The Mayor of Lancre coughed behind his hand.
'A proper coronation will take some time to arrange,' he began, 'but we would like—'
'No,' said Tomjon.
The mayor hesitated. 'Pardon?' he said.
'I won't accept it.'
The mayor hesitated again. His lips moved and his eyes glazed slightly. He felt that he had got lost somewhere, and decided it would be best to start again.
'A proper coronation will take—' he ventured.
'It won't,' said Tomjon. 'I will not be king.'
The mayor was mouthing like a carp.
'Hwel?' said Tomjon desperately. 'You're good with words.'
The problem we've got here,' said the dwarf, 'is that “no” is apparently not among the options when you are offered a crown. I think he could cope with “maybe”.'
Tomjon stood up, and grabbed the crown. He held it above his head like a tambourine.
'Listen to me, all of you,' he said. 'I thank you for your offer, it's a great honour. But I can't accept it. I've worn more crowns than you can count, and the only kingdom I know how to rule has got curtains in front of it. I'm sorry.'
Dead silence greeted this. They did not appear to have been the right words.
'Another problem,' said Hwel conversationally, 'is that you don't actually have a choice. You are the king, you see. It's a job you are lined up for when you're born.'
'I'd be no good at it!'
'That doesn't matter. A king isn't something you're good at, it's something you are.'
'You can't leave me here! There's nothing but forests!'
Tomjon felt the suffocating cold sensation again, and the slow buzzing in his ears. For a moment he thought he saw, faint as a mist, a tall sad man in front of him, stretching out a hand in supplication.
'I'm sorry,' he whispered. 'I really am.'
Through the fading shape he saw the witches, watching him intently.
Beside him Hwel said, 'The only chance you'd have is if there was another heir. You don't remember any brothers and sisters, do you?'
'I don't remember anyone! Hwel, I—'
There was another ferocious argument among the witches. And then Magrat was striding, striding across the hall, moving like a tidal wave, moving like a rush of blood to the head, shaking off Granny Weatherwax's restraining hand, bearing down on the throne like a piston, and dragging the Fool behind her.
'I say?'
'Er. Halloee!'
'Er, I say, excuse me, can anyone hear us?'
e, Granny Weatherwax finished speaking.
'You forgot about the crown,' whispered Nanny Ogg.
'Ah,' said Granny. 'Yes, the crown. It's on his head, d'you see? We hid it among the crowns when the actors left, the reason being, no-one would look for it there. See how it fits him so perfectly.'