But he made an effort.
“Hey, lads,” he slurred, “'ve got 'nother jug coolin' in the water trough down in the forge, what d'you say? We could all go down there now. Lads? Lads?”
There was the soft sound of snoring.
“Oh, lads.”
Jason stood up.
The stars wheeled.
Jason fell down, very gently. The jug rolled out of his hands and bounced across the grass.
The stars twinkled, the breeze was cold, and it smelled of snow.
The king dined alone, which is to say, he dined at one end of the big table and Magrat dined at the other. But they managed to meet up for a last glass of wine in front of the fire.
They always found it difficult to know what to say at moments like this. Neither of them was used to spending what might be called quality time in the company of another person. The conversation tended toward the cryptic.
And mostly it was about the wedding. It's different, for royalty. For one thing, you've already got everything. The traditional wedding list with the complete set of Tupperware and the twelve-piece dining set looks a bit out of place when you've already got a castle with so many furnished rooms that have been closed up for so long that the spiders have evolved into distinct species in accordance with strict evolutionary principles. And you can't simply multiply it all up and ask for An Army in a Red and White Motif to match the kitchen wallpaper. Royalty, when they marry, either get very small things, like exquisitely constructed clockwork eggs, or large bulky items, like duchesses.
And then there's the guest list. It's bad enough at an ordinary wedding, what with old relatives who dribble and swear, brothers who get belligerent after one drink, and various people who Aren't Talking to other people because of What They Said About Our Sharon. Royalty has to deal with entire countries who get belligerent after one drink, and entire kingdoms who Have Broken Off Diplomatic Relations after what the Crown Prince Said About Our Sharon. Verence had managed to work that all out, but then there were the species to consider. Trolls and dwarfs got on all right in Lancre by the simple expedient of having nothing to do with one another, but too many of them under one roof, especially if drink was flowing, and especially if it was flowing in the direction of the dwarfs, and people would Be Breaking People's Arms Off because of what, more or less, Their Ancestors Said About Our Sharon.
And then there's other things . . .
“How's the girl they brought in?”
“I've told Millie to keep an eye on her. What are they doing, those two?”
“I don't know.”
You're king, aren't you?"
Verence shifted uneasily.
“But they're witches. I don't like to ask them questions.”
“Why not?”
“They might give me answers. And then what would I do?”
“What did Granny want to talk to you about?”
“Oh . . . you know . . . things . . .”
“It wasn't about . . . sex, was it?”
Verence suddenly looked like a man who had been expecting a frontal attack and suddenly finds nasty things happening behind him.
“No! Why?”
“Nanny was trying to give me motherly advice. It was all I could do to keep a straight face. Honestly, they both treat me as if I'm a big child.”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that.”
They sat on either side of the huge fireplace, both crimson with embarrassment.
Then Magrat said: “Er . . . you did send off for that book, did you? You know . . . the one with the woodcuts?”