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'Well？' he said。 'You people know all about magic； or so it is said。 What do you make of it？'
'He spends all his time around the stage； master。 It's only natural that he should pick things up；' said Hwel vaguely。
Vitoller leaned down。
'Do you believe that？'
'I believe I heard a voice that took my doggerel and shaped it and fired it back through my ears and straight into my heart；' said Hwel simply。 'I believe I heard a voice that got behind the crude shape of the words and said the things I had meant them to say； but had not the skill to achieve。 Who knows where such things e from？'
He stared impassively into Vitoller's red face。 'He may have inherited it from his father；' he said。
'But…'
'And who knows what witches may achieve？' said the dwarf。
Vitoller felt his wife's hand pushed into his。 As he stood up； bewildered and angry； she kissed him on the back of the neck。
'Don't torture yourself；' she said。 'Isn't it all for the best？ Your son has declaimed his first word。'
Spring came； and ex…King Verence still wasn't taking being dead lying down。 He prowled the castle relentlessly； seeking for a way in which its ancient stones would release their grip on him。
He was also trying to keep out of the way of the other ghosts。
Champot was all right； if a bit tiresome。 But Verence had backed away at the first sight of the Twins； toddling hand in hand along the midnight corridors； their tiny ghosts a memorial to a deed darker even than the usual run of regicidal unpleasantness。
And then there was the Troglodyte Wanderer； a rather faded monkeyman in a furry loincloth who apparently happened to haunt the castle merely because it had been built on his burial mound。 For no obvious reason a chariot with a screaming woman in it occasionally rumbled through the laundry room。 As for the kitchen 。 。 。
One day he'd given in； despite everything old Champot had said； and had followed the smells of cooking into the big； hot； high domed cavern that served the castle as kitchen and abattoir。 Funny thing； that。 He'd never been down there since his childhood。 Somehow kings and kitchens didn't go well together。
It was full of ghosts。
But they weren't human。 They weren't even proto…human。
They were stags。 They were bullocks。 They were rabbits； and pheasants； and partridges； and sheep； and pigs。 There were even some round blobby things that looked unpleasantly like the ghosts of oysters。 They were packed so tightly that in fact they merged and mingled； turning the kitchen into a silent； jostling nightmare of teeth and fur and horns； half…seen and misty。 Several noticed him； and there was a weird blarting of noises that sounded far…off； tinny and unpleasantly out of register。 Through them all the cook and his assistants wandered quite unconcernedly； making vegetarian sausages。
Verence had stared for half a minute and then fled； wishing that he still had a real stomach so that he could stick his fingers down his throat for forty years and bring up everything he'd eaten。
He'd sought solace in the stables； where his beloved hunting dogs had whined and scratched at the door and had generally been very ill…at…ease at his sensed but unseen presence。
Now he haunted … and how he hated the word … the Long Gallery； where paintings of long…dead kings looked down at him from the dusty shadows。 He would have felt a lot more kindly towards them if he hadn't met a number of them gibbering in various parts of the premises。
Verence had decided that he had two aims in death。 One was to get out of the castle and find his son； and the other was to get his revenge on the duke。 But not by killing him； he'd decided； even if he could find a way； because an eternity in that giggling idiot's pany would lend a new terror to death。
He sat under a painting of Queen Bemery （670…722）； whose rather stern good looks he would have felt a whole lot happier about if he hadn't seen her earlier that morning walking through the wall。
Verence tried to avoid walking through walls。 A man had his dignity。
He became aware that he was being watched。
He turned his head。
There was a cat sitting in the doorway； subjecting him to a slow blink。 It was a mottled grey and extremely fat 。 。 。
No。 It was extremely big。 It was covered with so much scar tissue that it looked like a fist with fur on it。 Its ears were a couple of perforated stubs； its eyes two yellow slits of easygoing malevolence； its tail a twitching series of question marks as it stared at him。
Greebo had heard that Lady Felmet had a small white female cat and had strolled up to pay his respects。
Verence had never seen an animal with so much built…in villainy。 He didn't resist as it waddled across the floor and tried to rub itself against his legs； purring like a waterfall。
'Well； well；' said the king； vaguely。 He reached down and made an effort to scratch it behind the two ragged bits on top of its head。 It was a relief to find someone else besides another ghost who could see him； and Greebo； he couldn't help feeling； was a distinctly unusual cat。 Most of the castle cats were either pampered pets or flat…eared kitchen and stable habitue's who generally resembled the very rodents they lived on。 This cat； on the other hand； was its own animal。 All cats give that impression； of course； but instead of the mindless animal self…absorption that passes for secret wisdom in the creatures。 Greebo radiated genuine intelligence。 He also radiated a smell that would have knocked over a wall and caused sinus trouble in a dead fox。
Only one type of person kept a cat like this。
The king tried to hunker down； and found he was sinking slightly into the floor。 He pulled himself together and drifted upwards。 Once a man allowed himself to go native in the ethereal world there would be no hope for him； he felt。
Only close relatives and the psychically inclined； Death had said。 There weren't many of either in the castle。 The duke qualified under the first heading； but his relentless self…interest made him about as psychically useful as a carrot。 As for the rest； only the cook and the Fool seemed to qualify； but the cook spent a lot of his time weeping in the pantry because he wasn't being allowed to roast anything more bloody than a parsnip and the Fool was already such a bundle of nerves that Verence had given up his attempts to get through。
A witch； now。 If a witch wasn't psychically inclined； then he； King Verence； was a puff of wind。 He had to get a witch into the castle。 And then 。 。 。
He'd got a plan。 In fact； it was more than that； it was a Plan。 He spent months over it。 He hadn't got anything else to do； except think。 Death had been right about that。 All that ghosts had were thoughts； and although thoughts in general had always been alien to the king the absence of any body to distract him with its assorted humours had actually given him the chance to savour the joys of cerebration。 He'd never had a Plan before； or at least one that went much further than 'Let's find something and kill it'。 And here； sitting in front of him washing itself； was the key。
'Here； pussy；' he ventured。 Greebo gave him a penetrating yellow stare。
'Cat；' the king amended h