Magrat calmed down. Of course it existed. Every castle had one. And of course this one was used. There was a trodden path through the dust to the rack a few feet away from the door, where a few suits of unravelling chain-mail hung on a rack, next to the pikes.
Shawn probably came in here every day.
It was the armoury.
Greebo hopped down from Magrat's shoulders and wandered off down the cobwebbed avenues, in his endless search for anything small and squeaky.
Magrat followed him, in a daze.
The kings of Lancre had never thrown anything away. At least, they'd never thrown anything away if it was possible to kill someone with it.
There was armour for men. There was armour for horses. There was armour for fighting dogs. There was even armour for ravens, although King Gumt the Stupid's plan for an aerial attack force had never really got off the ground. There were more pikes, and swords, cutlasses, rapiers, epees, broadswords, flails, momingstars, maces, clubs, and huge knobs with spikes. They were all piled together and, in those places where the roof had leaked, were rusted into a lump. There were longbows, short bows, pistol bows, stirrup bows, and crossbows, piled like firewood and stacked with the same lack of care. Odd bits of armour were piled in more heaps, and were red with rust. In fact rust was everywhere. The whole huge room was full of the death of iron.
Magrat went on, like some clockwork toy that won't change direction until it bumps into something.
The candlelight was reflected dully in helmets and breastplates. The sets of horse armour in particular were terrible, on their rotting wooden frames - they stood like exterior skeletons, and, like skeletons, nudged the mind into thoughts of mortality. Empty eye sockets stared sightlessly down at the little candlelit figure.
“Lady?”
The voice came from outside the door, far behind Magrat. But it echoed around her, bouncing off the centuries of mouldering armaments.
They can't come in here, Magrat thought. Too much iron. In here, I'm safe.
“If lady wants to play, we will fetch her friends.”
As Magrat turned, the light caught the edge of something, and gleamed.
Magrat pulled aside a huge shield.
“Lady?”
Magrat reached out.
“Lady?”
Magrat's hands held a rusty iron helmet, with wings.
“Come dance at the wedding, lady.”
Magrat's hands closed on a well-endowed breastplate, with spikes.
Greebo, who had been tracking mice through a prone suit of armour, stuck his head out of a leg.
A change had come over Magrat. It showed in her breathing. She'd been panting, with fear and exhaustion. Then, for a few seconds, there was no sound of her breathing at all. And finally it returned. Slowly. Deeply. Deliberately.
Greebo saw Magrat, who he'd always put down as basically a kind of mouse in human shape, lift the hat with the wings on it and put it on her head.
Magrat knew all about the power of hats.
In her mind's ear she could hear the rattle of the chariots.
“Lady? We will bring your friends to sing to you.”
She turned.
The candlelight sparkled off her eyes.
Greebo drew back into the safety of his armour. He recalled a particular time when he'd leapt out on a vixen. Normally Greebo could take on a fox without raising a sweat but, as it turned out, this one had cubs. He hadn't found out until he chased her into her den. He'd lost a bit of one ear and quite a lot of fur before he'd got away.