Lords and Ladies Read Free

were to…take the blindfold off, what’d I see?”
    There. It was done now.
    There was a clicking sound on the flagstones, and a change in the air movement which suggested to Jason that the speaker was now standing in front of him.
    ARE YOU A MAN OF FAITH, MR. OGG?
    Jason gave this some swift consideration. Lancre was not knee-deep in religions. There were the Nine Day Wonderers, and the Strict Offlians, and there were various altars to small gods of one sort or another, tucked away in distant clearings. He’d never really felt the need, just like the dwarfs. Iron was iron and fire was fire—start getting metaphysical and you were scraping your thumb on the bottom of your hammer.
    WHAT DO YOU REALLY HAVE FAITH IN, RIGHT AT THIS MOMENT?
    He’s inches away, Jason thought. I could reach out and touch…
    There was a smell. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was hardly anything at all. It was the smell of air in old forgotten rooms. If centuries could smell, then old ones would smell like that.
    MR. OGG?
    Jason swallowed.
    “Well, m’lord,” he said, “right now…I really believe in this blindfold.”
    GOOD MAN. GOOD MAN. AND NOW…I MUST BE GOING.
    Jason heard the latch lift. There was a thud as the doors scraped back, driven by the wind, and then there was the sound of hooves on the cobbles again.
    YOUR WORK, AS ALWAYS, IS SUPERB.
    “Thank you, m’lord.”
    I SPEAK AS ONE CRAFTSMAN TO ANOTHER.
    “Thank you, m’lord.”
    WE WILL MEET AGAIN.
    “Yes, m’lord.”
    WHEN NEXT MY HORSE NEEDS SHOEING.
    “Yes, m’lord.”
    Jason closed the door and bolted it, although there was probably no point, when you thought about it.
    But that was the bargain—you shod anything they brought to you, anything, and the payment was that you could shoe anything. There had always been a smith in Lancre, and everyone knew the smith in Lancre was a very powerful smith indeed.
    It was an ancient bargain, and it had something to do with iron.

    The wind slackened. Now it was a whisper around the horizons, as the sun rose.
    This was the octarine grass country. Good growing country, especially for corn.
    And here was a field of it, waving gently between the hedges. Not a big field. Not a remarkable one, really. It was just a field with corn in it, except of course during the winter, when there were just pigeons and crows in it.
    The wind dropped.
    The corn still waved. They weren’t the normal swells of the wind. They spread out from the center of the field like ripples from a dropped stone.
    The air sizzled and was filled with an angry buzzing.
    Then, in the center of the field, rustling as it bent, the young corn lay down.
    In a circle.
    And in the sky the bees swarmed and teemed, buzzing angrily.

    It was a few weeks to midsummer. The kingdom of Lancre dozed in the heat, which shimmered on the forests and the fields.
    Three dots appeared in the sky.
    After a while, they became identifiable as three female figures on broomsticks, flying in a manner reminiscent of the famous three plaster flying ducks.
    Observe them closely.
    The first one—let us call her the leader—flies sitting bolt upright, in defiance of air resistance, and seems to be winning. She has features that would generally be described as striking, or even handsome, but she couldn’t be called beautiful, at least by anyone who didn’t want their nose to grow by three feet.
    The second is dumpy and bandy-legged with a face like an apple that’s been left for too long and an expression of near-terminal good nature. She is playing a banjo and, until a better word comes to mind, singing. It is a song about a hedgehog.
    Unlike the broomstick belonging to the first figure, which is more or less unburdened except for a sack or two, this one is overladen with things like fluffy purple toy donkeys, corkscrews in the shape of small boys urinating, bottles of wine in straw baskets, and other international cultural items. Nestling among them is the smelliest and most evil-minded cat in the