"All right. I won't."

He knocked on the coach door. The window slid down.

"I wouldn't like you to think of this as a robbery," he said. "I'd like you to think of it more as a colourful anecdote you might enjoy telling your grandchildren about."

A voice from within said, "That's him! He stole my horse!"

A wizard's staff poked out. The chieftain saw the knob on the end.

"Now, then," he said, pleasantly. "I know the rules. Wizards aren't allowed to use magic against civilians except in genuine life-threatening situa-"

There was a burst of octarine light.

"Actually, it's not a rule," said Ridcully. "It's more a guideline." He turned to Ponder Stibbons. "Interestin' use of Stacklady's Morphic Resonator here, I hope you noticed."

Ponder looked down.

The chieftain had been turned into a pumpkin although, in accordance with the rules of universal humour, he still had his hat on.

"And now," said Ridcully, "I'd be obliged if all you fellows hidin' behind the rocks and things would just step out where I can see you. Very good. Mr. Stibbons, you and the Librarian just pass around with the hat, please."

"But this is robbery!" said the coachman. "And you've turned him into a fruit!"

"A vegetable," said Ridcully "Anyway, it'll wear off in a couple of hours."

"And I'm owed a horse," said Casanunda.

The bandits paid up, reluctantly handing over money to Ponder and reluctantly but very quickly handing over money to the Librarian.

"There's almost three hundred dollars, sir," said Ponder.

"And a horse, remember. In fact, there were two horses. I'd forgotten about the other horse until now."

"Capital! We're in pocket on the trip. So if these gentlemen would just remove the roadblock, we'll be on our way."

"In fact, there was a third horse I've just remembered about."

"This isn't what you're supposed to do! You're supposed to be robbed!" shouted the coachman.

Ridcully pushed him off the board.

"We're on holiday," he said.

The coach rattled away There was a distant cry of "And four horses, don't forget" before it rounded a bend.

The pumpkin developed a mouth.

"Have they gone?"

"Yes, boss."

"Roll me into the shade, will you? And no one say anything about this ever again. Has anyone got any dried frog pills?"

Verence II respected witches. They'd put him on the throne. He was pretty certain of that, although he couldn't quite work out how it had happened. And he was in awe of Granny Weatherwax.

He followed her meekly toward the dungeons, hurrying to keep up with her long stride.

"What's happening, Mistress Weatherwax?"

"Got something to show you."

"You mentioned elves."

"That's right."

"I thought they were a fairy story."

"Well?"

"I mean . . . you know . . . an old wives' tale?"

"So?"

Granny Weatherwax seemed to generate a gyroscopic field – if you started out off-balance, she saw to it that you remained there.

He tried again.

"Don't exist, is what I'm trying to say."

Granny reached a dungeon door. It was mainly age-blackened oak, but with a large barred grille occupying some of the top half.

"In there."

Verence peered inside.

"Good grief!"

"I got Shawn to unlock it. I don't reckon anyone else saw us come in. Don't tell anyone. If the dwarfs and the trolls find out, they'll tear the walls apart to get him out."

"Why? To kill him?"

"Of course. They've got better memories than humans."

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Just keep it locked up. How should I know? I've got to think!"

Verence peered in again at the elf. It was lying curled up in the centre of the floor.

"That's an elf? But it's . . . just a long, thin human with a foxy face. More or less. I thought they were supposed to be beautiful?"

"Oh, they are when they're conscious," said Granny, waving a hand vaguely "They project this . . . this . . . when people look at them, they see beauty, they see something they want to please. They can look just like you want them to look. 'S'called glamour. You can tell when elves are around. People act funny. They stop thinking clear. Don't you know anything?"

"I thought . . . elves were just stories . . . like the Tooth Fairy. . ."

"Nothing funny about the Tooth Fairy," said Granny. "Very hard-working woman. I'll never know how she manages with the ladder and everything. No. Elves are real. Oh, drat. Listen. . ."

She turned, and held up a finger.

"Feudal system, right?"

"What?"

"Feudal system! Pay attention. Feudal system. King on top, then barons and whatnot, then everyone else . . . witches off to one side a bit," Granny added diplomatically. She steepled her fingers. "Feudal system. Like them pointy buildings heathen kings get buried in. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Right. That's how the elves see things, yes? When they get into a world, everyone else is on the bottom. Slaves. Worse than slaves. Worse than animals, even. They take what they want, and they want everything. But worst of all, the worst bit is . . . they read your mind. They hear what you think, and in self-defence you think what they want. Glamour. And it's barred windows at night, and food out for the fairies, and turning around three times before you talks about 'em, and horseshoes over the door."

"I thought that sort of thing was, you know," the king grinned sickly, "folklore?"

"Of course it's folklore, you stupid man!"

"I do happen to be king, you know," said Verence reproachfully.

"You stupid king, your majesty,"

"Thank you."

"I mean it doesn't mean it's not true! Maybe it gets a little muddled over the years, folks forget details, they forget why they do things. Like the horseshoe thing."

"I know my granny had one over the door," said the king.

"There you are. Nothing to do with its shape. But if you lives in an old cottage and you're poor, it's probably the nearest bit of iron with holes in it that you can find."

"Ah."

"The thing about elves is they've got no . . . begins with m," Granny snapped her fingers irritably.

"Manners?"

"Hah! Right, but no."

"Muscle? Mucus? Mystery?"

"No. No. No. Means like . . . seein' the other person's point of view."

Verence tried to see the world from a Granny Weatherwax perspective, and suspicion dawned.

"Empathy?"

"Right. None at all. Even a hunter, a good hunter, can feel for the quarry. That's what makes 'em a good hunter. Elves aren't like that. They're cruel for fun, and they can't understand things like mercy. They can't understand that anything apart from themselves might have feelings. They laugh a lot, especially if they've caught a lonely human or a dwarf or a troll. Trolls might be made out of rock, your majesty, but I'm telling you that a troll is your brother compared to elves. In the head, I mean."

"But why don't I know all this?"

"Glamour. Elves are beautiful. They've got," she spat the word, "style. Beauty. Grace. That's what matters. If cats looked like frogs we'd realize what nasty, cruel little bastards they are. Style. That's what people remember. They remember the glamour. All the rest of it, all the truth of it, becomes . . . old wives' tales."

"Magrat's never said anything about them."

Granny hesitated.

"Magrat doesn't know too much about elves," she said. "Hah. She ain't even a young wife yet. They're not something that gets talked about a lot these days. It's not good to talk about them. It's better if everyone forgets about them. They . . . come when they're called. Not called like 'Cooee.' Called inside people's heads. It's enough for people just to want them to be here."