Carpe Jugulum (Discworld, #23; Witches, #6)

by Terry Pratchett

A philosopher might have deplored this lack of mental ambition, but only if he was really certain about where his next meal was coming from.

In Ghat they believe in vampire watermelons, although folklore is silent about what they believe about vampire watermelons. Possibly they suck back.

Two things have traditionally puzzled vampire researchers. One is: why do vampires have so much power?

The other puzzle is: why are vampires always so stupid?

“Yeth, marthter.” “Oh, for the last time, man . . . is that any way to talk?” “It’th the only way I know, marthter,” said Igor.

In her own cottage a few miles away the witch Agnes Nitt was in two minds about her new pointy hat. Agnes was generally in two minds about anything.

It really was a magnificent creature, more of a warhorse than an everyday hack. It was so pale that it shone in the light of the occasional star and, by the look of it, there was silver on its harness. The rider was heavily wrapped up against the cold. “Your money or your life!” said the highwayman. I’M SORRY?

“It’s your life, then!” The mounted figure shook its head. I THINK NOT. I REALLY DO.

I MUST SAY THAT YOU HAVE AN AMAZING PERSISTENCE OF VITALITY, said the horseman. It was not so much a voice, more an echo inside the head. IF NOT A PRESENCE OF MIND. “Who are you?” I’M DEATH, said Death. AND I REALLY AM NOT HERE TO TAKE YOUR MONEY. WHICH PART OF THIS DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?

Later on, there’d be a command performance by that man who put weasels down his trousers, a form of entertainment that Nanny ranked higher than grand opera.

Through a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke Nanny reflected that Agnes read books. All the witches who’d lived in her cottage were bookish types. They thought you could see life through books but you couldn’t, the reason being that the words got in the way.

CHOICE. ON THE VERY EDGE YOU WILL ALWAYS FIND SOME UNCERTAINTY. Granny felt the words in her head for several seconds, like little melting cubes of ice. On the very, very edge, then, there had to be . . . judgment.

many.* Lancre operated on the feudal system, which was to say, everyone feuded all the time and handed on the fight to their descendants. The chips on some shoulders had been passed down for generations. Some had antique value. A bloody good grudge, Lancre reckoned, was like a fine old wine. You looked after it carefully and left it to your children.

“Sorry . . . I was looking at your hat.” “It’s good, isn’t it,” said Hodgesaargh amiably. “This is William. She’s a buzzard. But she thinks she’s a chicken. She can’t fly. I’m having to teach her how to hunt.”

Normally, Igor wouldn’t have wasted any time. But the family had been getting on his nerves, and he reacted in the traditional way of the put-upon servant by suddenly becoming very stupid.

She’d been a witch here all her life. And one of the things a witch did was stand right on the edge, where the decisions had to be made. You made them so that others didn’t have to, so that others could even pretend to themselves that there were no decisions to be made, no little secrets, that things just happened. You never said what you knew. And you didn’t ask for anything in return.

It just felt as though, once, someone had found that it worked. Lancrastrians never threw away anything that worked. The trouble was, they seldom changed anything that worked, either.

Trolls weren’t strictly subjects of King Verence, but they were there to say, in official body language, that playing football with human heads was something no one did anymore, much. Hardly at all, really. Not roun’ here, certainly. Dere’s practic’ly a law against it.

“I name you . . . Esmerelda Margaret Note Spelling of Lancre!” The shocked silence was suddenly filled.

For every unheeded beggar, every harsh word, every neglected duty, every slight . . . every choice . . . Because that was the point, wasn’t it? You had to choose. You might be right, you might be wrong, but you had to choose, knowing that the rightness or wrongness might never be clear or even that you were deciding between two sorts of wrong, that there was no right anywhere. And always, always, you did it by yourself.

There are some people who could turn even the most amiable character into a bully and he seemed to be one of them. There was something . . . sort of damp about him, the kind of helpless hopelessness that made people angry rather than charitable, the total certainty that if the whole world was a party he’d still find the kitchen.

Carpe Jugulum,’” read Agnes aloud. “That’s . . . well, Carpe Diem is ‘Seize the Day,’ so this means—” “‘Go for the Throat,’” said Nanny.

Agnes met the gaze of a thin girl in a white dress, with very long black hair and far too much eye makeup. There is such a thing as hate at first sight.

Agnes plonked the flask down on the kitchen table. “Right,” she said, and her voice sounded quite different to Nanny, “My name is Perdita and I’m taking over this body right now.”

Hodgesaargh couldn’t imagine a phoenix as quarry. For one thing, how could you cook it? . . . and in darkest corner of the mews, something hopped onto a perch . . .

People have quite the wrong idea about vampires, you see. Are we fiendish killers?” He beamed at them. “Well, yes, of course we are. But only when necessary.

He grinned. It was the sort of grin that Agnes supposed was called infectious but, then, so was measles.

It was still dark when Hodgesaargh set out. If you were hunting a phoenix, he reasoned, the dark was probably the best time. Light showed up better in the darkness.

“Anyway, that’s why she’s always standin’ behind herself and criticizin’ what she’s doing. Sometimes I reckon she’s terrified she’ll go bad without noticin’.”

“My granny used to say if you’re too sharp you’ll cut yourself,” said Agnes.

A magpie paused in its attempt to pick the stolen spoon off the doorstep, cocked its head and glared at them with a beady eye. It just managed to get airborne before Nanny’s hat, spinning like a plate, bounced off the doorjamb. “The devils’ll pinch anything that damn well shines—” she began.

“Henry?” said the Countess. Lacrimosa looked down sulkily. “Graven Gierachi,” she said. “The one who grows his hair short and pretends he’s an accountant,” said Vlad. “I just hope someone’s told his father, then,” said the Countess.

“Carpe diem,” said the Count. “By the throat,” said the Countess.

“I hated the way you used to leap out in corridors and flick holy water on us,” said Lacrimosa. “It wasn’t holy at all,” said her father. “It was strongly diluted. Mildly devout at worst. But it made you strong, didn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, you’ve told us a million times,” said Lacrimosa, rolling her eyes with the impatience of someone who’d been a teenager for eighty years. “The balcony, the nightdress, you in your cloak, she screamed—” “Things were simpler then,” said the Count.

“A lot of people don’t like me as soon as they’ve met me,” said Oats. “I suppose that saves time,” said Agnes, and cursed.

Hodgesaargh looked at the puppet phoenix on his arm and then looked bashfully at his feet. “Sorry about that, miss.” “So, you see, a phoenix can never see another phoenix,” said Agnes. “Wouldn’t know about that, miss,” said Hodgesaargh, still staring at his boots.

He wasn’t about to disagree with his betters. Hodgesaargh was a one-man feudal system.

“Er . . . in Splintz they die if you put a coin in their mouth and cut their head off . . .” “Not like ordinary people, then,” said Nanny, taking out a notebook. “Er . . . in Klotz they die if you stick a lemon in their mouth—” “Sounds more like it.” “—after you cut their head off. I believe that in Glitz you have to fill their mouth with salt, hammer a carrot into both ears, and then cut off their head.” “I can see that must’ve been fun finding that out.” “And in the valley of the Ah they believe it’s best to cut off the head and boil it in vinegar.”

“Can you make holy water?” “What, here?” “I mean bless it, or dedicate it to Om, or . . . boil the hell out of it, perhaps,” said Agnes.

“Look, this isn’t safe for the baby!” said Agnes. “Do you both see that? You’re her mother, Magrat!” “Yes, I know, I was there,” said Magrat, with infuriating calm.

One of Nanny Ogg’s hidden talents was knowing when to say nothing. It left a hole in the conversation that the other person felt obliged to fill.

“It’s amazing what a wife can do if she knows her own mind, or minds in your case, o’course. Take King Verence the First, for one. He used to toss all his meat bones over his shoulder until he was married and the Queen made him leave them on the side of the plate. I’d only bin married to the first Mr. Ogg for a month before he was getting out of the bath if he needed to pee. You can refine a husband.

“Amazin’ how they can just fade into the foreground like that,” said Nanny. “That’s what’s kept ’em so safe all these years. That and killin’ most people who saw ’em, of course.” Greebo, very quietly, went and sat under her chair.

“Killed by a mob, I’m afraid.” “People can be so ungrateful.”

For hundreds of years the falconers had simply got on with the important things, like falconry, which needed a lot of training, and left the kinging to amateurs.

She glanced up at the tall, silent figure beside her. GOOD EVENING. “Oh . . . you again.” ANOTHER CHOICE, ESMERELDA WEATHERWAX.

The old pixie hobbled over to him. “All fine now,” he said. “You shot my shadow?” said Verence. “Aye, ye could call it a shade,” said the pixie. “It’s the ’fluence they put on ye. But ye’ll be up and aboot in no time.”

The old pixie was suddenly holding a quill pen. “It’s called a signature,” he said, as Verence stared at the tiny handwriting. “An’ make sure ye initial all the sub-clauses and codicils. We of the Nac mac Feegle are a simple folk,” he added, “but we write verra comp-lic-ated documents.”

Oats turned to the assembled Lancrastians for support. “You wouldn’t let a poor old lady go off to confront monsters on a wild night like this, would you?” They watched him owlishly for a while just in case something interestingly nasty was going to happen to him. Then someone near the back said, “So why should we care what happens to monsters?”