions,” said Verence.
Magrat had witnessed some of Nanny Ogg's humorous recitations, especially the ones with the gestures. She nodded gravely.
“Provided,” she said, “and I want to be absolutely sure you understand me on this, provided she takes up her post after the wedding.”
“Oh, dear? Really?”
“After the wedding.”
“Oh.”
“Trust me.”
“Well, of course, if it makes you happy-”
There was a commotion outside the double doors, which were flung back. Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax stamped in, with Shawn trying to overtake them.