Discworld 14 - Lords and Ladies by Pratchett Terry

Author:Pratchett, Terry [Terry, Pratchett,]
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Published: 2010-06-21T04:00:00+00:00

Discworld 14 - Lords and Ladies

His clothes were soaked with dew.

His head felt full of wisps and whispers.

He stared at the stones.

The scumble jar was lying in the leather. After a moment or two he picked it up, and took an experimental swig. It was empty.

He nudged Weaver in the ribs with his boot.

“Wake up, you old bugger. We've been up here all night!”

One by one, the Morris Men made the short but painful journey into consciousness.

“I'm going to get some stick from our Eva when I get home,” moaned Carter.

“You might not,” said Thatcher, who was on his hands and knees looking for his hat. “Maybe when you gets 'ome she'll have married someone else, eh?”

“Maybe a hundred years'll have gone past,” said Carter, hopefully.

“Cor, I hope so,” said Weaver, brightening up. “I had sevenpence invested in The Thrift Bank down in Ohulan. I'll be a millionaire at complicated interest. I'll be as rich as Creosote.”

“Who's Creosote?” said Thatcher.

“Famous rich bugger,” said Barker, fishing one of his boots out of a peat pool. “Foreign.”

“Wasn't he the one, everything he touched turned to gold?” said Carter.

“Nah, that was someone else. Some king or other. That's what happens in foreign parts. One minute you're all right, next minute, everything you touch turns to gold. He was plagued with it.”

Carter looked puzzled.

“How did he manage when he had to-”

“Let that be a lesson to you, young Carter,” said Baker. “You stay here where folks are sensible, not go gadding off abroad where you might suddenly be holding a fortune in your hands and not have anything to spend it on.”

“We've slept out here all night,” said Jason uncertainly “That's dangerous, that is.”

“You're right there, Mr. Ogg,” said Carter, “I think something went to the toilet in my ear.”

“I mean strange things can enter your head.”

“That's what I mean, too.”

Jason blinked. He was certain he'd dreamed. He could remember dreaming. But he couldn't remember what the dream had been about. But there was still the feeling in his head of voices talking to him, but too far away to be heard.

“Oh, well,” he said, managing to stand up at the third attempt, “probably no harm done. Let's get on home and see what century it is.”

“What century is it, anyway?” said Thatcher. “Century of the Fruitbat, isn't it?” said Baker. “Might not be anymore,” said Carter hopefully. It turned out that it was, indeed, the Century of the Fruitbat. Lancre didn't have much use for units of time any smaller than an hour or larger than a year, but people were clearly putting up bunting in the town square and a gang of men were erecting the Maypole. Someone was nailing up a very badly painted picture of Verence and Magrat under which was the slogan: God Bless Their Majestieys.

With hardly a word exchanged, the men parted and staggered their separate ways.

A hare lolloped through the morning mist until it reached the drunken, ancient cottage in its clearing in the woods.

It reached a tree stump between the privy and The Herbs.

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