Granny rolled her eyes. “It's true, you know,” she said. “All men are swains. Push off, you soft old bugger. They're not intending to kill me. At least, not yet. But they don't hardly know nothing about wizards and they'll chop you down without thinking.”
“Now who's being soft?”
“I don't want to see you dead when you could be doin' something useful.”
“Running away isn't useful.”
“It's going to be a lot more useful than staying here.”
“I'd never forgive myself if I went.”
“And I'd never forgive you if you stayed, and I'm a lot more unforgiving than you are,” said Granny. “When it's all over, try to find Gytha Ogg. Tell her to look in my old box. She'll know what's in there. And if you don't go now-”
An arrow hit the stump beside Ridcully.
“The buggers are firing at me!” he shouted. “If I had my crossbow-”
“I should go and get it, then,” said Granny.
“Right! I'll be back instantly!”
Ridcully vanished. A moment later several lumps of castle masonry dropped out of the space he had just occupied.
“That's him out of the way, then,” said Granny, to no one in particular.
She stood up, and gazed around at the trees.
“All right,” she said, “here I am. I ain't running. Come and get me. Here I am. All of me.”
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.