Tales From the Guilds

As befitted his office and status, the private quarters of Archchancellor Mustrum Ridcully, [D. Thau, DM, BS, DMn, DG, DD, DM. Phil, DMS, DCM, DW & BEIL (Unseen)] were commodious. Not only did they have a Door to a mile of trout-filled chalk stream but the rooms themselves were large and luxuriously

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furnished. In addition to his eight-poster bed (with built-in library, hygienic privy and bar) there was a sitting room that boasted a decadently large hearth and overstuffed club chairs so generous that even the former Dean couldn't have overwhelmed them. And on this evening under discussion, Mustrum sat with a snifter and a second bottle (nearly empty) of vintage Quirmian brandy, alone with his thoughts, and a box of letters.

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For a given value of 'luxury'. As befitted a gentleman of the squirarchy, Ridcully's taste in furnishing tended toward a combination of 'well-used comfortable' and 'baronial clutter'.

Ten years had passed since Esmerelda (Granny) Weatherwax had passed the final veil and walked out into the black sand desert. News of her death had hit the Archchancellor hard and it had taken almost two years for him to return to his normal vociferous, bull-headed (but brilliant!) self. Tonight, on the tenth anniversary of her passing, he was working his way through his supply of brandy and through the entire box of letters she'd written since they had re-encountered each other at Lancre's royal wedding. It was a pensive, melancholy evening.

Even in death, Granny had insisted on being in charge. She was buried where she wanted to be and in the way she wanted, in the forest and unmarked. But as Nanny Ogg explained, the entire forest was her cenotaph, Badass (and Lancre!) her memorial. But not her cottage. It was now occupied by Geoffrey, the Disc's only male witch and so her only physical memories left sat in a locked-and-warded box under Mustrum's bed—until tonight.

Ridcully swirled the warmed spirits around the glass, softly inhaled the perfume and sipped another mouthful, gurgling it over his tongue and palate. He wasn't trying to get drunk, just 'sharing' the excellence of the sensations with his memories of his first and only true love. Several times in the past decade he had given some thought of heading down into the basement offices of John Hix and the Department of Post-Mortem Communications. It could have been good to talk with Esme again—but it probably wouldn't have been. She had her own 'views' of such things and would have resented being called back and would have told him so in no uncertain terms.

"No," he muttered to himself, "it was a bad idea. I'd've gotten m'self well rocketed for doin' it and worse for not knowin' that I would. She was a fiery one as a gel and didn't soften up any as the years passed. Fine figure of a woman with a fine brain to match."

He emptied the bottle and lifted the glass in salute. "Here's t'you, Esme. We would've been a proud match and I'm grateful for yer tellin' me that in another world we were—and that there y'were happy. T'was the best thing anyone ever said t'me."

*****

The night was dark, unsettled and moonless outside the smithy in Lancre, but the forge still glowed a sulky red, even at this late hour. Jason Ogg waited in the dark for a customer who came regularly every six months. Or rather, the customer's owner came every six months as Jason had a tendency to consider the horse the customer and the owner merely the one who paid for the work. Tonight's customer, however, didn't pay in coin. His payment was in the Respect and Reputation that he brought. Jason was the finest smith in the Disc and had a reputation of being able to shoe anything. And when you are expected to be able to shoe anything, sooner or later you will be called on to shoe Something. Tonight was one of those nights.

Noting that the hands on the smithy clock were approaching midnight, Jason, as had been his custom for years on nights like this, took a strip of heavy black cloth and tied it tightly around his eyes. After so many years of shoeing, Ogg had no need to see the customer—and no desire whatever to see the owner.

On the stroke of midnight, the door to the smithy blew open and Jason heard the hoof beats of the customer enter the smithy. The door closed behind and a rider dropped lightly to the ground.

GOOD EVENING, MR. OGG

"Good evening to you, milord. Will you be needin' the usual?"

YES, MR. OGG, WE WILL. I DON'T FORSEE ANYTHING THAT WILL REQUIRE OTHERWISE. YOUR USUAL SUPERB WORK WILL SUFFICE.

"Of course, milord." He held out his hand and took the reins leading the animal nearer the forge. He often wondered what the horse looked like. It certainly was an extraordinary animal, well-trained beyond any expectation. However, lifting the blindfold to see the horse carried the risk of seeing the owner and that, he could feel in his water, was something to be avoided at all costs.

"There's tea in the pot and a tray of biscuits. Our Sara knows y'likes the ones with the chocolate bits inside."

THANK-YOU, MR. OGG. I ALWAYS LOOK FORWARD TO THEM WHENEVER I COME. IT NEVER FAILS TO AMAZE ME THAT THE CHOCOLATE BITS REMAIN WHOLE INSIDE DESPITE THE HEAT OF THE OVEN. AS YOU REMARKED ONCE BEFORE, IT CERTAINLY IS A CRAFT SECRET AND ONE THAT DESERVES RESPECT. THANK SARA FOR ME.

"Yes, milord. Beggin' your lordship's pardon, but do y'have any business in town tonight or are you here simply for the shoein'?"

JUST THE SHOEING, TONIGHT, MR. OGG. I AM NOT EXPECTED IN LANCRE THIS NIGHT OR ANYTIME SOON.

Jason heaved a silent sigh of relief. His mother, Glytha (Nanny) Ogg was very advanced in years, now. And though witches tended to live long they didn't have the expectancy of wizards. And with winter coming on, it was an item of great concern to the family that their matriarch stayed well and healthy. Lancre without Nanny was a thought simply not to be borne. Of course, Queen Magret was a witch, too, so the city was doubly protected but Her Majesty had all those queening things she needed to do and the citizens believed that multi-tasking in the royal family wasn't something that should be encouraged.

He really wished he could see this horse. It was a wonder, holding up each hoof in turn and patiently standing on three legs until each shoe was removed and replaced. How did anyone who didn't know the Secret Horseman's Word get a horse to behave like that? Perhaps its owner did . . .

"All done, milord. If you'd care to lead 'im around to check the fittin'?"

NO, MR. OGG. YOU HAVE NEVER MADE A MISSJUDGEMENT IN THE PAST AND I HAVE NO DOUBT THAT THIS SHOEING IS UP TO YOUR NORMAL WORK. YOU ARE A TRUE CRAFTSMAN.

"Thank-you, milord."

AS IS YOUR SARA. THESE BISCUITS ARE WONDERFUL. GIVE HER MY COMPLIMENTS.

The sound of remounting came through the blindfold, as did the opening of the smithy door.

THANK-YOU AGAIN, MR. OGG, UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN.

When the smithy door slammed closed again, Jason sighed again, took off the blindfold and put all the tools away. He banked the forge and walked back to his house basking in the knowledge that his neighbors all knew what he did on nights like this—and who the customer was!

*****

The letters were back in their box, locked and warded with vengeful spells, and Ridcully was back in his office—playing billiards. Vice-Chancellor Ponder Stibbons tapped on the door and stuck his head in carefully. One never knew whether the Archchancellor was playing billiards, tying trout flies or, worst of all, having a little crossbow practice with the target nailed to the back of the door. Many a pointy hat had needed mending before the faculty caught on and to this day Mrs. Whitlow kept a needle, thread and an assortment of sequins set aside for the next wizard to come in angry and woefully in need of repairs.

"Good Morning, Archchancellor, would you care to take a look at these documents before I 'pp' them in your name?"

Stibbons held more University positions than anyone else and could, if he chose, basically run the place by outvoting the entire rest of the Council. However, there was still the issue of getting past Ridcully. Stibbons had tried a few times to set out a policy in the Archchancellor's name without telling him. It was times like that when you learned just how intelligent (and touchy) the man was. No, far better to rely on his lack of interest in administration. With Ridcully getting permission was a lot easier than getting forgiveness!

"Ah, Stibbons. No, I trust yer judgement on these things, enough that I'm goin' to leave yer in charge for couple of weeks. I have a need t'take the train to Lancre where I have some very personal business t'attend to."

Ponder's jaw dropped. "In charge? For a couple of weeks?"

"Stibbons, y'

are

the Vice-chancellor

and

yer hold a majority of the votes on the University Council. Y've been effectively runnin' the place for years,

un

officially, so why shouldn't y'be able to do so

o

fficially? Just stay away from the Archchancellors' Hat, man. Demned thing won't give yer a moment's peace if yer try and put it on and it can be demned hard to get back off again! I've booked a first class cabin leavin' mornin' after t'morrow and expect t' be back by the end of the month. If I'm not, carry on."

He returned to his game.

Stibbons returned to his own office, dealt with all the paperwork in the Archchancellor's name

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and leaned back in his chair to think. Lancre. He remembered Lancre. It was a place of towering mountains, icy streams, dense forest and an amazingly powerful magical field. Great wizards and powerful witches came from Lancre and when he'd been there on a diplomatic mission (for a given value of diplomacy) he'd fought invading elves and discovered a ring of standing stones that had an unaccountable attraction for iron. He'd asked permission to stay on after the others returned to Ankh-Morpork and had tried intently to understand it. And there had been this young witch, Diamonda . . .

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Now that he had permission to do so . . .

The Archchancellor had casually asked after her when he returned to the University at the beginning of the next term and when Ponder had stammered and stuttered, the older man had nodded knowingly and changed the subject. In the last letter she sent him she'd told him that she was now the witch of Razorback, had married into the Carter family and was in the family way. That had been about fifteen years ago. Sighing, he rose and walked across campus to the High Energy Magic Building. A conversation with Hex (AKA Cryptofer) seemed in order. The University's thinking engine could be a very sympathetic listener.

*****

Verence Tomjon of Lancre, Prince of the Realm and Duke of the High Ramtops

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glared at his big sister. "Esme, if you weren't a girl, I'd give you such a thrashing. It's a good thing you have to take over the kingdom after Father dies because that means you'll be stuck here in Lancre and I'll be out in the world Doing Things. See if I don't!"

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For a given value of 'Duke'. The Ramtops being mostly inhabited by trolls and dwarfs, neither of whom paid much attention to the human monarchy, his title was really just some decoration on his name.

Esmerelda Margaret Note Spelling, Crown Princess of Lancre and Heir to the Throne put her hands on her hips and returned the glare with full big sisterly malice. "Well you just do that! And right now you can go Do Things at the clacks tower and see if there are any messages. It's your turn. Mother says so."

The possibility of any messages coming to Lancre Castle via clacks was low but it was a good excuse to get out and away from his sister so Verence turned on his heel and marched down the stairs, across the courtyard and out the gate. It would, it occurred to him, have been nice if the kingdom were big enough to justify his mounting a horse and riding to the clacks tower but the only horses in Lancre pulled plows, harrows and wagons. Besides it would have taken longer to put a saddle and bridle on one than it did to just walk to the tower.

"Wotcher, Prince!" Pewsey Ogg greeted the 'spare' to the throne lightly.

"Goin' to the clacks tower, Pewsey," Verence replied with a sour look, "It's my turn. Want to come?"

"Would but can't. Dad's got me makin' shoes for the coach horses that'll be comin' tomorrow and if I don't have 'em ready for him I'll be eatin' my supper standin' up."

Pewsey was a big lad, as befitted a son of The Smith of Lancre, but his father was a man who looked less like he'd been born and more like he'd been constructed—in a shipyard! A thrashing by Jason Ogg was not something even the most enthusiastic masochist would look forward to. Both boys sighed at the unfairness of their lives and went their separate ways.

When Verence arrived at the tower the goblin in charge, Of the Shutters the Rattle, looked up at him with a grin and handed him an envelope.

"Wotcher, Princey! Is good you come today. Have message for the Castle, hot off the keyboard."

"Really? That must be the first one in a month. Wonder what it's about. Hmm, it's addressed to Mum. Not likely any excitement there."

He headed back the way he came.

Queen Magrat, consort to H.M. Verence II, took the envelope from her middle child.

"Thank-you, Verence."

She opened it and read

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. As she read her eyes opened wider and she muttered under her breath, "The Archchancellor? Coming here? Whatever would bring him—oh."

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Slowly, with her finger under the words

It had been ten years since Granny Weatherwax had died and she remembered his coming to the grave and mourning alone. No doubt he was returning for a memorial—and there was no appropriate inn for him to stay in. Well, that would never do!

"Verance, the Archchancellor is coming to visit. Tell Shawn and the others to make up a suitable room and tell the cook to stock up. Wizards like their meals large and frequent so we'd better be ready. And Verence, don't let me catch you trying to impress the Archchancellor with magic. You've heard the stories of Granny Weatherwax? Well, they used to be—romantically involved. And they were a good match so think about that and imagine the power of the man."

Verance started to open his mouth and deny that any such thoughts but the look in his mother's eye stopped him cold. "Yes, Mother," he replied meekly and hustled off as ordered. His mother was a witch. His big sister was a witch and named after the most powerful witch of her generation

and

she was the Crown Princess. It wasn't fair! If he couldn't have the throne, shouldn't he be allowed to become a Wizard? And now the Archchancellor himself was coming for a visit and all he could do was—was ask? After all, the worst think he could say was, "No".

*****

Ridcully's first trip to the Ramtops had been by coach and it had taken nearly two weeks. His second had, as well. The third had only taken a few hours but traveling by broomstick, while fast and just the ticket in an emergency, was cold and uncomfortable. He'd done it ten years ago but now he would take his time. Traveling alone in a first class cabin gave him time to think, to muse.

One summer, long ago, he'd chased a young witch. If she hadn't run quite so fast would he have ever returned to the University? He didn't know. Esme had said that in some other world, he'd caught up with her. He'd proposed and she had accepted. They'd had a good life and she'd been happy and, as she also said, she was hard to please so it must have been a

very

good life indeed. They'd had children and that meant it was his offspring who inherited the estates, not Hughnon's. That was of no importance. His oldest nephew was showing good talent for estate management so the family properties were in good hands.

But what was Ridcully's own legacy? Whatever it was going to be it would be notable. Wizards live exceptionally long lives and know

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when they're due to die. He had a good run left and, having impressed his stamp on the faculty, would go down as one of the longest serving Archchancellors in the University's millennium-long history. He'd also, and it was a point of pride, put an end to the endless attempts to advance one's status through the tradition of 'dead men's pointy shoes'. The other wizards had all given up trying to kill him and most of the ones who had tried were now, decades later, finally recovered. Well, one still walked with a limp.

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Like witches

It wasn't like he needed a last will and testament. The estates and all they entailed belonged to the family, not him. His own personal possessions were, surprisingly, limited. His collection of fly rods and crossbows would return to the 'gun room' of the manor house. His books would go to the library. What else was there? His 'earthly husk', that's what. And it was that subject that sent him to Lancre and the village of Bad Ass.

In an appropriately well maintained walled garden near the Ridcully manor house stood a mausoleum in which every member of the family, going back generations, was interred. Hughnon's children and grandchildren would be scandalized if he didn't join his forebears. However, much as he had enjoyed his time on the estates and much as he enjoyed his time as Archchancellor, neither the family mausoleum nor the University catacombs were where he wanted to spend eternity. There was this glade in the forest near Bad Ass. . .

Changing lines in Hot Dang, Ridcully continued his way to Lancre. He vaguely recalled an inn on the main square and hoped it still operated. The accommodations hadn't been much but the beer had been satisfactory and he really didn't intend to stay long. He just needed to find someone young enough to carry out his final desire. Thus it was with a certain surprise that when he detrained in Lancre City, he found a small contingent of the royal staff on the platform, waiting for him.

Shawn Ogg, older and greyer than the last time Mustrum had seen him, tugged at his forelock and said, "Archchancellor Ridcully, welcome back to Lancre. Their majesties ha'been apprised of your comin' and invite you to accept their hospitality at Lancre Castle."

Apprised at his coming? The only one who knew he was headed here was Stibbons. He must have sent a clacks ahead and given the little kingdom fair warning. After a moment's thought, Ridcully decided he needed to thank his Vice-Chancellor. Staying in the Castle would probably be more comfortable than an inn—probably.

*****

Despite years of University fare, the Archchancellor still had a soft spot in his palate for rustic food and the dinner tonight was several orders of magnitude better than that. Rabbit pie is delightful but

lapin en pâté feuilletée

is a whole order of magnitude better, maybe two. So naturally the Archchancellor had had seconds. He thought about thirds but decided it would impose on his hosts. But the food was so good it made the Archchancellor think along unfamiliar lines.

"Realizin' that the Doors to the elves are again firmly shut, the Castle's defensive prop'ties are less important than in days of yore," he began, "And given the talents of Your Majesties' chef, have y'given any thought t'turnin' part of it into a high class hotel?"

Verence II put down his fork. He'd spent the best part of the previous two decades trying to improve his subjects' economic lives by introducing them to progressive farming techniques—with a notable lack of success

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. It hadn't occurred to him that he could improve the local prosperity using his own castle. And the advantage was that he didn't have to convince anyone to do anything.