Carpe Jugulum by Terry Pratchett Page B

registrar, had never caught on in Lancre.
    “Daylight is always good, my dear,” said the Countess, who must have caught the edge of her thought. “Your uncle always had big windows and easily twitched aside curtains, didn’t he, Count.”
    “Yes indeed,” said the Count.
    “And when it came to running water, he always kept the moat flowing perfectly, didn’t he?”
    “Fed from a mountain stream, I think,” said the Count.
    “And, for a vampire, he always seemed to have so many ornamental items around the castle that could be bent or broken into the shape of some religious symbol, as I recall.”
    “He certainly did. A vampire of the old school.”
    “Yes.” The Countess gave her husband a smile. “The stupid school.” She turned to Perdita and looked her up and down. “So I think you will find we are here to stay, my dear. Although you do seem to have made an impression on my son. Come here, girl. Let me have a good look at you.”
    Even cushioned inside her own head Agnes felt the weight of the vampire’s will hit Perdita like an iron bar, pushing her down. Like the other end of a seesaw, Agnes rose.
    “Where’s Magrat? What have you done with her ?” she said.
    “Putting the baby to bed, I believe,” said the Countess, raising her eyebrows. “A lovely child.”
    “Granny Weatherwax is going to hear about this, and you’ll wish you’d never been born…or un-born or re-born or whatever you are!”
    “We look forward to meeting her,” said the Count calmly. “But here we are, and I don’t seem to see this famous lady with us. Perhaps you should go and fetch her? You could take your friends. And when you see her, Miss Nitt, you can tell her that there is no reason why witches and vampires should fight.”
    Nanny Ogg stirred. Jason shifted in his seat. Agnes pulled them upright and toward the stairs.
    “We’ll be back!” she shouted.
    The Count nodded.
    “Good,” he said. “We are famous for our hospitality.”

It was still dark when Hodgesaargh set out. If you were hunting a phoenix, he reasoned, the dark was probably the best time. Light showed up better in the darkness.
    He’d packed a portable wire cage after considering the charred bars of the window, and he’d also spent some time on the glove.
    It was basically a puppet, made of yellow cloth with some purple and blue rags tacked on. It was not, he conceded, very much like the drawing of the phoenix, but in his experience birds weren’t choosy observers.
    Newly hatched birds were prepared to accept practically anything as their parent. Anyone who’d hatched eggs under a broody hen knew that ducklings could be made to think they were chicks, and poor William the buzzard was a case in point.
    The fact that a young phoenix never saw its parent and therefore didn’t know what it was supposed to look like might be a drawback in getting its trust, but this was unknown territory and Hodgesaargh was prepared to try anything. Like bait, for example. He’d packed meat and grain, although the drawing certainly suggested a hawk-like bird, but in case it needed to eat inflammable materials as well he also put in a bag of moth balls and a pint of fish oil. Nets were out of the question, and bird lime was not to be thought of. Hodgesaargh had his pride. Anyway, they probably wouldn’t work.
    Since anything might be worth trying, he’d also adapted a duck lure, trying to achieve a sound described by a long-dead falconer as “like unto the cry of a buzzard yet of a lower pitch.” He wasn’t too happy about the result but, on the other hand, maybe a young phoenix didn’t know what a phoenix was meant to sound like, either. It might work, and if he didn’t try it, he’d always be wondering.
    He set out.
    Soon a cry like a duck in a power dive was heard among the damp, dark hills.

The pre-dawn light was gray on the horizon and a shower of sleet had made the leaves sparkle when Granny Weatherwax left her cottage. There had been so much to