Read Online Carpe Jugulum by Terry Pratchett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Terry Pratchett
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Agnes.
“She’d know about this, you mark my words. This’ll be a feather in her cap, right enough, a princess named after her. She’ll be crowing about it for months. I’m going to see what’s going on.”
She stumped off.
Agnes grabbed the priest’s arm.
“Come along, you,” she sighed.
“I really cannot, um, express how sorry—”
“It’s a very strange evening all round.”
“I’ve, I’ve, I’ve never, um, heard of the custom before—”
“People put a lot of importance on words in these parts.”
“I’m very much afraid the King will give a bad, um, report of me to Brother Melchio…”
“Really.”
There are some people who could turn even the most amiable character into a bully and he seemed to be one of them. There was something…sort of damp about him, the kind of helpless hopelessness that made people angry rather than charitable, the total certainty that if the whole world was a party he’d still find the kitchen.
She seemed to be stuck with him. The VIPs were all crowded around the open doors, where loud cheering indicated that the people of Lancre thought that Note Spelling was a nice name for a future queen.
“Perhaps you should just sit there and try to get a grip,” she said. “There’s going to be dancing later on.”
“Oh, I don’t dance,” said Mightily Oats. “Dancing is a snare to entrap the weak-willed.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose there’s a barbecue outside…”
Mightily Oats dabbed at his eyes again.
“Um, any fish?”
“I doubt it.”
“We eat only fish this month.”
“Oh.” But a deadpan voice didn’t seem to work. He still wanted to talk to her.
“Because the prophet Brutha eschewed meat, um, when he was wandering in the desert, you see.”
“Each mouthful forty times?”
“Pardon?”
“Sorry, I was thinking of something else.” Against her better judgment, Agnes let curiosity enter her life. “What meat is there to eat, in a desert?”
“Um, none, I think.”
“So he didn’t exactly refuse to eat it, did he?” Agnes scanned the gathering crowds, but no one seemed anxious to join in this little discussion.
“Um…you’d have to, um, ask Brother Melchio that. I’m so sorry. I think I have a migraine coming on…”
You don’t believe anything you’re saying, do you? Agnes thought. Nervousness and a sort of low-grade terror was radiating off him. Perdita added: What a damp little maggot!
“I’ve got to go and…er…to go and…I’ve got to go and…help,” said Agnes, backing away. He nodded. As she left, he blew his nose again, produced a small black book from a pocket, sighed, and hurriedly opened it at a bookmark.
She picked up a tray to add some weight to the alibi, stepped toward the food table, turned to lookback at the hunched figure as out of place as a lost sheep, and walked into someone as solid as a tree.
“Who is that strange person?” said a voice by her ear. Agnes heard Perdita curse her for jumping sideways, but she recovered and managed to smile awkwardly at the person who’d spoken.
He was a young man and, it dawned on her, a very attractive one. Attractive men were not in plentiful supply in Lancre, where licking your hand and smoothing your hair down before taking a girl out was considered swanky.
He’s got a ponytail! squeaked Perdita. Now that is cool!
Agnes felt the blush start somewhere in the region of her knees and begin its inevitable acceleration upward.
“Er…sorry?” she said.
“You can practically smell him,” said the man. He inclined his head slightly toward the sad priest. “Looks rather like a scruffy little crow, don’t you think?”
“Er…yes,” Agnes managed. The blush rounded the curve of her bosom, red hot and rising. A ponytail on a man was unheard of in Lancre, and the cut of his clothes also suggested that he’d spent time somewhere where fashion changed more than once a lifetime. No one in Lancre had ever worn a waistcoat embroidered with
“She’d know about this, you mark my words. This’ll be a feather in her cap, right enough, a princess named after her. She’ll be crowing about it for months. I’m going to see what’s going on.”
She stumped off.
Agnes grabbed the priest’s arm.
“Come along, you,” she sighed.
“I really cannot, um, express how sorry—”
“It’s a very strange evening all round.”
“I’ve, I’ve, I’ve never, um, heard of the custom before—”
“People put a lot of importance on words in these parts.”
“I’m very much afraid the King will give a bad, um, report of me to Brother Melchio…”
“Really.”
There are some people who could turn even the most amiable character into a bully and he seemed to be one of them. There was something…sort of damp about him, the kind of helpless hopelessness that made people angry rather than charitable, the total certainty that if the whole world was a party he’d still find the kitchen.
She seemed to be stuck with him. The VIPs were all crowded around the open doors, where loud cheering indicated that the people of Lancre thought that Note Spelling was a nice name for a future queen.
“Perhaps you should just sit there and try to get a grip,” she said. “There’s going to be dancing later on.”
“Oh, I don’t dance,” said Mightily Oats. “Dancing is a snare to entrap the weak-willed.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose there’s a barbecue outside…”
Mightily Oats dabbed at his eyes again.
“Um, any fish?”
“I doubt it.”
“We eat only fish this month.”
“Oh.” But a deadpan voice didn’t seem to work. He still wanted to talk to her.
“Because the prophet Brutha eschewed meat, um, when he was wandering in the desert, you see.”
“Each mouthful forty times?”
“Pardon?”
“Sorry, I was thinking of something else.” Against her better judgment, Agnes let curiosity enter her life. “What meat is there to eat, in a desert?”
“Um, none, I think.”
“So he didn’t exactly refuse to eat it, did he?” Agnes scanned the gathering crowds, but no one seemed anxious to join in this little discussion.
“Um…you’d have to, um, ask Brother Melchio that. I’m so sorry. I think I have a migraine coming on…”
You don’t believe anything you’re saying, do you? Agnes thought. Nervousness and a sort of low-grade terror was radiating off him. Perdita added: What a damp little maggot!
“I’ve got to go and…er…to go and…I’ve got to go and…help,” said Agnes, backing away. He nodded. As she left, he blew his nose again, produced a small black book from a pocket, sighed, and hurriedly opened it at a bookmark.
She picked up a tray to add some weight to the alibi, stepped toward the food table, turned to lookback at the hunched figure as out of place as a lost sheep, and walked into someone as solid as a tree.
“Who is that strange person?” said a voice by her ear. Agnes heard Perdita curse her for jumping sideways, but she recovered and managed to smile awkwardly at the person who’d spoken.
He was a young man and, it dawned on her, a very attractive one. Attractive men were not in plentiful supply in Lancre, where licking your hand and smoothing your hair down before taking a girl out was considered swanky.
He’s got a ponytail! squeaked Perdita. Now that is cool!
Agnes felt the blush start somewhere in the region of her knees and begin its inevitable acceleration upward.
“Er…sorry?” she said.
“You can practically smell him,” said the man. He inclined his head slightly toward the sad priest. “Looks rather like a scruffy little crow, don’t you think?”
“Er…yes,” Agnes managed. The blush rounded the curve of her bosom, red hot and rising. A ponytail on a man was unheard of in Lancre, and the cut of his clothes also suggested that he’d spent time somewhere where fashion changed more than once a lifetime. No one in Lancre had ever worn a waistcoat embroidered with
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