There were covered ox-carts rumbling up the street to the castle. Agnes and Oats stood to one side and watched them.

The drivers didn’t seem interested in the bystanders. They wore drab, ill-fitting clothing, but an unusual touch was the scarf each one had wrapped around his neck so tightly that it might have been a bandage.

“Either there’s a plague of sore throats in Uberwald or there will be nasty little puncture wounds under those, I’ll bet,” said Agnes.

“Er…I do know a bit about the way they’re supposed to control people,” said Oats.

“Yes?”

“It sounds silly, but it was in an old book.”

“Well?”

“They find single-minded people easier to control.”

“Single-minded?” said Agnes suspiciously. More carts rolled past.

“It doesn’t sound right, I know. You’d think strong minded people would be harder to affect. I suppose a big target is easier to hit. In some of the villages, apparently, vampire hunters get roaring drunk first. Protection, you see? You can’t punch fog.”

So we’re fog? said Perdita. So’s he, by the look of him…

Agnes shrugged. There was a certain bucolic look to the faces of the cart drivers. Of course, you got that in Lancre too, but in Lancre it was overlaid by a mixture of guile, common sense and stubborn rock-headedness. Here the eyes behind the faces had a switched-off look.

Like cattle, said Perdita.

“Yes,” said Agnes.

“Pardon?” said Oats.

“Just thinking aloud…”

And she thought of the way one man could so easily control a herd of cows, any one of which could have left him as a small damp depression in the ground had it wanted to. Somehow, they never got around to thinking about it.

Supposing they are better than us, she thought. Supposing that, compared to them, we’re just—

You’re too close to the castle, snapped Perdita. You’re thinking cow thoughts.

Then Agnes realized that there was a squad of men marching behind the carts. They didn’t look at all like the carts’ drivers.

And these, said Perdita, are the cattle prods.

They had uniforms, of a sort, with the black and white crest of the Magpyrs, but they weren’t a body of men that looked smart in a uniform. They looked very much like men who killed other people for money, and not even for a lot of money. They looked, in short, like men who’d cheerfully eat a puppy sandwich. Several of them leered at Agnes when they went past, but it was only a generic leer that was simply leered on the basis that she had a dress on.

More wagons came up behind them.

“Nanny Ogg says you must take time by the foreskin,” Agnes said, and darted forward as the last wagon rumbled past.

“She does?”

“I’m afraid so. You get used to it.”

She caught the back of the cart and pulled herself up, beckoning him hastily to follow.

“Are you trying to impress me?” he said as she hauled him on board.

“Not you,” she said. And realized, at this point, that what she was sitting on was a coffin.

There were two of them in the back of the cart, packed around with straw.

“Are they moving the furniture in?” said Oats.

“Er…I think…it might…be occupied,” said Agnes.

She almost shrieked when he removed the lid. The coffin was empty.

“You idiot! Supposing there was someone in there!”

“Vampires are weak during the day. Everyone knows that,” said Oats reproachfully.

“I can…feel them here…somewhere,” said Agnes. The rattling of the cart changed as it rumbled onto the cobblestones of the courtyard.

“Get off the other one and I’ll have a look.”

“But supposing—”

He pushed her off and raised the lid before she could protest further. “No, no vampire in here, either,” he said.

“Supposing one’d just reached out and grabbed you by the throat!”

“Om is my shield,” said Oats.

“Really? That’s nice.”

“You may chortle—”

“I didn’t chortle.”

“You can if you want to. But I’m sure we are doing the right thing. Did not Sonaton defeat the Beast of Batrigore in its very cave?”

“I don’t know.”

“He did. And didn’t the prophet Urdure vanquish the Dragon of Sluth on the Plain of Gidral after three days’ fighting?”

“I don’t know that we’ve got that much time—”

“And wasn’t it true the Sons of Exequial beat the hosts of Myrilom?”

“Yes?”

“You’ve heard of that?”

“No. Listen, we’ve stopped. I don’t particularly want us to be found, do you? Not right now. And not by those guards. They didn’t look like nice men at all.”

They exchanged a meaningful glance over the coffins, concerning a certain inevitability about the immediate future.

“They’ll notice they’re heavier, won’t they?” said Oats.

“Those people driving the carts didn’t look as though they notice anything very much.”

Agnes stared at the coffin beside her. There was some dirt in the bottom, but it was otherwise quite clean and had a pillow at the head end. There were also some side pockets in the lining.

“It’s the easiest way in,” she said. “You get into this one, I’ll get into that one. And, look…those people you just told me about…were they real historical characters?”

“Certainly. They—”

“Well, don’t try to imitate them yet, all right? Otherwise you’ll be a historical character too.”

She shut the lid, and still felt there was a vampire around.

Her hand touched the side pocket. There was something soft yet spiky there. Her fingers explored it in fascinated horror and discovered it to be a ball of wool with a couple of long knitting needles stuck through it, suggesting either a very domesticated form of voodoo or that someone was knitting a sock.

Who knitted socks in a coffin? On the other hand, perhaps even vampires couldn’t sleep sometimes, and tossed and turned all day.

She braced herself as the coffin was picked up and she tried to occupy her mind by working out where it was being taken. She heard the sound of footsteps on the cobbles, and then the ring of the flagstones on the main steps, echoing in the great hall, a sudden dip—

That meant the cellars. Logical, really, but not good.

You’re doing this to impress me, said Perdita. You’re doing it to try to be extrovert and dynamic.

Shut up, Agnes thought.

A voice outside said, “Put them down there and puth off.”

That was the one who called himself Igor. Agnes wished she’d thought of a weapon.

“Get rid of me, would they?” the voice went on, against a background of disappearing footsteps. “Thith ith all going to end in tearth. It’th all very well for them, but who hath to go and thweep up the dutht, eh? That’th what I’d like to know. Who’th it hath to pull their headth out of the pickle jarth? Who’th it hath to find them under the ithe? I mutht’ve pulled out more thtaketh than I’ve had wriggly dinnerth…”

Light flooded in as the coffin lid was removed.

Igor stared at Agnes. Agnes stared at Igor.

Igor unfroze first. He smiled—he had a geometrically interesting smile, because of the row of stitches right across it—and said, “Dear me, thomeone’th been lithening to too many thtorieth. Got any garlic?”

“Masses,” Agnes lied.

“Won’t work. Any holy water?”

“Gallons.”

“It—”

A coffin lid smacked down on Igor’s head, making an oddly metallic sound. He reached up slowly to rub the spot, and then turned around. This time the lid smacked into his face.

“Oh…thit,” he said, and folded up. Oats appeared, face aglow with adrenaline and righteousness.

“I smote him mightily!”

“Good, good, let’s get out of here! Help me up!”

“My wrath descended upon him like—”

“It was a heavy lid and he’s not that young,” said Agnes. “Look, I used to play down here, I know how to get to the back stairs—”

“He’s not a vampire? He looks like one. First time I’ve ever seen a patchwork man…”

“He’s a servant. Now, please come—” Agnes paused. “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.

“There is a small ceremony I can—” He stopped. “That’s right! Vampires can be stopped by holy water!”

“Good. We’ll go via the kitchens, then.”

The huge kitchens were almost empty. They never bustled these days, since the royal couple were not the sort who demanded three meat courses with every meal, and at the moment there was only Mrs. Scorbic the cook in there, calmly rolling out pastry.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Scorbic,” said Agnes, deciding the best course was to march past and rely on the authority of the pointy hat. “We’ve just dropped in for some water, don’t worry, I know where the pump is, but if you’ve got a couple of empty bottles that would be helpful.”

“That’s right, dear,” said Mrs. Scorbic.

Agnes stopped and turned.

Mrs. Scorbic was famously acerbic, especially on the subject of soya, nut cutlets, vegetarian meals and any vegetable that couldn’t be boiled until it was yellow. Even the King hesitated to set foot in her kitchen, but whereas he only got an angry silence, lesser mortals got the full force of her generalized wrath. Mrs. Scorbic was permanently angry, in the same way that mountains are permanently large.

Today she was wearing a white dress, a white apron, a big white mob cap and a white bandage around her throat. She also looked, for want of any better word, happy.

Agnes urgently waved Oats toward the pump. “Find something to fill up,” she hissed, and then said brightly, “How are you feeling, Mrs. Scorbic?”

“All the better for you asking, miss.”

“I expect you’re busy with all these visitors?”

“Yes, miss.”

Agnes coughed. “And, er, what did you give them for breakfast?”

The cook’s huge pink brow wrinkled. “Can’t remember, miss.”

“Well done.”

Oats nudged her. “I’ve filled up a couple of empty bottles and I said the Purification Rite of Om over them.”

“And that will work?”

“You must have faith.”

The cook was watching them amiably.

“Thank you, Mrs. Scorbic,” said Agnes. “Please get on with…whatever you were doing.”

“Yes, miss.” The cook turned back to her rolling pin.

Plenty of meals on her, said Perdita. Cook and larder all in one.

“That was tasteless!” said Agnes.

“What was?” said the priest.

“Oh…just a thought I had. Let’s go up the back stairs.”

They were bare stone, communicating with the public bits of the keep via a door at every level. On the other side of those doors it was still bare stone, but a better class of masonry altogether and with tapestries and carpets. Agnes pushed open a door.

A couple of the Uberwald people were ambling along the corridor beyond, carrying something covered in a cloth. They didn’t spare the newcomers a glance as Agnes led the way to the royal apartments.

Magrat was standing on a chair when they came in. She looked down at them while little painted wooden stars and animals tangled themselves around her upraised arm.

“Wretched things,” she said. “You’d think it would be easy, wouldn’t you? Hello, Agnes. Could you hold the chair?”

“What are you doing?” said Agnes. She looked carefully. There was no bandage around Magrat’s neck.

“Trying to hook this mobile onto the chandelier,” said Magrat. “Uh…that’s done it. But it tangles up all the time! Verence says it’s very good for young children to see lots of bright colors and shapes. It speeds development, he says. But I can’t find Millie anywhere.”

There’s a castle full of vampires, and she’s decorating the playroom, said Perdita. What’s wrong with this woodcut?

Somehow, Agnes couldn’t bring herself to blurt out a warning. Apart from anything else, the chair looked wobbly.

“Little Esme’s only two weeks old,” said Agnes. “Isn’t that a bit young for education?”

“Never too early to start, he says. What can I do for you?”

“We need you to come with us. Right now.”

“Why?” said Magrat, and to Agnes’s relief she stepped down from the chair.

“Why? Magrat, there’s vampires in the castle! The Magpyr family are vampires!”

“Don’t be silly, they’re very pleasant people. I was talking to the Countess only this morning—”

“What about?” Agnes demanded. “I bet you can’t remember!”

“I am Queen, Agnes,” said Magrat reproachfully.

“Sorry, but they affect people’s minds—”

“Yours?”

“Um, no, not mine. I have—I’m—It seems I’m immune,” Agnes lied.

“And his?” said Magrat sharply.

“I am protected by my faith in Om,” said Oats.

Magrat raised her eyebrows at Agnes. “Is he?”

Agnes shrugged. “Apparently.”

Magrat leaned closer. “He’s not drunk, is he? He’s holding two beer bottles.”

“They’re full of holy water,” Agnes whispered.

“Verence said Omnianism seemed a very sensible and stable religion,” hissed Magrat.

They both looked at Oats, mentally trying the words on him for size.

“Are we leaving?” he said.

“Of course not,” snapped Magrat, straightening up. “This is silly, Agnes. I’m a married woman, I’m Queen, I’ve got a little baby. And you come in here telling me we’ve got vampires! I’ve got guests here and—”

“The guests are vampires, your majesty,” said Agnes. “The King invited them!”

“Verence says we have to learn to deal with all sorts of people—”

“We think Granny Weatherwax is in very bad trouble,” said Agnes.

Magrat stopped. “How bad?” she said.

“Nanny Ogg is very worried. Quite snappish. She says it needs three of us to find Granny.”

“Well, I—”

“And Granny’s taken the box, whatever that means,” said Agnes.

“The one she keeps in the dresser?”

“Yes. Nanny wouldn’t tell me much about what was in it.”

Magrat opened up her hands like an angler measuring a medium-sized fish.

“The polished wooden box? About this size?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen it. Nanny seemed to think it was important. She didn’t say what was in it,” Agnes repeated, just in case Magrat hadn’t got the hint.

Magrat clasped her hands together and looked down, biting her knuckles. When she looked up her face was set with purpose. She pointed at Oats.

“You find a bag or something and empty into it all the stuff in the top drawer over there, and take the potty, and the little truck, oh, and the stuffed animals, and the bag of nappies, and the bag for used nappies, and the bath, and the bag with the towels, and the box of toys, and the wind-up things, and the musical box, and the bag with the little suits, oh, and the woolly hat, and you, Agnes, find something we can make into a sling. You came up the back stairs? We’ll go down the same way.”

“What do we need a sling for?”

Magrat leaned over the crib and picked up the baby, wrapped in a blanket.

“I’m not going to leave her here, am I?” she said.

There was a clatter from the direction of Mightily Oats. He already had both arms full, and a large stuffed rabbit in his teeth.

“Do we need all of that?” said Agnes.

“You never know,” said Magrat.

“Even the box of toys?”

“Verence thinks she might be an early developer,” said Magrat.

“She’s a couple of weeks old!”

“Yes, but stimulus at an early age is vital to the development of the growing brain,” said Magrat, laying baby Esme on the table and shuffling her into a romper suit. “Also, we have to get on top of her hand–eye coordination as soon as possible. It’s no good just letting things slide. Oh yes…If you can bring the little slide, too. And the yellow rubber duck. And the sponge in the shape of a teddy bear. And the teddy bear in the shape of a sponge.”

There was another crash from the mound around Oats.

“Why’s the box so important?” said Agnes.

“Not important as such,” said Magrat. She looked over her shoulder. “Oh, and put in that rag doll, will you? I’m sure she’s focusing on it. Oh blast…the red bag has got the medicines in it, thank you…What was it you asked me?”

“Granny’s box,” Agnes hinted.

“Oh, it’s…just important to her.”

“It’s magical?”

“What? Oh no. No as far as I know. But everything in it belongs to her, you see. Not to the cottage,” said Magrat, picking up her daughter. “Who’s a good girl, then? You are!” She looked around. “Have we forgotten anything?”

Oats spat out the rabbit. “Possibly the ceiling,” he said.

“Then let’s go.”