'A boot?'
'Aboot the place,' said the pixie evenly. 'All hail, your kingy. I'm Big Aggie's Man. Ye'd call me the prime minister, I'm hazardin'. Will ye no' have a huge dram and a burned bannock while yer waitin'?'
Verence rubbed his face. He did feel better already. The fog was drifting away.
'How can I ever repay you?' he said.
The pixie's eyes gleamed happily.
'Oh, there's a wee bitty thing the carlin' Ogg said you could be givin' us, hardly important at all,' he said.
'Anything,' said Verence.
A couple of pixies came up staggering under a rolled-up parchment, which was unfolded in front of Verence. The old pixie was suddenly holding a quill pen.
'It's called a signature,' he said, as Verence stared at the tiny handwriting. 'An' make sure ye initial all the subclauses and codicils. We of the Nac mac Feegle are a simple folk,' he added, 'but we write verra comp-lic-ated documents.'
Mightily oats blinked at Granny over the top of his praying hands. She saw his gaze slide sideways to the axe, and then back to her.
'You wouldn't reach it in time,' said Granny, without moving. 'Should've got hold of it already if you were goin' to use it. Prayer's all very well. I can see where it can help you get your mind right. But an axe is an axe no matter what you believes.'
Oats relaxed a little. He'd expected a leap for the throat.
'If Hodgesaargh's made any tea, I'm parched,' said Granny. She leaned against the anvil, panting. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand move slowly.
'I'll get- I'll ask- I'll-'
'Man with his head screwed on properly, that falconer. A biscuit wouldn't come amiss.'
Oats's hand reached the axe handle.
'Still not quick enough,' said Granny. 'Keep hold of it, though. Axe first, pray later. You look like a priest. What's your god?'
'Er... Om.'
'That a he god or a she god?'
'A he. Yes. A he. Definitely a he.' It was one thing the Church hadn't schismed over, strangely. 'Er... you don't mind, do you?'
'Why should I mind?'
'Well... your colleagues keep telling me the Omnians used to burn witches...'
'They never did,' said Granny.
'I'm afraid I have to admit that the records show-'
'They never burned witches,' said Granny. 'Probably they burned some old ladies who spoke up or couldn't run away. I wouldn't look for witches bein' burned,' she added, shifting position. 'I might look for witches doin' the burning, though. We ain't all nice.'
Oats remembered the Count talking about contributing to the Arca Instrumentorum...
Those books were ancient! But so were vampires, weren't they? And they were practically canonical! The freezing knife of doubt wedged itself deeper in his brain. Who knew who really wrote anything? What could you trust? Where was the holy writ? Where was the truth?
Granny pulled herself to her feet and tottered over to the bench, where Hodgesaargh had left his jar of flame. She examined it carefully.
Oats tightened his grip on the axe. It was, he had to admit, slightly more comforting than prayer at that moment. Perhaps you could start with the small truths. Like: he had an axe in his hand.
'I wa- want to be certain,' he said. 'Are you... are you a vampire?'