“You might be wondering why he looks like that,” Ridcully prompted.
“No, sir.”
“No?”
“My mum says none of us can help how we're made,” said Shawn.
“What a singular lady. And what is her name?” said
Ridcully.
“Mrs. Ogg, sir.”
“Ogg? Ogg? Name rings a bell. Any relation to Sobriety Ogg?”
“He was my dad, sir.”
“Good grief. Old Sobriety's son? How is the old devil?”
“Dunno, sir, what with him being dead.”
“Oh dear. How long ago?”
“These past thirty years,” said Shawn.
“But you don't look any older than twen-” Ponder began. Ridcully elbowed him sharply in the ribcage.
“This is the countryside,” he hissed. “People do things differently here. And more often.” He turned back to Shawn's pink and helpful face.
“Things seem to be waking up a bit,” he said, and indeed shutters were coming down around the square. “We'll get some breakfast in the tavern. They used to do wonderful breakfasts.” He sniffed again, and beamed.
“Now that” he said, “is what I call fresh air.”
Shawn looked around carefully.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “That's what we call it, too.” ' There was the sound of someone frantically running, and then a pause, and King Verence II appeared around the comer, walking slowly and calmly with a very red face.
“Certainly gives people a rosy complexion,” said Ridcully cheerfully.
“It's the king!” hissed Shawn. “And me without my trumpet!”
“Urn,” said Verence. “Post been yet, Shawn?”
“Oh, yes, sire!” said Shawn, almost as flustered as the king. “Got it right here. Don't you worry about it! I'll open it all up and have it on your desk right away, sire!”
“Urn. . .”
“Something the matter, sire?”
“Um . . . I think perhaps . . .”
Shawn was already tearing at the wrappers.
“Here's that book on etiquette you've been waiting for, sire, and the pig stockbook, and . . . what's this one . . . ?”
Verence made a grab for it. Shawn automatically tried to hang on to it. The wrapping split, and the large bulky book thumped on to the cobbles. Its fluttering pages played their woodcuts to the breeze.
They looked down.