The Shepherd's Crown (Discworld #41)(79)

She glanced at Mrs Earwig and was surprised to see her nod and say, ‘He’s a very nice decent young man, and we have seen him at work, and now we live in the time of the railways so perhaps we should change our ways. Yes, I believe Mister Geoffrey should take care of Granny’s – Tiffany’s – steading in Lancre. He’s no witch, but he’s certainly much more than the usual sort of backhouse boy.’ And Tiffany could see Mrs Earwig’s mind working, and she felt certain that the next time she saw the witch, she would have a lad somewhere around her establishment.

Out loud, Nanny said, ‘What did you call him, Tiff? A calm-weaver? Shall we leave it at that for now?’

But Magrat wanted her say too. ‘Verence heard of what he did for the old men,’ she said. ‘He believes he should have a reward. And I think I know exactly what would suit . . .’

And thus, a few weeks later, Lord Swivel was most surprised to see his third son riding proudly up his long, long drive, a herald at his sidefn1 and a pennant with the royal insignia of Lancre fluttering in the breeze. The same insignia was also on a velvet coat over the flanks of Mephistopheles.

‘May I announce His Royal Ambassadorship Geoffrey Swivel,’ proclaimed the herald, breaking into a few notes on the trumpet he held.

Geoffrey’s mother sobbed with delight, while his father – a man on whom no calm-weaving would ever work – boiled inside with fury as he had to bow to the son he had treated as a nobody. But no one argued with the power of a crown.

There was a purpose to this visit, though. After the usual bowing, scraping and general knee-bending any royal emissary took as his due, Geoffrey grinned around at the assembled company and said, ‘Father, I have exciting news! Those of us in the country may oft feel neglected by those in the big city but let me assure you, this is not the case. There have, in fact, been important developments just recently in the field of . . . chicken runs. Some young people in Ankh-Morpork . . . young people whose parents have the power to indulge their wishes’ – and he tapped his nose with a finger to show that he expected his father to know these important parents – ‘feel that it may no longer be necessary to hunt sly old Mister Reynard to protect our chickens.’ He beamed. ‘They have come up with a new chicken run which is totally impervious to foxes. And you, Father, are the lucky, lucky landowner who has been chosen to test this new design.’

As his father spluttered, and his brother Hugh shouted ‘Hurrah!’ for no particular reason except that it felt like someone should, Geoffrey looked around. He could see his mother’s face. Normally she looked like someone the world had trodden on so many times that it was almost an invitation to tread on her yourself, but now she stood tall, her chin high.

‘Harold. Our son has worked wonders, and here is a king honouring him and treating him as a friend,’ she said proudly. ‘Don’t you look at me like that, Harold, for today I have spoken. And the Queen of Lancre has invited me to come and visit her,’ she added with satisfaction.

There was a bleat from Mephistopheles, and as Geoffrey’s father turned to stamp away, the goat turned its back and aimed a square set of devilish hooves right onto Lord Swivel’s rump. Followed by a raucous fart that almost – but not quite – covered up the noise of the man falling flat on his face.

‘A most usefully offensive goat,’ Geoffrey murmured to McTavish, who had come to stand by his side.

The old stable-lad looked around. ‘And one your father cannot touch,’ he said with a wink. ‘Not with that fancy coat on its back.’ He sniffed. ‘My word, though, Mephistopheles isn’t easy on the nose – he whiffs even worse than I remember.’

‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, ‘but he can climb trees. And use a privy. Even count. He’s a strange creature; he can turn a dark day into a clear one. Look into his eyes sometime.’

And McTavish looked, and then hastily looked away.

fn1 Shawn Ogg, in another of his royal duties.

EPILOGUE

A Whisper on the Chalk

TWO DAYS AFTER the battle, Tiffany led one of the farm horses up to the hills above the farm. It was a perfect early autumn’s day. There was a wonderful cerulean sky, buzzards screaming overhead and a clear view towards the distant mountains of Lancre, their tops still covered in snow even at this time of year.

There were always a handful of sheep up in this part of the downs, whatever the weather. At this time of year there were half-grown lambs kicking their heels and chasing about while the ewes grazed nearby. Here was a well-known landmark for those who knew. A special place for sheep and farmers alike. The place where Granny Aching now lay beneath the turf.

Only the iron wheels of her hut and the old pot-bellied stove with its chimney were still visible, but the ground, the ground was holy: Tiffany came to look at it every time she felt the world grinding her down, and here, where the wind never stopped blowing, she felt that she could deal with anything.

With the help of the horse and a strong rope, Tiffany hauled the rusty wheels out of the turf where they had been embedded, and painstakingly greased and coaxed them back together. Rob Anybody had watched her for a while after she had rebuffed his offer to help, then departed with a puzzled look on his face, muttering about geases, and what he’d like to do to them.

The following day, Tiffany went to visit old Mr Block, the local carpenter. He had once made her a doll’s house when she was a little girl; now she had a bigger home in mind.