The Wee Free Men (Discworld 30)

“Crivens, ye wouldna believe it,” said Rob Anybody, rolling his eyes. “Nae, ye pudden! This is a posh party, ye ken? That means ye mak’ small talk an’ mingle!”

“Ach, I’m a famous mingler! They won’t even know we’re here!” said Daft Wullie. “C’mon!”

econd Thoughts added: I wonder how many have got in already and we don’t know?

And I’m in Fairyland, where dreams can hurt. Somewhere all stories are real, all songs are true. I thought that was a strange thing for the kelda to say….

Tiffany’s Second Thoughts said: Hang on, was that a First Thought?

And Tiffany thought: No, that was a Third Thought. I’m thinking about how I think about what I’m thinking. At least, I think so.

Her Second Thoughts said: Let’s all calm down, please, because this is quite a small head.

The forest went on. Or perhaps it was a small forest and, somehow, moved around them as they walked. This was Fairyland, after all. You couldn’t trust it.

And the snow still vanished where Tiffany walked, and she had only to look at a tree for it to smarten up and make an effort to look like a real tree.

The Queen is…well, a queen, Tiffany thought. She’s got a world of her own. She could do anything with it. And all she does is steal things, mess up people’s lives…

There was the thud of hoofbeats in the distance.

It’s her! What shall I do? What shall I say?

The Nac Mac Feegles leaped behind the trees.

“Come away oot o’ the path!” whispered Rob Anybody.

“She might still have him!” said Tiffany, gripping the pan handle nervously and staring at the blue shadows between the trees.

“So? We’ll find a wa’ to steal him! She’s the Quin! Ye canna beat the Quin face-to-face!”

The hoofbeats were louder, and now it sounded as though there was more than one animal.

A stag appeared through the trees, steam pouring off it. It stared at Tiffany with wild red eyes and then, bunching up, leaped over her. She smelled the stink of it as she ducked, she felt its sweat on her neck.

It was a real animal. You couldn’t imagine a reek like that.

And here came the dogs.

The first one she caught with the edge of the pan, bowling it over. The other turned to snap at her, then looked down in amazement as pictsies erupted from the snow under each paw. It was hard to bite anyone when all four of your feet were moving away in different directions, and then other pictsies landed on its head and biting anything ever again soon became…impossible. The Nac Mac Feegle hated grimhounds.

Tiffany looked up at a white horse. That was real, too, as far as she could tell. And there was a boy on it.

“Who are you?” he said. He made it sound like “What sort of thing are you?”

“Who are you?” said Tiffany, pushing her hair out of her eyes. It was the best she could do right now.

“This is my forest,” said the boy. “I command you to do what I say!”

Tiffany peered at him. The dull, secondhand light of Fairyland was not very good, but the more she looked, the more certain she was. “Your name is Roland, isn’t it?” she said.

“You will not speak to me like that!”

“Yes, it is. You’re the Baron’s son!”

“I demand that you stop talking!” The boy’s expression was strange now, creased up and pink, as if he was trying not to cry. He raised his hand with a riding whip in it—

There was a very faint thwap. Tiffany glanced down. The Nac Mac Feegle had formed a pile under the horse’s belly, and one of them, climbing up on their shoulders, had just cut through the saddle girth.