His voice trailed into a mumble. “Oh, my word. It all comes back to me . . . What a summer that was. They don't make 'em like that anymore.” He sighed. “You know,” he said, “I'd give anything to walk through those woods with her again. There were so many things we never - oh, well. Come on.”
Ponder looked around at Lancre. He'd been born and raised in Ankh-Morpork. As far as he was concerned, the countryside was something that happened to other people, and most of them had four legs. As far as he was concerned, the countryside was like raw chaos before the universe, which was to say something with cobbles and walls, something civilized, was created.
“This is the capital city?” he said.
“More or less,” said Casanunda, who tended to feel the same way about places that weren't paved.
“I bet there's not a single delicatessen anywhere,” said Ponder.
“And the beer here,” said Ridcully, “the beer here - well, you'd just better taste the beer here! And there's stuff called scumble, they make it from apples and . . . and damned if I know what else they put in it, except you daren't pour it into metal mugs. You ought to try it, Mr. Stibbons. It'd put hair on your chest. And yours-” he turned to the next one down from the coach, who turned out to be the Librarian.
“Oook?”
“Well, I, er, I should just drink anything you like, in your case,” said Ridcully.
He hauled the mail sack down from the roof.
“What do we do with this?” he said.
There were ambling footsteps behind him, and he turned to see a short, red-faced youth in ill-fitting and baggy chain-mail, which made him look like a lizard that had lost a lot of weight very quickly.
“Where's the coach driver?” said Shawn Ogg.
“He's ill,” said Ridcully. “He had a sudden attack of bandits. What do we do with the mail?”
“I take the palace stuff, and we generally leave the sack hanging up on a nail outside the tavern so that people can help themselves,” said Shawn.
“Isn't that dangerous?” said Ponder.
“Don't think so. It's a strong nail,” said Shawn, rummaging in the sack.
“I meant, don't people steal letters?”
“Oh, they wouldn't do that, they wouldn't do that. One of the witches'd go and stare at 'em if they did that.” Shawn stuffed a few packages under his arm and hung the sack on the aforesaid nail.
“Yes, that's another thing they used to have round here,” said Ridcully. “Witches! Let me tell you about the witches round here-”
“Our mum's a witch,” said Shawn conversationally, rummaging in the sack.
“As fine a body of women as you could hope to meet,” said Ridcully, with barely a hint of mental gear-clashing. “And not a bunch of interfering power-mad old crones at all, whatever anyone might say.”
“Are you here for the wedding?”
“That's right. I'm the Archchancellor of Unseen University, this is Mr. Stibbons, a wizard, this - where are you? Oh, there you are - this is Mr. Casanunda-”
“Count,” said Casanunda. “I'm a Count.”
“Really? You never said.”
“Well, you don't, do you? It's not the first thing you say.”
Ridcully's eyes narrowed.
“But I thought dwarfs didn't have titles,” he said.
“I performed a small service for Queen Agantia of Skund,” said Casanunda.
“Did you? My word. How small?”