“Oh, indeed I do, lady.”
“And you'll let Shawn go.”
“Yes.”
The elves on either side of the doorway nodded at each other.
“Please?” Magrat pleaded.
“Yes.”
Shawn groaned. If it had been Mum or Mistress Weatherwax, they'd have fought to the death. Mum was right - Magrat always was the nice soft one . . .
. . . who'd just fired a crossbow through a keyhole.
Some eighth sense made Shawn shift his weight. If the elf relaxed his grip for just one second, Shawn was ready to stagger.
Magrat appeared in the doorway. She was carrying an ancient wooden box with the word “Candles” on the side in peeling paint.
Shawn looked hopefully along the corridor.
Magrat smiled brightly at the elf beside him. “This is for you,” she said, handing over the box. The elf took it automatically. “But you mustn't open it. And remember you promised not to hurt me.”
The elves closed in behind Magrat. One of them raised a hand, with a stone knife in it.
“Lady?” said the elf holding the box, which was rocking gently in its hands.
“Yes?” said Magrat, meekly.
“I lied to you.”
The knife plunged toward her back.
And shattered.
The elf looked at Magrat's innocent expression, and opened the box.
Greebo had spent an irritating two minutes in that box. Technically, a cat locked in a box may be alive or it may be dead. You never know until you look. In fact, the mere act of opening the box will determine the state of the cat, although in this case there were three determinate states the cat could be in: these being Alive, Dead, and Bloody Furious.
Shawn dived sideways as Greebo went off like a Claymore mine.
“Don't worry about him,” said Magrat dreamily, as the elf flailed at the maddened cat. “He's just a big softy.”
She drew a knife out of the folds of her dress, turned, and stabbed the elf behind her. It wasn't an accurate thrust, but it didn't have to be. Not with an iron blade.
She completed the movement by daintily raising the hem of her dress and kicking the third elf just under the knee.
Shawn saw a flash of metal as her foot retreated under the silk again.
She elbowed the screaming elf aside, trotted into the doorway, and came back with a crossbow.
“Shawn,” she said, “which one hurt you?”
“All of them,” said Shawn, weakly. “But the one fighting Greebo stabbed Diamanda.”
The elf pulled Greebo off his face. Green-blue blood was streaming from a dozen wounds and Greebo hung on to its arm as he was flailed against the wall.
“Stop it,” said Magrat.