And he'd say: define actually!
And he'd shout: well, actually Omnians would have tortured you to death, not long ago, for even thinking like this. Remember that? Remember how many died for using the brain which, you seem to think, their god gave them? What kind of truth excuses all that pain?
He'd never quite worked out how to put the answer into words. And then the headaches would start, and the sleepless nights. The Church schismed all the time these days, and this was surely the ultimate one, starting a war inside one's head.
To think he'd been sent here for his health, because Brother Melchio had got worried about his shaky hands and the way he talked to himself!
He did not gird his loins, because he wasn't certain how you did that and had never dared ask, but he adjusted his hat and stepped out into the wild night under the thick, uncommunicative clouds.
The castle gates swung open and Count Magpyr stepped out, flanked by his soldiers.
This was not according to the proper narrative tradition. Although the people of Lancre were technically new to all this, down at genetic level they knew that when the mob is at the gate the mobee should be screaming defiance in a burning laboratory or engaged in a cliffhanger struggle with some hero on the battlements.
He shouldn't be lighting a cigar.
They fell silent, scythes and pitchforks hovering in midshake. The only sound was the crackling of the torches.
The Count blew a smoke ring.
'Good evening,' he said, as it drifted away. 'You must be the mob.'
Someone at the back of the crowd, who hadn't been keeping up to date, threw a stone. Count Magpyr caught it without looking.
'The pitchforks are good,' he said. 'I like the pitchforks. As pitchforks they certainly pass muster. And the torches, well, that goes without saying. But the scythes... no, no, I'm afraid not. They simply will not do. Not a good mob weapon, I have to tell you. Take it from me. A simple sickle is much better. Start waving scythes around and someone could lose an ear. Do try to learn.'
He ambled over to a very large man who was holding a pitchfork.
'And what is your name, young man?'
'Br... Jason Ogg, sir.'
'The blacksmith?'
'Yessir?'
'Wife and family doing well?'
'Yessir.'
'Well done. Got everything you need?'
'Er... yessir.'
'Good man. Carry on. If you could keep the noise down over dinner I would be grateful, but of course I appreciate you have a vital traditional role to play. I'll have the servants bring out some mugs of hot toddy shortly.' He knocked the ash off his cigar. 'Oh, and may I introduce you to Sergeant Kraput, known to his friends as "Bent Bill", I believe, and this gentleman here picking his teeth with his knife is Corporal Svitz, who I understand has no friends at all. I suppose it is faintly possible that he will make some here. They and their men, who I suppose could be called soldiers in a sort of informal, easy-come easy-go, cut-and-thrust sort of way' - here Corporal Svitz leered and flicked a gobbet of anonymous rations from a yellowing molar - 'will be going on duty in, oh, about an hour. Purely for reasons of security, you understand.'
'An' then we'll gut yer like a clam and stuff yer with straw,' said Corporal Svitz.
'Ah. This is technical military language of which I know little,' said the Count. 'I do so hope there is no unpleasantness.'
'I don't,' said Sergeant Kraput.
'What scamps they are,' said the Count. 'Good evening to you all. Come, gentlemen.'
He stepped back into the courtyard. The gates, their wood so heavy and toughened with age that it was like iron, swung shut.
On the other side of it was silence, followed by the puzzled mumbling of players who have had their ball confiscated.
The Count nodded at Vlad and flung out his hands theatrically.