Verence's chest he was still hard to control.
'I think mebbe the drink was a wee bitty too trackle?' said Big Aggie's man, looking down at Verence's bloodshot eyes and foaming mouth. 'I'm sayin', mebbe it was wrong jus' giving him fifty times more than we tak'. He's not used to it...'
Big Aggie shrugged.
In the far corner of the barrow half a dozen pixies backed out of the hole they'd hacked into the next chamber, dragging a sword. For bronze, it was quite well preserved - the old chieftains of Lancre reckoned to be buried with their weapons in order to fight their enemies in the next world, and since you didn't become a chieftain of ancient Lancre without sending a great many enemies to the next world, they liked to take weapons that could be relied upon to last.
Under the direction of the old pixie, they manoeuvred it within reach of Verence's flailing hand.
'Are ye scrat?' said Big Aggie's man. 'Yin! Tan! Tetra!'
The Feegle leapt away in every direction. Verence rose almost vertically, bounced off the roof, grabbed the sword, hacked madly until he'd cut a hole through to the outside world, and escaped into the night.
The pixies clustered around the walls of the barrow turned their eyes to their Kelda.
Big Aggie nodded.
'Big Aggie says ye'd best see him come to nae harm,' said the old pixie.
A thousand small but very sharp weapons waved in the smoky air.
'Hoons!'
'Kill 'em a'!'
'Nac mac Feegle!'
A few seconds later the chamber was empty.
Nanny hurried across the castle's main hall, burdened with stakes, and stopped dead.
'What the hell's that thing?' she said. 'Takes up a whole wall!'
'Oh, that wath the old Count'th pride and joy,' said Igor. 'He wathn't very modern, he alwayth thaid, but the Thentury of the Fruitbat had it'th compenthathionth. Thometimeth he'd play with it for hourth on end...'
It was an organ, or possibly what an organ hoped to be when it grew up, because it dominated the huge room. A music lover to the core, Nanny couldn't help trotting over to inspect it. It was black, its pipes framed and enclosed in intricate ebony fretwork, with the stops and keyboard made of dead elephant.
'How does it work?' she said.
'Water power,' said Igor proudly. 'There'th an underground river. The marthter had thith made thpethially to hith own dethign...'
Nanny ran her fingers over a brass plate screwed above the keyboard.
It read: 'HLISTEN TO ZER CHILTREN OFF DER NIGHT... VOT VONDERFUL MHUSICK DEY MAKE. Mnftrd. by Bergholt Stuttley Johnson, Ankh-Morpork.'
'It's a Johnson,' she breathed. 'I haven't got my hands on a Johnson for ages...' She looked closer. 'What's this? "Scream 1"? "Thunderclap 14"? "Wolf Howl 5"? There's a whole set of stops just marked "Creaky Floors"! Can't you play music on this thing?'
'Oh, yeth. But the old marthter wath more interethted in... effectth.'
There was still a dust-covered sheet of music on the stand, which someone had been filling in carefully, with many crossings-out.
' "Return Of The Bride Of The Revenge Of The Son Of Count Magpyr",' Nanny said aloud, noting that 'From 20,000 Fathoms(?)' had been written in subsequently and then crossed out. ' "Sonata for Thunderstorm, Trapdoors and Young Women in Skimpy Clothing". Bit of an artist too, then, your old master?'
'in a... thpethial way,' said Igor wistfully.
Nanny stepped back.
'Magrat's going to be safe, isn't she?' she said, picking up the stakes again.