“Let us in, there's a good boy.”
“Friend or Foe?”
“What?”
“It's what I've got to say, Mum. It's official. And then you've got to say Friend.”
“I'm your mum.”
“You've got to do it properly, Mum,” said Shawn, in the wretched tones of one who knows he's going to lose no matter what happens next, “otherwise what's the point?”
“It's going to be Foe in a minute, my lad.”
“Oooaaaww, Mum!”
“Oh, all right. Friend, then.”
“Yes, but you could just be saying that-”
“Let us in right now, Shawn Ogg.”
Shawn saluted, slightly stunning himself with the butt of his spear.
“Right you are. Mistress Weatherwax.”
His round, honest face disappeared from view. After a minute or two they heard the creaking of the portcullis.
“How did you do that?” said Nanny Ogg. “Simple,” said Granny. “He knows you wouldn't make his daft head explode.”
“Well, I know you wouldn't, too.”
“No you don't. You just know I ain't done it up to now.”
Magrat had thought this sort of thing was just a joke, but it was true. The castle's Great Hall had one long, one very long dining table, and she and Verence sat at either end of it.
It was all to do with etiquette.
The king had to sit at the head of the table. That was obvious. But if she sat on one side of him it made them both uneasy, because they had to keep turning to talk to each other. Opposite ends and shouting was the only way.
Then there was the logistics of the sideboard. Again, the easy option - them just going over and helping themselves - was out of the question. If kings went round putting their own food on their own plate, the whole system of monarchy would come crashing down.
Unfortunately, this meant that service had to be by means of Mr. Spriggins the butler, who had a bad memory, a nervous twitch and a rubber knee, and a sort of medieval elevator system that connected with the kitchen and sounded like the rattle of a tumbril. The elevator shaft was a kind of heat sink. Hot food was cold by the time it arrived. Cold food got colder. No one knew what would happen to ice cream, but it would probably involve some rewriting of the laws of thermodynamics.
Also, the cook couldn't get the hang of vegetarianism. The traditional palace cuisine was heavy in artery-clogging dishes so full of saturated fats that they oozed out in great wobbly globules. Vegetables existed as things to soak up spare gravy, and were generally boiled to a uniform shade of yellow in any case. Magrat had tried explaining things to Mrs. Scorbic the cook, but the woman's three chins wobbled so menacingly at words like “vitamins” that she'd made an excuse to back out of the kitchen.
At the moment she was making do with an apple. The cook knew about apples. They were big roasted floury things scooped out and filled with raisins and cream. So Magrat had resorted to stealing a raw one from the apple loft. She was also plotting to find out where the carrots were kept.
Verence was distantly visible behind the silver candlesticks and a pile of account books.
Occasionally they looked up and smiled at each other. At least, it looked like a smile but it was a little hard to be sure at this distance.
Apparently he'd just said something.
Magrat cupped her hands around her mouth.
“Pardon?”
“We need a-”