“She's going to get utterly killed.”
“Oook.”
“Hello, Mr. Flowerpot, two pints of eels if you would be so good.”
“Of course, it could be her destiny, or one of those sort of things.”
“Oook.”
“Millennium hand and shrimp.”
Ponder Stibbons looked embarrassed.
“Anyone want to follow her?”
“Oook.”
“Whoops, there he goes with his big clock.”
“Was that a 'yes'?”
“Oook.”
“Not yours, his.”
“Flobby wobbly, here comes our jelly.”
“I think that probably counts as a 'yes',” said Ponder, reluctantly.
“Oook?”
“I've got a lovely new vest.”
“But look,” said Ponder, “the graveyards are full of people who rushed in bravely but unwisely.”
“Ook.”
“What'd he say?” said the Bursar, passing briefly through reality on his way somewhere else.
“I think he said, 'Sooner or later the graveyards are full of everybody,'” said Ponder. “Oh, blast. Come on.”
“Yes indeedy,” said the Bursar, “hands up the mittens, Mr. Bosun!”
“Oh, shut up.”
* * *
Magrat dismounted and let the horse go.
She knew she was near the Dancers now. Collared light flickered in the sky.
She wished she could go home.
The air was colder here, far too cold for a midsummer night. As she plodded onward, flakes of snow swirled in the breeze and turned to rain.
Ridcully materialized inside the castle, and then clung on to a pillar for support until he got his breath back. Transmigration always made blue spots appear in front of his eyes.
No one noticed him. The castle was in turmoil. Not everyone had run home. Armies had marched across Lancre many times over the last few thousand years, and the recollection of the castle's thick safe walls had been practically engraved in the folk memory. Run to the castle. And now it held most of the little country's population.