The Shepherd's Crown (Discworld #41)(61)

‘Well, mine never was a place for elves,’ Tiffany said. ‘It was never yours. You just latched on to it – a parasite – and took what you could. But once again I have to tell you these are the days of iron – not just horseshoes, but iron and steel forged together in great lines across the land. It’s called a railway, my lord, and it is spreading across the Disc. People are interested in mechanical things, because mechanical things work, while old wives’ tales mostly just don’t kill them. And so people laugh at the fairies, and as they laugh, so you will dwindle. You see, nobody cares about you any more. They have the clacks, the railways, and it’s a new world. You – and your kind – have no future here now other than in stories.’ She said the last word contemptuously.

‘Stories?’ the King mused. ‘A way into the minds of your peoples, mistress. And I can wait . . . the stories will survive when this “railway” you speak of is long gone.’

‘But we will not stand by to see small children taken as playthings for elves any more,’ Tiffany said. ‘I and others will burn those who take them. This is a warning – I would like it to be friendly but, alas, it seems this is not possible. You are living in railway time and you should leave us be.’

The King sighed again. ‘Perhaps . . . perhaps,’ he said. ‘New lands to discover could be entertaining. But I have told you, I have no desire to visit your land in this time of iron. After all, I have all the time I wish for . . .’

‘What about the elves who have already come through?’

‘Oh, just kill them if you wish.’ The King smiled again. ‘I may remain here until the end of time, and I don’t think that you would want to be there. But I have always liked the ladies, and so I will say that if elves are stupid, they deserve my censure and your wrath. My dear Mistress Aching – and yes, I do know who you are – you clasp good intentions to you like a mother clutches her young. Now, should I even let you leave? When I am looking for . . . entertainment.’ He sighed. ‘I do so desire new amusements sometimes – perhaps to tinker with something, to discover new interests. And one new interest could be you. Do you think that I will let you leave my home?’ His heavy-lidded eyes caressed her.

Tiffany swallowed. ‘Yes, your majesty. You will let me leave.’

‘You are so sure?’

‘Yes.’ Tiffany wrapped her hand around the shepherd’s crown once again, and felt the flint at its centre give her strength, draw her back to her own land, to her land above the wave. She stepped backwards slowly.

And nearly tripped over something on the floor behind her.

The King was staring too. It was a white cat and she heard the King’s voice, surprised for the first time: ‘You!’

And then there was an end to it, and Tiffany and You spiralled back the way they had come, and the Feegles were outside, patrolling up and down and enjoying the happy opportunity of fighting a tree or two, since no elves had turned up, but these trees were still right scunners, stickin’ their barbs as they did into Feegle heads and beards. They deserved a guid kickin’.

‘Well, I’m not sure that did any good,’ Tiffany said to Rob as she emerged from the tunnel.

‘Weel,’ said Rob Anybody, ‘let them come. Ye will always have your Feegles. We Feegles are everlasting.’

‘Everlasting if there is enough to drink!’ Wee Dangerous Spike added.

‘Rob,’ said Tiffany firmly. ‘Right now, not one of you needs a drink. We need a plan.’ She thought for a moment. ‘The King will not help – yet. But he is looking for new entertainments. Perhaps if we offer him something of that ilk, then he will think more kindly upon us and at least leave us alone?’ Leave us to kill his elves, she thought to herself. He did say he wouldn’t mind. Would he change his mind?

‘Ach, nae problem,’ said Rob proudly, confident of his ability to find a PLN. ‘That King of the Elves, he needs somethin’ tae do, ye say.’

‘Like the men of Lancre!’ Tiffany said suddenly. ‘Rob, you know how Geoffrey has them all building sheds . . . Well, you built a pub once. How difficult would a shed be?’

‘Nae trouble at all, right, lads?’ said Rob, happy now. For he had his PLN. ‘Let’s offski.’ He looked down at You. ‘How come your *cat follows you around, mistress?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Tiffany. ‘She’s a cat. They can go anywhere. And after all, she was Granny Weatherwax’s cat and that means quite a lot.’

But Rob wasn’t listening. Not now. He was thinking of his PLN. And the following day, at the mouth of the Long Man there was a shed replete with everything a gentleman could require, including fishing line and every tool you can think of, all made of wood or stone. Tiffany thought that might make the King of the Elves happy. But she did not feel it would get his help . . .

Lord Peaseblossom lounged on a velvet-covered couch in Fairyland, idly fingering the ruff of feathers around his neck, swigging from a goblet of rich wine.

Lord Lankin had just entered the chamber. He bowed before his new king, a glorious red broom of a tail slung casually round his neck, a memento of a recent raid. ‘I believe, my lord,’ he said lazily, silkily, ‘that our warriors will soon wish for . . . greater enjoyments in the human world. The barriers seem weak, and those of us who slip through to hunt are finding no real opposition.’