Wimsloe’s hand shook.

  “I have it, wife,” he said. “Is this a dagger I see before me?”

  “Of course it’s a bloody dagger. Come on, do it now. The weak deserve no mercy. We’ll say he fell down the stairs.”

  “But people will suspect!”

  “Are there no dungeons? Are there no pilliwinks? Possession is nine parts of the law, husband, when what you possess is a knife.”

  Wimsloe drew his arm back.

  “I cannot! He has been kindness itself to me!”

  “And you can be Death itself to him…”

  Dafe could hear the voices a long way off. He adjusted his mask, checked the deathliness of his appearance in the mirror, and peered at the script in the empty backstage gloom.

  “Cower Now, Brief Mortals,” he said. “I Am Death, ’Gainst Who—’Gainst Who—”

  WHOM.

  “Oh, thanks,” said the boy distractedly. “’Gainst Whom No Lock May Hold—”

  WILL HOLD.

  “Will Hold Nor Fasten’d Portal Bar, Here To—to—to—”

  HERE TO TAKE MY TALLY ON THIS NIGHT OF KINGS.

  Dafe sagged.

  “You’re so much better at it,” he moaned. “You’ve got the right voice and you can remember the words.” He turned around. “It’s only three lines and Hwel will…have…my…guts…for.”

  He froze. His eyes widened and became two saucers of fear as Death snapped his fingers in front of the boy’s rigid face.

  FORGET, he commanded, and turned and stalked silently toward the wings.

  His eyeless skull took in the line of costumes, the waxy debris of the makeup table. His empty nostrils snuffed up the mixed smells of mothballs, grease and sweat.

  There was something here, he thought, that nearly belonged to the gods. Humans had built a world inside the world, which reflected it in pretty much the same way as a drop of water reflects the landscape. And yet…and yet…

  Inside this little world they had taken pains to put all the things you might think they would want to escape from—hatred, fear, tyranny, and so forth. Death was intrigued. They thought they wanted to be taken out of themselves, and every art humans dreamt up took them further in. He was fascinated.

  He was here for a very particular and precise purpose. There was a soul to be claimed. There was no time for inconsequentialities. But what was time, after all?

  His feet did an involuntary little clicking dance across the stones. Alone, in the gray shadows, Death tapdanced.

  —THE NEXT NIGHT IN YOUR DRESSING ROOM THEY HANG A STAR—

  He pulled himself together, adjusted his scythe, and waited silently for his cue.

  He’d never missed one yet.

  He was going to get out there and slay them.

  * * *

  “And you can be Death itself to him. Now!”

  Death entered, his feet clicking across the stage.

  COWER NOW, BRIEF MORTALS, he said, FOR I AM DEATH, ’GAINST WHOM NO…NO…’GAINST WHOM…

  He hesitated. He hesitated, for the very first time in the eternity of his existence.

  For although the Death of the Discworld was used to dealing with people by the million, at the same time every death was intimate and personal.

  Death was seldom seen except by those of an occult persuasion and his clients themselves. The reason that no one else saw him was that the human brain is clever enough to edit sights too horrible for it to cope with, but the problem here was that several hundred people were in fact expecting to see Death at this point, and were therefore seeing him.

  Death turned slowly and stared back at hundreds of watching eyes.

  Even in the grip of the truth Tomjon recognized a fellow actor in distress, and fought for mastery of his lips.

  “‘…lock will hold…’” he whispered, through teeth fixed in a grimace.

  Death gave him a manic grin of stagefright.

  WHAT? he whispered, in a voice like an anvil being hit with a small lead hammer.

  “‘…lock will hold, nor fasten’d portal…,’” said Tomjon encouragingly.

  …LOCK WILL HOLD NOR FASTEN’D PORTAL…UH…repeated Death desperately, watching his lips.

  “‘…bar!…’”

  BAR.

  “No, I cannot do it!” said Wimsloe. “I will be seen! Down there in the hall, someone watches!”

  “There is no one!”

  “I feel the stare!”

  “Dithering idiot! Must I put it in for you? See, his foot is upon the top stair!”

  Wimsloe’s face contorted with fear and uncertainty. He drew back his hand.

  “No!”

  The scream came from the audience. The duke was half-risen from his seat, his tortured knuckles at his mouth. As they watched he lurched forward between the shocked people.

  “No! I did not do it! It was not like that! You cannot say it was like that! You were not there!” He stared at the upturned faces around him, and sagged.

  “Nor was I,” he giggled. “I was asleep at the time, you know. I remember it quite well. There was blood on the counterpane, there was blood on the floor, I could not wash off the blood, but these are not proper subjects for the inquiry. I cannot allow the discussion of national security. It was just a dream, and when I awoke, he’d be alive tomorrow. And tomorrow it wouldn’t have happened because it was not done. And tomorrow you can say I did not know. And tomorrow you can say I had no recollection. What a noise he made in falling! Enough to wake the dead…who would have thought he had so much blood in him?…” By now he had climbed onto the stage, and grinned brightly at the assembled company.

  “I hope that sorts it all out,” he said. “Ha. Ha.”

  In the silence that followed Tomjon opened his mouth to utter something suitable, something soothing, and found that there was nothing he could say.

  But another personality stepped into him, took over his lips, and spoke thusly:

  “With my own bloody dagger, you bastard! I know it was you! I saw you at the top of the stairs, sucking your thumb! I’d kill you now, except for the thought of having to spend eternity listening to your whining. I, Verence, formerly King of—”

  “What testimony is this?” said the duchess. She stood in front of the stage, with half a dozen soldiers beside her.

  “These are just slanders,” she added. “And treason to boot. The rantings of mad players.”

  “I was bloody King of Lancre!” shouted Tomjon.

  “In which case you are the alleged victim,” said the duchess calmly. “And unable to speak for the prosecution. It is against all precedent.”

  Tomjon’s body turned toward Death.

  “You were there! You saw it all!”

  I SUSPECT I WOULD NOT BE CONSIDERED AN APPROPRIATE WITNESS.

  “Therefore there is no proof, and where there is no proof there is no crime,” said the duchess. She motioned the soldiers forward.

  “So much for your experiment,” she said to her husband. “I think my way is better.”

  She looked around the stage, and found the witches.

  “Arrest them,” she said.

  “No,” said the Fool, stepping out of the wings.

  “What did you say?”

  “I saw it all,” said the Fool, simply. “I was in the Great Hall that night. You killed the king, my lord.”

  “I did not!” screamed the duke. “You were not there! I did not see you there! I order you not to be there!”

  “You did not dare say this before,” said Lady Felmet.

  “Yes, lady. But I must say it now.”

  The duke focused unsteadily on him.

  “You swore loyalty unto death, my Fool,” he hissed.

  “Yes, my lord. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re dead.”

  The duke snatched a dagger from Wimsloe’s unresisting hand, darted forward, and plunged it to the hilt into the Fool’s heart. Magrat screamed.

  The Fool rocked back and forth unsteadily.

  “Thank goodness that’s over,” he said, as Magrat pushed her way through the actors and clasped him to what could charitably be called her bosom. It struck the Fool that he had never looked a bosom squarely in the face, at least since he was a baby, and it was particularly cruel of the world to save the experience until after he was dead.

  He gently moved one of Magrat’s arms and pulled the despicable horned cowl from his head, and tossed it as far as possi ble. He didn’t have to be a Fool anymore or, he realized, bother about vows or anything. What with bosoms as well, death seemed to be an improvement.

  “I didn’t do it,” said the duke.

  No pain, thought the Fool. Funny, that. On the other hand, you obviously can’t feel pain when you are dead. It would be wasted.

  “You all saw that I didn’t do it,” said the duke.

  Death gave the Fool a puzzled look. Then he reached into the recesses of his robes and pulled out an hourglass. It had bells on it. He gave it a gentle shake, which made them tinkle.

  “I gave no orders that any such thing should be done,” said the duke calmly. His voice came from a long way off, from wherever his mind was now. The company stared at him wordlessly. It wasn’t possible to hate someone like this, only to feel acutely embarrassed about being anywhere near him. Even the Fool felt embarrassed, and he was dead.

  Death tapped the hourglass, and then peered at it to see if it had gone wrong.

  “You are all lying,” said the duke, in tranquil tones. “Telling lies is naughty.”

  He stabbed several of the nearest actors in a dreamy, gentle way, and then held up the blade.

  “You see?” he said. “No blood! It wasn’t me.” He looked up at the duchess, towering over him now like a red tsunami over a small fishing village.

  “It was her,” he said. “She did it.”

  He stabbed her once or twice, on general principles, and then stabbed himself and let the dagger drop from his fingers.

  After a few seconds reflection he said, in a voice far nearer the worlds of sanity, “You can’t get me now.”

  He turned to Death. “Will there be a comet?” he said. “There must be a comet when a prince dies. I’ll go and see, shall I?”

  He wandered away. The audience broke into applause.

  “You’ve got to admit he was real royalty,” said Nanny Ogg, eventually. “It only goes to show, royalty goes eccentric far better than the likes of you and me.”

  Death held the hourglass to his skull, his face radiating puzzlement.

  Granny Weatherwax picked up the fallen dagger and tested the blade with her finger. It slid into the handle quite easily, with a faint squeaking noise.

  She passed it to Nanny.

  “There’s your magic sword,” she said.

  Magrat looked at it, and then back at the Fool.

  “Are you dead or not?” she said.

  “I must be,” said the Fool, his voice slightly muffled. “I think I’m in paradise.”

  “No, look, I’m serious.”

  “I don’t know. But I’d like to breathe.”

  “Then you must be alive.”

  “Everyone’s alive,” said Granny. “It’s a trick dagger. Actors probably can’t be trusted with real ones.”

  “After all, they can’t even keep a cauldron clean,” said Nanny.

  “Whether everyone is alive or not is a matter for me,” said the duchess. “As ruler it is my pleasure to decide. Clearly my husband has lost his wits.” She turned to her soldiers. “And I decree—”

  “Now!” hissed King Verence in Granny’s ear. “Now!”

  Granny Weatherwax drew herself up.

  “Be silent, woman!” she said. “The true King of Lancre stands before you!”

  She clapped Tomjon on the shoulder.

  “What, him?”

  “Who, me?”

  “Ridiculous,” said the duchess. “He’s a mummer, of sorts.”

  “She’s right, miss,” said Tomjon, on the edge of panic. “My father runs a theater, not a kingdom.”

  “He is the true king. We can prove it,” said Granny.

  “Oh, no,” said the duchess. “We’re not having that. There’s no mysterious returned heirs in this kingdom. Guards—take him.”

  Granny Weatherwax held up a hand. The soldiers lurched from foot to foot, uncertainly.

  “She’s a witch, isn’t she?” said one of them, tentatively.

  “Certainly,” said the duchess.

  The guards shifted uneasily.

  “We seen where they turn people into newts,” said one.

  “And then shipwreck them.”

  “Yeah, and alarum the divers.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We ought to talk about this. We ought to get extra for witches.”

  “She could do anything to us, look. She could be a drabe, even.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” said the duchess. “Witches don’t do that sort of thing. They’re just stories to frighten people.”

  The guard shook his head.

  “It looked pretty convincing to me.”

  “Of course it did, it was meant—” the duchess began. She sighed, and snatched a spear out of the guard’s hand.

  “I’ll show you the power of these witches,” she said, and hurled it at Granny’s face.

  Granny moved her hand across at snakebite speed and caught the spear just behind the head.

  “So,” she said, “and it comes to this, does it?”

  “You don’t frighten me, wyrd sisters,” said the duchess.

  Granny stared her in the eye for a few seconds. She gave a grunt of surprise.

  “You’re right,” she said. “We really don’t, do we…”

  “Do you think I haven’t studied you? Your witchcraft is all artifice and illusion, to amaze weak minds. It holds no fears for me. Do your worst.”

  Granny studied her for a while.

  “My worst?” she said, eventually. Magrat and Nanny Ogg shuffled gently out of her way.

  The duchess laughed.

  “You’re clever,” she said. “I’ll grant you that much. And quick. Come on, hag. Bring on your toads and demons, I’ll…”

  She stopped, her mouth opening and shutting a bit without any words emerging. Her lips drew back in a rictus of terror, her eyes looked beyond Granny, beyond the world, toward something else. One knuckled hand flew to her mouth and she made a little whimpering noise. She froze, like a rabbit that has just seen a stoat and knows, without any doubt, that it is the last stoat that it will ever see.

  “What have you done to her?” said Magrat, the first to dare to speak. Granny smirked.

  “Headology,” said Granny, and smirked. “You don’t need any Black Aliss magic for it.”

  “Yes, but what have you done?”

  “No one becomes like she is without building walls inside their head,” she said. “I’ve just knocked them down. Every scream. Every plea. Every pang of guilt. Every twinge of conscience. All at once. There’s a little trick to it.”

  She gave Magrat a condescending smile. “I’ll show you one day, if you like.”

  Magrat thought about it. “It’s horrible,” she said.

  “Nonsense,” Granny smiled terribly. “Everyone wants to know their true self. Now, she does.”

  “Sometimes, you have to be kind to be cruel,” said Nanny Ogg approvingly.

  “I think it’s probably the worst thing that could happen to anyone,” said Magrat, as the duchess swayed backward and forward.

  “For goodness’ sake use your imagination, girl,” said Granny. “There are far worse things. Needles under the fingernails, for one. Stuff with pliers.”

  “Red-hot knives up the jacksie,” said Nanny Ogg. “Handle first, too, so you cut your fingers trying to pull them out—”

  “This is simply the worst that I can do,” said Granny Weatherwax primly. “It’s all right and proper, too. A witch should act like that, you know. There’s no need for any dramatic stuff. Most magic goes on in the head. It’s headology. Now, if you’d—”

  A noise like a gas leak escaped from the duchess’s lips. Her head jerked back suddenly. She opened her eyes, blinked, and focused on Granny. Sheer hatred suffused her features.

  “Guards!” she said. “I told you to take them!”

  Granny’s jaw sagged. “What?” she said. “But—but I showed you your true self…”

  “I’m supposed to be upset by that, am I?” As the soldiers sheepishly grabbed Granny’s arms the duchess pressed her face close to Granny’s, her tremendous eyebrows a V of triumphant hatred. “I’m supposed to grovel on the floor, is that it? Well, old woman, I’ve seen exactly what I am, do you understand, and I’m proud of it! I’d do it all again, only hotter and longer! I enjoyed it, and I did it because I wanted to!”

  She thumped the vast expanse of her chest.

  “You gawping idiots!” she said. “You’re so weak. You really think that people are basically decent underneath, don’t you?”

  The crowd on the stage backed away from the sheer force of her exultation.

  “Well, I’ve looked underneath,” said the duchess. “I know what drives people. It’s fear. Sheer, deep-down fear. There’s not one of you who doesn’t fear me, I can make you widdle your drawers out of terror, and now I’m going to take—”

  At this point Nanny Ogg hit her on the back of the head with the cauldron.

  “She does go on, doesn’t she?” she said conversationally, as the duchess collapsed. “She was a bit eccentric, if you ask me.”

  There was a long, embarrassed silence.

  Granny Weatherwax coughed. Then she treated the soldiers holding her to a bright, friendly smile, and pointed to the mound that was now the duchess.

  “Take her away and put her in a cell somewhere,” she commanded. The men snapped to attention, grabbed the duchess by her arms, and pulled her upright with considerable difficulty.

  “Gently, mind,” said Granny.

  She rubbed her hands together and turned to Tomjon, who was watching her with his mouth open.

  “Depend on it,” she hissed. “Here and now, my lad, you don’t have a choice. You’re the King of Lancre.”

  “But I don’t know how to be a king!”

  “We all seed you! You had it down just right, including the shouting.”