“You won't entirely be sorry, eh?” he said.
“Me? I don't want 'em back! They're untrustworthy and cruel and arrogant parasites and we don't need 'em one bit.”
“Bet you half a dollar?”
Nanny was suddenly flustered.
“Don't you look at me like that! Esme's right. Of course she's right. We don't want elves anymore. Stands to reason.”
“Esme's the short one, is she?”
“Hah, no, Esme's the tall one with the nose. You know her.”
“Right, yes.”
“The short one is Magrat. She's a kind-hearted soul and a bit soft. Wears flowers in her hair and believes in songs, I reckon she'd be off dancing with the elves quick as a wink, her.”
More doubts were entering Magrat's life. They concerned crossbows, for one thing. A crossbow is a very useful and usable weapon designed for speed and convenience and deadliness in the hands of the inexperienced, like a faster version of an out-of-code TV dinner. But it is designed to be used once, by someone who has somewhere safe to duck while they reload. Otherwise it is just so much metal and wood with a piece of string on it.
Then there was the sword. Despite Shawn's misgivings, Magrat did in theory know what you did with a sword. You tried to stick it into the enemy by a vigorous arm motion, and the enemy tried to stop you. She was a little uncertain about what happened next. She hoped you were allowed another go.
She was also having doubts about her armour. The helmet and the breastplate were OK, but the rest of it was chain-mail. And, as Shawn Ogg knew, chain-mail from the point of view of an arrow can be thought of as a series of loosely connected holes.
The rage was still there, the pure fury still gripped her at the core. But there was no getting away from the fact that the heart it gripped was surrounded by the rest of Magrat Garlick, spinster of this parish and likely to remain so.
There were no elves visible in the town, but she could see where they had been. Doors hung off their hinges. The place looked as though it had been visited by Genghiz Cohen.[41]
Now she was on the track that led to the stones. It was wider than it had been; the horses and carriages had churned it on the way up, and the fleeing people had turned it into a mire on the way down.
She knew she was being watched, and it almost came as a relief when three elves stepped out from under the trees before she'd even lost sight of the castle.
The middle one grinned.
“Good evening, girl,” it said. “My name is Lord Lankin, and you will curtsy when you talk to me.”
The tone suggested that there was absolutely no possibility that she would disobey She felt her muscles strain to comply.
Queen Ynci wouldn't have obeyed . . .
“I happen to be practically the queen,” she said.
It was the first time she'd looked an elf in the face when she was in any condition to notice details. This one was currently wearing high cheekbones and hair tied in a ponytail; it wore odds and ends of rags and lace and fur, confident in the knowledge that anything would look good on an elf.
It wrinkled its perfect nose at her.
“There is only one Queen in Lancre,” it said. “And you are, most definitely, not her.”
Magrat tried to concentrate.
“Where is she, then?” she said.
The other two raised their bows.
“You are looking for the Queen? Then we will take you to her,” Lankin stated. “And, lady, should you be inclined to make use of that nasty iron bow there are more archers hidden in the trees.” There was indeed a rustling in the trees on one side of the track, but it was followed by a thump. The elves looked disconcerted.
“Get out of my way,” said Magrat.
“I think you have a very wrong idea,” said the elf. Its smile widened, but vanished when there was another sylvan crash from the other side of the track.