“Turned a bit cold, though,” said Jason.
“Smells like snow,” said Carter.
“Oh, yeah,” said Baker. “That's right. Snow at midsummer. That's what they get where the sun don't shine.”
“Shutup, shutup, shutup,” said Jason.
“What's up with you?”
“It's wrong! We shouldn't be up here! Can't you feel it?”
“Oh, sit down, man,” said Weaver. “It's fine. Can't feel nothing but the air. And there's still more scumble in the jug.”
Baker leaned back.
“I remember an old story about this place,” he said. “Some man went to sleep up here once, when he was out hunting.”
The bottle glugged in the dusk.
“So what? I can do that,” said Carter. “I go to sleep every night, reg'lar.”
“Ah, but this man, when he woke up and went home, his wife was carrying on with someone else and all his children had grown up and didn't know who he was.”
“Happens to me just about every day,” said Weaver gloomily.
Baker sniffed.
“You know, it does smell a bit like snow. You know? That kind of sharp smell.”
Thatcher leaned back, cradling his head on his arm.
“Tell you what,” he said, “if I thought my old woman'd marry someone else and my hulking great kids'd bugger off and stop eating up the larder every day I'd come up here with a blanket like a shot. Who's got that jug?”
Jason took a pull out of nervousness, and found that he felt better as the alcohol dissolved his synapses.
But he made an effort.
“Hey, lads,” he slurred, “'ve got 'nother jug coolin' in the water trough down in the forge, what d'you say? We could all go down there now. Lads? Lads?”
There was the soft sound of snoring.
“Oh, lads.”
Jason stood up.
The stars wheeled.
Jason fell down, very gently. The jug rolled out of his hands and bounced across the grass.
The stars twinkled, the breeze was cold, and it smelled of snow.
The king dined alone, which is to say, he dined at one end of the big table and Magrat dined at the other. But they managed to meet up for a last glass of wine in front of the fire.
They always found it difficult to know what to say at moments like this. Neither of them was used to spending what might be called quality time in the company of another person. The conversation tended toward the cryptic.
And mostly it was about the wedding. It's different, for royalty. For one thing, you've already got everything. The traditional wedding list with the complete set of Tupperware and the twelve-piece dining set looks a bit out of place when you've already got a castle with so many furnished rooms that have been closed up for so long that the spiders have evolved into distinct species in accordance with strict evolutionary principles. And you can't simply multiply it all up and ask for An Army in a Red and White Motif to match the kitchen wallpaper. Royalty, when they marry, either get very small things, like exquisitely constructed clockwork eggs, or large bulky items, like duchesses.
And then there's the guest list. It's bad enough at an ordinary wedding, what with old relatives who dribble and swear, brothers who get belligerent after one drink, and various people who Aren't Talking to other people because of What They Said About Our Sharon. Royalty has to deal with entire countries who get belligerent after one drink, and entire kingdoms who Have Broken Off Diplomatic Relations after what the Crown Prince Said About Our Sharon. Verence had managed to work that all out, but then there were the species to consider. Trolls and dwarfs got on all right in Lancre by the simple expedient of having nothing to do with one another, but too many of them under one roof, especially if drink was flowing, and especially if it was flowing in the direction of the dwarfs, and people would Be Breaking People's Arms Off because of what, more or less, Their Ancestors Said About Our Sharon.