She dressed herself in her commoner's clothes for the ' last time, and let herself out and down the back stairs to the widdershins tower and the room where Diamanda lay

Magrat had instructed Shawn to keep a good fire going in the grate, and Diamanda was still sleeping, peacefully, the unwakeable sleep.

Magrat couldn't help noticing that Diamanda was strikingly good-looking and, from what she'd heard, quite brave enough to stand up to Granny Weatherwax. She could hardly wait to get her better so that she could envy her properly.

The wound seemed to be healing up nicely, but there seemed to be –

Magrat strode to the bellpull in the comer and hauled on it.

After a minute or two Shawn Ogg arrived, panting. There was gold paint on his hands.

"What," said Magrat, "are all these things?"

"Um. Don't like to say, ma'am . . ."

"One happens to be . . . very nearly . . . the queen," said Magrat.

"Yes, but the king said . . . well. Granny said-"

"Granny Weatherwax does not happen to rule the kingdom," said Magrat. She hated herself when she spoke like this, but it seemed to work. "And anyway she's not here. One is here, however, and if you don't tell one what's going on I'll see to it that you do all the dirty jobs around the palace."

"But I do all the dirty jobs anyway," said Shawn.

"I shall see to it that there are dirtier ones."

Magrat picked up one of the bundles. It was made up of strips of sheet wrapped around what turned out to be an iron bar.

"They're all around her," she said. "Why?"

Shawn looked at his feet. There was gold paint on his boots, too.

"Well, our mum said . . ."

"Yes?"

"Our mum said I was to see to it that there was iron round her. So me and Millie got some bars from down the smithy and wrapped 'em up like this and Millie packed 'em round her."

"Why?"

"To keep away the . . . the Lords and Ladies, ma'am."

"What? That's just old superstition! Anyway, everyone knows elves were good, whatever Granny Weatherwax says."

Behind her, Shawn flinched. Magrat pulled the wrapped iron lumps out of the bed and tossed them into the comer.

"No old wives' tales here, thank you very much. Is there anything else people haven't been telling me, by any chance?"

Shawn shook his head, guiltily aware of the thing in the dungeon.

"Huh! Well, go away. Verence wants the kingdom to be modem and efficient, and that means no horseshoes and stuff around the place. Go on, go away."

"Yes, Miss Queen."

At least I can do something positive around here, Magrat told herself.

Yes. Be sensible. Go and see him. Talk. Magrat clung to the idea that practically anything could be sorted out if only people talked to one another.

"Shawn?"

He paused at the door.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Has the king gone down to the Great Hall yet?"

"I think he's still dressing, Miss Queen. He hasn't rung for me to do the trumpet, I know that."

In fact, Verence, who didn't like going everywhere preceded by Shawn's idea of a fanfare, had already gone downstairs incognito. But Magrat slipped along to his room, and knocked on the door.

Why be bashful? It'd be her room as well from tomorrow, wouldn't it? She tried the handle. It turned. Without quite willing it, Magrat went in.

Rooms in the castle could hardly be said to belong to anyone in any case. They'd had too many occupants over the centuries. The very atmosphere was the equivalent of those walls scattered with outbreaks of drawing-pin holes where last term's occupants hung the posters of rock groups long disbanded. You couldn't stamp your personality on that stone. It stamped back harder.

For Magrat, stepping into a man's bedroom was like an explorer stepping on to that part of the map marked Here Be Dragons[27].

And it wasn't exactly what it ought to have been.

Verence had arrived at the bedroom concept fairly late in life. When he was a boy, the entire family slept on straw in the cottage attic. As an apprentice in the Guild of Joculators, he'd slept on a pallet in a long dormitory of other sad, beaten young men. When he was a fully fledged Fool he'd slept, by tradition, curled up in front of his master's door. Suddenly, at a later age than is usual, he'd been introduced to the notion of soft mattresses.

And now Magrat was privy to the big secret.

It hadn't worked.

There was the Great Bed of Lancre, which was said to be able to sleep a dozen people, although in what circumstances and why it should be necessary history had never made clear. It was huge and made of oak.

It was also, very clearly, unslept in.

Magrat pulled back the sheets, and smelled the scorched smell of linen. But it also smelled unaired, as if it hadn't been slept in.

She stared around the room until her eye lit on the little still-life by the door. There was a folded nightshirt, a candlestick, and a small pillow.

As far as Verence had been concerned, a crown merely changed which side of the door you slept.

Oh, gods. He'd always slept in front of the door of his master. And now he was king, he slept in front of the door to his kingdom.

Magrat felt her eyes fill with tears.

You couldn't help loving someone as soppy as that.

Fascinated, and aware that she was where she technically shouldn't be, Magrat blew her nose and explored further. A heap of discarded garments by the bed suggested that Verence had mastered the art of hanging up clothes as practiced by half the population of the world, and also that he had equally had difficulty with the complex topological manoeuvres necessary to turn his socks the right way out.

There was a tiny dressing table and a mirror. Stuck to the mirror frame was a dried and faded flower that looked, to Magrat, very like the ones she habitually wore in her hair.

She shouldn't have gone on looking. She admitted that to herself, afterward. But she seemed to have no self-control.

There was a wooden bowl in the middle of the dresser table, full of odd coins, bits of string, and the general detritus of the nightly emptied pocket.

And a folded paper. Much folded, as if it had stayed in said pocket for some time.

She picked it up, and unfolded it.

There were little kingdoms all over the hubward slopes of the Ramtops. Every narrow valley, every ledge that something other than a goat could stand on, was a kingdom. There were kingdoms in the Ramtops so small that, if they were ravaged by a dragon, and that dragon had been killed by a young hero, and the king had given him half his kingdom as per Section Three of the Heroic Code, then there wouldn't have been any kingdom left. There were wars of annexation that went on for years just because someone wanted a place to keep the coal.

Lancre was one of the biggest kingdoms. It could actually afford a standing army[28].

Kings and queens and various sub-orders of aristocracy were even now streaming over Lancre bridge, watched by a sulking and soaking-wet troll who had given up on bridge-keeping for the day.

The Great Hall had been thrown open. Jugglers and fire-eaters strolled among the crowd. Up in the minstrels gallery a small orchestra were playing the Lancre one-string fiddle and famed Ramtop bagpipes, but fortunately they were more or less drowned out by the noise of the crowd.

Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax moved through said crowd. In deference to this being a festive occasion, Nanny Ogg had exchanged her normal black pointy hat for one the same shape but in red, with wax cherries on it.

"All the hort mond are here," Nanny observed, taking a drink off a passing tray. "Even some wizards from Ankh-Morpork, our Shawn said. One of them said I had a fine body, he said. Been tryin' to remember all morning who that could have been."