He also regarded laws as useful things and he obeyed them when it was convenient. Casanunda despised highwaymanning, but it got you out in the fresh air of the countryside, which was very good for you, especially when the nearby towns were lousy with husbands carrying a grudge and a big stick.
The trouble was that no one on the road took him seriously. He could stop the coaches all right, but people tended to say, 'What? I say, it's a lowwayman. What up? A bit short, are you? Hur, hur, hur,' and he would be forced to shoot them in the knee.
He blew on his hands to warm them, and looked up at the sound of an approaching coach.
He was about to ride out of his meagre hiding place in the thicket when he saw the other highwayman trot out from the wood opposite.
The coach came to a halt. Casanunda couldn't hear what transpired, but the highwayman rode around to one of the doors and leaned down to speak to the occupants...
... and a hand reached out and plucked him off his horse and into the coach.
It rocked on its springs for a while, and then the door burst open and the highwayman tumbled out and lay still on the road.
The coach moved on...
Casanunda waited a little while and then rode down to the body. His horse stood patiently while he untied the ladder and dismounted.
He could tell the highwayman was stone dead. Living people are expected to have some blood in them.
The coach stopped at the top of a rise a few miles further on, before the road began the long winding fall towards Lancre and the plains.
The four passengers got out and walked to the start of the drop.
The clouds were rolling in behind them but here the air was frosty clear, and the view stretched all the way to the Rim under the moonlight. Down below, scooped out of the mountains, was the little kingdom.
'Gateway to the world,' said the Count de Magpyr.
'And entirely undefended,' said his son.
'On the contrary. Possessed of some extremely effective defences,' said the Count. He smiled in the night. 'At least... until now...'
'Witches should be on our side,' said the Countess.
'She will be soon, at any rate,' said the Count. 'A most... interesting woman. An interesting family. Uncle used to talk about her grandmother. The Weatherwax women have always had one foot in shadow. It's in the blood. And most of their power comes from denying it. However,' and his teeth shone as he grinned in the dark, 'she will soon find out on which side her bread is buttered.'
'Or her gingerbread is gilded,' said the Countess.
'Ah, yes. How nicely put. That's the penalty for being a Weatherwax woman, of course. When they get older they start to hear the clang of the big oven door.'
'I've heard she's pretty tough, though,' said the Count's son. 'A very sharp mind.'
'Let's kill her!' said the Count's daughter.
'Really, Lacci dear, you can't kill everything.'
'I don't see why not.'
'No. I rather like the idea of her being... useful. And she sees everything in black and white. That's always a trap for the powerful. Oh, yes. A mind like that is so easily... led. With a little help.'
There was a whirr of wings under the moonlight and something bi-coloured landed on the Count's shoulder.
'And this...' said the Count, stroking the magpie and then letting it go. He pulled a square of white card from an inner pocket of his jacket. Its edge gleamed briefly. 'Can you believe it? Has this sort of thing ever happened before? A new world order indeed...'
'Do you have a handkerchief, sir?' said the Countess. 'Give it to me, please. You have a few specks...'
She dabbed at his chin and pushed the bloodstained handkerchief back into his pocket.
'There,' she said.