Queen Margrat of Lancre has given birth to a baby girl. King Verence is ecstatic, and has invited every dignitary from miles around to the ... what do you call a discworld Christening? A naming ceremony, I think. With hundreds of little canapes and cherries wrapped in bacon and impaled on little sticks.

Unfortunately, Verence is just a little too forward-thinking and modern. Apart from all the stimulating children's toys and books and little mobiles that he's got for the newborn, he also invited aristocrats from Uberwald.

   Vampires are not naturally co-operative creatures. It's not in their nature. Every other vampire is a rival for the next meal. In fact, the ideal situation for a vampire is a world in which every other vampire has been killed off and no one seriously believes in vampires anymore. They are by nature as co-operative as sharks.
   Vampyres are just the same, the only real difference being that they can't spell properly.

As you may have guessed, Uberwald is the Disc's Transylvania (they even mean roughly the same thing) and is full of those silly black-and-white movie conventions that old directors were so fond of. You know, castles surrounded by running water; curtains very easily ripped down to flood dark rooms with sunlight; ersatz objects to be readily manipulated into religious symbols. Oh, and coaches that cannot go much faster than 5 kilometres an hour, invariably shedding a wheel right near the Vampire's Castle. Well, Verence isn't the only modern thinker. The new Count is one, too. A positive thinker: he feels that people and vampires can get along perfectly well, as long as people are prepared to be docile cattle, totally under the vampires's control and willing, at a moment's notice, to be entertained for lunch. (Or is that just "be" lunch?)

   'Igor!' he shouted. 'Where are you, you stupid--'
   'Yeth, marthter?'
   The Count spun around.
   'Why do you always turn up behind me like that?'
   'The old Count alwayth ... ecthpected it of me, marthter. It'th a profethional thing.'
   'Well, stop it.'
   'Yeth, marthter.'
   'And the ridiculous voice, too. Go and ring the dinner gong.'
   'Yeth, marrrtthhter.'
   'And I've told you before about that walk!' the Count shouted, as Igor limped across the hall. 'It's not even amusing!'
   Igor walked past Agnes, lisping nastily under his breath.

Granny Weatherwax can't be having with this. They didn't invite her to the Christening! Why should she stay? Why not just leave everyone to the vampires? But there is the new baby to think of, and Agnes and Nanny and Magrat, of course. They could look in odd places for allies, like Don'tgonearthe Castle, for example. And phoenixes have been seen dancing in the sky around the Hub . . .

   The coachman turned.
   'Yeth marthter.'
   'Oh, for the last time, man ... is that any way to talk?'
   'It'th the only way I know, marthter,' said Igor.
   'And I told you to take the plumes off the coach, you idiot.'
   The coachman shifted uneasily.
   'Gotta have black plumeth, marthter. It'th tradithional.'
   'Remove them at once!' Mother commanded. 'What will people think?'
   'Yeth, mithtreth.'
   The one addressed as Igor slammed the door and lurched back around to the horse. He removed the plumes reverentially and placed them under his seat.
   Inside the coach the vexed voice said, 'Is Igor an evolutionary dead end too, Father?'
   'We can but hope, dear.'
   'Thod,' Igor muttered to himself, as he picked up the reins.