The Shepherd's Crown (28 page)

The shed Mr Sideways had constructed adjacent to the old barn was also immaculate. Every shelf was neatly stacked with carefully labelled old tobacco tins and jars. His tools were hung against the walls, neatly ranked by size. They were clean and sharp too. Tiffany had never
been allowed beyond Mr Sideways’s living room, but Geoffrey had soon been welcomed to share a mug of tea and a biscuit in the shed by the barn.

Each one of the sheds Geoffrey visited on his rounds of the old boys was different, expressing the personality of the occupant, unfettered by female intervention. Some were chaotic, with piles of scrap and half-made objects scattered about; others were
tidier – like Captain Makepeace’s shed, which was full of paints, brushes and canvases, but still had a clear sense of order.

But no one was as tidy as Mr Sideways. And then Geoffrey noticed something missing. All the other sheds had at least one work in progress visible, whether it was a half-made bird table, or a stripped-down wheelbarrow with a new shaft, but there was nothing like that to
be seen in Mr Sideways’s shed. And he evaded the question when Geoffrey asked what he was working on.

‘What are you up to, Mr Sideways?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘You look like a man who has been thinking, and I know you are a canny man at that.’

Mr Sideways cleared his throat. ‘Well, you see, lad, I am building a machine. I’ve no interest in bird tables or mug trees and the like. But machines now .
 . .’ He paused, then looked carefully at Geoffrey. ‘I’ve been thinking that it might be useful, what with the troubles folks are having.’

Geoffrey sat calmly, waiting for the old boy to finish his tea and reach a conclusion. Eventually Mr Sideways put down his mug and stood up, brushing the crumbs off his lap. He swept them up with a small pan and brush he clearly kept just for that purpose,
washed out the mugs, dried and stacked them neatly on a shelf, then opened the door.

‘Would you like to see, lad?’

While Geoffrey drank his mug of tea with Mr Sideways in Lancre, over in the Chalk Letitia, the Baroness, was sipping tea daintily with Magrat, the Queen of Lancre, who had arrived unexpectedly on her broomstick – a broomstick flying the pennant of Lancre, the two bears on black
and gold, just to make sure that nobody could be in any doubt that this was a royal visit. She had arrived bearing a bunch of roses from the castle, throwing Letitia and her staff all in a tiswas and Letitia flapping about the cobwebs, some of which she had even managed to get tangled in her hair.

Magrat had smiled at the rather shaky-looking Letitia, and said, ‘I’m not here as a queen, love.
I am here as a witch. I always have been one and always will be. So don’t worry about all the pomp – you know how it is, it’s just expected. A bit of dust here and there is nothing. Some parts of my castle are full of dust, I am sorry to say. You know how that is too.’

Letitia had nodded. She did indeed know what it was like. And as for the plumbing . . . well, she did not want to even
think
about how old-fashioned the castle was. The ancient privies had a habit of gurgling at the wrong time, and Roland said that if he had the time, he could create an orchestra from the bangs, gurgles and clankings that sometimes followed his morning visits.

She had rallied the troops, though, and now the two ladies sat side by side in the castle hall, breathing in the peaty fumes from the fireplace
– it was always, always cold there, even in the summer, which was why the fireplaces were so big and ate several small trees at a time. The kitchen staff had brought out a hasty tray with tea and little snacks – and yes, the sandwiches
did
have the crusts cut off to make them appropriately dainty for the two noble ladies. Magrat sighed – she really hoped Letitia at least asked for the crusts to
be given to the birds.

There was also a plate of rather wobbly cupcakes.
^fn2
‘
I
made those,’ Letitia said proudly. ‘Yesterday. From a recipe in Nanny Ogg’s new cookbook – you know,
A Lot of What
You Fancy Makes You Fat
.’ She coloured a little, and her hand crept self-consciously up to her bodice, where it was clear that when curves were being handed out, Letitia had been at the end of the line.

Magrat took a cake by its little case rather carefully. Some of Nanny Ogg’s recipes could include . . . unusual ingredients, and she already
had
three children. She nibbled at the little cake, and the two ladies exchanged the usual pleasantries, with Magrat admiring a watercolour Letitia had painted of the chalk giant up on the downlands. It was surprisingly detailed, especially in the No Trousers
area. Nanny Ogg would definitely have approved, Magrat thought.

Then she got down to business. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Letitia, but up in Lancre we’ve had enough of the elves. Something must be done.’

‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to say that Roland is about to write to Mistress Aching about the wave of elf raids and ask her what she’s proposing to do about them. There have
been an awful lot of complaints, you know, and he’s out inspecting the damage.’ Letitia sighed. She understood that her husband looking at the damage comprised more than just inspecting the aftermath and saying, ‘Tsk, tsk,’ and ‘How long has this been going on?’ – it needed to include other things to make his tenants feel that someone was doing something about it. And Roland’s wife had impressed
on him that this was not just a matter of being seen, but that rolling up his sleeves and getting stuck in alongside his men was good for morale. Even better if he bought a round in the pub when the day’s work was done and became not just the boss but almost a friend. ‘We’ve got men enough here, no doubt about that,’ she added, ‘but most of the time they are working on the farms. It would be appreciated
if other witches could help.’

‘And unfortunately, that means us,’ Magrat said smartly, with the emphasis on the
us
part.

Letitia looked embarrassed. ‘I’m not a proper witch, you know.’

Magrat looked at the Baroness. There was something terribly
soggy
about Letitia, as if you could pick her up and wring her out. But witches came in all shapes and sizes. Both Nanny Ogg and Agnes Nitt, for instance,
were decidedly plump
^fn3
while Long Tall Short Fat Sally went up and down according to the tides – and there was no doubt that water could be powerful. ‘My dear, you are selling yourself short,’ she said. ‘And I know what it is. I believe, my dear, that you are frightened that you wouldn’t make the grade as a witch. We all went through that – girls normally do. Tiffany has told me all about you,
you know. As for me, I don’t know what I would be like in a house with a screaming skeleton. Were you not the girl who gave a headless ghost a pumpkin to carry around? And handed a teddy bear to a screaming skeleton for comfort? You don’t think you are a witch, but every part of my soul says you are. I wish I’d had your opportunities when I was a girl.’

‘But I am the Baroness. I am a lady. I
can’t be a witch.’

Magrat made a sound like ‘hurrumpf’, and said, ‘Well, I am a queen. That doesn’t stop me being a witch when needs must. This is the time, my dear, when we stop thinking about ourselves and who we are and get down and dirty. Tiffany cannot fight the elves on her own, and this is a war – and it will keep on going unless everyone pitches in.’

Her words flowed in and filled Letitia.
‘You are right, of course,’ the young Baroness said. ‘Naturally Roland will agree with me, as he always does. Count me in.’

‘Good,’ said Magrat. ‘I have got some chainmail which I think is your size. And now, how soon can you leave for Lancre? I believe we are meeting to discuss the situation. Can you ride a broomstick or do you need a lift?’

Tiffany straddled her broomstick. She had heard in
the village that old Mrs Pigeon was near her time, and a wave of guilt had flooded through her. Yes, she had two steadings. Yes, she had to work out what to do with Nightshade. Yes, she had no time to rest. But she hadn’t seen the old lady for over a week, and in a week an old lady could fall through the cracks of life.

Nightshade was perched behind her, her sharp eyes noting everything. Noting
how the Pigeon family had only the smallest plot of land, with soil so poor it was a wonder they got a crop out of it at all, their fortunes depending mostly on the little flock of sheep they had in their field by the stream.

Sid Pigeon, the youngest son, was there, looking much smaller somehow without his shiny railway uniform. To Tiffany’s surprise, he had brought a new work friend home with
him.

Nightshade recoiled. ‘A
goblin
! In their house. Stinking . . .’ she said with distaste.

Tiffany felt like kicking her. ‘A very
respectable
goblin,’ she said smartly, though it was true that she could smell the goblin as soon as she went into the house, even over the layers of other smells happily living in that very dirty home. She nodded to the goblin, who was sitting with his feet up
on the table, eating what looked like a chicken leg that others – possibly the cats – had had a go at before him. ‘Sid’s
friend
.’

‘Of Piston the Steam, mistresss,’ the goblin said cheerfully. ‘Works with the iron and steel, I doess—’

‘Tiffany,’ Sid said urgently, ‘have you come to see Granny? She’s in bed upstairs.’

Old Mrs Pigeon was indeed in her bed, and it didn’t look to Tiffany as if she
was likely to be getting out of it ever again. The old lady was little more than a wrinkled set of bones, her twiglike fingers clutching at the edges of a faded patchwork quilt. Tiffany reached out and held one of her hands and . . . did what she could for the old lady, calling the pain out of the shrunken body—

And all hell broke loose downstairs.

‘Sid! Them pesky fairies or whatever – they’ve
only gone and fouled the stream. It’s all yeller! And there’s dead fish floatin’ in it! We’ve got to move the sheep – now!’ Mr Pigeon sounded desperate as he called to his son.

As a thunder of boots left the house, Tiffany held her concentration, drew more pain from old Mrs Pigeon. And then Nightshade was at her side.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘That . . . goblin went with the humans.’

‘It’s called
helping
,’ Tiffany said smartly, still trying to hold on to the pain she had taken from old Mrs Pigeon. ‘Remember?’

‘But goblins and humans don’t like each other,’ Nightshade continued, puzzled.

‘I told you, Of Piston the Steam is Sid’s
friend
. But this isn’t about
liking
,’ Tiffany said. ‘It’s about helping each other out. If the goblin camp was on fire or something, the humans would
help
them
.’ She looked down at Mrs Pigeon; the old lady was falling into a sleep now. ‘Look, I need to go outside for a minute,’ she said. ‘Stay with Mrs Pigeon, would you? Let me know if she wakes again.’

Nightshade was horrified. ‘But I can’t – I’m an elf! I’ve already carried that basket. I can’t . . . help
another
human.’

‘Why not?’ said Tiffany sharply. ‘Of Piston the Steam just did. Are
elves less than goblins?’ But she had no time to waste, so she headed downstairs and threw the pain out into a pile of stones laid ready for building into a wall.

It made a rather unfortunate loud bang – there had been quite a
lot
of pain – which is probably why, when she got back upstairs, Mrs Pigeon had woken up. Woken up and asked for a cup of water.

The old granny was staring up at Nightshade,
a smile on her gummy face as she reached out for the cup. ‘You’re a good girl, you are,’ she was saying weakly. ‘A good girl . . .’

A good girl? A good
elf
?

Nightshade put her hands to her stomach. ‘I think it is beginning . . .’ she said softly, looking up at Tiffany. ‘I feel a sort of warm spot. Here, in my stomach. A little
glow
.’

Tiffany smiled, laid a gentling hand on Mrs Pigeon, and then
took Nightshade by the arm. ‘I need your help,’ she said. ‘Elves have put this glamour on the stream and it runs past several farms . . . can you put it right?’ She paused. ‘As your
friend
, Nightshade, I am asking for your help. The Feegles can help with the sheep, but to remove the glamour? This is something only one of your kind can do.’

Nightshade stood up. ‘A glamour from Peaseblossom?’ she
said. ‘This will be no trouble to remove. That elf is
weak
. And yes, I will help you, Tiffany. You are my . . . friend.’ The word sounded odd in her voice, but there was no doubt that she meant it.

So she went down into the fields with Tiffany, past the skittish sheep in the yard – some of whom, courtesy of the ever-present Feegles, had just broken the county record for stream-to-yard time, one
young lamb actually doing so
on one leg
– and down to the boiling water.

Where she did indeed put it right.

And the tiny little glow inside began to smoulder . . .

The old barn behind Mr Sideways’s shed was full of miscellaneous weaponry, souvenirs from many conflicts, lovingly oiled and meticulously labelled.

‘I’ve been collecting them,’ Mr Sideways said proudly. ‘Every campaign I bin in
and more besides. You should always keep your weapons handy. I mean, I don’t say anything bad about the trolls and the dwarfs, but we fought them more’n once and so I say, you always have to make sure. Somebody says something and before you know it, we’re knee-deep in dwarfs. They give you the up and under. You can’t trust ’em with the up and under.’

Geoffrey looked around the walls of the barn
in astonishment. The machinery of death was everywhere, if you looked at it properly. And there he was, this smiling old man with whom he’d just been sharing a cup of tea, eyes sparkling, ready to face the foe, especially if it wasn’t human. And he was known as
Laughing Boy
? What would he have been like if he had been known as
Scowling Boy
?