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?"
