Free Wyrd Sisters by Terry Pratchett Page A

prattle of underlings was not, in his experience, particularly worthwhile.
    “I am bored, Fool.”
    “Let me entertain you, my lord, with many a merry quip and lightsome jest.”
    “Try me.”
    The Fool licked his dry lips. He hadn’t actually expected this. King Verence had been happy enough just to give him a kick, or throw a bottle at his head. A real king.
    “I’m waiting. Make me laugh.”
    The Fool took the plunge.
    “Why, sirrah,” he quavered, “why may a caudled fillhorse be deemed the brother to a hiren candle in the night?”
    The duke frowned. The Fool felt it better not to wait.
    “Withal, because a candle may be greased, yet a fillhorse be without a fat argier,” he said and, because it was part of the joke, patted Lord Felmet lightly with his balloon on a stick and twanged his mandolin.
    The duke’s index finger tapped an abrupt tattoo on the arm of the throne.
    “Yes?” he said. “And then what happened?”
    “That, er, was by way of being the whole thing,” said the Fool, and added, “My grandad thought it was one of his best.”
    “I daresay he told it differently,” said the duke. He stood up. “Summon my huntsmen. I think I shall ride out on the chase. And you can come too.”
    “My lord, I cannot ride!”
    For the first time that morning Lord Felmet smiled.
    “Capital!” he said. “We will give you a horse that can’t be ridden. Ha. Ha.”
    He looked down at his bandages. And afterward, he told himself, I’ll get the armorer to send me up a file.
     
    A year went past. The days followed one another patiently. Right back at the beginning of the multiverse they had tried all passing at the same time, and it hadn’t worked.
    Tomjon sat under Hwel’s rickety table, watching his father as he walked up and down between the lattys, waving one arm and talking. Vitoller always waved his arms when he spoke; if you tied his hands behind his back he would be dumb.
    “All right,” he was saying, “how about The King’s Brides ?”
    “Last year,” said the voice of Hwel.
    “All right, then. We’ll give them Mallo, the Tyrant of Klatch ,”said Vitoller, and his larynx smoothly changed gear as his voice became a great rolling thing that could rattle the windows across the width of the average town square. “‘In blood I came, And by blood rule, That none will dare assay these walls of blood—’”
    “We did it the year before,” said Hwel calmly. “Anyway, people are fed up with kings. They want a bit of a chuckle.”
    “They are not fed up with my kings,” said Vitoller. “My dear boy, people do not come to the theater to laugh, they come to Experience, to Learn, to Wonder—”
    “To laugh,” said Hwel, flatly. “Have a look at this one.”
    Tomjon heard the rustle of paper and the creak of wickerwork as Vitoller lowered his weight onto a props basket.
    “ A Wizard of Sorts ,” Vitoller read. “ Or, Please Yourself .”
    Hwel stretched his legs under the table and dislodged Tomjon. He hauled the boy out by one ear.
    “What’s this?” said Vitoller. “Wizards? Demons? Imps? Merchants?”
    “I’m rather pleased with Act II, Scene IV,” said Hwel, propelling the toddler toward the props box. “Comic Washing Up with Two Servants.”
    “Any death-bed scenes?” said Vitoller hopefully.
    “No-o,” said Hwel. “But I can do you a humorous monologue in Act III.”
    “A humorous monologue!”
    “All right, there’s room for a soliloquy in the last act,” said Hwel hurriedly. “I’ll write one tonight, no problem.”
    “And a stabbing,” said Vitoller, getting to his feet. “A foul murder. That always goes down well.”
    He strode away to organize the setting up of the stage.
    Hwel sighed, and picked up his quill. Somewhere behind the sacking walls was the town of Hangdog, which had somehow allowed itself to be built in a hollow perched in the nearly sheer walls of a canyon. There was plenty of flat ground in the Ramtops. The problem was that nearly all of