Wyrd Sisters by Terry Pratchett Page A

dabble in the carnal arts, didn’t she?”
    The sergeant stood to attention and stared straight ahead.
    “No, sir,” he said, in the manner of one speaking the truth come what may. “She offered me a bun.”
    “A bun?”
    “Yes, sir. It had currants in it.”
    Felmet sat absolutely still while he fought for internal peace. Finally, all he could manage was, “And what did your men do about this?”
    “They had a bun too, sir. All except young Roger, who isn’t allowed fruit, sir, on account of his trouble.”
    The duke sagged back on the window seat and put his hand over his eyes. I was born to rule down on the plains, he thought, where it’s all flat and there isn’t all this weather and everything and there are people who don’t appear to be made of dough. He’s going to tell me what this Roger had.
    “He had a biscuit, sir.”
    The duke stared out at the trees. He was angry. He was extremely angry. But twenty years of marriage to Lady Felmet had taught him not simply to control his emotions but to control his instincts as well, and not so much as the twitching of a muscle indicated the workings of his mind. Besides, arising out of the black depths of his head was an emotion that, hitherto, he had a little time for. Curiosity was flashing a fin.
    The duke had managed quite well for fifty years without finding a use for curiosity. It was not a trait much encouraged in aristocrats. He had found certainty was a much better bet. However, it occurred to him that for once curiosity might have its uses.
    The sergeant was standing in the middle of the floor with the stolid air of one who is awaiting a word of command, and who is quite prepared so to wait until continental drift budges him from his post. He had been in the undemanding service of the kings of Lancre for many years, and it showed. His body was standing to attention. Despite all his efforts his stomach stood at ease.
    The duke’s gaze fell on the Fool, who was sitting on his stool by the throne. The hunched figure looked up, embarrassed, and gave his bells a half-hearted shake.
    The duke reached a decision. The way to progress, he’d found, was to find weak spots. He tried to shut away the thought that these included such things as a king’s kidneys at the top of a dark stairway, and concentrated on the matter in hand.
    …hand. He’d scrubbed and scrubbed, but it seemed to have no effect. Eventually he’d gone down to the dungeons and borrowed one of the torturer’s wire brushes, and scrubbed and scrubbed with that, too. That had no effect, either. It made it worse. The harder he scrubbed, the more blood there was. He was afraid he might go mad…
    He wrestled the thought to the back of his mind. Weak spots. That was it. The Fool looked all weak spot.
    “You may go, sergeant.”
    “Sir,” said the sergeant, and marched out stiffly.
    “Fool?”
    “Marry, sir—” said the Fool nervously, and gave his hated mandolin a quick strum.
    The duke sat down on the throne.
    “I am already extremely married,” he said. “Advise me, my Fool.”
    “I’faith, nuncle—” said the Fool.
    “Nor am I thy nuncle. I feel sure I would have remembered,” said Lord Felmet, leaning down until the prow of his nose was a few inches from the Fool’s stricken face. “If you preface your next remark with nuncle, i’faith or marry, it will go hard with you.”
    The Fool moved his lips silently, and then said, “How do you feel about Prithee?”
    The duke knew when to allow some slack. “Prithee I can live with,” he said. “So can you. But no capering.” He grinned encouragingly. “How long have you been a Fool, boy?”
    “Prithee, sirrah—”
    “The sirrah,” said the duke, holding up a hand, “on the whole, I think not.”
    “Prithee, sirra—sir,” said the Fool, and swallowed nervously. “All my life, sir. Seventeen years under the bladder, man and boy. And my father before me. And my nuncle at the same time as him. And my grandad before them.