Carpe Jugulum

witches.
    She couldn’t see his face. He was making a beeline for the buffet table.
    “Excuse me, Miss Nitt?”
    Shawn had appeared at her side. He stood very stiffly, because if he made any sudden turns the oversized wig tended to spin on his head.
    “Yes, Shawn?” said Agnes.
    “The queen wants a word, miss,” said Shawn.
    “With me ?”
    “Yes, miss. She’s up in the Ghastly Green Drawing Room, miss.” Shawn swiveled slowly. His wig stayed facing the same way.
    Agnes hesitated. It was a royal command, she supposed, even if it was only from Magrat Garlick as was, and as such it superseded anything Nanny had asked her to do. Anyway, she had spotted the priest, and it was not as though he was going to set fire to everyone over the canapés. She’d better go.

A little hatch shot open behind the doleful Igor.
    “Why’ve we stopped this time?”
    “Troll’th in the way, marthter.”
    “A what?”
    Igor rolled his eyes. “A troll’th in the way,” he said.
    The hatch shut. There was a whispered conversation inside the coach. The hatch opened.
    “You mean a troll ?”
    “ Yeth , marthter.”
    “Run it down!”
    The troll advanced, holding a flickering torch above its head. At some point recently someone had said “this troll needs a uniform” and had found that the only thing in the armory that would fit was the helmet, and then only if you attached it to his head with string.
    “The old Count wouldn’t have told me to run it down,” Igor muttered, not quite under his breath. “But, then, he wath a gentleman .”
    “What was that?” a female voice snapped.
    The troll reached the coach and banged its knuckles on its helmet respectfully.
    “Evenin’,” it said. “Dis is a bit embarrassin’. You know a pole?”
    “Pole?” said Igor suspiciously.
    “It are a long wooden fing—”
    “Yeth? Well? What about it?”
    “I’d like you to imagine, right, dat dere’s a black an’ yellow striped one across dis road, right? Only ’cos we’ve only got der one, an’ it’s bein’ used up on der Copperhead road tonight.”
    The hatch slid open.
    “Get a move on, man! Run it down!”
    “I could go an’ get it if you like,” said the troll, shifting nervously from one huge foot to the other. “Only it wouldn’t be here till tomorrow, right? Or you could pretend it’s here right now, an’ then I could pretend to lift it up, and dat’d be okay, right?”
    “Do it, then,” said Igor. He ignored the grumbling behind him. The old Count had always been polite to trolls even though you couldn’t bite them, and that was real class in a vampire.
    “Only firs’ I gotta stamp somethin’,” said the troll. It held up half a potato and a paint-soaked rag.
    “Why?”
    “Shows you’ve bin past me,” said the troll.
    “Yeth, but we will have been parthed you,” Igor pointed out. “I mean, everyone will know we’ve been parthed you becauthe we are .”
    “But it’ll show you done it officially ,” said the troll.
    “What’ll happen if we jutht drive on?” said Igor.
    “Er…den I won’t lift der pole,” said the troll.
    Locked in a metaphysical conundrum, they both looked at the patch of road where the virtual pole barred the way.
    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. He leaned down and addressed the coach’s occupants through the hatch.
    “It’th a border check, marthter,” he said. “We got to have thomething thtamped.”
    There was more whispering inside the coach, and then a large white rectangle, edged in gold, was thrust ungraciously through the hatch. Igor passed it down.
    “Seems a shame,” said the troll, stamping it inexpertly and handing it back.
    “What’th thith?” Igor demanded.
    “Pardon?”
    “Thith…thtupid mark!”
    “Well, the potato wasn’t big enough for the official seal and I don’t know what a seal look like in any case but I reckon dat’s a good carvin’ of a duck I done there,” said the troll cheerfully.
    “Now…are you ready? ’Cos I’m liftin’ der pole. Here it goes now. Look at it pointin’ up in der air like dat. Dis means you can go.”
    The coach rolled on a little way and stopped just before the bridge.
    The troll, aware that he’d done his duty, wandered toward it and heard what he considered to be a perplexing conversation, although to Big Jim Beef most