Terry Pratchett - Discworld 23 Carpe Jugulum

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The light snapped off. Something still glided down the moonlit

ribbon between the rocks.

It shot out of the canyon at the top of a cliff, where meltwater

from a glacier plunged down into a distant pool.

Against all reason there was a valley here, or a network of val-

leys, clinging to the edge of the mountains before the long fall to the

plains. A small lake gleamed in the warmer air. There were forests.

There were tiny fields, like a patchwork quilt thrown across the

rocks.

The wind had died. The air was warmer.

The shadow began to circle.

Far below, unheeded and unheeding, something else was enter-

ing this little handful of valleys. It was hard to see exactly what it

was; furze rippled, heather rustled, as if a very large army made of

very small creatures was moving with one purpose.

The shadow reached a flat rock that offered a magnificent view of

the fields and wood below, and there the army came out from

among the roots. It was made up of very small blue men, some

wearing pointy blue caps but most of them with their red hair un-

covered. They carried swords. None of them was more than six

inches high.

They lined up and looked down into the new place and then,

weapons waving, raised a battle cry. It would have been more im-

pressive if they'd agreed on one before, but as it was it sounded as

though every single small warrior had a battle cry of his very own

and would fight anyone who tried to take it away from him.

'Nac mac Feegle!'

'Ach, stickit yer trakkans!'

'Gie you sich a kickin'!'

'Bigjobs!'

'Dere c'n onlie be whin t'ousand!'

'Nac mac Feegle wha hae!'

about right. The world was obviously flat, although in Lancre itself

the only truly flat places were tables and the top of some people's

heads, and certainly turtles could shift a fair load. Elephants, by all

accounts, were pretty strong too. There didn't seem any major gaps

in the thesis, so Lancrastians left it at that.

It wasn't that they didn't take an interest in the world around

them. On the contrary, they had a deep, personal and passionate

involvement in it, but instead of asking, 'Why are we here?' they

asked, 'Is it going to rain before the harvest?'

A philosopher might have deplored this lack of mental ambition,

but only if he was really certain about where his next meal was

coming from.

In fact Lancre's position and climate bred a hardheaded and

straightforward people who often excelled in the world down below.

It had supplied the plains with many of their greatest wizards and

witches and, once again, the philosopher might have marvelled that

such a four-square people could give the world so many successful

magical practitioners, being quite unaware that only those with

their feet on rock can build castles in the air.

And so the sons and daughters of Lancre went off into the world,

carved out careers, climbed the various ladders of achievement, and

always remembered to send money home.

Apart from noting the return addresses on the envelope, those

who stayed didn't think much about the world outside.

The world outside thought about them, though.

The big flat-topped rock was deserted now, but on the moor be-

low, the heather trembled in a v-shape heading towards the low-

lands.

'Gin's a haddie!'

'Nac mac Feegle!'

quite apart from the stake through the heart, which also works on

normal people so if you have any stakes left over you don't have to

waste them. Classically, they spent the day in some coffin some-

where, with no guard other than an elderly hunchback who doesn't

look all that spry, and should succumb to quite a small mob. Yet

just one can keep a whole community in a state of sullen obedience

. . .

The other puzzle is: why are vampires always so stupid? As if

wearing evening dress all day wasn't an undead giveaway, why do

they choose to live in old castles which offer so much in the way of

ways to defeat a vampire, like easily torn curtains and wall decora-

tions that can readily be twisted into a religious symbol? Do they

really think that spelling their name backwards fools anyone?

A coach rattled across the moorlands, many miles away from

Lancre. From the way it bounced over the ruts, it was travelling

light. But darkness came with it.

The horses were black, and so was the coach, except for the coat

of arms on the doors. Each horse had a black plume between its

ears; there was a black plume at each corner of the coach as well.

Perhaps these caused the coach's strange effect of travelling

shadow. It seemed to be dragging the night behind it.

On the top of the moor, where a few trees grew out of the rubble

of a ruined building, it creaked to a halt.

The horses stood still, occasionally stamping a hoof or tossing

their heads. The coachman sat hunched over the reins, waiting.

Four figures flew just above the clouds, in the silvery moonlight.

By the sound of their conversation someone was annoyed, although

the sharp unpleasant tone to the voice suggested that a better word

might be 'vexed'.

'You let it get away!' This voice had a whine to it, the voice of a

chronic complainer.

'Then I'm doing them a favour by killing them?'

'Yes, that is a point. Now, shall-'

'After all, chickens don't burn,' said the voice called Lacci. 'Not

easily, anyway.'

'We heard you experiment. Killing them first might have been a

good idea.' This was a third voice - young, male, and also somewhat

weary with the female. It had 'older brother' harmonics on every

syllable.

'What's the point in that?'

'Well, dear, it would have been quieter.'

'Listen to your father, dear.' And this, the fourth voice, could only

be a mother's voice. It'd love the other voices whatever they did.

'You're so unfair!'

'We did let you drop rocks on the pixies, dear. Life can't be all

fun.'

The coachman stirred as the voices descended through the

clouds. And then four figures were standing a little way off. He

clambered down and, with difficulty, opened the coach door as they

approached.

'Most of the wretched things got away, though,' said Mother.

'Never mind, my dear,' said Father.

'I really hate them. Are they a dead end too?' said Daughter.

'Not quite dead enough as yet, despite your valiant efforts. Igor!

On to Lancre.'

The coachman turned.

'Meth, marthter.'

'Oh, for the last time, man . . . is that any way to talk?'

'It'th the only way I know, marthter,' said Igor.

'And I told you to take the plumes off the coach, you idiot.'

The coachman shifted uneasily.

'Gotta have black plumeth, marthter. It'th tradithional.'

The wording began:

'You are cordially invited. . .'

... and was in that posh runny writing that was hard to read but

ever so official.

Nanny Ogg grinned and tucked the card back on the mantel-

piece. She liked the idea of 'cordially'. It had a rich, a thick and

above all an alcoholic sound.

She was ironing her best petticoat. That is to say, she was sitting

in her chair by the fire while one of her daughters-in-law, whose

name she couldn't remember just at this moment, was doing the

actual work. Nanny was helping by pointing out the bits she'd

missed.

It was a damn good invite, she thought. Especially the gold edg-

ing, which was as thick as syrup. Probably not real gold, but im-

pressively glittery all the same.

'There's a bit there that could do with goin' over again, gel,' she

said, topping up her beer.

'Yes, Nanny.'

Another daughter-in-law, whose name she'd certainly be able to

recall after a few seconds' thought, was buffing up Nanny's red

boots. A third was very carefully dabbing the lint off Nanny's best

pointy hat, on its stand.

Nanny got up again and wandered over to open the back door.

There was little light left in the sky now, and a few rags of cloud

were scudding over the early stars. She sniffed the air. Winter hung

on late up here in the mountains, but there was definitely a taste of

spring on the wind.

A good time, she thought. Best time, really. Oh, she knew that

the year started on Hogswatchnight, when the cold tide turned, but

the new year started now, with green shoots boring upwards

through the last of the snow. Change was in the air, she could feel

it in her bones.

her reflection in the glass, because that kind of heroine will sooner

or later end up singing a duet with Mr Blue Bird and other forest

creatures and then there's nothing for it but a flamethrower.

She simply sang in harmony with herself. Unless she concen-

trated it was happening more and more these days. Perdita had

rather a reedy voice, but she insisted on joining in.

Those who are inclined to casual cruelty say that inside a fat girl

is a thin girl and a lot of chocolate. Agnes's thin girl was Perdita.

She wasn't sure how she'd acquired the invisible passenger. Her

mother had told her that when she was small she'd been in the

habit of blaming accidents and mysteries, such as the disappear-

ance of a bowl of cream or the breaking of a prized jug, on 'the other

little girl'.

Only now did she realize that indulging this sort of thing wasn't a

good idea when, despite yourself, you've got a bit of natural witch-

craft in your blood. The imaginary friend had simply grown up and

had never gone away and had turned out to be a pain.

Agnes disliked Perdita, who was vain, selfish and vicious, and

Perditahated going around inside Agnes, whom she regarded as a

fat, pathetic, weak-willed blob that people would walk all over were

she not so steep.

Agnes told herself she'd simply invented the name Perdita as

some convenient label for all those thoughts and desires she knew

she shouldn't have, as a name for that troublesome little commen-

tator that lives on everyone's shoulder and sneers. But sometimes

she thought Perdita had created Agnes for something to pummel.

Agnes tended to obey rules. Perdita didn't. Perdita thought that

not obeying rules was somehow cool. Agnes thought that rules like

'Don't fall into this huge pit of spikes' were there for a purpose. Per-

dita thought, to take an example at random, that things like table

manners were a stupid and repressive idea. Agnes, on the other

hand, was against being hit by flying bits of other people's cabbage.

word used only by people whose brains wouldn't fill a spoon.

Magrat Garlick hadn't worn black and had probably never in her

life said 'cool' except when commenting on the temperature.

Agnes stopped examining her pointiness in the mirror and

looked around the cottage that had been Magrat's and was now

hers, and sighed. Her gaze took in the expensive, gold-edged card

on the mantelpiece.

Well, Magrat had certainly retired now, and had gone off to be

Queen and if there was ever any doubt about that then there could

be no doubt today. Agnes was puzzled at the way Nanny Ogg and

Granny Weatherwax still talked about her, though. They were proud

(more or less) that she'd married the King, and agreed that it was

the right kind of life for her, but while they never actually articu-

lated the thought it hung in the air over their heads in flashing

mental colours: Magrat had settled for second prize.

Agnes had almost burst out laughing when she first realized this,

but you wouldn't be able to argue with them. They wouldn't even

see that there could be an argument.

beginnen

Granny Weatherwax lived in a cottage with a thatch so old there

was quite

a sprightly young tree growing in it, and got up and went to bed

alone,

and washed in the rain barrel. And Nanny Ogg was the most lo-

cal person

Agnes had ever met. She'd gone off to foreign parts, yes, but she

always

carried Lancre with her, like a' sort of invisible hat. But they took

for granted that they were top of every tree, and the rest of the

world

was there for them to tinker with.

Witches never locked their doors. They never needed to.

As she stepped out into the moonlight, two magpies landed on

the thatch.

The current activities of the witch Granny Weatherwax would

have puzzled

a hidden observer.

She peered at the flagstones just inside her back door and lifted

the old

rag rug in front of it with her toe.

Then she walked to the front door, which was never used, and

did the same

thing there. She also examined the cracks around the edges of

the doors.

She went outside. There had been a sharp frost during the night,

spiteful little trick by the dying winter, and the drifts of leaves

that

hung on in the shadows were still crisp. In the harsh air she

poked

around in the flowerpots and bushes by the front door.

Then she went back inside.

She had a clock. Lancrastians liked clocks, although they didn't

bother

much about actual time in any length much shorter than an

hour. If you

hammered on the door.

Anyone who hadn't heard about Granny's iron selfcontrol, which

you could

bend a horseshoe round, might just have thought they heard her

give a

tiny sigh of relief.

'Well, it's about time-' she began.

The excitement up at the castle was just a distant hum down in

the mews.

The hawks and falcons sat hunched on their perches, lost in

some inner

world of stoop and updraught. There was the occasional clink of

a chain

or flutter of a wing.

Hodgesaargh the falconer was getting ready in the tiny room next

door

when he felt the change in the air. He stepped out into a silent

mews.

The birds were all awake, alert, expectant. Even King Henry the

eagle,

whom Hodgesaargh would only go near at the moment when he

was wearing

full plate armour, was peering around.

You got something like this when there was a rat in the place,

but

Hodgesaargh couldn't see one. Perhaps it had gone.

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摘要：

Thelightsnappedoff.Somethingstillglideddownthemoonlitribbonbetweentherocks.Itshotoutofthecanyonatthetopofacliff,wheremeltwaterfromaglacierplungeddownintoadistantpool.Againstallreasontherewasavalleyhere,oranetworkofval-leys,clingingtotheedgeofthemountainsbeforethelongfalltotheplains.Asmalllakegleamed...

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Terry Pratchett - Discworld 23 Carpe Jugulum

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