Free Wyrd Sisters by Terry Pratchett Page B

long and maybe ten miles wide, and nearly all of it was cruel mountains with ice-green slopes and knife-edge crests, or dense huddled forests. A kingdom like that shouldn’t be any trouble.
    What he couldn’t quite fathom was this feeling that it had
depth
. It seemed to contain far too much geography.
    He rose and paced the floor to the balcony, with its unrivalled view of trees. It struck him that the trees were also looking back at him.
    He could feel the resentment. But that was odd, because the people themselves hadn’t objected. They didn’t seem to object to anything very much. Verence had been popular enough, in his way. There’d been quite a turnout for the funeral; he recalled the lines of solemn faces. Not stupid faces. By no means stupid.Just preoccupied, as though what kings did wasn’t really very important.
    He found that almost as annoying as trees. A jolly good riot, now, that would have been more – more appropriate. One could have ridden out and hanged people, there would have been the creative tension so essential to the proper development of the state. Back down on the plains, if you kicked people they kicked back. Up here, when you kicked people they moved away and just waited patiently for your leg to fall off. How could a king go down in history ruling a people like that? You couldn’t oppress them any more than you could oppress a mattress.
    He had raised taxes and burned a few villages on general principles, just to show everyone who they were dealing with. It didn’t seem to have any effect.
    And then there were these witches. They haunted him.
    â€˜Fool!’
    The Fool, who had been having a quiet doze behind the throne, awoke in terror.
    â€˜Yes!’
    â€˜Come hither, Fool.’
    The Fool jingled miserably across the floor.
    â€˜Tell me, Fool, does it always rain here?’
    â€˜Marry, nuncle—’
    â€˜Just answer the question,’ said Lord Felmet, with iron patience.
    â€˜Sometimes it stops, sir. To make room for the snow. And sometimes we get some right squand’ring orgulous fogs,’ said the Fool.
    â€˜Orgulous?’ said the duke, absently.
    The Fool couldn’t stop himself. His horrified earsheard his mouth blurt out: ‘Thick, my lord. From the Latatian
orgulum
, a soup or broth.’
    But the duke wasn’t listening. Listening to the prattle of underlings was not, in his experience, particularly worthwhile.
    â€˜I am bored, Fool.’
    â€˜Let me entertain you, my lord, with many a merry quip and lightsome jest.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I’m waiting. Make me laugh.’
    The Fool took the plunge.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Yes?’ he said. ‘And then what happened?’
    â€˜That, er, was by way of being the whole thing,’ said the Fool, and added, ‘My grandad thought it was one of his best.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜My lord, I cannot ride!’
    For the first time that morning Lord Felmet smiled.
    â€˜Capital!’ he said. ‘We will give you a horse that can’t be ridden. Ha. Ha.’
    He looked down at his bandages. And afterwards, he told himself, I’ll get the