"Yes," said Magrat.

"Is the little boy all right?"

They all looked at Pewsey, who was sitting in a suspicious puddle on the floor in the comer with a bag of sweets and a sticky ring around his mouth.

"Right as rain," said Nanny Ogg. "Nothing worse'n a bit of sunburn. He screams his head off at the least little thing, bless him," she said proudly, as if this was some kind of rare talent.

"Gytha?" said Granny, from under the towel.

"Yes?"

"You knows I don't normally touch strong licker, but I've heard you mention the use of brandy for medicinal purposes."

"Coming right up."

Granny raised her towel and focused one eye on Magrat.

"Good afternoon, your pre-majesty," she said. "Come to be gracious at me, have you?"

"Well done," said Magrat, coldly. "Can one have a word with you, Na-Mrs. Ogg? Outside?"

Right you are, your queen," said Nanny.

In the alley outside Magrat spun around with her mouth open.

"You-"

Nanny held up her hand.

"I know what you're going to say," she said. "But there wasn't any danger to the little mite."

"But you-"

"Me?" said Nanny. "I hardly did anything. They didn't know he was going to run into the circle, did they? They both /reacted just like they normally would, didn't they? Fair's fair."

"Well, in a way, but-"

"No one cheated," said Nanny

Margrat sagged into silence. Nanny patted her on the shoulder.

"So you won't be telling anyone you saw me wave the bag of sweets at him, will you?" she said.

"No, Nanny."

"There's a good going-to-be-queen."

"Nanny?"

"Yes, dear?"

Magrat took a deep breath.

"How did Verence know when we were coming back?"

It seemed to Magrat that Nanny thought for just a few seconds too long.

"Couldn't say," she said at last. "Kings are a bit magical, mind. They can cure dandruff and that. Probably he woke up one morning and his royal prerogative gave him a tickle."

The trouble with Nanny Ogg was that she always looked as if she was lying. Nanny Ogg had a pragmatic attitude to the truth; she told it if it was convenient and she couldn't be bothered to make up something more interesting.

"Keeping busy up there, are you?" she said.

"One's doing very well, thank you," said Magrat, with what she hoped was queenly hauteur.

"Which one?" said Nanny.

"Which one what?"

"Which one's doing very well?"

"Me!"

"You should have said," said Nanny, her face poker straight. "So long as you're keeping busy, that's the important thing."

"He knew we were coming back," said Magrat firmly. "He'd even got the invitations sorted out. Oh, by the way . . . there's one for you-"

"I know, one got it this morning," said Nanny. "Got all that fancy nibbling on the edges and gold and everything. Who's Ruservup?"

Magrat had long ago got a handle on Nanny Ogg's world-view.

"RSVP," she said. "It means you ought to say if you're coming."

"Oh, one'll be along all right, catch one staying away," said Nanny. "Has one's Jason sent one his invite yet? Thought not. Not a skilled man with a pen, our Jason."

"Invitation to what?" said Magrat. She was getting fed up with ones.

"Didn't Verence tell one?" said Nanny. "It's a special play that's been written special for you."

"Oh, yes," said Magrat. "The Entertainment."

"Right," said Nanny. "It's going to be on Midsummer's Eve."

"It's got to be special, on Midsummer's Eve," said Jason Ogg.

The door to the smithy had been bolted shut. Within were the eight members of the Lancre Morris Men, six times winners of the Fifteen Mountains All-Comers Morris Championship[10], now getting to grips with a new art form.

"I feel a right twit," said Bestiality Carter, Lancre's only baker. "A dress on! I just hope my wife doesn't see me!"

"Says here," said Jason Ogg, his enormous forefinger hesitantly tracing its way along the page, "that it's a beaut-i-ful story of the love of the Queen of the Fairies – that's you, Bestiality-"

"-thank you very much-"

"-for a mortal man. Plus a hum-our-rus int-ter-lude with Comic Artisans. . ."

"What's an artisan?" said Weaver the thatcher.

"Dunno. Type of well, I reckon." Jason scratched his head. "Yeah. They've got 'em down on the plains. I repaired a pump for one once. Artisan wells."

"What's comic about them?"

"Maybe people fall down 'em in a funny way?"

"Why can't we do a Morris like normal?" said Obidiah Carpenter the tailor[11].

"Morris is for every day," said Jason. "We got to do something cultural. This come all the way from Ankh-Morpork."

"We could do the Stick and Bucket Dance," volunteered Baker the weaver.

"No one is to do the Stick and Bucket Dance ever again," said Jason. "Old Mr. Thrum still walks with a limp, and it were three months ago."

Weaver the thatcher squinted at his copy of the script.

"Who's this bugger Exeunt Omnes' he said.

"I don't think much of my part," said Carpenter, "it's too small."

"It's his poor wife I feel sorry for," said Weaver, automatically.

"Why?" said Jason[13].

"And why's there got to be a lion in it?" said Baker the weaver.

"'Cos it's a play!" said Jason. "No one'd want to see it if it had a . . . a donkey in it! Oi can just see people comin' to see a play 'cos it had a donkey in it. This play was written by a real playsmith! Hah, I can just see a real playsmith putting donkeys in a play! He says he'll be very interested to hear how we get on! Now just you all shut up!"

"I don't feel like the Queen of the Fairies," moaned Bestiality Carter[14].

"You'll grow into it," said Weaver.

"I hope not."

"And you've got to rehearse," said Jason.

"There's no room," said Thatcher the carter.

"Well, I ain't doin' it where anyone else can see," said Bestiality. "Even if we go out in the woods somewhere, people'll be bound to see. Me in a dress!"

"They won't recognize you in your makeup," said Weaver.

"Make-up?"

"Yeah, and your wig," said Tailor the other weaver. "He's right, though," said Weaver. "If we're going to make fools of ourselves, I don't want no one to see me until we're good at it."

"Somewhere off the beaten track, like," said Thatcher the carter.

"Out in the country," said Tinker the tinker.

"Where no one goes," said Carter.

Jason scratched his cheese-grater chin. He was bound to

think of somewhere.

"And who's going to play Exeunt Omnes?" said Weaver.

"He doesn't have much to say, does he?"

The coach rattled across the featureless plains. The land between Ankh-Morpork and the Ramtops was fertile, well-cultivated and dull, dull, dull. Travel broadens the mind. This landscape broadened the mind because the mind just flowed out from the ears like porridge. It was the kind of landscape where, if you saw a distant figure cutting cabbages, you'd watch him until he was out of sight because there was simply nothing else for the eye to do.

"I spy," said the Bursar, "with my little eye, something beginning with . . . H."

"Oook."

"No."

"Horizon," said Ponder.

"You guessed!"

"Of course I guessed. I'm supposed to guess. We've had S for Sky, C for Cabbage, 0 for . . . for Ook, and there's nothing else."

"I'm not going to play anymore if you're going to guess." The Bursar pulled his hat down over his ears and tried to curl up on the hard seat.