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' 'I got,' said Granny, 'three little pictures of kings and suchlike and three of them funny number one cards. ' The three men beamed and winked at one another. 'That's Triple Onion!' said the one who had introduced Granny to the table, and who had turned out to be called Mister Frank. 'And that's good, is it?' said Granny. 'It means you win yet again, dear lady!' He pushed a pile of pennies towards her. 'Gosh,' said Granny. 'That means I've got. . . what would it be. almost five dollars now?' 'Can't understand it,' said Mister Frank. 'It must be the famous beginner's luck, eh?' 'Soon be poor men if it goes on like this,' said one of his companions. 'She'll have the coats off our backs, right enough,' said the third man. 'Haha. ' 'Think we should give up right now,' said Mister Frank. 'Haha. ' 'Haha. ' 'Haha. ' 'Oh, I want to go on,' said Granny, grinning anxiously. 'I'm just getting the hang of it. ' 'Well, you'd better give us a sporting chance to win a little bit back, haha,' said Mister Frank. 'Haha. ' 'Haha. ' 'Haha. ' 'Haha. What about half a dollar a stake? Haha?' 'Oh, I reckon she'll want a dollar a stake, a sporting lady like her,' said the third man. 'Haha!' Granny looked down at her pile of pennies. For a moment she looked uncertain and then, they could see, she realized: how much could she lose, the way the cards were going? 'Yes!' she said. 'A dollar a stake!' She blushed. 'This is exciting, isn't it!' 'Yeah,' said Mister Frank. He drew the pack towards him. There was a horrible noise. All three men stared at the bar, where shards of mirror were cascading to the floor. 'What happened?' Granny gave him a sweet old smile. She hadn't appeared to look around. 'I reckon the glass he was polishing must of slipped out of his hand and smashed right into the mirror,' she said. 'I do hope he don't have to pay for it out of his wages, the poor boy. ' The men exchanged glances. 'Come on,' said Granny, 'I've got my dollar all ready. ' Mister Frank looked nervously at the ravaged frame. Then he shrugged. The movement dislodged something somewhere. There was a muffled snapping noise, like a mousetrap carrying out the last rites. Mister Frank went white and gripped his sleeve. A small metal contraption, all springs and twisted metal, fell out. A crumpled-up Ace of Cups was tangled up in it. 'Whoops,' said Granny. Magrat peered through the window into the saloon. 'What's she doin' now?' hissed Nanny Ogg. 'She's grinning again,' said Magrat. Nanny Ogg shook her head. 'Eggo,' she said. Granny Weatherwax had that method of play that has reduced professional gamblers to incoherent rage throughout the multiverse. She held her cards tightly cupped in her hands a few inches from her face, allowing the merest fraction of each one to protrude. She glared at them as if daring them to offend her. And she never seemed to take her eyes off them, except to watch the dealing. And she took far too long. And she never, ever, took risks. After twenty-five minutes she was down one dollar and Mister Frank was sweating. Granny had already helpfully pointed out three times that he'd accidentally dealt cards off the bottom of the deck, and she'd asked for another pack 'because, look, this one's got all little marks on the back. ' It was her eyes, that was what it was. Twice he'd folded on a perfectly good three-card Onion only to find that she'd been holding a lousy double Bagel. Then the third time, thinking he'd worked out her play, he'd called her out and run a decent flush right into the maw of a five-card Onion that the old bag must have been patiently constructing for ages. And then - his knuckles went white - and then the dreadful, terrible hag had said, 'Have I won? With all these little cards? Gorsh - aren't I the lucky one!' And then she started humming when she looked at her cards. Normally, the three of them would have welcomed this sort of thing. The teeth tappers, the eyebrow raisers, the ear rubbers - they were as good as money in the sock under the mattress, to a man who knew how to read such things. But the appalling old crone was as transparent as a lump of coal. And the humming was. . . insistent. You found yourself trying to follow the tune. It made your teeth tingle. Next thing you were glumly watching while she laid down a measly Broken Flush in front of your even more measly two-card Onion and said, 'What, is it me again?' Mister Frank was desperately trying to remember how to play cards without his sleeve device, a handy mirror and a marked deck. In the teeth of a hum like a fingernail down a blackboard. It wasn't as if the ghastly old creature even knew how to play properly. After an hour she was four dollars ahead and when she said, 'I am a lucky girl!' Mister Frank bit through his tongue. And then he got a natural Great Onion. There was no realistic way to beat a Great Onion. It was something that happened to you once or twice in a lifetime. She folded! The old bitch folded! She abandoned one blasted dollar and she folded! Magrat peered through the window again. 'What's happening?' said Nanny. 'They all look very angry. ' Nanny took off her hat and removed her pipe. She lit it and tossed the match overboard. 'Ah. She'll be humming, you mark my words. She's got a very annoying hum, has Esme. ' Nanny looked satisfied. 'Has she started cleaning out her ear yet?' 'Don't think so. ' 'No-one cleans out her ear like Esme. ' She was cleaning out her ear! It was done in a very ladylike way, and the daft old baggage probably wasn't even aware she was doing it. She just kept inserting her little finger in her ear and swivelling it around. It made a noise like a small pool cue being chalked. It was displacement activity, that's what it was. They all cracked in the end. . . She folded again! And it had taken him bloody five bloody minutes to put together a bloody double Onion! 'I remember,' said Nanny Ogg, 'when she come over our house for the party when King Verence got crowned and we played Chase My Neighbour Up the Passage with the kiddies for ha'pennies. She accused Jason's youngest of cheating and sulked for a week afterwards. ' 'Was he cheating?' 'I expect so,' said Nanny proudly. 'The trouble with Esme is that she don't know how to lose. She's never had much practice. ' 'Lobsang Dibbler says sometimes you have to lose in order to win,' said Magrat. 'Sounds daft to me,' said Nanny. 'That's Yen Buddhism, is it?' 'No. They're the ones who say you have to have lots of money to win,' said Magrat. * 'In the Path of the Scorpion, the way to win is to lose every fight except the last one. You use the enemy's strength against himself. ' 'What, you get him to hit himself, sort of thing?' said Nanny. 'Sounds daft. ' Magrat glowered. 'What do you know about it?' she said, with uncharacteristic sharpness. 'What?' 'Well, I'm fed up!' said Magrat. 'At least I'm making an effort to learn things! I don't go around just bullying people and acting bad-tempered all the time!' Nanny took her pipe out of her mouth. 'I'm not bad-tempered,' she said mildly. * The Yen Buddhists are the richest religious sect in the universe. They hold that the accumulation of money is a great evil and burden to the soul. They therefore, regardless of personal hazard, see it as their unpleasant duty to acquire as much as possible in order to reduce the risk to innocent people. 'I wasn't talking about you!' 'Well, Esme's always been bad-tempered,' said Nanny. 'It comes natural to her. ' 'And she hardly ever does real magic. What good is being a witch if you don't do magic? Why doesn't she use it to help people?' Nanny peered at her through the pipe smoke. ' 'Cos she knows how good she'd be at it, I suppose,' she said. 'Anyway, I've known her a long time. Known the whole family. All the Weatherwaxes is good at magic, even the men. They've got this magical streak in 'em. Kind of a curse. Anyway. . . she thinks you can't help people with magic. Not properly. It's true, too. ' 'Then what good - ?' Nanny prodded at the pipe with a match. |
'I seem to recall she come over and helped you out when you had that spot of plague in your village,' she said. 'Worked the clock around, I recall. Never known her not treat someone ill who needed it, even when they, you know, were pretty oozy. And when the big ole troll that lives under Broken Mountain came down for help because his wife was sick and everyone threw rocks at him, I remember it was Esme that went back with him and delivered the baby. Hah. . . then when old Chickenwire Hopkins threw a rock at Esme a little while afterwards all his barns was mysteriously trampled flat in the night. She always said you can't help people with magic, but you can help them with skin. By doin' real things, she meant. ' 'I'm not saying she's not basically a nice person -' Magrat began. 'Hah! 7 am. You'd have to go a long day's journey to find someone basically nastier than Esme,' said Nanny Ogg, 'and this is me sayin' it. She knows exactly what she is. She was born to be good and she don't like it. ' Nanny tapped her pipe out on the rail and turned back to the saloon. 'What you got to understand about Esme, my girl,' she said, 'is that she's got a psycholology as well as a big eggo. I'm damn glad I ain't. ' Granny was twelve dollars ahead. Everything else in the saloon had stopped. You could hear the distant splash of the paddles and the cry of the leadman. Granny won another five dollars with a three-card Onion. 'What do you mean, a psycholology?' said Magrat. 'Have you been reading books?' Nanny ignored her. 'The thing to watch out for now,' she said, 'is when she goes “tch, tch, tch” under her breath. That comes after the ear-cleanin'. It gen'rally means she's plannin' somethin'. ' Mister Frank drummed his fingers on the table, realized to his horror that he was doing it, and bought three new cards to cover his confusion. The old baggage didn't appear to notice. He stared at the new hand. He ventured two dollars and bought one more card. He stared again. What were the odds, he thought, against getting a Great Onion twice in one day? The important thing was not to panic. 'I think,' he heard himself say, 'that I may hazard another two dollars. ' He glanced at his companions. They obediently folded, one after another. 'Well, I don't know,' said Granny, apparently talking to her cards. She cleaned her ear again. 'Tch, tch, tch. What d'you call it when, you know, you want to put more money in, sort of thing?' 'It's called raising,' said Mister Frank, his knuckles going white. 'I'll do one of them raisins, then. Five dollars, I think. ' Mister Frank's knees ground together. 'I'll see you and raise you ten dollars,' he snapped. 'I'll do that too,' said Granny. 'I can go another twenty dollars. ' 'I - ' Granny looked down, suddenly crestfallen. 'I've. . . got a broomstick. ' A tiny alarm bell rang somewhere at the back of Mister Frank's mind, but now he was galloping headlong to victory. 'Right!' He spread the cards on the table. The crowd sighed. He began to pull the pot towards him. Granny's hand closed over his wrist. 'I ain't put my cards down yet,' she said archly. 'You don't need to,' snapped Mister Frank. 'There's no chance you could beat that, madam. ' 'I can if I can Cripple it,' said Granny. 'That's why it's called Cripple Mister Onion, ain't it?' He hesitated. 'But - but - you could only do that if you had a perfect nine-card run,' he burbled, staring into the depths of her eyes. Granny sat back. > 'You know,' she said calmly, 'I thought I had rather a lot of these black pointy ones. That's good, is it?' She spread the hand. The collective audience made a sort of little gasping noise, in unison. Mister Frank looked around wildly. 'Oh, very well done, madam,' said an elderly gentleman. There was a round of polite applause from the crowd. The big, inconvenient crowd. 'Er. . . yes,' said Mister Frank. 'Yes. Well done. You're a very quick learner, aren't you. ' 'Quicker'n you. You owe me fifty-five dollars and a broomstick,' said Granny. no Magrat and Nanny Ogg were waiting for her as she swept out. 'Here's your broom,' she snapped. 'And I hopes you've got all your stuff together, 'cos we're leaving. ' 'Why?' said Magrat. 'Because as soon as it gets quiet, some men are going to come looking for us. ' They scurried after her towards their tiny cabin. 'You weren't using magic?" said Magrat. 'No. ' 'And not cheating?' said Nanny Ogg. 'No. Just headology,' said Granny. 'Where did you learn to play like that?' Nanny demanded. Granny stopped. They cannoned into her. 'Remember last winter, when Old Mother Dismass was taken really bad and I went and sat up with her every night for almost a month?' 'Yes?' 'You sit up every night dealing Cripple Mister Onion with someone who's got a detached retina in her second sight and you soon learn how to play,' said Granny. Dear Jason and everyone, What you get more of in foreign parts is smells, I am getting good at them. Esme is shouting at everyone, I think she thinks they're beinforeinjust to Spite her, don't know when I last saw her enjoi herselfe so much. Mind you they need a good Shakin up if you ask me, for lunch we stopped somehwere and they did Steak Tartere and they acted VERY snooty just becos I wanted myne well done. All the best, MUM The moon was closer here. The orbit of the Discworld's moon meant that it was quite high when it passed over the high Ramtops. Here, nearer to the Rim, it was bigger And more orange. 'Like a pumpkin,' said Nanny Ogg. 'I thought we said we weren't going to mention in pumpkins,' said Magrat. 'Well, we didn't have any supper,' said Nanny. And there was another thing. Except during the height of summer the witches weren't used to warm nights. It didn't seem right, gliding along under a big orange moon over dark foliage that clicked and buzzed and whirred with insects. 'We must be far enough from the river now,' said Magrat. 'Can't we land, Granny? No-one could have followed us!' Granny Weatherwax looked down. The river in this countryside meandered in huge glistening curves, taking twenty miles to cover five. The land between the snaking water was a patchwork of hillsides and woodlands. A distant glow might have been Genua itself. 'Riding a broomstick all night is a right pain in the itinerant,' said Nanny. 'Oh, all right. ' 'There's a town over there,' said Magrat. 'And a castle. ' 'Oh, not another one. . . ' 'It's a nice little castle,' said Magrat. 'Can't we just call in? I'm fed up with inns. ' Granny looked down. She had very good night vision. 'Are you sure that's a castle?' she said. 'I can see the turrets and everything,' said Magrat. 'Of course it's a castle. ' 'Hmm. I can see more than turrets,' said Granny. 'I think we'd better have a look at this, Gytha. ' There was never any noise in the sleeping castle, except in the late summer when ripe berries fell off the bramble vines and burst softly on the floor. And sometimes birds would try to nest in the thorn thickets that now filled the throne room from floor to ceiling, but they never got very far before they, too, fell asleep. Apart from that, you'd need very keen hearing indeed to hear the growth of shoots and the opening of buds. It had been like this for ten years. There was no sound in the - 'Open up there!' 'Bony fidy travellers seeking sucker!' - no sound in the - 'Here, give us a leg up, Magrat. Right. Now. . . ' There was a tinkle of broken glass. 'You've broken their window!' - not a sound in the - 'You'll have to offer to pay for it, you know. ' The castle gate swung open slowly. Nanny Ogg peered around it at the other two witches, while pulling thorns and burrs from her hair. 'It's bloody disgusting in here,' she said. 'There's people asleep all over the place with spiders' webs all over 'em. You were right, Esme. There's been magic going on. ' The witches pushed their way through the overgrown castle. Dust and leaves had covered the carpets. Young sycamores were making a spirited attempt to take over the courtyard. Vines festooned every wall. Granny Weatherwax pulled a slumbering soldier to his feet. |
Dust billowed off his clothes. 'Wake up,' she demanded. 'Fzhtft,' said the soldier, and slumped back. ' It's like that everywhere,' said Magrat, fighting her way through a thicket of bracken that was growing up from the kitchen regions. 'There's the cooks all snoring and nothing but mould in the pots! There's even mice asleep in the pantry!' 'Hmm,' said Granny. 'There'll be a spinning wheel at the bottom of all this, you mark my words. ' 'A Black Aliss job?' said Nanny Ogg. 'Looks like it,' said Granny. Then she added, quietly, 'Or someone like her. ' 'Now there was a witch who knew how stories worked,' said Nanny. 'She used to be in as many as three of 'em at once. ' Even Magrat knew about Black Aliss. She was said to have been the greatest witch who ever lived - not exactly bad, but so powerful it was sometimes hard to tell the difference. When it came to sending palaces to sleep for a hundred years or getting princesses to spin straw into Glod,* no-one did it better than Black Aliss. 'I met her once,' said Nanny, as they climbed the castle's main staircase, which was a cascade of Old Man's Trousers. 'Old Deliria Skibbly took me to see her once, when I was a girl. Of course, she was getting pretty. . . eccentric by then. Gingerbread houses, that kind of thing. ' She spoke sadly, as one might talk about an elderly relative who'd taken to wearing her underwear outside her clothes. 'That must have been before those two children shut her up in her own oven?' said Magrat, untangling her sleeve from a briar. 'Yeah. Sad, that. I mean, she didn't really ever eat anyone,' said Nanny. 'Well. Not often. I mean, there was talk, but. . . ' 'That's what happens,' said Granny. 'You get too involved with stories, you get confused. You don't know what's really real and what isn't. And they get you in the end. They send you weird in the head. I don't like stories. They're not real. I don't like things that ain't real. ' She pushed open a door. 'Ah. A chamber,' she said sourly. 'Could even be a bower. ' 'Doesn't the stuff grow quickly!' said Magrat. 'Part of the time spell,' said Granny. 'Ah. There she is. Knew there'd be someone somewhere. ' There was a figure lying on a bed, in a thicket of rose bushes. 'And there's the spinning wheel,' said Nanny, pointing * Black Aliss wasn't very good with words either. They had to give her quite a lot of money to go away and not make a scene. to a shape just visible in a clump of ivy. 'Don't touch it!' said Granny. 'Don't worry, I'll pick it up by the treadle and pitch it out of the window. ' 'How do you know all this?' said Magrat. ' 'Cos it's a rural myth,' said Nanny. 'It's happened lots of times. ' Granny Weatherwax and Magrat looked down at the sleeping figure of a girl of about thirteen, almost silvery under the dust and pollen. 'Isn't she pretty,' sighed Magrat, the generous-hearted. From behind them came the crash of a spinning wheel on some distant cobbles, and then Nanny Ogg appeared, brushing her hands. 'Seen it happen a dozen times,' she said. 'No you ain't,' said Granny. 'Once, anyway,' said Nanny, unabashed. 'And I heard about it dozens of times. Everyone has. Rural myth, like I said. Everyone's heard about it happening in their cousin's friend's neighbour's village - ' 'That's because it does,' said Granny. Granny picked up the girl's wrist. 'She's asleep because she'll have got a - ' Nanny said. Granny turned. 'I know, I know. I know, right? I know as well as you. You think I don't know?' She bent over the limp hand. 'That's fairy godmothering, this is,' she added, half to herself. 'Always do it impressively. Always meddling, always trying to be in control! Hah! Someone got a bit of poison? Send everyone to sleep for a hundred years! Do it the easy way. All this for one prick. As if that was the end of the world. ' She paused. Nanny Ogg was standing behind her. There was no possible way she could have detected her expression. 'Gytha?' 'Yes, Esme?' said Nanny Ogg innocently. 'I can feel you grinnin'. You can save the tu'penny-ha'penny psycholology for them as wants it. ' "5 Granny shut her eyes and muttered a few words. 'Shall I use my wand?' said Magrat hesitantly. 'Don't you dare,' said Granny, and went back to her muttering. Nanny nodded. 'She's definitely getting a bit of colour back,' she said. A few minutes later the girl opened her eyes and stared up blearily at Granny Weatherwax. 'Time to get up,' said Granny, in an unusually cheerful voice, 'you're missing the best part of the decade. ' The girl tried to focus on Nanny, then on Magrat, and then looked back at Granny Weatherwax. 'You?' she said. Granny raised her eyebrows and looked at the other two. 'Me?' 'You are - still here?' 'Still?' said Granny. 'Never been here before in my life, Miss. ' 'But - ' the girl looked bewildered. And frightened, Magrat noticed. 'I'm like that myself in the mornings, dear,' said Nanny Ogg, taking the girl's other hand and patting it. 'Never at my best till I've had a cup of tea. I expect everyone else'll be waking up any minute. Of course, it'll take 'em a while to clean the rats' nests out of the kettles - Esme?' Granny was staring at a dust-covered shape on the wall. 'Meddling. . . ' she whispered. 'What's up, Esme?' Granny Weatherwax strode across the room and wiped the dust off a huge ornate mirror. 'Hah!' she said, and spun around. 'We'll be going now,' she said. 'But I thought we were going to have a rest. I mean, it's nearly dawn,' said Magrat. 'No sense in outstaying our welcome,' said Granny, as she left the room. 'But we haven't even had a. . . ' Magrat began. She glanced at the mirror. It was a big oval one, in a gilt frame. It looked perfectly normal. It wasn't like Granny Weatherwax to be frightened of her own reflection. 'She's in one of her moods again,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Come on. No sense in staying here. ' She patted the bewildered princess on the head. 'Cheerio, Miss. A couple of weeks with a broom and an axe and you'll soon have the old place looking like new. ' 'She looked as if she recognized Granny,' said Magrat, as they followed the stiff hurrying figure of Esme Weather-wax down the stairs. 'Well, we know she doesn't, don't we,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Esme has never been in these parts in her life. ' 'But I still don't see why we have to rush off,' Magrat persisted. 'I expect people will be jolly grateful that we've broken the spell and everything. ' The rest of the palace was waking up. They jogged past guards staring in amazement at their cobwebbed uniforms and the bushes that were growing everywhere. As they crossed the forested courtyard an older man in faded robes staggered out of a doorway and leaned against the wall, trying to get his bearings. Then he saw the accelerating figure of Granny Weatherwax. 'You?' he shouted, and, 'Guards!' Nanny Ogg didn't hesitate. She snatched Magrat's elbow and broke into a run, catching up with Granny Weatherwax at the castle gates. A guard who was better at mornings than his colleague staggered forward and made an attempt to bar their way with his pike, but Granny just pushed at it and swivelled him around gently. Then they were outside and running for the broomsticks leaning against a convenient tree. Granny snatched at hers without stopping and, for once, it fired up on almost the first attempt. An arrow whiffled past her hat and stuck in a branch. 'I don't call that gratitude,' said Magrat, as the brooms glided up and over the trees. 'A lot of people are never at their best just after waking up,' said Nanny. 'Everyone seemed to think they knew you. Granny,' said Magrat. Granny's broomstick jerked in the wind. 'They didn't!' she shouted. 'They never saw me before, all right?' They flew on in troubled silence for a while. Then Magrat, who in Nanny Ogg's opinion had an innocent talent for treading on dangerous ground, said: 'I wonder if we did the right thing? I'm sure it was a job for a handsome prince. ' 'Hah!' said Granny, who was riding ahead. |
'And what good would that be? Cutting your way through a bit of bramble is how you can tell he's going to be a good husband, is it? That's fairy godmotherly thinking, that is! Goin' around inflicting happy endings on people whether they wants them or not, eh?' 'There's nothing wrong with happy endings,' said Magrat hotly. 'Listen, happy endings is fine if they turn out happy,' said Granny, glaring at the sky. ' But you can't make 'em for other people. Like the only way you could make a happy marriage is by cuttin' their heads off as soon as they say “I do”, yes? You can't make happiness. . . ' Granny Weatherwax stared at the distant city. 'All you can do,' she said, 'is make an ending. ' They had breakfast in a forest clearing. It was grilled pumpkin. The dwarf bread was brought out for inspection. But it was miraculous, the dwarf bread. No-one ever went hungry when they had some dwarf bread to avoid. You only had to look at it for a moment, and instantly you could think of dozens of things you'd rather eat. Your boots, for example. Mountains. Raw sheep. Your own foot. Then they tried to get some sleep. At least, Nanny and Magrat did. But all it meant was that they lay awake and listened to Granny Weatherwax muttering under her breath. They'd never seen her so upset. Afterwards, Nanny suggested that they walk for a while. It was a nice day, she said. This was an interesting kind of forest, she said, with lots of new herbs which could do with bein' looked at. Everyone'd feel better for a stroll in the sunshine, she said. It'd improve their tempers. And it was, indeed, a nice forest. After half an hour or so, even Granny Weatherwax was prepared to admit that in certain respects it wasn't totally foreign and shoddy. Magrat wandered off the path occasionally, picking flowers. Nanny even sang a few verses of 'A Wizard's Staff Has A Knob On The End' with no more than a couple of token protests from the other two. But there was still something wrong. Nanny Ogg and Magrat could feel something between them and Granny Weatherwax, some sort of mental wall, something important deliberately hidden and unsaid. Witches usually had few secrets from one another, if only because they were all so nosy that there was never any chance to have secrets. It was worrying. And then they turned a corner by a stand of huge oak trees and met the little girl in the red cloak. She was skipping along in the middle of the path, singing a song that was simpler and a good deal cleaner than any in Nanny Ogg's repertoire. She didn't see the witches until she was almost on top of them. She stopped, and then smiled innocently. 'Hello, old women,' she said. 'Ahem,' said Magrat. Granny Weatherwax bent down. 'What're you doing out in the forest all by yourself, young lady?' 'I'm taking this basket of goodies to my granny,' said the girl. Granny straightened up, a faraway look in her eyes. 'Esme,' said Nanny Ogg urgently. 'I know. I know,' said Granny. Magrat leaned down and set her face in the idiot grimace generally used by adults who'd love to be good with children and don't stand a dog's chance of ever achieving it. 'Er. Tell me, Miss. . . did your mother tell you to watch out for any bad wolves that might happen to be in the vicinity?' 'That's right. ' 'And your granny. . . ' said Nanny Ogg. 'I guess she's a bit bed-bound at the moment, right?' 'That's why I'm taking her this basket of goodies - ' the child began. 'Thought so. ' 'Do you know my granny?' said the child. 'Ye-ess,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'In a way. ' 'It happened over Skund way when I was a girl,' said Nanny Ogg quietly. 'They never even found the gran - ' 'And where is your granny's cottage, little girl?' said Granny Weatherwax loudly, nudging Nanny sharply in the ribs. The girl pointed up a side track. 'You're not the wicked witch, are you?' she said. Nanny Ogg coughed. 'Me? No. We're - we're - ' Granny began. 'Fairies,' said Magrat. Granny Weatherwax's mouth dropped open. Such an explanation would never have occurred to her. 'Only my mummy warned me about the wicked witch too,' said the girl. She gave Magrat a sharp look. 'What kind of fairies?' 'Er. Flower fairies?' said Magrat. 'Look, I've got a wand -' 'Which ones?' 'What?' 'Which flowers?' I2O 'Er,' said Magrat. 'Well. I'm. . . Fairy Tulip and that's. " she avoided looking directly at Granny, '. . . Fairy. . . Daisy. . . and this is. . . ' 'Fairy Hedgehog,' said Nanny Ogg. This addition to the supernatural pantheon was given duc consideration. 'You can't be Fairy Hedgehog,' said the child, after some thought. 'A hedgehog's not a flower. ' 'How do you know?' ' 'Cos it's got spikes. ' 'So's holly. And thistles. ' 'Oh. ' 'And I've got a wand,' said Magrat. Only now did she risk a look at Fairy Daisy. 'We ought to be getting along,' said Granny Weather-wax. 'You just stay here with Fairy Tulip, I think it was, and we'll just go and make sure your granny's all right. All right?' 'I bet it's not a real wand,' said the child, ignoring her and facing Magrat with a child's unerring ability to find a weak link in any chain. 'I bet it can't turn things into things. ' 'Well - ' Magrat began. 'I bet,' said the girl, 'I bet you can't turn that tree stump over there into. . . into. . . into a pumpkin. Haha, bet you anything you can't. Bet you a trillion dollars you can't turn that stump into a pumpkin. ' 'I can see the two of you are going to get along fine,' said Fairy Hedgehog. 'We won't be long. ' Two broomsticks skimmed low above the forest path. 'Could just be coincidence,' said Nanny Ogg. ' 'T'aint,' said Granny. "The child even has a red cloak on!' 'I had a red cloak when I was fifteen,' said Nanny. 'Yes, but your granny lived next door. You didn't have to worry about wolves when you visited her,' said Granny. 'Except old Sumpkins the lodger. ' 'Yes, but that was just coincidence. ' A trail of blue smoke drifted among the trees ahead of them. Somewhere away to one side there was the sound of a falling tree. 'Woodcutters!' said Nanny. 'It's all right if there's woodcutters! One of them rushes in - ' 'That's only what children get told,' said Granny, as they sped onwards. 'Anyway, that's no good to the grandmother, is it? She's already been et!' 'I always hated that story,' said Nanny. 'No-one ever cares what happens to poor defenceless old women. ' The path vanished abruptly on the edge of a glade. Hemmed in by the trees was a straggly kitchen garden, in which a few pathetic stalks fought for what little sun there was. In the middle of the garden was what had to be a thatched cottage because no-one would build a haystack that badly. They leapt off the broomsticks, leaving them to drift to a halt in the bushes, and hammered on the cottage door. 'We could be too late,' said Nanny. 'The wolf might - ' After a while there was the muffled sound of someone shuffling across the floor within, and then the door opened a crack. A suspicious eye was visible in the gloom. 'Yes?' said a small and quavering voice from somewhere beneath the eye. 'Are you grandmother?' Granny Weatherwax demanded. 'Are you the taxgatherers, dear?' 'No, ma'am, we're - ' '- fairies,' said Fairy Hedgehog quickly. 'I don't open the door to people I don't know, dear,' said the voice, and then it took on a slightly petulant tone. ' 'Specially people who never does the washing up even after I leaves out a bowl of nearly fresh milk for 'em. ' 'We'd like to talk to you for a few minutes,' said Fairy Daisy. 'Yes? Have you got any identification, dear?' 'I know we've got the right grandmother,' said Fairy Hedgehog. 'There's a family likeness. She's got big ears. ' 'Look, it's not her that's got the big ears,' snapped Fairy Daisy. 'It'll be the wolf that's got big ears. That's the whole point. Don't you ever pay attention?' The grandmother watched them with interest. After a lifetime of believing in them she was seeing fairies for the first time, and it was an experience. Granny Weatherwax caught her perplexed expression. |
'Put it like this, ma'am,' she said, in a despotically reasonable tone of voice, 'how would you like to be eaten alive by a wolf?' 'I don't think I would like that, dear, no,' said the hidden grandmother. 'The alternative's us,' said Granny. 'Lawks. Are you sure?' 'On our word as fairies,' said Fairy Hedgehog. 'Well. Really? All right. You can come in. But none of your tricks. And mind you do the washing up. You haven't got a pot of gold about you, have you?' "That's pixies, isn't it?' 'No, they're the ones in wells. It's goblins she means. " 'Don't be daft. They're the ones you get under bridges. ' 'That's trolls. Everyone knows that's trolls. ' 'Not us, anyway. ' 'Oh,' said the grandmother. 'I might have known. ' Magrat liked to think she was good with children, and worried that she wasn't. She didn't like them very much, and worried about this too. Nanny Ogg seemed to be effortlessly good with children by alternately and randomly giving them either a sweet or a thick ear, while Granny Weatherwax ignored them for most of the time and that seemed to work just as well. Whereas Magrat cared. It didn't seem fair. 'Bet you a million trillion zillion dollars you can't turn that bush into a pumpkin,' said the child. 'But, look, all the others got turned into pumpkins,' Magrat pointed out. 'It's bound not to work sooner or later,' said the child placidly. Magrat looked helplessly at the wand. She'd tried everything- wishing, sub-vocalizing and even, when she'd thought the other witches were out of earshot, banging it against things and shouting, 'Anything but pumpkins!' 'You don't know how to do it really, do you,' stated the child. 'Tell me,' said Magrat, 'you said your mummy knows about the big bad wolf in the woods, didn't you?' 'That's right. ' 'But nevertheless she sent you out by yourself to take those goodies to your granny?' "That's right. Why?' 'Nothing. Just thinking. And you owe me a million trillion zillion squillion dollars. ' There's a certain freemasonry about grandmothers, with the added benefit that no-one has to stand on one leg or recite any oaths in order to join. Once inside the cottage, and with a kettle on the boil, Nanny Ogg was quite at home. Greebo stretched out in front of the meagre fire and dozed off as the witches tried to explain. 'I don't see how a wolf can get in here, dear,' said the grandmother kindly. 'I mean, they're wolves. They can't open doors. ' Granny Weatherwax twitched aside a rag of curtain and glared out at the clearing. 'We know,' she said. Nanny Ogg nodded towards the little bed in an alcove by the fireplace. 'Is that where you always sleep?' she said. 'When I'm feeling poorly, dear. Other times I sleeps in the attic. ' 'I should get along up there now, if I was you. And take my cat up with you, will you? We don't want him getting in the way. ' 'Is this the bit where you clean the house and do all the washing for a saucer of milk?' said the grandmother hopefully. 'Could be. You never know. ' 'Funny, dear. I was expecting you to be shorter - ' 'We get out in the fresh air a lot,' said Nanny. 'Off you go now. ' That left the two of them. Granny Weatherwax looked around the cave-like room. The rushes on the floor were well on the way to composthood. Soot encrusted the cobwebs on the ceiling. The only way housework could be done in this place was with a shovel or, for preference, a match. 'Funny, really,' said Nanny, when the old woman had climbed the rickety stairs. 'She's younger'n me. Mind you, I take exercise. ' 'You never took exercise in your life,' said Granny Weatherwax, still watching the bushes. 'You never did anything you didn't want to do. ' 'That's what I mean,' said Nanny happily. 'Look, Esme, I still say this could all be just - ' 'It ain't! I can feel the story. Someone's been making stories happen in these parts, I know it. ' 'And you know who, too. Don't you, Esme?' said Nanny slyly. She saw Granny look around wildly at the grubby walls. 'I reckon she's too poor to afford a mirror,' said Nanny. 'I ain't blind, Esme. And I know mirrors and fairy godmothers go together. So what's going on?' 'I ain't saying. I don't want to look a fool if I'm wrong. I'm not going to - there's something coming!' Nanny Ogg pressed her nose against the dirty window. 'Can't see anything. ' "The bushes moved. Get into the bed!' 'Me? I thought it was you who was going into the bed!' 'Can't imagine why you'd think that. ' 'No. Come to think of it, neither can I,' said Nanny wearily. She picked up the floppy mob-cap from the bedpost, put it on, and slid under the patchwork quilt. ' 'Ere, this mattress is stuffed with straw!' 'You won't have to lie on it for long. ' 'It prickles! And I think there's things in it. ' Something bumped against the wall of the house. The witches fell silent. There was a snuffling noise under the back door. 'You know,' whispered Nanny, as they waited, 'the scullery's terrible. There's no firewood. And there's hardly any food. And there's a jug of milk that's practically on the march -' Granny sidled quickly across the room to the fireplace, and then back to her station by the front door. After a moment there was a scrabbling at the latch, as if it was being operated by someone who was unfamiliar either with doors or with fingers. The door creaked open slowly. There was an overwhelming smell of musk and wet fur. Uncertain footsteps tottered across the floor and towards the figure huddling under the bedclothes. Nanny raised the mob-cap's floppy frill just enough to see out. 'Wotcha,' she said, and then, 'Oh, blimey, I never realized you had teeth that big - ' Granny Weatherwax pushed the door shut and stepped forward briskly. The wolf spun around, a paw raised protectively. 'Nooaaaaaw!' Granny hesitated for a second, and then hit it very hard on the head with a cast-iron frying pan. The wolf crumpled. Nanny Ogg swung her legs out of the bed. 'When it happened over Skund way they said it was a werewolf or something, and I thought, no, werewolves aren't like that,' she said. 'I never thought it was a real wolf. Gave me quite a turn, that. ' 'Real wolves don't walk on their hind legs and open doors,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'Come on, help me get it outside. ' 'Took me right back, seeing a great big hairy slathering thing heading towards me,' said Nanny, picking up one end of the stunned creature. 'Did you ever meet old Sumpkins?' It was, indeed, a normal-looking wolf, except that it was a lot thinner than most. Ribs showed plainly under the skin and the fur was matted. Granny hauled a bucket of cloudy water from the well next to the privy and poured it over its head. Then she sat down on a tree stump and watched it carefully. A few birds sang, high in the branches. 'It spoke,' she said. 'It tried to say “no”. ' 'I wondered about that,' said Nanny. 'Then I thought maybe I was imagining things. ' 'No point in imagining anything,' said Granny. 'Things are bad enough as they are. ' The wolf groaned. Granny handed the frying pan to Nanny Ogg. After a while she said, 'I think I'm going to have a look inside its head. ' Nanny Ogg shook her head. 'I wouldn't do that, if I was you. ' 'I'm the one who's me, and I've got to know. Just you stand by with the frying pan. ' Nanny shrugged. Granny concentrated. It is very difficult to read a human mind. Most humans are thinking about so many things at any given moment that it is almost impossible to pick out one stream in the flood. Animal minds are different. Far less cluttered. Carnivore minds are easiest of all, especially before meals. Colours don't exist in the mental world, but, if they did, a hungry carnivore mind would be hot and purple and sharp as an arrow. And herbivore minds are simple, too - coiled silver springs, poised for flight. But this wasn't any kind of normal mind. It was two minds. Granny had sometimes picked up the mind of hunters in the forest, when she was sitting quietly of an evening and letting her mind wander. Just occasionally they felt like this, or at least like a faint shadow of this. |
Just occasionally, when the hunter was about to make a kill, the random streams of thought came together. But this was different. This was the opposite- this was cracked and crippled attempts at cogitation peeling away from the sleek arrowhead of predatory intent. This was a predatory mind trying to think. No wonder it was going mad. She opened her eyes. Nanny Ogg held the frying pan over her head. Her arm trembled. 'Well,' she said, 'who's there?' 'I could do with a glass of water,' said Granny. Natural caution surfaced through the turmoil of her mind. 'Only not out of that well, mind you. ' Nanny relaxed a little. When a witch started rummaging in someone else's mind, you could never be sure who was coming back. But Granny Weatherwax was the best. Magrat might always be trying to find herself, but Granny didn't even understand the idea of the search. If she couldn't find the way back to her own head, there wasn't a path. 'There's that milk in the cottage,' Nanny volunteered. 'What colour was it again?' 'Well. . . still fairly white. ' 'Okay. ' When Nanny Ogg's back was safely turned Granny permitted herself a small shudder. She stared at the wolf, wondering what she could do for it. A normal wolf wouldn't enter a cottage, even if it could open the door. Wolves didn't come near humans at all, except if there were a lot of them and it was the end of a very hard winter. And they didn't do that because they were big and bad and wicked, but because they were wolves. This wolf was trying to be human. There was probably no cure. 'Here's your milk,' said Nanny Ogg. Granny reached up and took it without looking. 'Someone made this wolf think it was a person,' she said. 'They made it think it was a person and then they didn't think any more about it. It happened a few years ago. ' 'How do you know?' 'I've. . . got its memories,' said Granny. And instincts, too, she thought. She knew it'd be some days before she'd stop wanting to chase sledges over the snow. 'Oh. ' 'It's stuck between species. In its head. ' 'Can we help it?' said Nanny. Granny shook her head. 'It's gone on for too long. It's habit now. And it's starving. It can't go one way, it can't go t'other. It can't act like a wolf, and it can't manage being a human. And it can't go on like it is. ' She turned to face Nanny for the first time. Nanny took a step back. 'You can't imagine how it feels,' she said. 'Wandering around for years. Not capable of acting human, and not able to be a wolf. You can't imagine how that feels. ' 'I reckon maybe I can,' said Nanny. 'In your face. Maybe I can. Who'd do that to a creature?' 'I've got my suspicions. ' They looked around. Magrat was approaching, with the child. Beside them walked one of the woodcutters. 'Hah,' said Granny. 'Yes. Of course. There's always got to be' - she spat the words - 'a happy ending. '' A paw tried to grip her ankle. Granny Weatherwax looked down into the wolf's face. 'Preeees,' it growled. 'Annn enndinggg? Noaaaow?' She knelt down, and took the paw. 'Yes?' she said. 'Yessss!' She stood up again, all authority, and beckoned to the approaching trio. 'Mr Woodcutter?' she said. 'A job for you. . . ' The woodcutter never understood why the wolf laid its head on the stump so readily. Or why the old woman, the one in whom anger roiled like pearl barley in a bubbling stew, insisted afterwards that it be buried properly instead of skinned and thrown in the bushes. She had been very insistent about that. And that was the end of the big bad wolf. It was an hour later. Quite a few of the woodcutters had wandered up to the cottage, where there seemed to be a lot of interesting activity going on. Woodcutting is not a job that normally offers much in the way of diversion. Magrat was washing the floor with as much magical assistance as could be afforded by a bucket of soapy water and a scrubbing brush. Even Nanny Ogg, whose desultory interest in the proud role of housewife had faded completely just as soon as her eldest daughter was old enough to hold a duster, was cleaning the walls. The old grandmother, who wasn't entirely in touch with events, was anxiously following both of them around with a saucer of milk. Spiders who had inherited the ceiling for generations were urged gently but firmly out of the door. And Granny Weatherwax was walking around the clearing with the head woodcutter, a barrel-chested young man who clearly thought he looked better in his studded leather wristlets than was, in fact, the case. 'It's been around for years, right?' he said. 'Always lurking around the edges of villages and that. ' 'And you never tried talking to it?' said Granny. 'Talk to it? It's a wolf, right? You don't talk to wolves. Animals can't talk. ' 'Hmm. I see. And what about the old woman? There's a lot of you woodcutters. Did you ever, you know, drop in to see her?' 'Huh? No fear!' 'Why?' The head woodcutter leaned forward conspiratorially. 'Well, they say she's a witch, right?' 'Really?' said Granny. 'How do you know?' 'She's got all the signs, right?' 'What signs are those?' The woodcutter was pricked by a slight uneasiness. 'Well. . . she's. . . she lives all by herself in the wood, right?' 'Yes. . . ?' 'And. . . and. . . she's got a hook nose and she's always muttering to herself. . . ' 'Yes. . . ?' 'And she's got no teeth, right?' 'Lawks,' said Granny. 'I can see where you wouldn't want to be having with the likes of her, right?' 'Right!' said the woodcutter, relieved. 'Quite likely turn you into just about anything as soon as look at you, right?' Granny stuck her finger in her ear and twiddled it reflectively. 'They can do that, you know. ' 'I bet they can. I bet they can,' said Granny. 'Makes me glad there's all you big strong lads around. Teh, tch. Hmm. Can I have a look at your chopper, young man?' He handed over his axe. Granny sagged dramatically as she grasped it. There were still traces of wolf blood on the blade. 'Deary me, it's a big one,' she said. 'And you're good with this, I expect. ' 'Won the silver belt two years running at the forest revels,' said the woodcutter proudly. 'Two years running? Two years running? Lawks. That is good. That's very good. And here's me hardly able to lift it. ' Granny grasped the axe in one hand and swung it inexpertly. The woodcutter jumped backwards as the blade whirred past his face and then buried itself a quarter of an inch deep in a tree. 'Sorry about that,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'Aren't I a daft old woman! Never was any good with anything technical!' He grinned at her, and tried to pull the axe free. He sank to his knees, his face suddenly white. Granny leaned down until she was level with his ear. 'You could have seen to the old woman,' she said quietly. 'You could have talked to the wolf. But you didn't, right?' He tried to speak, but his teeth didn't seem to want to part. 'I can see you're very sorry about all that,' she said. 'I can see you're seein' the error of your ways. I bet you can't wait to be up and repairing her cottage for her, and getting the garden back in good order, and seeing she has fresh milk every day and a good supply of wood, right? In fact I wouldn't be surprised if you wasn't generous enough to build her a new cottage, with a proper well an' all. Somewhere near the village so she don't have to live alone, right? You know, I can see the future sometimes and I just know that's what's goin' to happen, right?' Sweat ran off his face. Now his lungs didn't seem to be operating, either. 'An' I knows you're goin' to keep your word, and I'm so pleased about it that I'm going to make sure you're especially lucky,' said Granny, her voice still in the same pleasant monotone. 'I knows it can be a dangerous job, woodchoppin'. People can get hurt. Trees can accidentally fall on 'em, or the top of their chopper can suddenly come off and cut their head open. ' The woodcutter shuddered as Granny went on: 'So what I'm goin' to do is a little spell to make sure that none of this 'appens to you. On account of me bein' so grateful. Because of you helpin' the old lady. Right? Just nod. |
' He managed to move his head a fraction. Granny Weatherwax smiled. 'There!' she said, standing up and brushing a speck of leafmould off her dress. 'You see how sweet life can be, if we all helps one another?' The witches left around lunchtime. By then the old woman's garden was full of people, and the air with the sound of sawing and hammering. News like Granny Weatherwax travels fast. Three woodcutters were digging over the vegetable plot, two more were fighting to clean the chimney, and four of them were halfway down a new well that was being dug with impressive speed. The old grandmother, who was still the kind of person who hangs on to one idea until another one dislodges it by force, was running out of saucers to put the milk in. The witches sneaked away in all the busyness. 'There,' said Magrat, as they strolled down the path, 'it just goes to show how people will pitch in and help, if only someone sets an example. You don't have to bully people all the time, you know. ' Nanny Ogg glanced at Granny. 'I saw you talking to the head woodcutter,' she said. 'What was you talking about?' 'Sawdust,' said Granny. 'Oh, yes?' 'One of the woodcutters told me,' said Magrat, 'that there's been other odd things happening in this forest. Animals acting human, he said. There used to be a family of bears living not far away. ' 'Nothing unusual about a family of bears living together,' said Nanny. 'They're very convivial animals. ' 'In a cottage?' 'That's unusual. ' "That's what I mean,' said Magrat. 'You'd definitely feel a bit awkward about going round to borrow a cup of sugar,' said Nanny. 'I expect the neighbours had something to say about it. ' 'Yes,' said Magrat. “They said ”oink". ' “What'd they say ”oink" for?' 'Because they couldn't say anything else. They were pigs. ' 'We had people like that next door when we lived at - ' Nanny began. 'I mean pigs. You know. Four legs? Curly tail? What pork is before it's pork? Pigs. ' 'Can't see anyone letting pigs live in a cottage,' said Granny. 'He said they didn't. The pigs built their own. There were three of them. Little pigs. ' 'What happened to them?' said Nanny. 'The wolf ate them. They were the only animals stupid enough to let him get near them, apparently. Nothing was found of them except their spirit level. ' 'That's a shame. ' 'The woodcutter says they didn't build very good houses, mind you. ' 'Well, it's only to be expected. What with the trotters and all,' said Nanny. 'He says the roof leaks something dreadful, right over his bed. ' The witches walked on in silence. 'I remember hearing once,' said Nanny, with the occasional glance at Granny Weatherwax, 'about some ole enchantress in history who lived on an island and turned shipwrecked sailors into pigs. ' 'That's a terrible thing to do,' said Magrat, on cue. 'I suppose it's all according to what you really are, inside,' said Nanny. 'I mean, look at Greebo here. ' Greebo, curled around her shoulders like a smelly fur, purred. 'He's practically a human. ' 'You do talk a lot of tosh, Gytha,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'That's 'cos people won't tell me what they really think is going on,' said Nanny Ogg, grimly. 'I said I'm not sure," said Granny. 'You looked into the wolf's mind. ' 'Yes. I did. ' 'Well, then. . . ' Granny sighed. 'Someone's been here before us. Passing through. Someone who knows about the power of stories, and uses 'em. And the stories have. . . kind of hung around. They do that, when they get fed. " 'What'd anyone want to do that for?' said Nanny. 'Practice,' said Granny. 'Practice? What for?' said Magrat. 'I expect we'll find out presently,' said Granny gnomically. 'You ought to tell me what you think,' said Magrat. 'I am the official godmother around here, you know. I ought to be told things. You've got to tell me things. ' Nanny Ogg went chilly. This was the kind of emotional countryside with which she was, as head Ogg, extremely familiar. That sort of comment at this sort of time was like the tiny sliding of snow off the top branch of a tall tree high in the mountains during the thaw season. It was one end of a process that, without a doubt, would end with a dozen villages being engulfed. Whole branches of the Ogg family had stopped talking to other branches of the Ogg family because of a 'Thank you very much' in the wrong tones and the wrong place, and this was far worse. 'Now,' she said hurriedly, 'why don't we - ' 'I don't have to explain anything,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'But we're supposed to be three witches,' said Magrat. 'If you can call us witches,' she added. 'What do you mean by that, pray?' said Granny. 'Pray?' thought Nanny. Someone has ended a sentence with 'pray?' That's like that bit when someone hits someone else with a glove and then throws it on the floor. There's no going back when someone's ended a sentence with 'pray?' But she tried, anyway. 'How about a nice - ' Magrat plunged on with the brave desperation of someone dancing in the light of their burning bridges. 'Well,' she said, 'it seems to me - ' 'Yes?' said Granny. 'It seems to me,' Magrat tried again, 'that the only magic we do is all, well, headology. Not what anyone else would call magic. It's just glaring at people and tricking them. Taking advantage of their gullibility. It wasn't what I expected when I set out to become a witch -' 'And who says,' said Granny Weatherwax, slowly and deliberately, 'that you've become a witch now?' 'My word, the wind is getting up, perhaps we should - ' said Nanny Ogg. ' What did you say?' said Magrat. Nanny Ogg put her hand over her eyes. Asking someone to repeat a phrase you'd not only heard very clearly but were also exceedingly angry about was around Defcon II in the lexicon of squabble. 'I should have thought my voice was clear enough,' said Granny. 'I'm very amazed my voice wasn't clear enough. It sounded clear enough to me. ' 'Looks a bit gusty, why don't we - ?' 'Well, I should just think I can be smug and bad-tempered and ill-considerate enough to be a witch,' said Magrat. 'That's all that's required, isn't it?' 'Ill-considerate? Me?' 'You like people who need help, because when they need help they're weak, and helping them makes you feel strongl What harm would a bit of magic do?' 'Because it'd never stop at just a bit, you stupid girl!' Magrat backed off, her face flushed. She reached into her bag and pulled out a slim volume, which she flourished like a weapon. 'Stupid I may be,' she panted, 'but at least I'm trying to learn things! Do you know the kind of things people can use magic for? Not just illusion and bullying! There's people in this book that can. . . can. . . walk on hot coals, and stick their hands in a fire and not get hurt!' 'Cheap trickery!' said Granny. 'They really can!' 'Impossible. No-one can do that!' 'It shows they can control things! Magic's got to be more than just knowing things and manipulating people!' 'Oh? It's all wishing on stars and fairy dust, is it? Making people happier?' 'There's got to be some of that! Otherwise what's the good of anything? Anyway. . . when I went to Desiderata's cottage you were looking for the wand, weren't you?' 'I just didn't want it falling into the wrong hands!' 'Like any hands but yours, I expect!' They glared at each other. 'Haven't you got any romance in your soul?' said Magrat plaintively. 'No,' said Granny. 'I ain't. And stars don't care what you wish, and magic don't make things better, and no-one doesn't get burned who sticks their hand in a fire. If you want to amount to anything as a witch, Magrat Garlick, you got to learn three things. What's real, what's not real, and what's the difference - ' 'And always get the young man's name and address,' said Nanny. 'It worked for me every time. Only joking,' she said, as they both glared at her. The wind was rising, here on the edge of the forest. Bits of grass and leaves whirled through the air. 'We're going the right way, anyway,' said Nanny madly, seeking anything that would be a distraction. 'Look. It says “Genua” on the signpost. ' It did indeed. |
It was an old, worm-eaten signpost right on the edge of the forest. The end of the arm had been carved into the likeness of a pointing finger. 'A proper road, too,' Nanny burbled on. The row cooled a bit, simply because both sides were not talking to each other. Not simply not exchanging vocal communication - that's just an absence of speaking. This went right through that and out the other side, into the horrible glowering worlds of Not Talking to One Another. 'Yellow bricks,' said Nanny. 'Whoever heard of anyone making a road out of yellow bricks?' Magrat and Granny Weatherwax stood looking in opposite directions with their arms folded. 'Brightens the place up, I suppose,' said Nanny. On the horizon, Genua sparkled in the middle of some more greenery. In between, the road dipped into a wide valley dotted with little villages. A river snaked through them on the way to the city. The wind whipped at their skirts. 'We'll never fly in this,' said Nanny, still womanfully trying to make enough conversation for three people. 'So we'll walk, then, eh?' she said, and added, because there's a spark of spitefulness even in innocent souls like Nanny Ogg's, 'Singing as we go, how about it?' 'I'm sure it's not my place to mind what anyone chooses to do,' said Granny. 'It's nothing to do with me. I expect some people with wands and big ideas might have something to say. ' 'Huh!' said Magrat. They set off along the brick road towards the distant city, in single file with Nanny Ogg as a kind of mobile buffer state in the middle. 'What some people need,' said Magrat, to the world in general, 'is a bit more heart. ' 'What some people need,' said Granny Weatherwax, to the stormy sky, 'is a lot more brain. ' Then she clutched at her hat to stop the wind from blowing it off. What I need, thought Nanny Ogg fervently, is a drink. Three minutes later a farmhouse dropped on her head. By this time the witches were well spaced out. Granny Weatherwax was striding along in front, Magrat was sulking along at the rear, and Nanny was in the middle. As she said afterwards, it wasn't even as if she was singing. It was just that one moment there was a small, plump witch, and the next there was the collapsing remains of a wooden farmhouse. Granny Weatherwax turned and found herself looking at a crumbling, unpainted front door. Magrat nearly walked into a back door of the same grey, bleached wood. There was no sound but the crackle of settling timber. 'Gytha?' said Granny. 'Nanny?' said Magrat. They both opened their doors. It was a very simple design of house, with two downstairs rooms separated by a front-to-back passageway. In the middle of the passageway, surrounded by shattered and termite-ridden floor-boards, under the pointy hat that had been rammed down to her chin, was Nanny Ogg. There was no sign of Greebo. 'Wha' happened?' she said. 'Wha' happened?' 'A farmhouse dropped on your head,' said Magrat. 'Oh. One o' them things,' said Nanny vaguely. Granny gripped her by the shoulders. 'Gytha? How many fingers am I holding up?' she said urgently. 'Wha' fingers? 'S'all gone dark. ' Magrat and Granny gripped the brim of Nanny's hat and half lifted, half unscrewed it from her head. She blinked at them. 'That's the willow reinforcement,' she said, as the pointy hat creaked back into shape like a resurrecting umbrella. She was swaying gently. 'Stop a hammer blow, a hat with willow reinforcement. All them struts, see. Distributes the force. I shall write to Mr Vernissage. ' Magrat, bemused, looked around the little house. 'It just dropped out of the sky!' she said. 'Could have been a big tornado or something somewhere,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Picked it up, see, then the wind drops and down it comes. You get funny things happening in high winds. Remember that big gale we had last year? One of my hens laid the same egg four times. ' 'She's rambling,' said Magrat. 'No I ain't, that's just my normal talking,' said Nanny. Granny Weatherwax peered into one of the rooms. 'I suppose there wouldn't be any food and drink about the place?' she said. 'I think I could force myself to drink some brandy,' said Nanny quickly. Magrat peered up the stairs. 'Coo-ee,' she called, in the strangled voice of someone who wants to be heard without doing anything so bad-mannered as raise their voice. 'Is there anyone here?' Nanny, on the other hand, looked under the stairs. Greebo was a cowering ball of fur in a corner. She hauled him out by the scruff of his neck and gave him a slightly bewildered pat. Despite Mr Vernissage "s millinery masterpiece, despite the worm-eaten floor, and despite even the legendary thick skull of the Oggs, she was definitely feeling several twinkles short of a glitter and suffering a slight homesick-tinged dip in her usual sunny nature. People didn't hit you over the head with farmhouses back home. 'You know, Greebo,' she said, 'I don't think we're in Lancre. ' 'I've found some jam,' said Granny Weatherwax, from the kitchen. It didn't take a lot to cheer up Nanny Ogg. 'That's fine,' she called out. 'It'll go nicely on the dwarf bread. ' Magrat came into the room. 'I'm not sure we should be taking other people's provisions,' she said. 'I mean, this place must belong to someone. ' 'Oh. Did someone speak, Gytha?' said Granny Weather-wax archly. Nanny rolled her eyes. 'I was merely saying, Nanny,' said Magrat, 'that this isn't our property. ' 'She says it don't belong to us, Esme,' said Nanny. 'Tell anyone who wants to know, Gytha, that it's like salvage from a shipwreck,' said Granny. 'She says finders keepers, Magrat,' said Nanny. Something flickered past the window. Magrat went and peered out through the grimy pane. 'That's funny. There's a lot of dwarfs dancing round the house,' she said. 'Oh, yes?' said Nanny, opening a cupboard. Granny stiffened. 'Are they - I means, ask her if they're singing,' she said. 'They singing, Magrat?' 'I can hear something,' said Magrat. 'Sounds like “Dingdong, dingdong”. ' 'That's a dwarf song all right,' said Nanny. 'They're the only people who can make a hiho last all day. ' 'They seem very happy about it,' said Magrat doubtfully. 'Probably it was their farmhouse and they're glad to get it back. ' There was a hammering on the back door. Magrat opened it. A crowd of brightly dressed and embarrassed dwarfs stepped back hurriedly and then peered up at her. 'Er,' said the one who was apparently the leader, 'is. is the old witch dead?' 'Which old witch?' said Magrat. The dwarf looked at her for a while with his mouth open. He turned and had a whispered consultation with his colleagues. Then he turned back. 'How many have you got?' 'There's a choice of two,' said Magrat. She wasn't feeling in a very good mood and wasn't prompted to aid the conversation more than necessary. Uncharacteristic nastiness made her add, 'Free for the asking. ' 'Oh. ' The dwarf considered this. 'Well, which old witch did the house land on?' 'Nanny? No, she's not dead. She's just a bit stunned. But thanks all the same for asking,' said Magrat. "That's very kind of you. ' This seemed to puzzle the dwarfs. They went into a huddle. There was a lot of sotto voce arguing. Then the head dwarf turned back to Magrat. He removed his helmet and turned it around and around nervously in his hands. 'Er,' he said, 'can we have her boots?' 'What?' 'Her boots?' said the dwarf, blushing. 'Can we have them, please?' 'What do you want her boots for?' The dwarf looked at her. Then he turned and went into a huddle with his colleagues again. He turned back to Magrat. 'We've just got this. . . feeling. . . that we ought to have her boots,' he said. He stood there blinking. 'Well, I'll go and ask,' said Magrat. 'But I don't think she'll say yes. ' As she went to close the door the dwarf twiddled his hat some more. 'They are ruby-coloured, aren't they?' he said. 'Well, they're red,' said Magrat. 'Is red all right?' 'They've got to be red. ' All the other dwarfs nodded. 'It's no good if they're not red. ' Magrat gave him a blank look and shut the door. |
'Nanny,' she said slowly, when she was back in the kitchen, 'there's some dwarfs outside who want your boots. ' Nanny looked up. She'd found a stale loaf in a cupboard and was industriously chewing. It was amazing what you'd eat if the alternative was dwarf bread. 'What d'they want 'em for?' she said. 'Didn't say. They just said they had a feeling they want your boots. ' 'That sounds highly suspicious to me,' said Granny. 'Old Shaker Wistley over Creel Springs way was a devil for boots,' said Nanny, putting down the breadknife. 'Especially black button boots. He used to collect 'em. If he saw you going past in a new pair he had to go and have a lie-down. ' 'I reckon that's a bit sophisticated for dwarfs,' said Granny. 'Maybe they want to drink out of 'em,' said Nanny. 'What do you mean, drink out of them?' said Magrat. 'Ah, well, that's what they do in foreign parts,' said Nanny. 'They drink fizzy wine out of ladies' boots. ' They all looked down at Nanny's boots. Not even Nanny could imagine what anyone would want to drink out of them, or what they would do afterwards. 'My word. That's even more sophisticated than old Shaker Wistley,' said Nanny reflectively. 'They seemed a bit puzzled about it,' said Magrat. 'I expect they would be. It ain't often people get a feeling they ought to go around pulling a decent witch's boots off. This sounds like another story flapping around. I think,' said Granny Weatherwax, 'that we ought to go and talk to these dwarfs. ' She strode out into the passageway and opened the door. 'Yes?' she demanded. The dwarfs backed away at the sight of her. There was a lot of whispering and elbowing and muttered comments in the nature of 'No, yew', and 'I asked last time'. Finally a dwarf was pushed forward. It might have been the original dwarf. It was hard to tell, with dwarfs. 'Er,' he said. 'Er. Boots?' 'What for?' said Granny. The dwarf scratched its head. 'Damned if I know,' he said. 'We were just wondering about it ourselves, 's'matterofact. We were just coming off shift in the coal mine half an hour ago, we saw the farmhouse land on. on the witch, an'. . . well. . . ' 'You just knew you had to run up and steal her boots?' said Granny. The dwarf's face widened into a relieved grin. 'That's right!' he said. 'And sing the Ding-dong song. Only she was supposed to be squashed. No offence meant,' he added quickly. 'It's the willow reinforcement,' said a voice behind Granny. 'Worth its weight in glod. ' Granny stared for a while, and then smiled. 'I think you lads ought to come inside,' she said. 'I've got some questions to ask you. ' The dwarfs looked very uncertain. 'Um,' said the spokesdwarf. 'Nervous of going into a house with witches in it?' said Granny Weatherwax. The spokesdwarf nodded, and then went red. Magrat and Nanny Ogg exchanged glances behind Granny's back. Something had definitely gone wrong somewhere. In the mountains dwarfs certainly weren't afraid of witches. The problem was to stop them digging up your floor. 'You've been down from the mountains for some time, I expect,' said Granny. 'Very promising seam of coal down here,' mumbled the spokesdwarf, twiddling his hat. 'Bet it's a long time since you've had proper dwarf bread, then,' said Granny. The spokesdwarf's eyes misted over. 'Baked from the finest stone-ground grit, just like mother used to jump up and down on it,' Granny went on. A sort of collective sigh went up from the dwarfs. 'You just can't get it down here,' said the spokesdwarf, to the ground. 'It's the water, or something. It falls to bits after hardly any years at all. ' 'They puts flour in it,' said someone behind him, sourly. 'It's worse'n that. The baker over in Genua puts dried fruit in it,' said another dwarf. 'Well, now,' said Granny, rubbing her hands together, 'I may be able to help you here. Could be I've got some dwarf bread to spare. ' 'Nah. Not proper dwarf bread,' said the spokesdwarf moodily. 'Proper dwarf bread's got to be dropped in rivers and dried out and sat on and left and looked at every day and put away again. You just can't get it down here. ' 'This could be,' said Granny Weatherwax, 'your lucky day. ' 'To be frank,' said Nanny Ogg, 'I think the cat pissed on some of it. ' The spokesdwarf looked up, his eyes aglow. 'Hot damn!' Dear Jason et everybody, What a life, all kinds of thing gain on, what with talkin wolves and women asleep in castles, I shall have a story or two to tell you when I gets back and no mistake. Also, dont tawk to me about farmhouses, which reminds me, please send somone to Mr Vemissage over in Slice and present Mrs Ogg's compluments and what a good hat he makes, he can say 'As Approved by Nanny Ogg', it stops 100% of all known farmhouses, also, if you writes to people saying how good their stuff is sometimes you get free stuff, there could be a new hat in this for me so see to it. LJlith stepped out from her room of mirrors. Shadowy images of herself trailed after her, fading. Witches ought to be squashed when a farmhouse lands on them. Lilith knew that. All squashed, except for their boots sticking out. Sometimes she despaired. People just didn't seem able to play their parts properly. She wondered whether there was such a thing as the opposite of a fairy godmother. Most things had their opposite, after all. If so, she wouldn't be a bad fairy godmother, because that's just a good fairy godmother seen from a different viewpoint. The opposite would be someone who was poison to stories and, thought Lilith, quite the most evil creature in the world. Well, here in Genua was one story no-one could stop. It had momentum, this one. Try to stop it and it'd absorb you, make you part of its plot. She didn't have to do a thing. The story would do it for her. And she had the comfort of knowing that she couldn't lose. After all, she was the good one. She strolled along the battlements and down the stairs to her own room, where the two sisters were waiting. They were good at waiting. They could sit for hours without blinking. The Duc refused even to be in the same room as them. Their heads turned as she came in. She'd never given them voices. It wasn't necessary. It was enough that they were beautiful and could be made to understand. 'Now you must go to the house,' she said. 'And this is very important. Listen to me. Some people will be coming to see Ella tomorrow. You must let them do so, do you understand?' They were watching her lips. They watched anything that moved. 'We shall need them for the story. It won't work properly unless they try to stop it. And afterwards. . . perhaps I will give you voices. You'll like that, won't you?' They looked at one another, and then at her. And then at the cage in the corner of the room. Lilith smiled, and reached in, and took out two white mice. 'The youngest witch might be just your type,' she said. 'I shall have to see what I can do with her. And now. . . open. . . ' The broomsticks drifted through the afternoon air. For once, the witches weren't arguing. The dwarfs had been a taste of home. It would have done anyone's heart good to see the way they just sat and stared at the dwarf bread, as if consuming it with their eyes, which was the best way to consume dwarf bread. Whatever it was that had driven them to seek ruby-coloured boots seemed to wear off under its down-to-earth influence. As Granny said, you could look a long way before you found anything realer than dwarf bread. Then she'd gone off alone to talk to the head dwarf. She wouldn't tell the others what he'd told her, and they didn't feel bold enough to ask. Now she flew a little ahead of them. Occasionally she'd mutter something like 'Godmothers!' or 'Practising!' But even Magrat, who hadn't had as much experience, could feel Genua now, as a barometer feels the air pressure. In Genua, stories came to life. In Genua, someone set out to make dreams come true. Remember some of your dreams? Genua nestled on the delta of the Vieux river, which was the source of its wealth. And Genua was wealthy. |
Genua had once controlled the river mouth and taxed its traffic in a way that couldn't be called piracy because it was done by the city government, and therefore sound economics and perfectly all right. And the swamps and lakes back in the delta provided the crawling, swimming and flying ingredients of a cuisine that would have been world famous if, as has already been indicated, people travelled very much. Genua was rich, lazy and unthreatened, and had once spent quite a lot of time involved in that special kind of civic politics that comes naturally to some city states. For example, once it had been able to afford the largest branch of the Assassins' Guild outside Ankh-Morpork, and its members were so busy that you sometimes had to wait for months. * But the Assassins had all left years ago. Some things sicken even jackals. The city came as a shock. From a distance, it looked like a complicated white crystal growing out of the greens and browns of the swamp. Closer to, it resolved into, firstly, an outer ring of smaller buildings, then an inner ring of large, impressive white houses and, finally, at the very centre, a palace. It was tall and pretty and multi-turreted, like a toy castle or some kind of confectionery extravaganza. Every slim tower looked designed to hold a captive princess. Magrat shivered. But then she thought of the wand. A godmother had responsibilities. 'Reminds me of another one of them Black Aliss stories,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'I remember when she locked up that girl with the long pigtails in a tower just like one of them. Rumple-stiltzel or someone. ' 'But she got out,' said Magrat. * Whereas in Ankh-Morpork, business was often so slow that some of the more go-ahead Guild members put adverts in shop windows offering deals like 'Stab two, poison one free'. 'Yes, it does you good to let your hair down,' said Nanny. 'Huh. Rural myths,' said Granny. They drew nearer to the city walls. Then Magrat said, 'There's guards on the gate. Are we going to fly over?' Granny stared at the highest tower through narrowed eyes. 'No,' she said. 'We'll land and walk in. So's not to worry people. ' 'There's a nice flat green bit just behind those trees,' said Magrat. Granny walked up and down experimentally. Her boots squeaked and gurgled in watery accusation. 'Look, I said I'm sorry,' said Magrat. 'It just looked so flat!' 'Water gen'rally does,' said Nanny, silting on a tree stump and wringing out her dress. 'But even you couldn't tell it was water,' said Magrat. 'It looks so. so grassy with all that weed and stuff floating on it. ' 'Seems to me the land and the water round here can't decide who is which,' said Nanny. She looked around at the miasmic landscape. Trees grew out of the swamp. They had a jagged, foreign look and seemed to be rotting as they grew. Where the water was visible, it was black like ink. Occasionally a few bubbles would eructate to the surface like the ghosts of beans on bath night. And somewhere over in the distance was the river, if it was possible to be that sure in this land of thick water and ground that wobbled when you set foot on it. She blinked. 'That's odd,' she said. 'What?' said Granny. 'Thought I saw. . . something running. " muttered Nanny. 'Over there. Between the trees. ' 'Must be a duck then, in this place. ' 'It was bigger'n a duck,' said Nanny. 'Funny thing is, it looked a bit like a little house. ' 'Oh yes, running along with smoke coming out of the chimney, I expect,' said Granny witheringly. Nanny brightened. 'You saw it too?' Granny rolled her eyes. 'Come on,' she said, 'let's get to the road. ' 'Er,' said Magrat, 'how?' They looked at the nominal ground between their reasonably dry refuge and the road. It had a yellowish appearance. There were floating branches and tufts of suspiciously green grass. Nanny pulled a branch off the fallen tree she was sitting on and tossed it a few yards. It struck damply, and sank with the noise of someone trying to get the last bit out of the milkshake. 'We fly over to it, of course,' Nanny said. 'You two can,' said Granny. 'There's nowhere for me to run and get mine started. ' In the end Magrat ferried her across on her broom, Nanny bringing up the rear with Granny's erratic stick in tow. 'I just 'ope no-one saw us, that's all,' said Granny, when they'd reached the comparative safety of the road. Other roads joined the swamp causeway as they got nearer to the city. They were crowded, and there was a long line at the gate. From ground level, the city was even more impressive. Against the steam of the swamps it shone like a polished stone. Coloured flags flew over the walls. 'Looks very jolly,' said Nanny. 'Very clean,' said Magrat. 'It just looks like that from outside,' said Granny, who had seen a city before. 'When you get inside it'll be all beggars and noise and gutters full of I don't know what, you mark my words. ' 'They're turning quite a lot of people away,' said Nanny. 'They said on the boat that lots of people come here for Fat Lunchtime,' said Granny. 'Probably you get lots of people who ain't the right sort. ' Half a dozen guards watched them approach. 'Very smartly turned out,' said Granny. "That's what I like to see. Not like at home. ' There were only six suits of chain mail in the whole of Lancre, made on the basis of one-size-doesn't-quite-fit-all. Bits of string and wire had to be employed to take in the slack, since in Lancre the role of palace guard was generally taken by any citizen who hadn't got much to do at the moment. These guards were all six-footers and, even Granny had to admit, quite impressive in their jolly red-and-blue uniforms. The only other real city guards she'd ever seen were those in Ankh-Morpork. The sight of Ankh-Morpork's city guard made thoughtful people wonder who could possibly attack that was worse. They certainly weren't anything to look at. To her amazement, two pikes barred her way as she stepped under the arched gateway. 'We're not attacking, you know,' she said. A corporal gave her a salute. 'No ma'am,' he said. 'But we have orders to stop borderline cases. ' 'Borderline?' said Nanny. 'What's borderline about us?' The corporal swallowed. Granny Weatherwax's gaze was a hard one to meet. 'Well,' he said, 'you're a bit. grubby. ' There was a ringing silence. Granny took a deep breath. 'We had a bit of an accident in the swamp,' said Magrat quickly. 'I'm sure it'll be all right,' said the corporal wretchedly. "The captain'll be here directly. Only there's all kinds of trouble if we let the wrong sort in. You'd be amazed at some of the people we get here. ' 'Can't go letting the wrong sort in,' said Nanny Ogg. 'We wouldn't want you to let the wrong sort in. I daresay we wouldn't want to come into the kind of city that'd let the wrong sort in, would we, Esme?' Magrat kicked her on the ankle. 'Good thing we're the right sort,' said Nanny. 'What's happening, corporal?' The captain of the guard strolled out of a door in the archway and walked over to the witches. 'These. . . ladies want to come in, sir,' said the corporal. 'Well?' 'They're a bit. . . you know, not one hundred per cent clean,' said the corporal, wilting under Granny's stare. 'And one of them's got messy hair - ' 'Well!' snapped Magrat. '- and one of them looks like she uses bad language. ' 'What?' said Nanny, her grin evaporating. 'I'll tan your hide, you little bugger!' 'But, corporal, they have got brooms,' said the captain. 'It's very hard for cleaning staff to look tidy all the time. ' 'Cleaning staff?' said Granny. 'I'm sure they're as anxious as you are to get tidied up,' said the captain. 'Excuse me,' said Granny, empowering the words with much the same undertones as are carried by words like 'Charge!' and 'Kill!', 'Excuse me, but does this pointy hat I'm wearing mean anything to you?' The soldiers looked at it politely. 'Can you give me a clue?' said the captain, eventually. 'It means - ' 'We'll just trot along in, if it's all the same to you,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Got a lot of cleaning up to do. ' She flourished her broomstick. 'Come, ladies. |
' She and Magrat grasped Granny's elbows firmly and propelled her under the archway before her fuse burned out. Granny Weatherwax always held that you ought to count up to ten before losing your temper. No-one knew why, because the only effect of this was to build up the pressure and make the ensuing explosion a whole lot worse. The witches didn't stop until they were out of sight of the gate. 'Now, Esme,' said Nanny soothingly, 'you shouldn't take it personal. And we are a bit mucky, you must admit. They were just doing their job, all right? How about that?' 'They treated us as if we was ordinary people,' said Granny, in a shocked voice. 'This is foreign parts, Granny,' said Magrat. 'Anyway, you said the men on the boat didn't recognize the hat, either. ' 'But then I dint want 'em to,' said Granny. 'That's different. ' 'It's just an. an incident, Granny,' said Magrat. 'They were just stupid soldiers. They don't even know a proper free-form hairstyle when they see it. ' Nanny looked around. Crowds milled past them, almost in silence. 'And you must admit it's a nice clean city,' she said. They took stock of their surroundings. It was certainly the cleanest place they'd ever seen. Even the cobblestones had a polished look. 'You could eat your tea off the street,' said Nanny, as they strolled along. 'Yes, but you'd eat your tea off the street anyway,' said Granny. 'I wouldn't eat all of it. Even the gutters are scrubbed. Not a Ronald* in sight, look. ' 'Gytha!' * Ronald the Third of Lancre, believed to be an extremely unpleasant monarch, was remembered by posterity only in this obscure bit of rhyming slang. 'Well, you said that in Ankh-Morpork - ' 'This is somewhere else!' 'It's so spotless,' said Magrat. 'Makes you wish you'd cleaned your sandals. ' 'Yeah. ' Nanny Ogg squinted along the street. 'Makes you wish you were a better person, really. ' 'Why are you two whispering?' said Granny. She followed their gaze. There was a guard standing on the street corner. When he saw them looking at him he touched his helmet and gave them a brief smile. 'Even the guards are polite,' said Magrat. 'And there's so many of them, too,' said Granny. 'Amazing, really, needing all these guards in a city where people are so clean and quiet,' said Magrat. 'Perhaps there's so much niceness to be spread around they need a lot of people to do it,' said Nanny Ogg. The witches wandered through the packed streets. 'Nice houses, though,' said Magrat. 'Very decorative and olde-worlde. ' Granny Weatherwax, who lived in a cottage that was as olde-worlde as it was possible to be without being a lump of metamorphic rock, made no comment. Nanny Ogg's feet started to complain. 'We ought to find somewhere to stop the night,' she said. 'We can look for this girl in the morning. We'll all do a lot better for a good night's sleep. ' 'And a bath,' said Magrat. 'With soothing herbs. ' 'Good idea. I could just go a bath too,' said Nanny. 'My word, doesn't autumn roll around quickly,' said Granny sourly. 'Yeah? When did you last have a bath, Esme?' 'What do you mean, last? 'See? Then there's no call to make comments about my ablutions. ' 'Baths is unhygienic,' Granny declared. 'You know I've never agreed with baths. Sittin" around in your own dirt like that. ' i54 'What do you do, then?' said Magrat. 'I just washes,' said Granny. 'All the bits. You know. As and when they becomes available. ' However available they were, and no further information was vouchsafed on this point, they were certainly more available than accommodation in Genua in Fat Lunchtime. All the taverns and inns were more than full. Gradually the press of crowds pushed them out of the main streets and into the less fashionable quarters of the city, but still there was no room for the three of them. Granny Weatherwax had had enough. 'The very next place we see,' she said, setting her jaw firmly, 'we're goin' in. What's that inn over there?' Nanny Ogg peered at the sign. 'Hotel. . . No. Va. cancies,' she muttered, and then brightened up. 'Hotel Nova Cancies,' she repeated. 'That means “new, er, Cancies” in foreign,' she added helpfully. 'It'll do,' said Granny. She pushed open the door. A round, red-faced man looked up from the desk. He was new to the job and very nervous; the last incumbent had disappeared for not being round and red-faced enough. Granny didn't waste time. 'You see this hat?' she demanded. 'You see this broom?' The man looked from her to the broom, and back again. 'Yes?' he said. 'What's that mean?' 'Means we want three rooms for the night,' said Granny, looking smugly at the other two. 'With sausage,' said Nanny. 'And one vegetarian meal,' said Magrat. The man looked at all three of them. Then he went over to the door. 'You see this door? You see this sign?' he said. 'We don't bother about signs,' said Granny. 'Well, then,' said the man, 'I give up. What's a pointy hat and a broom really mean?' 'That means I'm a witch,' said Granny. The man put his head on one side. 'Yeah?' he said. 'Is that another word for daft old woman?' Dear Jason and everyone, wrote Nanny Ogg, Dyou know, they dont know about witches here, thats how bakcward they are in foreign pans. -A man gave Esme some Cheek and she would of lost her Temper so me and Magrat and I got hold of her and rushed her out because if you make someone think they've been turned into something there's always trouble, you remember what happened larst time when afterwards you had to go and dig a pond for Mr Wilkins to live in. . . They had managed to find a table to themselves in a tavern. It was packed with people of all species. The noise was at shouting level and smoke wreathed the air. 'Will you stop that scribbling, Gytha Ogg. It gets on my nerves,' snapped Granny. 'They must have witches here,' said Magrat. 'Everywhere has witches. You've got to have witches abroad. You find witches everywhere. ' 'Like cockroaches,' said Nanny Ogg cheerfully. 'You should've let me make him believe he was a frog,' muttered Granny. 'You can't do that, Esme. You can't go around making people believe they're things just because they've been cheeky and don't know who you are,' said Gytha. 'Otherwise we'd be up to here in people hopping about. ' Despite many threats, Granny Weatherwax had never turned anyone into a frog. The way she saw it, there was a technically less cruel but cheaper and much more satisfying thing you could do. You could leave them human and make them think they were a frog, which also provided much innocent entertainment for passers-by. 'I always felt sorry for Mr Wilkins,' said Magrat, staring moodily at the table top. 'It was so sad watching him try to catch flies on his tongue. ' 'He shouldn't have said what he said,' said Granny. 'What, that you were a domineering old busybody?' said Nanny innocently. 'I don't mind criticism,' said Granny. 'You know me. I've never been one to take offence at criticism. No-one could say I'm the sort to take offence at criticism - ' 'Not twice, anyway,' said Nanny. 'Not without blowing bubbles. ' 'It's just that I can't stand unfairness,' said Granny. 'And you stop that grinning! Anyway, I don't see why you're making a fuss about it. It wore off after a couple of days. ' 'Mrs Wilkins says he still goes out swimming a lot,' said Magrat. 'It's given him a whole new interest, she said. ' 'Perhaps they have a different kind of witch in the city,' said Magrat hopelessly. 'Perhaps they wear different sort of clothes. ' 'There's only one kind of witch,' said Granny. 'And we're it. ' She looked around the room. Of course, she thought, if someone was keeping witches out, people wouldn't know about them. Someone who didn't want anyone else meddling here. But she let us in. 'Oh, well, at least we're in the dry,' said Nanny. A drinker standing in a crowd behind her threw back his head to laugh and spilled beer down her back. She muttered something under her breath. Magrat saw the man look down to take another swig and stare, wide-eyed, into the mug. Then he dropped it and fought his way out of the room, clutching at his throat. |
'What did you do to his drink?' she said. 'You ain't old enough to be tole,' said Nanny. At home, if a witch wanted a table to herself it. just happened. The sight of the pointy hat was enough. People kept a polite distance, occasionally sending free drinks to her. Even Magrat got respect, not particularly because anyone was in awe of her, but because a slight to one witch was a slight to all witches and no-one wanted Granny Weatherwax coming around to explain this to them. Here they were being jostled, as if they were ordinary. Only Nanny Ogg's warning hand on Granny Weatherwax's arm was keeping a dozen jovial drinkers from unnatural amphibianhood, and even Nanny's usually very elastic temper was beginning to twang. She always prided herself on being as ordinary as muck, but there was ordinary and there was ordinary. It was like being that Prince Whatsisname, in the nursery story, who liked to wander around his kingdom dressed up as a commoner; she'd always had a shrewd suspicion that the little pervert made sure people knew who he was beforehand, just in case anyone tried to get too common. It was like getting muddy. Getting muddy when you had a nice hot tub to look forward to was fun; getting muddy when all you had to look forward to was more mud was no fun at all. She reached a conclusion. 'Hey, why don't we have a drink?' said Nanny Ogg brightly. 'We'd all feel better for a drink. ' 'Oh no,' said Granny. 'You caught me with that herbal drink last time. I'm sure there was alcohol in that. I def'nitely felt a bit woozy after the sixth glass. I ain't drinking any more foreign muck. ' 'You've got to drink something,' said Magrat soothingly. 'I'm thirsty, anyway. ' She looked vaguely at the crowded bar. 'Perhaps they do some kind of fruit cup, or something. ' 'Bound to,' said Nanny Ogg. She stood up, glanced at the bar, and surreptitiously removed a hatpin from her hat. 'Shan't be a moment. ' The two of them were left in their own private gloom. Granny sat staring fixedly in front of her. 'You really shouldn't take it so bad, just because people aren't showing you any respect,' said Magrat, pouring soothing oil on the internal fires. 'They've hardly ever shown me any respect at all. It's not a problem. ' 'If you ain't got respect, you ain't got a thing,' said Granny distantly. 'Oh, I don't know. I've always managed to get along,' said Magrat. 'That's 'cos you're a wet hen, Magrat Garlick,' said Granny. There was a short, hot silence, ringing with the words that shouldn't have escaped and a few grunts of pained surprise from the direction of the bar. I know she's always thought that, Magrat told herself within the glowing walls of her embarrassment. I just never thought she'd ever say it. And she'll never say sorry, because that's not the kind of thing she does. She just expects people to forget things like that. I was just trying to be friends again. If she ever really has any friends. 'Here we are then,' said Nanny Ogg, emerging from the crush with a tray. 'Fruit drinks. ' She sat down and looked from one to the other. 'Made from bananas,' she said, in the hope of striking a spark of interest from either woman. 'I remember our Shane brought a banana home once. My, we had a good laugh about that. I said to the man, “What kind of fruit drinks do people drink around here?” and this is what he gave me. Made from bananas. A banana drink. You'll like it. It's what everyone drinks here. It's got bananas in it. ' 'It's certainly very. . . strongly flavoured,' said Magrat, sipping hers cautiously. 'Has it got sugar in it too?' 'Very likely,' said Nanny. She looked at Granny's middle-distance frown for a moment, and then picked up her pencil and licked the end professionally. Anywey one good thing is the drink here is v. cheap theres this one called a Bananana dakry which is basicly Rum with a banananana* in it. I can feel it doin me good. It is v. damp here. I hope we find somewhere to stay tonigt I expect we shal becaus Esme alweys falls on her feet or at any rate on someones feet. I have drawern a picture of a banananana dakry you can see it is empty right down to the bottom. Love, MUM XXXX In the end they found a stable. It was, as Nanny Ogg cheerfully commented, probably warmer and more hygienic than any of the inns and there were millions of people in foreign parts who'd give their right arms for such a comfy, dry place to sleep. This cut about as much ice as a soap hacksaw. It doesn't take much to make witches fall out. Magrat lay awake, using her sack of clothes as a pillow and listening to the warm soft rain on the roof. It's all gone wrong before we've even started, she thought. I don't know why I let them come with me. I'm perfectly capable of doing something by myself for once, but they always treat me as if I was a. a wet hen. I don't see why I should have to put up with her sulking and snapping at me the whole time. What's so special about her, anyway? She hardly ever does anything really magical, whatever Nanny says. She really does just shout a lot and bully people. And as for Nanny, she means well but she has no sense of responsibility, I thought I'd die when she started singing the Hedgehog Song in the inn, I just hope to goodness the people didn't know what the words meant. I'm the fairy godmother around here. We're not at home now. There's got to be different ways of doing things, in foreign parts. She got up at first light. The other two were asleep, * Nanny Ogg knew how to start spelling 'banana', but didn't know how you stopped. although 'asleep' was too moderate a word for the sounds Granny Weatherwax was making. Magrat put on her best dress, the green silk one that was unfortunately now a mass of creases. She took out a bundle of tissue paper and slowly unwrapped her occult jewellery; Magrat bought occult jewellery as a sort of distraction from being Magrat. She had three large boxes of the stuff and was still exactly the same person. She did her best to remove the straw from her hair. Then she unpacked the magic wand. She wished she had a mirror to inspect herself in. 'I've got the wand,' she said quietly. 'I don't see why I need any help. Desiderata said I was to tell them not to help. ' It crossed her mind to reflect that Desiderata had been very lax on that point. The one thing you could be sure of, if you told Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg not to help, was that they would rush to help if only out of spite. It was quite surprising to Magrat that anyone as clever as Desiderata should have slipped up on that minor point. She'd probably got a psycholology too - whatever that was. Moving quietly, so as not to wake the other two, she opened the door and stepped lightly into the damp air. Wand at the ready, she was prepared to give the world whatever it wished for. It would help if this included pumpkins. Nanny Ogg opened one eye as the door creaked shut. She sat up and yawned and scratched herself. She fumbled in her hat and retrieved her pipe. She nudged Granny Weatherwax in the ribs. 'I ain't asleep,' said Granny. 'Magrat's gone off somewhere. ' 'Hah!' 'And I'm going out to get something to eat,' muttered Nanny. There was no talking to Esme when she was in that kind of mood. As she stepped out Greebo dropped lightly off a beam and landed on her shoulder. Nanny Ogg, one of life's great optimists, stepped out to take whatever the future had to offer. Preferably with rum and bananas in it. The house wasn't hard to find. Desiderata had made very exact notes. Magrat's gaze took in the high white walls and ornate metal balconies. She tried to straighten a few wrinkles in her dress, tugged some recalcitrant bits of hay from her hair, and then marched up the driveway and knocked on the door. The knocker broke off in her hand. Looking around anxiously lest someone should have noted this vandalism, Magrat tried to wedge it back. It fell off, knocking a lump out of the marble step. Finally she knocked gently with her knuckle. A fine cloud of paint dust lifted off the door and floated down to the ground. That was the only effect. |
Magrat considered her next move. She was pretty sure that fairy godmothers weren't supposed to leave a little card pushed under the door saying something like 'Called today but you were out, please contact the depot for a further appointment. ' Anyway, this wasn't the kind of house that got left empty; there would be a score of servants infesting a place like this. She crunched over the gravel and peered around the side of the house. Maybe the back door. . . witches were generally more at home around back doors. . . Nanny Ogg always was. She was heading for the one belonging to the palace. It was easy enough to get into; this wasn't a castle like the ones back home, which expressed very clear ideas about inside and outside and were built to keep the two separate. This was, well, a fairytale castle, all icing-sugar battlements and tiny, towering turrets. Anyway, no-one took much notice of little old ladies. Little old ladies were by definition harmless, although in a string of villages across several thousand miles of continent this definition was currently being updated. Castles, in Nanny Ogg's experience, were like swans. They looked as if they were drifting regally through the waters of Time, but in fact there was a hell of a lot of activity going on underneath. There'd be a maze of pantries and kitchens and laundries and stables and breweries - she liked the idea of breweries - and people never noticed another old biddy around the place, eating any spare grub that was lying around. Besides, you got gossip. Nanny Ogg liked gossip, too. Granny Weatherwax wandered disconsolately along the clean streets. She wasn't looking for the other two. She was quite certain of that. Of course, she might just happen to bump into them, sort of accidentally, and give them a meaningful look. But she certainly wasn't looking for them. There was a crowd at the end of the street. Working on the reasonable assumption that Nanny Ogg might be in the middle of it, Granny Weatherwax drifted over. Nanny wasn't there. But there was a raised platform. And a small man in chains. And some bright-uniformed guards. One of them was holding an axe. You did not have to be a great world traveller to understand that the purpose of this tableau was not to give the chained man a signed testimonial and a collection from everyone at the office. Granny nudged a bystander. 'What's happening?' The man looked sideways at her. 'The guards caught him thieving,' he said. 'Ah. Well, he looks guilty enough,' said Granny. People in chains had a tendency to look guilty. 'So what're they going to do to him?' 'Teach him a lesson. ' 'How d'they do that, then?' 'See the axe?' Granny's eyes hadn't left it the whole time. But now she let her attention rove over the crowd, picking up scraps of thought. An ant has an easy mind to read. There's just one stream of big simple thoughts: Carry, Carry, Bite, Get Into The Sandwiches, Carry, Eat. Something like a dog is more complicated - a dog can be thinking several thoughts at the same time. But a human mind is a great sullen lightning-filled cloud of thoughts, all of them occupying a finite amount of brain processing time. Finding whatever the owner thinks they're thinking in the middle of the smog of prejudices, memories, worries, hopes and fears is almost impossible. But enough people thinking much the same thing can be heard, and Granny Weatherwax was aware of the fear. 'Looks like it'll be a lesson he won't forget in a hurry,' she murmured. 'I reckon he'll forget it quite quickly,' said the watcher, and then shuffled away from Granny, in the same way that people move away from lightning rods during a thunderstorm. And at this point Granny picked up the discordant note in the orchestra of thought. In the middle of it were two minds that were not human. Their shape was as simple, clean and purposeful as a naked blade. She'd felt minds like that before, and had never cherished the experience. She scanned the crowd and found the minds' owners. They were staring unblinkingly at the figures on the platform. The watchers were women, or at least currently the same shape as women; taller than she was, slender as sticks, and wearing broad hats with veils that covered their faces. Their dresses shimmered in the sunlight - possibly blue, possibly yellow, possibly green. Possibly patterned. It was impossible to tell. The merest movement changed the colours. She couldn't make out their faces. There were witches in Genua all right. One witch, anyway. A sound from the platform made her turn. And she knew why people in Genua were quiet and nice. There were countries in foreign parts, Granny had heard, where they chopped off the hands of thieves so that they wouldn't steal again. And she'd never been happy with that idea. They didn't do that in Genua. They cut their heads off so they wouldn't think of stealing again. Granny knew exactly where the witches were in Genua now. They were in charge. Magrat reached the house's back door. It was ajar. She pulled herself together again. She knocked, in a polite, diffident sort of way. 'Er - ' she said. A bowlful of dirty water hit her full in the face. Through the tidal roaring of a pair of ears full of suds, she heard a voice say, 'Gosh, I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone was standing there. ' Magrat wiped the water out of her eyes, and tried to focus on the dim figure in front of her. A kind of narrative certainty rose in her mind. 'Is your name Ella?' she said. 'That's right. Who're you?' Magrat looked her new-found god-daughter up and down. She was the most attractive young woman Magrat had ever seen - skin as brown as a nut, hair so blonde as to be almost white, a combination not totally unusual in such an easygoing city as Genua had once been. What were you supposed to say at a time like this? She removed a piece of potato peel from her nose. 'I'm your fairy godmother,' she said. 'Funny thing, it sounds silly now I come to tell someone - ' Ella peered at her. 'You?' 'Um. Yes. I've got the wand, and everything. ' Magrat waggled the wand, in case this helped. It didn't. Ella put her head on one side. 'I thought you people were supposed to appear in a shower of glittering little lights and a twinkly noise,' she said suspiciously. 'Look, you just get the wand,' said Magrat desperately. 'You don't get a whole book of instructions. ' Ella gave her another searching look. Then she said, 'I suppose you'd better come in, then. You're just in time. I was making a cup of tea, anyway. ' The iridescent women got into an open-topped carriage. Beautiful as they were, Granny noted, they walked awkwardly. Well, they would. They wouldn't be used to legs. She also noticed the way people didn't look at the carriage. It wasn't that they didn't see it. It was simply that they wouldn't let their gaze dwell on it, as if merely recognizing it would lead them into trouble. And she noticed the coach horses. They had better senses than the humans did. They knew what was behind them, and they didn't like it at all. She followed them as they trotted, flat-eared and wild-eyed, through the streets. Eventually they were driven into the driveway of a big and dilapidated house near the palace. Granny lurked by the wall and noted the details. Plaster was dropping off the house walls, and even the knocker had fallen off the door. Granny Weatherwax did not believe in atmospheres. She did not believe in psychic auras. Being a witch, she'd always thought, depended more on what you didn't believe. But she was prepared to believe that there was something very unpleasant in that house. Not evil. The two not-exactly-women weren't evil, in the same way that a dagger or a sheer cliff isn't evil. Being evil means being able to make choices. But the hand wielding a dagger or pushing a body over a cliff could be evil, and something like that was going on. She really wished that she didn't know who was behind it. People like Nanny Ogg turn up everywhere. |
It's as if there's some special morphic generator dedicated to the production of old women who like a laugh and aren't averse to the odd pint, especially of some drink normally sold in very small glasses. You find them all over the place, often in pairs. * They tend to attract one another. Possibly they broadcast inaudible signals indicating that here is someone who could be persuaded to go 'Ooo' at pictures of other people's grandchildren. Nanny Ogg had found a friend. Her name was Mrs Pleasant, she was a cook, and she was the first black person Nanny had ever spoken to. * She was also a cook of that very superior type who spends most of the time holding court in a chair in the centre of the kitchen, apparently taking very little heed of the activity going on around her. Occasionally she'd give an order. And they'd only need to be occasionally, because she'd seen to it over the years * Always in front of you in any queue, for a start. * Racism was not a problem on the Discworld, because - what with trolls and dwarfs and so on - speciesism was more interesting. Black and white lived in perfect harmony and ganged up on green. that people either did things her way or not at all. Once or twice, with some ceremony, she'd get up, taste something, and maybe add a pinch of salt. Such people are always ready to chat to any wandering pedlars, herbalists, or little old women with cats on their shoulders. Greebo rode on Nanny's shoulder as though he'd just eaten the parrot. 'You be a-comin' here for Fat Lunchtime, then?' said Mrs Pleasant. 'Helping a friend with a bit of business,' said Nanny. 'My, these biscuits are tasty. ' 'I means, I see by your eye,' said Mrs Pleasant, pushing the plate nearer to her, 'that you are of a magical persuasion. ' 'Then you sees a lot further than most people in these parts,' said Nanny. 'Y'know, what'd improve these biscuits no end'd be something to dip 'em in, what d'you think?' 'How "bout something with bananas in it?' 'Bananas would be just the thing,' said Nanny happily. Mrs Pleasant waved imperiously at one of the maids, who set to work. Nanny sat on her chair, swinging her stumpy legs and looking around the kitchen with interest. A score of cooks were working with the single-mindedness of an artillery platoon laying down a barrage. Huge cakes were being constructed. In the fireplaces whole carcasses of animals were being roasted; turnspit dogs galloped in their treadmills. A huge man with a bald head and a scar right across his face was patiently inserting little sticks into sausages. Nanny hadn't had any breakfast. Greebo had had some breakfast, but this didn't make any difference. They were both undergoing a sort of exquisite culinary torture. They both turned, as if hypnotized, to watch two maids stagger by under a tray of canapes. 'I can see you is a very observant woman, Mrs Ogg,' said Mrs Pleasant. 'Just a slice,' said Nanny, without thinking. 'I also determines,' Mrs Pleasant said, after a while, 'that you have a cat of no usual breed upon your shoulder there. ' 'You're right there. ' 'I knows I'm right. ' A brimming glass of yellow foam was slid in front of Nanny. She looked at it reflectively and tried to get back to the matter in hand. 'So,' she said, 'where would I go, do you think, to find out about how you do magic in - ' 'Would you like somethin' to eat?' said Mrs Pleasant. 'What? My word!' Mrs Pleasant rolled her eyes. 'Not this stuff. I wouldn't eat this stuff,' she said bitterly. Nanny's face fell. 'But you cook it,' she pointed out. 'Only 'cos I'm told to. The old Baron knew what good food was. This stuff? It's nothing but pork and beef and lamb and rubbish for them that never tasted anything better. The only thing on four legs that's worth eating is alligator. I mean real food. ' Mrs Pleasant looked around at the kitchen. 'Sara!' she shouted. One of the sub-cooks turned around. 'Yes, 'm?' 'Me and this lady is just going out. Just you see to everything, okay?' 'Yes, 'm. ' Mrs Pleasant stood up and nodded meaningfully at Nanny Ogg. 'Walls have ears,' she said. 'Coo! Do they?' 'We goin' to go for a little stroll. ' There were, it now seemed to Nanny Ogg, two cities in Genua. There was the white one, all new houses and blue-roofed palaces, and around it and even under it was the old one. The new one might not like the presence of the old one, but it couldn't quite ever do without it. Someone, somewhere, has to do the cooking. Nanny Ogg quite liked cooking, provided there were other people around to do things like chop up the vegetables and wash the dishes afterwards. She'd always reckoned that she could do things to a bit of beef that the bullock had never thought of. But now she realized that wasn't cooking. Not compared to cooking in Genua. It was just staying alive as pleasantly as possible. Cooking anywhere outside Genua was just heating up things like bits of animals and birds and fish and vegetables until they went brown. And yet the weird thing was that the cooks in Genua had nothing edible to cook; at least, not what Nanny would have thought of as food. To her mind, food went around on four legs, or possibly one pair of legs and one pair of wings. Or at least it had fins on. The idea of food with more than four legs was an entirely new kettle of fi-of miscellaneous swimming things. They didn't have much to cook in Genua. So they cooked everything. Nanny had never heard of prawns or crawfish or lobsters; it just looked to her as though the citizens of Genua dredged the river bottom and boiled whatever came up. The point was that a good Genuan cook could more or less take the squeezings of a handful of mud, a few dead leaves and a pinch or two of some unpronounceable herbs and produce a meal to make a gourmet burst into tears of gratitude and swear to be a better person for the rest of their entire life if they could just have one more plateful. Nanny Ogg ambled along as Mrs Pleasant led her through the market. She peered at cages of snakes, and racks of mysteriously tendrilled herbs. She prodded trays of bivalves. She stopped for a chat to the Nanny Ogg-shaped ladies who ran the little stalls that, for a couple of pennies, dispensed strange chowders and shellfish in a bun. She sampled everything. She was enjoying herself immensely. Genua, city of cooks, had found the appetite it deserved. She finished a plate of fish and exchanged a nod and a grin with the little old woman who ran the fish stall. 'Well, all this is - ' she began, turning to Mrs Pleasant. Mrs Pleasant had gone. Some people would have bustled off to look for her in the crowds, but Nanny Ogg just stood and thought. I asked about magic, she thought, and she brought me here and left me. Because of them walls with ears in, I expect. So maybe I got to do the rest myself. She looked around her. There was a very rough tent a little way from the stalls, right by the river. There was no sign outside it, but there was a pot bubbling gently over a fire. Rough clay bowls were stacked beside the pot. Occasionally someone would step out of the crowd, help themselves to a bowlful of whatever was in the pot, and then throw a handful of coins into the plate in front of the tent. Nanny wandered over and looked into the pot. Things came to the surface and sank again. The general colour was brown. Bubbles formed, grew, and burst stickily with an organic 'blop'. Anything could be happening in that pot. Life could be spontaneously creating. Nanny Ogg would try anything once. Some things she'd try several thousand times. She unhooked the ladle, picked up a bowl, and helped herself. A moment later she pushed aside the tent flap and looked into the blackness of the interior. A figure was seated cross-legged in the gloom, smoking a pipe. 'Mind if I step inside?' said Nanny. The figure nodded. Nanny sat down. After a decent interval she pulled out her own pipe. 'Mrs Pleasant's a friend of yours, I expect. ' 'She knows me. ' 'Ah. ' From outside, there was the occasional clink as customers helped themselves. Blue smoke coiled from Nanny Ogg's pipe. |
'I don't reckon,' she said, 'that many people goes away without paying. ' 'No. ' After another pause Nanny Ogg said: 'I 'spects some of 'em tries to pay with gold and jewels and scented ungulants and stuff like that?' 'No. ' 'Amazin'. ' Nanny Ogg sat in silence for a while, listening to the distant noises of the market and summoning her powers. 'What's it called?' 'Gumbo. ' 'It's good. ' 'I know. ' 'I reckon anyone who could cook like that could do anything' - Nanny Ogg concentrated - 'Mrs. . . Gogol. ' She waited. 'Pretty near, Mrs Ogg. ' The two women stared at one another's shadowy outline, like plotters who had given the sign and countersign and were waiting to see what would happen next. 'Where I come from, we call it witchcraft,' said Nanny, under her breath. 'Where I come from, we call it voodoo,' said Mrs Gogol. Nanny's wrinkled forehead wrinkled still further. 'Ain't that all messin' with dolls and dead people and stuff?' she said. 'Ain't witchcraft all runnin' around with no clothes on and stickin' pins in people?' said Mrs Gogol levelly. 'Ah,' said Nanny. 'I sees what you mean. ' She shifted uneasily. She was a fundamentally honest woman. 'I got to admit, though. . . ' she added, 'sometimes. . . maybe just one pin. . . ' Mrs Gogol nodded gravely. 'Okay. Sometimes. . . maybe just one zombie,' she said. 'But only when there ain't no alternative. ' 'Sure. When there ain't no alternative. ' 'When. . . you know. . . people ain't showing respect, like. ' 'When the house needs paintin'. ' Nanny grinned, toothily. Airs Gogol grinned, outnumbering her in teeth by a factor of thirty. 'My full name's Gytha Ogg,' she said. 'People calls me Nanny. ' 'My full name's Erzulie Gogol,' said Mrs Gogol. 'People call me Mrs Gogol. ' "The way I saw it,' said Nanny, 'this is foreign parts, so maybe there's a different kind of magic. Stands to reason. The trees is different, the people is different, the drinks is different and has got banana in 'em, so the magic'd be different too. Then I thought. . . Gytha, my girl, you're never too old to learn. ' 'Sure thing. ' 'There's something wrong with this city. Felt it as soon as we set foot here. ' Mrs Gogol nodded. There was no sound for a while but the occasional puffing of a pipe. Then there was a clink from outside, followed by a thoughtful pause. A voice said, 'Gytha Ogg? I know you're in there. ' The outline of Mrs Gogol took its pipe out of its mouth. 'That's good,' she said. 'Good sense of taste there. ' The tent flap opened. 'Hallo, Esme,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Blessings be on this. . . tent,' said Granny Weather-wax, peering into the gloom. 'This here's Mrs Gogol,' said Nanny. 'She's by way of bein' a voodoo lady. That's what witches are in these parts. ' 'They ain't the only witches in these parts,' said Granny. 'Mrs Gogol was very impressed at you detecting me in here,' said Nanny. 'It wasn't hard,' said Granny. 'Once I'd spotted that Greebo washing himself outside, the rest was all deduction. ' In the gloom of the tent Nanny had formed a mental picture of Mrs Gogol as being old. What she hadn't expected, when the voodoo lady stepped out into the open air, was a handsome middle-aged woman taller than Granny. Mrs Gogol wore heavy gold earrings, a white blouse and a full red skirt with flounces. Nanny could feel Granny Weatherwax's disapproval. What they said about women with red skirts was even worse than whatever they said about women with red shoes, whatever that was. Mrs Gogol stopped and raised an arm. There was a flurry of wings. Greebo, who had been rubbing obsequiously against Nanny's leg, looked up and hissed. The largest and blackest cockerel Nanny had ever seen had settled on Mrs Gogol's shoulder. It turned on her the most intelligent stare she had ever seen on a bird. 'My word,' she said, taken aback. 'That's the biggest cock I've ever seen, and I've seen a few in my time. ' Mrs Gogol raised one disapproving eyebrow. 'She never had no proper upbringing,' said Granny. 'What with living next to a chicken farm and all, is what I was going to say next,' said Nanny. 'This is Legba, a dark and dangerous spirit,' said Mrs Gogol. She leaned closer and spoke out of the corner of her mouth. 'Between you and me, he just a big black cockerel. But you know how it is. ' 'It pays to advertise,' Nanny agreed. 'This is Greebo. Between you and me, he's a fiend from hell. ' 'Well, he's a cat,' said Mrs Gogol, generously. 'It's only to be expected. ' Dear Jason and everyone, Isn't it amazing the things what happen when you dont expect it, for example we met Mrs Gogol who works as a coke by day but is a Voodoo witch, you mustnt bekive all the stuff about black magic, exetra, this is a Blind, shes just like us only different. Its true about the zombies though but its not what you think. . . Genua was a strange city, Nanny decided. You got off the main streets, walked along a side road, went through a little gate and suddenly there were trees everywhere, with moss and them llamas hanging from them, and the ground began to wobble underfoot and become swamp. On either side of the track there were dark pools in which, here and there, among the lilies, were the kind of logs the witches had never seen before. 'Them's bloody big newts,' she said. 'They're alligators. ' 'By gods. They must get good grub. ' 'Yeah!' Mrs Gogol's house itself looked a simple affair of driftwood from the river, roofed with moss and built out over the swamp itself on four stout poles. It was close enough to the centre of the city that Nanny could hear street cries and the clip-clop of hooves, but the shack in its little swamp was wreathed in silence. 'Don't people bother you here?' said Nanny. 'Not them as I don't want to meet. ' The lily pads moved. A v-shaped ripple drifted across the nearest pool. 'Self-reliance,' said Granny approvingly. 'That's always very important. ' Nanny regarded the reptiles with a calculating stare. They tried to match it, and gave up when their eyes started watering. 'I reckon I could just do with a couple of them at home,' she said thoughtfully, as they slid away again. 'Our Jason could dig another pond, no problem. What was it you said they et?' 'Anything they want to. ' 'I knows a joke about alligators,' said Granny, in the tones of one announcing a great and solemn truth. 'You never!' said Nanny Ogg. 'I never heard you tell a joke in your whole life!' 'Just because I don't tell 'em don't mean I don't know 'em,' said Granny haughtily. 'It's about this man - ' 'What man?' said Nanny. 'This man went into an inn. Yes. It was an inn. And he saw a sign. The sign said “We serve every kind of sandwich. ” So he said “Get me an alligator sandwich -and make it quick!” ' They looked at her. Nanny Ogg turned to Mrs Gogol. 'So. . . you live alone here, then?' she said brightly. 'Not a living soul around?' 'In a manner of speakin',' said Mrs Gogol. 'You see, the point is, alligators are - ' Granny began, in a loud voice, and then stopped. The shack's door had opened. This was another big kitchen. * Once upon a time it had provided employment for half a dozen cooks. Now it was a cave, its far corners shadowy, its hanging saucepans and tureens dulled by dust. The big tables had been pushed to one side and stacked almost ceiling high with ancient crockery; the stoves, which looked big enough to take * As Desiderata said, fairy godmothers tend to get heavily involved with kitchens. whole cows and cook for an army, stood cold. In the middle of the grey desolation someone had set up a small table by the fireplace. It was on a square of bright carpet. A jam-jar contained flowers that had been arranged by the simple method of grabbing a handful of them and ramming them in. The effect was a little area of slightly soppy brightness in the general gloom. Ella shuffled a few things around desperately and then stood looking at Magrat with a sort of defensively shy smile. 'Silly of me, really. I expect you're used to this sort of thing,' she said. 'Um. Yes. Oh, yes. All the time,' said Magrat. 'It was just that I expected you to be a bit. |
older? Apparently you were at my christening?' 'Ah. Yes?' said Magrat. 'Well, you see, the thing is - ' 'Still, I expect you can look like whatever you want,' said Ella helpfully. 'Ah. Yes. Er. ' Ella looked slightly puzzled for a moment, as if trying to work out why - if Magrat could look like whatever she wanted - she'd chosen to look like Magrat. 'Well, now,' she said. 'What do we do next?' 'You mentioned tea,' said Magrat, buying time. 'Oh, sure. ' Ella turned to the fireplace, where a blackened kettle hung over what Granny Weatherwax always called an optimist's fire. * 'What's your name?' she said over her shoulder. 'Magrat,' said Magrat, sitting. 'That's a. nice name,' said Ella, politely. 'Of course, you know mine. Mind you, I spend so much time cooking over this wretched thing now that Mrs Pleasant calls me Embers. Silly, isn't it. ' Emberella, thought Magrat. I'm fairy godmothering a girl who sounds like something you put up in the rain. * Two logs and hope. 'It could use a little work,' she conceded. 'I haven't the heart to tell her off, she thinks it sounds jolly,' she said. 'I think it sounds like something you put up in the rain. ' 'Oh, I wouldn't say that,' said Magrat. 'Uh. Who's Mrs Pleasant?' 'She's the cook at the palace. She comes around to cheer me up when they're out. . . ' Ella spun around, holding the blackened kettle like a weapon. 'I'm not going to that ball!' she snapped. 'I'm not going to marry the prince! Do you understand?' The words came out like steel ingots. 'Right! Right!' said Magrat, taken aback by their force. 'He looks slimy. He makes my flesh crawl,' said Embers darkly. 'They say he's got funny eyes. And everyone knows what he does at night!' Discworld 12 - Witches Abroad Everyone bar one, Magrat thought. No-one ever tells me. Aloud, she said: 'Well, it shouldn't be too much to arrange. I mean, normally it's marrying princes that's the hard bit. ' 'Not for me it isn't,' said Embers. 'It's all been arranged. My other godmother says I've got to do it. She says it's my destiny. ' 'Other godmother?' said Magrat. 'Everyone gets two,' said Ella. 'The good one and the bad one. You know that. Which one are you?' Magrat's mind raced. 'Oh, the good one,' she said. 'Definitely. ' 'Funny thing,' said Ella. 'That's just what the other one said, too. ' Granny Weatherwax sat in her special knees-clenched, elbows-in way that put as little as possible of herself in contact with the outside world. 'By gor', this is good stuff,' said Nanny Ogg, polishing her plate with what Granny could only hope was bread. 'You ought to try a drop, Esme. ' 'Another helping, Mrs Ogg?' said Mrs Gogol. 'Don't mind if I do, Mrs Gogol. ' Nanny nudged Granny in the ribs. 'It's really good, Esme. Just like stew. ' Mrs Gogol looked at Granny with her head on one side. 'I think perhaps Mistress Weatherwax isn't worried about the food,' she said. 'I think Mistress Weatherwax is worried about the service. ' A shadow loomed over Nanny Ogg. A grey hand took her plate away. Granny Weatherwax gave a little cough. 'I've got nothing against dead people,' she said. 'Some of my best friends are dead. It just don't seem right, though, dead people walking about. ' Nanny Ogg looked up at the figure even now ladling a third helping of mysterious liquid on to her plate. 'What d'you think about it, Mr Zombie?' 'It's a great life, Mrs Ogg,' said the zombie. 'There. See, Esme? He don't mind. Better than being shut up in a stuffy coffin all day, I'll be bound. ' Granny looked up at the zombie. He was - or, technically, had been - a tall, handsome man. He still was, only now he looked like someone who had walked through a room full of cobwebs. 'What's your name, dead man?' she said. 'I am called Saturday. ' 'Man Saturday, eh?' said Nanny Ogg. 'No. Just Saturday, Mrs Ogg. Just Saturday. ' Granny Weatherwax looked into his eyes. They were more sentient than most eyes she had seen that belonged to people who were, technically, alive. She was vaguely aware that there were things you had to do to a dead person to turn them into a zombie, although it was a branch of magic she'd never wanted to investigate. Yet you needed more than just a lot of weird fish innards and foreign roots - the person had to want to come back. They had to have some terrible dream or desire or purpose that would enable them to overcome the grave itself. . . Saturday's eyes burned. She reached a decision. She held out a hand. 'Very pleased to meet you, Mister Saturday,' she said. 'And I'm sure I'd enjoy your lovely stew. ' 'It's called gumbo,' said Nanny. 'It's got lady's fingers in it. ' 'I know well enough that lady's fingers is a kind of plant, thank you very much,' said Granny. 'I'm not entirely ignorant. ' 'All right, but make sure you get a helping with snakes' heads in it as well,' said Nanny Ogg. 'They're the best part. ' 'What kind of plant is snakes' heads?' 'Best if you just eat up, I reckon,' said Nanny. They were sitting on the warped wood veranda round the back of Mrs Gogol's shack, overlooking the swamp. Mossy beards hung from every branch. Unseen creatures buzzed in the greenery. And everywhere there were v-shaped ripples cutting gently through the water. 'I expect it's really nice here when the sun's out,' said Nanny. Saturday trudged into the shack and returned with a makeshift fishing pole, which he baited and cast over the rail. Then he sort of switched off; no-one has more patience than a zombie. Mrs Gogol leaned back in her rocking-chair and lit her pipe. 'This used to be a great ole city,' she said. 'What happened to it?' said Nanny. Greebo was having a lot of trouble with Legba the cockerel. For one thing, the bird refused to be terrorized. Greebo could terrorize most things that moved upon the face of the Discworld, even creatures nominally much bigger and tougher than he was. Yet somehow none of his well-tried tactics - the yawn, the stare and above all the slow grin -seemed to work. Legba merely looked down his beak at him, and pretended to scratch at the ground in a way that brought his two-inch spurs into even greater prominence. That only left the flying leap. This worked on nearly every creature. Very few animals remained calm in the face of an enraged ball of whirring claws in the face. In the case of this bird, Greebo suspected, it might well result in his becoming a furry kebab. But this had to be resolved. Otherwise generations of cats would laugh at him. Cat and bird circled through the swamp, each apparently paying the other no attention whatsoever. Things gibbered in the trees. Small iridescent birds barrelled through the air. Greebo glared up at them. He would sort them out later. And the cockerel had vanished. Greebo's ears flattened against his head. There was still the birdsong and the whine of insects, but they were elsewhere. Here there was silence - hot, dark and oppressive - and trees that were somehow much closer together than he remembered. Greebo looked around. He was in a clearing. Around its sides, hanging from bushes or tied to trees, were things. Bits of ribbon. White bones. Tin pots. Perfectly ordinary things, anywhere else. And in die centre of the clearing, something like a scarecrow. An upright pole with a crosspiece, on which someone had put an old black coat. Above the coat, on the tip of the pole, was a top hat. On top of the hat, watching him thoughtfully, was Legba. A breeze blew through the stifling air, causing the coat to flap gently. Greebo remembered a day when he'd chased a rat into the village windmill and had suddenly found that what had seemed merely a room with odd furniture in it was a great big machine which would, if he put a paw wrong, crush him utterly. The air sizzled gently. He could feel his fur standing on end. Greebo turned and stalked away haughtily, until he judged himself out of sight, whereupon his legs spun so fast that his paws skidded. Then he went and grinned at some alligators, but his heart wasn't in it. In the clearing, the coat moved gently again and then was still. Somehow, that was worse. Legba watched. |
The air grew heavier, just as it does before a storm. "This used to be a great old city. A happy place. No-one tried to make it happy. It just happened, all by itself,' said Airs Gogol. 'That was when the old Baron was alive. But he was murdered. ' 'Who done it?' said Nanny Ogg. 'Everyone knows it was the Duc,' said Airs Gogol. The witches looked at one another. Royal intrigues were obviously a bit different in foreign parts. 'Pecked to death, was he?' said Nanny. 'A foul deed?' said Granny. 'The Duc is a title, not a bird,' said Mrs Gogol patiently. 'The Baron was poisoned. It was a terrible night. And, in the morning, the Duc was in the palace. Then there was the matter of the will. ' 'Don't tell me,' said Granny. 'I bet there was a will leaving everything to this Duc. I bet the ink was still wet. ' 'How did you know that?' said Airs Gogol. 'Stands to reason,' said Granny loftily. 'The Baron had a young daughter,' said Mrs Gogol. 'She'd be still alive, I reckon,' said Granny. 'You surely know a lot of things, lady,' said Airs Gogol. 'Why'd you think that, then?' 'Well. . . ' said Granny. She was about to say: because I know how the stories work. But Nanny Ogg interrupted. 'If this Baron was as great as you say, he must have had a lot of friends in the city, right?' she said. 'That is so. The people liked him. ' 'Well, if I was a Duc with no more claim on things than a smudgy will and a little bottle of ink with the cork still out, I'd be lookin' for any chance to make things a bit more official,' said Nanny. 'Marryin' the real heir'd be favourite. He could thumb his nose at everyone, then. I bet she don't know who she really is, eh?' 'That's right,' said Mrs Gogol. 'The Duc's got friends, too. Or keepers, maybe. Not people you'd want to cross. They've brought her up, and they don't let her out much. ' The witches sat in silence for a while. Granny thought: no. That's not quite right. That's how it'd appear in a history book. But that's not the story. Then Granny said,' 'Scuse me, Mrs Gogol, but where do you come in all this? No offence, but I reckon that out here in the swamp it'd be all the same whoever was doing the rulin'. ' For the first time since they'd met her, Mrs Gogol looked momentarily uneasy. 'The Baron was. a friend of mine,' she said. 'Ah,' said Granny understandingly. 'He wasn't keen on zombies, mark you. He said he thought the dead should be allowed their rest. But he never insisted. Whereas this new one. . . ' 'Not keen on the Interestin" Arts?' said Nanny. 'Oh, I reckon he is,' said Granny. 'He'd have to be. Not your magic, maybe, but I bet he's got a lot of magic around him. ' 'Why d'you say that, lady?' said Mrs Gogol. 'Well,' said Nanny, 'I can see that you, being a lady o' spirit, wouldn't put up with this if you didn't have to. There's lots of ways to sort matters out, I 'spect. I 'spect, if you dint like someone, their legs might unexpectedly drop off, or they might find mysterious snakes in their boots. " 'Alleygators under their bed,' suggested Granny. 'Yes. He's got protection,' said Mrs Gogol. 'Ah. ' 'Powerful magic. ' 'More powerful'n you?' said Granny. There was a long and difficult pause. 'Yes. ' 'Ah. ' 'For now,' Mrs Gogol added. There was another pause. No witch ever liked admitting to less than near-absolute power, or even hearing another witch doing so. 'You're biding your time, I expect,' said Granny kindly. 'Wifing your strength,' said Nanny. 'It's powerful protection,' said Mrs Gogol. Granny sat back in her chair. When she spoke next, it was as a person who has certain ideas in their mind and wants to find out what someone else knows. 'What sort?' she said. 'Exactly?' Mrs Gogol reached into the cushions of her rocking-chair and, after some rummaging, produced a leather bag and a pipe. She lit the pipe and puffed a cloud of bluish smoke into the morning air. 'You look in mirrors a lot these days, Mistress Weather-wax?' she said. Granny's chair tipped backwards, almost throwing her off the veranda and into the inky waters. Her hat flew away into the lily pads. She had time to see it settle gently on the water. It floated for a moment and then - - was eaten. A very large alligator snapped its jaws shut and gazed smugly at Granny. It was a relief to have something to shout about. 'My hat! It ate my hat! One of your alleygators ate my hatl It was my hat! Make it give it back!' She snatched a length of creeper off the nearest tree and flailed at the water. Nanny Ogg backed away. 'You shouldn't do that, Esme! You shouldn't do that!' she quavered. The alligator backed water. 'I can hit cheeky lizards if I want!' 'Yes, you can, you can,' said Nanny soothingly, 'but not. . . with a. snake. . . ' Granny held up the creeper for inspection. A medium-sized Three-Banded Coit gave her a frightened look, considered biting her nose for a moment, thought better of it, and then shut its mouth very tightly in the hope she'd get the message. She opened her hand. The snake dropped to the boards and slithered away quickly. Mrs Gogol hadn't stirred in her chair. Now she half turned. Saturday was still patiently watching his fishing line. 'Saturday, go and fetch the lady's hat,' she said. 'Yes, m'm. ' Even Granny hesitated at that. 'You can't make him do that!' she said. 'But he's dead,' said Mrs Gogol. 'Yes, but it's bad enough being dead without bein' in bits too,' said Granny. 'Don't you go in there, Mr Saturday!' 'But it was your hat, lady,' said Mrs Gogol. 'Yes, but. " said Granny,'. . . a. . . hat was all it was. I wouldn't send anyone into any alligators for any hat. ' Nanny Ogg looked horrified. No-one knew better than Granny Weatherwax that hats were important. They weren't just clothing. Hats defined the head. They defined who you were. No-one had ever heard of a wizard without a pointy hat - at least, no wizard worth speaking of. And you certainly never heard of a witch without one. Even Magrat had one, although she hardly ever wore it on account of being a wet hen. That didn't matter too much; it wasn't the wearing of the hats that counted so much as having one to wear. Every trade, every craft had its hat. That's why kings had hats. Take the crown off a king and all you had was someone good at having a weak chin and waving to people. Hats had power. Hats were important. But so were people. Mrs Gogol took another puff at her pipe. 'Saturday, go and get my best hat for holidays,' she said. 'Yes, Mrs Gogol. ' Saturday disappeared into the hut for a moment, and came out with a large and battered box securely wrapped with twine. 'I can't take that,' said Granny. 'I can't take your best hat. ' 'Yes you can,' said Mrs Gogol. 'I've got another hat. Oh, yes. I've got another hat all right. ' Granny put the box down carefully. 'It occurs to me, Mrs Gogol,' she said, 'that you ain't everything you seem. ' 'Oh yes I is, Mistress Weatherwax. I never bin nothing else, just like you. ' 'You brought us here?' 'No. You brought yourselves here. Of your own free will. To help someone, ain't that right? You decided to do it, ain't that right? No-one forced you, ain't that right? 'Cept yourselves. ' 'She's right about all that,' said Nanny. 'We'd have felt it, if it was magic. ' "That's right,' said Granny. 'No-one forced us, except ourselves. What's your game, Mrs Gogol?' 'I ain't playing no game, Mistress Weatherwax. I just want back what's mine. I want justice. And I wants her stopped. ' 'Her who?' said Nanny Ogg. Granny's face had frozen into a mask. 'Her who's behind all this,' said Mrs Gogol. 'The Duc hasn't got the brains of a prawn, Mrs Ogg. I mean her. Her with her mirror magic. Her who likes to control. Her who's in charge. Her who's tinkering with destiny. Her that Mistress Weatherwax knows all about. ' Nanny Ogg was lost. 'What's she talking about, Esme?' she said. Granny muttered something. 'What? Didn't hear you,' Nanny said. Granny Weatherwax looked up, her face red with anger. |
'She means my sister, Gytha! Right? Got that? Do you understand? Did you hear? My sister! Want me to repeat it again? Want to know who she's talking about? You want me to write it down? My sister! That's who! My sisterV 'They're sisters?' said Magrat. Her tea had gone cold. 'I don't know,' said Ella. 'They look. . . alike. They keep themselves to themselves most of the time. But I can feel them watching. They're very good at watching. ' 'And they make you do all the work?' she said. 'Well, I only have to cook for myself and the outside staff,' said Ella. 'And I don't mind the cleaning and the laundry all that much. ' 'Do they do their own cooking, then?' 'I don't think so. They walk around the house at night, after I've gone to bed. Godmother Lilith says I must be kind to them and pity them because they can't talk, and always see that we've got plenty of cheese in the larder. ' 'They eat nothing but cheese?' said Magrat. 'I don't think so,' said Ella. 'I should think the rats and mice get it, then, in an old place like this. ' 'You know, it's a funny thing,' said Ella, 'but I've never seen a mouse anywhere in this house. ' Magrat shivered. She felt watched. 'Why don't you just walk away? I would. ' 'Where to? Anyway, they always find me. Or they send the coachmen and grooms after me. ' 'That's horrible!' 'I'm sure they think that sooner or later I'll marry anyone to get away from laundry,' said Ella. 'Not mat the Prince's clothes get washed, I expect,' she added bitterly. 'I expect they get burned after he's worn them. ' ' What you want to do is make a career of your own,' said Magrat encouragingly, to keep her spirits up. 'You want to be your own woman. You want to emancipate yourself. ' 'I don't think I want to do that,' said Ella, speaking with caution in case it was a sin to offend a fairy godmother. 'You do really,' said Magrat. 'Do I?' 'Yes. ' 'Oh. ' 'You don't have to marry anyone you don't want to. ' Ella sat back. 'How good are you?' she said. 'Er. . . well. I suppose I - ' 'The dress arrived yesterday,' said Ella. 'It's up in the big front room, on a stand so it doesn't get creased. So that it stays perfect. And they've polished up the coach specially. They've hired extra footmen, too. ' 'Yes, but perhaps - ' 'I think I'm going to have to marry someone I don't want to,' said Ella. Granny Weatherwax strode up and down the driftwood balcony. The whole shack trembled to her stamping. Ripples spread out as it bounced on the water. 'Of course you don't remember her!' she shouted. 'Our mam kicked her out when she was thirteen! We was both tiny then! But I remember the rows! I used to hear them when I was in bed! She was wanton? 'You always used to say I was wanton, when we was younger,' said Nanny. Granny hesitated, caught momentarily off balance. Then she waved a hand irritably. 'You was, of course,' she said dismissively. 'But you never used magic for it, did you?' 'Din't have to,' said Nanny happily. 'An off-the* shoulder dress did the trick most of the time. ' 'Right off the shoulder and on to the grass, as I recall,' said Granny. 'No, she used magic. Not just ordinary magic, neither. Oh, she was wilfulV Nanny Ogg was about to say: What? You mean not compliant and self-effacing like what you is, Esme? But she stopped herself. You didn't juggle matches in a fireworks factory. 'Young men's fathers used to come round to complain,' said Granny darkly. 'They never came round to complain about me,' said Nanny happily. 'And always looking at herself in mirrors,' said Granny. 'Prideful as a cat, she was. Prefer to look in a mirror than out of a window, she would. ' 'What's her name?' 'Lily. ' 'That's a nice name,' said Nanny. 'It isn't what she calls herself now,' said Mrs Gogol. 'I bet it isn't!' 'And she's, like, in charge of the city?' said Nanny. 'She was bossy, too!' 'What'd she want to be in charge of a city for?' said Nanny. 'She's got plans,' said Mrs Gogol. 'And vain? Really vainl' said Granny, apparently to the world in general. 'Did you know she was here?' said Nanny. 'I had a feelin'! Mirrors!' 'Mirror magic isn't bad,' protested Nanny. 'I've done all kinds of stuff with mirrors. You can have a lot of fun with a mirror. ' 'She doesn't just use one mirror,' said Mrs Gogol. 'Oh. ' 'She uses two. ' 'Oh. That's different. ' Granny stared at the surface of the water. Her own face stared back at her from the darkness. She hoped it was her own face, anyway. 'I've felt her watchin' us, the whole way here,' she said. 'That's where she's happiest, inside mirrors. Inside mirrors, making people into stories. ' She prodded the image with a stick. 'She even got a look at me in Desiderata's house, just before Magrat came in. It ain't nice, seeing someone else in your reflection - ' She paused. 'Where is Magrat, anyway?' 'Out fairy godmothering, I think,' said Nanny. 'She said she didn't need any help. ' Magrat was annoyed. She was also frightened, which made her even more annoyed. It was hard for people when Magrat was annoyed. It was like being attacked by damp tissue. 'You have my personal word on it,' she said. 'You don't have to go to the ball if you don't want to. ' 'You won't be able to stop them,' said Ella darkly. 'I know how things work in this city. ' 'Look, I said you won't have to go!' said Magrat. She looked thoughtful. 'There isn't someone else you'd rather marry, is there?' she said. 'No. I don't know many people. I don't get much chance. ' 'Good,' said Magrat. 'That makes it easier. I suggest we get you out of here and - and take you somewhere else. ' 'There isn't anywhere else. I told you. There's just swamp. I tried once or twice, and they sent the coachmen after me. They weren't unkind. The coachmen, I mean. They're just afraid. Everyone's afraid. Even the Sisters are afraid, I think. ' Magrat looked around at the shadows. 'What of?' she said. 'They say that people disappear. If they upset the Duc. Something happens to them. Everyone's very polite in Genua,' said Ella sourly. 'And no-one steals and no-one raises their voice and everyone stays indoors at night, except when it's Fat Tuesday. ' She sighed. 'Now that's something I'd like to go to. To the carnival. They always make me stay in, though. But I hear it passing through the city and I think: that's what Genua ought to be. Not a few people dancing in palaces, but everyone dancing in the streets. ' Magrat shook herself. She felt a long way from home. 'I think perhaps I might need a bit of help with this one,' she said. 'You've got a wand,' said Ella. 'I think there's times when you need more than a wand,' said Magrat. She stood up. 'But I'll tell you this,' she said. 'I don't like this house. I don't like this city. Emberella?' 'Yes?' 'You won't go to the ball. I'll make sure of that - ' She turned around. 'I told you,' murmured Ella, looking down. 'You can't even hear them. ' One of the sisters was at the top of the steps leading into the kitchen. Her gaze was fixed immovably on Magrat. They say that everyone has the attributes of some kind of animal. Magrat possibly had a direct mental link to some small furry creature. She felt the terror of all small rodents in the face of unblinking death. Modulated over the menace of the gaze were all sorts of messages: the uselessness of flight, the stupidity of resistance, the inevitability of oblivion. She knew she could do nothing. Her legs weren't under her control. It was as if commands were coming straight down that stare and into her spinal cord. The sense of helplessness was almost peaceful. . . 'Blessings be upon this house. ' The sister spun around much faster than any human should be able to move. Granny Weatherwax pushed open the door. 'Oh deary me,' she thundered, 'and lawks. ' 'Yeah,' said Nanny Ogg, crowding through the doorway behind her. 'Lawks too. ' 'We're just a couple of old beggar women,' said Granny, striding across the floor. 'Begging from house to house,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Not coming directly here by any manner o' means. ' They each caught one of Magrat's elbows and lifted her off her feet. |
Granny turned her head. 'What about you, Miss?' Ella shook her head without looking up. 'No,' she said, 'I mustn't come. ' Granny's eyes narrowed. 'I suppose not,' she said. 'We all have our path to walk, or so it is said, although not by me. Come, Gytha. ' 'We're just off,' said Nanny Ogg, brightly. They turned. Another sister appeared in the doorway. 'Ye gods,' said Nanny Ogg. 'I never saw her move!' 'We was just going out,' said Granny Weatherwax loudly. 'If it's all the same with you, m'lady?' She met the stare head-on. The air tingled. Then Granny Weatherwax said, between gritted teeth, 'When I say run, Gytha - ' 'I hear you,' said Nanny. Granny groped behind her and found the teapot Magrat had just used. She weighed it in her hands, keeping the movements slow and gentle. 'Ready, Gytha?' 'Waitin', Esme. ' 'Run!' Granny hurled the teapot high into the air. The heads of both sisters snapped around. Nanny Ogg helped the stumbling Magrat out of the door. Granny slammed it shut as the nearer sister darted forward, mouth open, too late. 'We're leaving the girl in there!' shouted Nanny, as they ran down the drive. 'They're guarding her,' said Granny. 'They're not going to harm her!' 'I ain't seen teeth like those on anyone before!' said Nanny. 'That's 'cos they ain't anyone! They're snakes!' They reached the comparative security of the roadway and leaned against the wall. 'Snakes?' Nanny wheezed. Magrat opened her eyes. 'It's Lily's doing,' said Granny. 'She was good at that kind of thing, I remember. ' 'Really snakes?' 'Yeah,' said Granny darkly. 'She made friends easily. ' 'Blimey! I couldn't do that. ' 'She didn't used to be able to either, for more'n a few seconds. That's what using mirrors does for you. ' 'I - I -' Magrat stuttered. 'You're all right,' said Nanny. She looked up at Esme Weatherwax. 'We shouldn't leave the girl, whatever you say. In a house with snakes walking around thinking they're human,' she said. 'It's worse than that. They're walking around thinking they're snakes,' said Granny. 'Well, whatever. You never do that sort of thing. The worst you ever did was make people a bit confused about what they was. ' 'That's because I'm the good one,' said Granny bitterly. Magrat shuddered. 'So are we going to get her out?' said Nanny. 'Not yet. There's going to be a proper time,' said Granny. 'Can you hear me, Magrat Garlick?' 'Yes, Granny,' said Magrat. 'We've got to go somewhere and talk,' said Granny. 'About stories. ' 'What about stories?' said Magrat. 'Lily is using them,' said Granny. 'Don't you see that? You can feel it in this whole country. The stories collect round here because here's where they find a way out. She feeds 'em. Look, she don't want your Ella to marry that Duc man just because of politics or something. That's just an. explanation. 'S not a reason. She wants the girl to marry the prince because that's what the story demands. ' 'What's in it for her?' said Nanny. 'In the middle of 'em all, the fairy godmother or the wicked witch. . . you remember? That's where Lily is putting herself, like. . . like. . . ' she paused, trying to find the right word. 'Remember that time last year when the circus thing came to Lancre?' 'I remember,' said Nanny. 'Them girls in the spangly tights and the fellows pourin' whitewash down their trousers. Never saw a elephant, though. They said there'd be elephants and there wasn't any. It had elephants on the posters. I spent a whole tuppence and there wasn't a single ele - ' 'Yes, but what I'm sayin',' said Granny, as they hurried along the street, 'is there was that man in the middle, you remember. With the moustache and the big hat?' 'Him? But he didn't do anything much,' said Nanny. 'He just stood in the middle of the tent and sometimes he cracked his whip and all the acts just went on round him. ' "That's why he was the most important one there,' said Granny. 'It was the things going on around him that made him important. ' 'What's Lily feeding the stories?' said Magrat. 'People,' said Granny. She frowned. 'Stories!' she said. 'Well, we'll have to see about that. . . ' Green twilight covered Genua. The mists curled up from the swamp. Torches flared in the streets. In dozens of yards shadowy figures moved, pulling the covers off floats. In the darkness there was a flash of sequins and a jingle of bells. All year the people of Genua were nice and quiet. But history has always allowed the downtrodden one night somewhere in any calendar to restore temporarily the balance of the world. It might be called the Feast of Fools, or the King of the Bean. Or even Samedi Nuit Mort, when even those with the most taxing and responsible of duties can kick back and have fun. Most of them, anyway. . . The coachmen and the footmen were sitting in their shed at one side of the stable yard, eating their dinner and complaining about having to work on Dead Night. They were also engaging in the time-honoured rituals that go therewith, which largely consist of finding out what their wives have packed for them today and envying the other men whose wives obviously cared more. The head footman raised a crust cautiously. 'I've got chicken neck and pickle,' he said. 'Anyone got any cheese?' The second coachman inspected his box. 'It's boiled bacon again,' he complained. 'She always gives me boiled bacon. She knows I don't like it. She don't even cut the fat off. ' 'Is it thick white fat?' said the first coachman. 'Yeah. Horrible. Is this right for a holiday feast or what?' 'I'll swap you a lettuce and tomato. ' 'Right. Whatnot/ got[?], Jimmy?' The underfootman shyly opened his perfect package. There were four sandwiches, crusts cut off. There was a sprig of parsley. There was even a napkin. 'Smoked salmon and cream cheese,' he said. 'And still a bit of the wedding cake,' said the first coachman. 'Ain't you et that all up yet?' 'We have it every night,' said the underfootman. The shed shook with the ensuing laughter. It is a universal fact that any innocent comment made by any recently-married young member of any workforce is an instant trigger for coarse merriment among his or her older and more cynical colleagues. This happens even if everyone concerned has nine legs and lives at the bottom of an ocean of ammonia on a huge cold planet. It's just one of those things. 'You make the most of it,' said the second coachman gloomily, when they'd settled down again. 'It starts off kisses and cake and them cutting the crusts off, and next thing you know it's down to tongue pie, cold bum and the copper stick. ' 'The way I see it,' the first coachman began, 'it's all about the way you - ' There was a knocking at the door. The underfootman, being the junior member, got up and opened it. 'It's an old crone,' he said. 'What do you want, old crone?' 'Fancy a drink?' said Nanny Ogg. She held up a jug over which hung a perceptible haze of evaporating alcohol, and blew a paper squeaker. 'What?' said the footman. 'Shame for you lads to be working. It's a holiday! Whoopee!' 'What's going on?' the senior coachman began, and then he entered the cloud of alcohol. 'Gods! What is that stuff? 'Smells like rum, Air Travis. ' The senior coachman hesitated. From the streets came music and laughter as the first of the processions got under way. Fireworks popped across the sky. It wasn't a night to be without just a sip of alcohol. 'What a nice old lady,' he said. Nanny Ogg waved the jug again. 'Up your eye!' she said. 'Mud in your bottom!' What might be called the classical witch comes in two basic varieties, the complicated and the simple, or, to put it another way, the ones that have a room full of regalia and the ones that don't. Magrat was by inclination one of the former sort. For example, take magical knives. She had a complete collection of magical knives, all with the appropriate coloured handles and complicated runes all over them. It had taken many years under the tutelage of Granny Weatherwax for Magrat to learn that the common kitchen breadknife was better than the most ornate of magic knives. |
It could do all that the magical knife could do, plus you could also use it to cut bread. Every established kitchen has one ancient knife, its handle worn thin, its blade curved like a banana, and so inexplicably sharp that reaching into the drawer at night is like bobbing for apples in a piranha tank. Magrat had hers stuck in her belt. Currently she was thirty feet above the ground, one hand holding on to her broomstick, the other on to a drainpipe, both legs dangling. Housebreaking ought to be easy, when you had a broomstick. But this did not appear to be the case. Finally she got both legs around the pipe and a firm grip on a timely gargoyle. She waggled the knife in between the two halves of the window and lifted the latch. After a certain amount of grunting, she was inside, leaning against the wall and panting. Blue lights flashed in front of her eyes, echoing the fireworks that laced the night outside. Granny had kept on asking her if she was sure she wanted to do this. And she was amazed to find that she was sure. Even if the snake women were already wandering around the house. Being a witch meant going into places you didn't want to go. She opened her eyes. There was the dress, in the middle of the floor, on a dressmaker's dummy. A Klatchian Candle burst over Genua. Green and red stars exploded in the velvet darkness, and lit up the gems and silks in front of Magrat. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She crept forward, her mouth dry. Warm mists rolled through the swamp. Mrs Gogol stirred the cauldron. 'What are they doing?' said Saturday. 'Stopping the story,' she said. 'Or. . . maybe not. . . ' She stood up. 'One way or another, it's our time now. Let's go to the clearing. ' She looked at Saturday's face. 'Are you frightened?' 'I. know what will happen afterwards,' said the zombie. 'Even if we win. ' 'We both do. But we've had twelve years. ' 'Yes. We've had twelve years. ' 'And Ella will rule the city. ' 'Yes. ' In the coachmen's shed Nanny Ogg and the coachmen were getting along, as she put it, like a maison en flambe. The underfootman smiled vaguely at the wall, and slumped forward. 'That's youngpipple today,' said the head coachman, trying to fish his wig out of his mug. 'Can't hold their drin. . . their drine. . . stuff. . . ' 'Have a hair of the dog, Mr Travis?' said Nanny, filling the mug. 'Or scale of the alligator or whatever you call it in these parts. ' 'Reckon,' said the senior footman, 'we should be gettin' the coesshe ready, what say?' 'Reckon you've got time for one more yet,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Ver' generous,' said the coachman. 'Ver' generous. Here's lookin' at you, Mrsrsrs Goo. . . ' Magrat had dreamed of dresses like this. In the pit of her soul, in the small hours of the night, she'd danced with princes. Not shy, hardworking princes like Verence back home, but real ones, with crystal blue eyes and white teeth. And she'd worn dresses like this. And they had fitted. She stared at the ruched sleeves, the embroidered bodice, the fine white lace. It was all a world away from her. . . well. . . Nanny Ogg kept calling them 'Magrats', but they were trousers, and very practical. As if being practical mattered at all. She stared for a long time. Then, with tears streaking her face and changing colour as they caught the light of the fireworks, she took the knife and began to cut the dress into very small pieces. The senior coachman's head bounced gently off his sandwiches. Nanny Ogg stood up, a little unsteadily. She placed the junior footman's wig under his slumbering head, because she was not an unkind woman. Then she stepped out into the night. A figure moved near the wall. 'Magrat?' hissed Nanny. 'Nanny?' 'Did you see to the dress?' 'Have you seen to the footmen?' 'Right, then,' said Granny Weatherwax, stepping out of the shadows. 'Then there's just the coach. ' She tiptoed theatrically to the coachhouse and opened the door. It grated loudly on the cobbles. 'Shsss!' said Nanny. There was a stub of candle and some matches on a ledge. Magrat fumbled the candle alight. The coach lit up like a glitter ball. It was excessively ornate, as if someone had taken a perfectly ordinary coach and then gone insane with fretwork and gold paint. Granny Weatherwax walked around it. 'A bit showy,' she said. 'Seems a real shame to smash it up,' said Nanny sadly. She rolled up her sleeves and then, as an afterthought, tucked the hem of her skirt into her drawers. 'Bound to be a hammer somewhere around here,' she said, turning to the benches along the walls. 'Don't! That'd make too much noise!' hissed Magrat. 'Hang on a moment. . . ' She pulled the despised wand out of her belt, gripped it tightly, and waved it towards the coach. There was a brief inrush of air. 'Blow me down,' said Nanny Ogg. 'I never would have thought of that. ' On the floor was a large orange pumpkin. 'It was nothing,' said Magrat, risking a touch of pride. 'Hah! That's one coach that'll never roll again,' said Nanny. 'Hey. . . can you do that to the horses too?' said Granny. Magrat shook her head. 'Urn, I think that would be very cruel. ' 'You're right. You're right,' said Granny. 'No excuse for cruelty to dumb animals. ' The two stallions watched her with equine curiosity as she undid the loose-box gates. 'Off you go,' she said. 'Big green fields out there somewhere. ' She glanced momentarily at Magrat. 'You have been em-horse-sipated. ' This didn't seem to have much effect. Granny sighed. She climbed up onto the wooden wall that separated the boxes, reached up, grabbed a horse ear in either hand, and gently dragged their heads down level with her mouth. She whispered something. The stallions turned and looked one another in the eye. Then they looked down at Granny. She grinned at them, and nodded. Then. . . It is impossible for a horse to go instantly from a standing start to a gallop, but they almost managed it. 'What on earth did you say to them?' said Magrat. 'Mystic horseman's word,' said Granny. 'Passed down to Gytha's Jason, who passed it up to me. Works every time. ' 'He told you it?' said Nanny. 'Yes. ' 'What, all of it?' 'Yes,' said Granny, smugly. Magrat tucked the wand back into her belt. As she did so, a square of white material fell on to the floor. White gems and silk glimmered in the candlelight as she reached down hurriedly to pick it up, but there wasn't a lot that escaped Granny Weatherwax. She sighed. 'Magrat Garlick. . . ' she began. 'Yes,' said Magrat meekly. 'Yes. I know. I'm a wet hen. ' Nanny patted her gently on the shoulder. 'Never mind,' she said. 'We've done a good night's work here. That Ella has about as much chance of being sent to the ball tonight as I have of. of becoming queen. ' 'No dress, no footmen, no horses and no coach," said Granny. 'I'd like to see her get out of that one. Stories? Hah!' 'So what're we going to do now?' said Magrat, as they crept out of the yard. 'It's Fat Lunchtime!' said Nanny. 'Hot diggety pig!' Greebo wandered out of the darkness and rubbed against her legs. 'I thought Lily was trying to stamp it out,' said Magrat. 'May as well try to stamp out a flood,' said Nanny. 'Kick out a jam!' 'I don't agree with dancing in the streets,' said Granny. 'How much of that rum did you drink?' 'Oh, come on, Esme,' said Nanny. 'They say if you can't have a good time in Genua you're probably dead. ' She thought about Saturday. 'You can probably have a bit of quiet fun even if you are dead, in Genua. ' ' Hadn't we better stay here, though?' said Magrat. 'Just to make sure?' Granny Weatherwax hesitated. 'What do you think, Esme?' said Nanny Ogg. 'You think she's going to be sent to the ball in a pumpkin, eh? Get a few mice to pull it, eh? Heheh!' A vision of the snake women floated across Granny Weathenvax's mind, and she hesitated. But, after all, it had been a long day. And it was ridiculous, when you came to think about it. 'Well, all right,' she said. 'But I'm not going to kick any jam, you understand. ' 'There's dancing and all sorts,' said Nanny. 'And banana drinks, I expect,' said Magrat. |
'It's a million to one chance, yes,' said Nanny Ogg happily. Lilith de Tempscire smiled at herself in the double mirror. 'Oh deary me,' she said. 'No coach, no dress, no horses. What is a poor old godmother to do? Deary me. And probably lawks. ' She opened a small leather case, such as a musician might use to carry his very best piccolo. There was a wand in there, the twin of the one carried by Magrat. She took it out and gave it a couple of twists, moving the gold and silver rings into a new position. The clicking sounded like the nastiest pump-action mechanism. 'And me with nothing but a pumpkin, too,' said Lilith. And of course the difference between sapient and non-sapient things was that while it was hard to change the shape of the former it was not actually impossible. It was just a matter of changing a mental channel. Whereas a non-sapient thing like a pumpkin, and it was hard to imagine anything less sapient than a pumpkin, could not be changed by any magic short of sourcery. Unless its molecules remembered a time when they weren't a pumpkin. . . She laughed, and a billion reflected Liliths laughed with her, all around the curve of the mirror universe. Fat Lunchtime was no longer celebrated in the centre of Genua. But in the shanty town around the high white buildings it strutted its dark and torchlit stuff. There were fireworks. There were dancers, and fire-eaters, and feathers, and sequins. The witches, whose idea of homely entertainment was a Morris dance, watched open-mouthed from the crowded sidewalk as the parades strutted by. 'There's dancing skeletons!' said Nanny, as a score of bony figures whirred down the street. 'They're not,' said Magrat. 'They're just men in black tights with bones painted on. ' Someone nudged Granny Weatherwax. She looked up into the large, grinning face of a black man. He passed her a stone jug. 'There you go, honey. ' Granny took it, hesitated for a moment, and then took a swig. She nudged Magrat and passed on the bottle. 'Frgtht!! Gizeer!' she said. 'What?' shouted Magrat, above the noise of a marching band. 'The man wants us to pass it on,' said Granny. Magrat looked at the bottle neck. She tried surreptitiously to wipe it on her dress, despite the self-evident fact that germs on it would have burned off long ago. She ventured a brief nip, and then nudged Nanny Ogg. 'Kwizathugner!' she said, and dabbed at her eyes. Nanny up-ended the bottle. After a while Magrat nudged her again. 'I think we're meant to pass it on?' she ventured. Nanny wiped her mouth and passed the now rather lighter jug randomly to a tall figure on her left. 'Here you go, mister,' she said. THANK YOU. 'Nice costume you got there. Them bones are painted on really good. ' Nanny turned back to watch a procession of juggling fire-eaters. Then a connection appeared to be made somewhere in the back of her mind. She looked up. The stranger had wandered off. She shrugged. 'What shall we do next?' she said. Granny Weatherwax was staring fixedly at a group of ground-zero limbo dancers. A lot of the dances in the parades had this in common: they expressed explicitly what things like maypoles only hinted at. They covered it with sequins, too. 'You'll never feel safe in the privy again, eh?' said Nanny Ogg. At her feet Greebo sat primly watching some dancing women wearing nothing but feathers, trying to work out what to do about them. 'No. I was thinkin' of something else. I was thinkin' about. . . how stories work. And now. I think I'd like something to eat,' said Granny weakly. She rallied a bit. 'And I mean some proper food, not somethin' scraped off the bottom of a pond. And I don't want any of this cuisine stuff, neither. ' 'You ought to be more adventurous, Granny,' said Magrat. 'I ain't against adventure, in moderation,' said Granny, 'but not when I'm eatin'. ' 'There's a place back there that does alligator sandwiches,' said Nanny, turning away from the parade. 'Can you believe that? Alligators in a sandwich?' "That reminds me of a joke,' said Granny Weatherwax. Something was nagging at her consciousness. Nanny Ogg started to cough, but it didn't work. 'This man went into an inn,' said Granny Weatherwax, trying to ignore the rising uneasiness. 'And he saw this sign. And it said “We serve all kinds of sandwiches. ” And he said, “Get me an alligator sandwich - and I want it right away!”' 'I don't think alligator sandwiches is very kind to alligators,' said Magrat, dropping the observation into the leaden pause. 'I always say a laugh does you good,' said Nanny. Lilith smiled at the figure of Ella, standing forlornly between the snake women. 'And such a raggedy dress, too,' she said. 'And the door to the room was locked. Tut-tut. However can it have happened?' Ella stared at her feet. Lilith smiled at the sisters. 'Well,' she said, 'we'll just have to do the best we can with what we've got. Hmm? Fetch me. . . fetch me two rats and two mice. I know you can always find rats and mice. And bring in the big pumpkin. ' She laughed. Not the mad, shrill laughter of the bad fairy who's been defeated, but the rather pleasant laughter of someone who's just seen the joke. She looked reflectively at the wand. 'But first,' she said, transferring her gaze to Ella's pale face, 'you'd better bring in those naughty men who let themselves get so drunk. That's not respectful. And if you haven't got respect, you haven't got anything. ' The clicking of the wand was the only sound in the kitchen. Nanny Ogg poked at the tall drink in front of her. 'Beats me why they puts an umbrella in it,' she said, sucking the cocktail cherry off the stick. 'I mean, do they want to stop it getting wet or something?' She grinned at Magrat and Granny, who were both staring gloomily at the passing celebrations. 'Cheer up,' she said. 'Never seen such a pair of long faces in all my puff. ' 'That's neat rum you're drinking,' said Magrat. 'You're telling me,' said Nanny, taking a swig. 'Cheers!' 'It was too easy,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'It was only easy 'cos we done it,' said Nanny. 'You want something done, we're the girls to do it, eh? You show me anyone else who could have nipped in there and done all that in the nick of time, eh? Especially the coach bit. ' 'It doesn't make a good story,' said Granny. 'Oh, bugger stories,' said Nanny loftily. 'You can always change a story. ' 'Only at the right places,' said Granny. 'Anyway, maybe they could get her a new dress and horses and a coach and everything. ' 'Where? When?' said Nanny. 'It's a holiday. And there's no time, anyway. They'll be starting the ball at any moment. ' Granny Weatherwax's fingers drummed on the edge of the cafe table. Nanny sighed. 'Now what?' she said. 'It doesn't happen like this,' said Granny. 'Listen, Esme, the only kind of magic that'd work right now is wand magic. And Magrat's got the wand. ' Nanny nodded at Magrat. 'Ain't that so, Magrat?' 'Um,' said Magrat. 'Not lost it, have you?' 'No, but - ' 'There you are, then. ' 'Only. . . um. . . Ella said she'd got two godmothers. . . ' Granny Weatherwax's hand thumped down on the table. Nanny's drink flew into the air and overturned. 'That's rightl' roared Granny. 'That was nearly full. That was a nearly full drink,' said Nanny reproachfully. 'Come on!' 'Best part of a whole glass of- ' 'Gytha!' 'Did I say I wasn't coming? I was just pointing out - ' 'Now!' 'Can I just ask the man to get me ano- ' 'Gytha!' The witches were halfway up the street when a coach rattled out of the driveway and trundled away. 'That can't be it!' said Magrat. 'We got rid of it!' 'We ort to have chopped it up,' said Nanny. 'There's good eating on a pumpk-' 'They've got us,' said Granny, slowing down to a stop. 'Can't you get into the minds of the horses?' said Magrat. The witches concentrated. 'They ain't horses,' said Nanny. 'They feel like. " 'Rats turned into horses,' said Granny, who was even better at getting into people's minds than she was at getting under their skins. 'They feel like that poor old wolf. Minds like a firework display. |
' She winced at the taste of them in her own head. 'I bet,' said Granny, thoughtfully, as the coach skidded around the corner, 'I bet I could make the wheels fall right off. ' 'That's not the way,' said Magrat. 'Anyway, Ella's in there!' 'There may be another way,' said Nanny. 'I know someone who could get inside them minds right enough. ' 'Who?' said Magrat. 'Well, we've still got our brooms,' said Nanny. 'It should be easy to overtake it, right?' The witches landed in an alleyway a few minutes ahead of the coach. 'I don't hold with this,' said Granny. 'It's the sort of thing Lily does. You can't expect me to like this. Think of that wolf!' Nanny lifted Greebo out of his nest among the bristles. 'But Greebo's nearly human anyway," she said. 'Hah!' 'And it'll only be temp'ry, even with the three of us doing it,' she said. 'Anyway, it'll be int'resting to see if it works. ' 'Yes, but it's wrong,' said Granny. 'Not for these parts, it seems,' said Nanny. 'Besides,' said Magrat virtuously, 'it can't be bad if we're doing it. We're the good ones. ' 'Oh yes, so we is,' said Granny, 'and there was me forgetting it for a minute there. ' Nanny stood back. Greebo, aware that something was expected of him, sat up. 'You must admit we can't think of anything better, Granny,' said Magrat. Granny hesitated. But under all the revulsion was the little treacherous flame of fascination with the idea. Besides, she and Greebo had hated one another cordially for years. Almost human, eh? Give him a taste of it, then, and see how he likes it. She felt a bit ashamed of the thought. But not much. 'Oh, all right. ' They concentrated. As Lily knew, changing the shape of an object is one of the hardest magics there is. But it's easier if the object is alive. After all, a living thing already knows what shape it is. All you have to do is change its mind. Greebo yawned and stretched. To his amazement he went on stretching. Through the pathways of his feline brain surged a tide of belief. He suddenly believed he was human. He wasn't simply under the impression that he was human; he believed it implicitly. The sheer force of the unshakeable belief flowed out into his morphic field, overriding its objections, rewriting the very blueprint of his self. Fresh instructions surged back. If he was human, he didn't need all this fur. And he ought to be bigger. . . The witches watched, fascinated. 'I never thought we'd do it,' said Granny. . no points on the ears, the whiskers were too long. . . . he needed more muscle, all these bones were the wrong shape, these legs ought to be longer. . . And then it was finished. Greebo unfolded himself and stood up, a little unsteadily. Nanny stared, her mouth open. Then her eyes moved downwards. 'Cor,' she said. 'I think,' said Granny Weatherwax, 'that we d better imagine some clothes on him right now. ' That was easy enough. When Greebo had been clothed to her satisfaction Granny nodded and stood back. 'Magrat, you can open your eyes,' she said. 'I hadn't got them closed. ' 'Well, you should have had. ' Greebo turned slowly, a faint, lazy smile on his scarred fpce. As a human, his nose was broken and a black patch covered his bad eye. But the other one glittered like the sins of angels, and his smile was the downfall of saints. Female ones, anyway. Perhaps it was pheromones, or the way his muscles rippled under his black leather shirt. Greebo broadcast a kind of greasy diabolic sexuality in the megawatt range. Just looking at him was enough to set dark wings fluttering in the crimson night. 'Uh, Greebo,' said Nanny. He opened his mouth. Incisors glittered. 'Wrowwwwl,' he said. 'Can you understand me?' 'Yessss, Nannyyy. ' Nanny Ogg leaned against the wall for support. There was the sound of hooves. The coach had turned into the street. 'Get out there and stop that coach!' Greebo grinned again, and darted out of the alley. Nanny fanned herself with her hat. 'Whoo-eee,' she said. 'And to think I used to tickle his tummy. . . No wonder all the lady cats scream at night. ' 'Gytha!' 'Well, you've gone very red, Esme. ' 'I'm just out of breath,' said Granny. 'Funny, that. It's not as if you've been running. ' The coach rattled down the street. The coachmen and footmen were not at all sure what they were. Their minds oscillated wildly. One moment they were men thinking about cheese and bacon rinds. And the next they were mice wondering why they had trousers on. As for the horses. . . horses are a little insane anyway, and being a rat as well wasn't any help. So none of them were in a very stable frame of mind when Greebo stepped out of the shadows and grinned at them. He said, 'Wrowwwl. ' The horses tried to stop, which is practically impossible with a coach still piling along behind you. The coachmen froze in terror. 'Wrowwwl?' The coach skidded around and came up broadside against a wall, knocking the coachmen off. Greebo picked one of them up by his collar and bounced him up and down while the maddened horses fought to get out of the shafts. 'Run awayy, furry toy?' he suggested. Behind the frightened eyes man and mouse fought for supremacy. But they needn't have bothered. They would lose either way. As consciousness flickered between the states it saw either a grinning cat or a six-foot, well-muscled, one-eyed grinning bully. The coachmouse fainted. Greebo patted him a few times, in case he was going to move. . . 'Wake up, little mousey. . . '. . . and then lost interest. The coach door rattled, jammed, and then opened. 'What's happening?' said Ella. 'Wrowwwwl!' Nanny Ogg's boot hit Greebo on the back of his head. 'Oh no you don't, my lad,' she said. 'Want to,' said Greebo sulkily. 'You always do, that's your trouble,' said Nanny, and smiled at Ella. 'Out you come, dear. ' Greebo shrugged, and then slunk off, dragging the stunned coachman after him. 'What's happening?' complained Ella. 'Oh. Magrat. Did you do this?' Magrat allowed herself a moment's shy pride. 'I said you wouldn't have to go to the ball, didn't I?' Ella looked around at the disabled coach, and then back to the witches. 'You ain't got any snake women in there with you, have you?' said Granny. Magrat gripped the wand. 'They went on ahead,' said Ella. Her face clouded as she recalled something. 'Lilith turned the real coachmen into beetles,' she whispered. 'I mean, they weren't that bad! She made them get some mice and she made them human and then she said, there's got to be balance, and the sisters dragged in the coachmen and she turned them into beetles and then. . . she trod on them. . . ' She stopped, horrified. A firework burst in the sky, but in the street below a bubble of terrible silence hung in the air. 'Witches don't kill people,' said Magrat. 'This is foreign parts,' muttered Nanny, looking away. 'I think,' said Granny Weatherwax, 'that you ought to get right away from here, young lady. ' 'They just went crack - ' 'We've got the brooms,' said Magrat. 'We could all get away. ' 'She'd send something after you,' said Ella darkly. 'I know her. Something from out of a mirror. ' 'So we'd fight it,' said Magrat. 'No,' said Granny. ' Whatever's going to happen's going to happen here. We'll send the young lady off somewhere safe and then. we shall see. ' 'But if I go away she'll know,' said Ella. 'She's expecting to see me at the ball right now! And she'll come looking!' 'That sounds right, Esme,' said Nanny Ogg. 'You want to face her somewhere you choose. I don't want her lookin' for us on a night like this. I want to see her coming. ' There was a fluttering in the darkness above them. A small dark shape glided down and landed on the cobbles. Even in the darkness its eyes gleamed. It stared expectantly at the witches with far too much intelligence for a mere fowl. 'That's Mrs Gogol's cockerel,' said Nanny, 'ain't it?' 'Exactly what it is I might never exactly decide,' said Granny. 'I wish I knew where she stood. ' 'Good or bad, you mean?' said Magrat. 'She's a good cook,' said Nanny. 'I don't think anyone can cook like she do and be that bad. |
' 'Is she the woman who lives out in the swamp?' said Ella. 'I've heard all kinds of stories about her. ' 'She's a bit too ready to turn dead people into zombies,' said Granny. 'And that's not right. ' 'Well, we just turned a cat into a person - I mean, a human person' - Nanny, inveterate cat lover, corrected herself- 'and that's not strictly right either. It's probably a long way from strictly right. ' 'Yes, but we did it for the right reasons,' said Granny. 'We don't know what Mrs Gogol's reasons are - ' There was a growl from the alley-way. Nanny scuttled towards it, and they heard her scolding voice. 'No! Put him down this minute!' 'Mine! Mine!' Legba strutted a little way along the street, and then turned and looked expectantly at them. Granny scratched her chin, and walked a little way away from Magrat and Ella, sizing them up. Then she turned and looked around. 'Hmm,' she said. 'Lily is expecting to see you, ain't she?' 'She can look out of reflections,' said Ella nervously. 'Hmm,' said Granny again. She stuck her finger in her ear and twiddled it for a moment. 'Well, Magrat, you're the godmother around here. What's the most important thing we have to do?' Magrat had never played a card game in her life. 'Keep Ella safe,' she said promptly, amazed at Granny suddenly admitting that she was, after all, the one who had been given the wand. 'That's what fairy godmothering is all about. ' 'Yes?' Granny Weatherwax frowned. 'You know,' she said, 'you two are just about the same size. . . ' Magrat's expression of puzzlement lasted for half a second before it was replaced by one of sudden horror. She backed away. 'Someone's got to do it,' said Granny. 'Oh, no! No! It wouldn't work! It really wouldn't work! No!' 'Magrat Garlick,' said Granny Weatherwax, tri-| umphantly, 'you shall go to the ball!' The coach cornered on two wheels. Greebo stood on the coachman's box, swaying and grinning madly and cracking the whip. This was even better than his fluffy ball with a bell in it. Inside the coach Magrat was wedged between the two older witches, her head in her hands. 'But Ella might get lost in the swamp!' 'Not with that cockerel leading the way. She'll be safer in Mrs Gogol's swamp than at the ball, I know that,' said Nanny. ' Thank youl' 'You're welcome,' said Granny. 'Everyone'll know I'm not her!' 'Not with the mask on they won't,' said Granny. 'But my hair's the wrong colour!''I can tint that up a treat, no problem,' said Nanny. 'I'm the wrong shapel' 'We can - ' Granny hesitated. 'Can you, you know, puff yourself out a bit more?' 'No!' 'Have you got a spare handkerchief, Gytha?' 'I reckon I could tear a bit off my petticoat, Esme. ' 'Ouch!' 'There!' 'And these glass shoes don't fit!' 'They fit me fine,' said Nanny. 'I gave 'em a try. ' 'Yes, but I've got smaller feet than you!' 'That's all right,' said Granny. 'You put on a couple of pairs of my socks and they'll fit real snug. ' Bereft of all further excuses, Magrat struck out in sheer desperation. 'But I don't know how to behave at balls!' Granny Weatherwax had to admit that she didn't, either. She raised her eyebrows at Nanny. 'You used to go dancin' when you were young,' she "said. 'Well,' said Nanny Ogg, social tutor, 'what you do is, you tap men with your fan - got your fan? - and say things like “La, sir!” It helps to giggle, too. And flutter your eyelashes a bit. And pout. ' 'How am I supposed to pout?' Nanny Ogg demonstrated. 'Yuk!' 'Don't worry,' said Granny. 'We'll be there too. ' 'And that's supposed to make me feel better, is it?' Nanny reached behind Magrat and grabbed Granny's shoulder. Her lips formed the words: Won't work. She's all to pieces. No confidence. Granny nodded. 'Perhaps I ought to do it,' said Nanny, in a loud voice. 'I'm experienced at balls. I bet if I wore my hair long and wore the mask and them shiny shoes and we hemmed up the dress a foot no one'd know the difference, what do you say?' Magrat was so overawed by the sheer fascinating picture of this that she obeyed unthinkingly when Granny Weatherwax said, 'Look at me, Magrat Garlick. ' The pumpkin coach entered the palace drive at high speed, scattering horses and pedestrians, and braked by the steps in a shower of gravel. 'That was fun,' said Greebo. And then lost interest. A couple of flunkies bustled forward to open the door, and were nearly thrown back by the sheer force of the arrogance that emanated from within. 'Hurry up, peasants!' Magrat swept out, pushing the major-domo away. She gathered up her skirts and ran up the red carpet. At the top, a footman was unwise enough to ask her for her ticket. 'You impertinent lackeyl' The footman, recognizing instantly the boundless bad manners of the well-bred, backed away quickly. Down by the coach, Nanny Ogg said, 'You don't think you might have overdone it a little bit?' 'I had to,' said Granny. 'You know what she's like. ' 'How are we going to get in? We ain't got tickets. And we ain't dressed properly, either. ' 'Get the broomsticks down off the rack,' said Granny. 'We're going straight to the top. ' They touched down on the battlements of a tower overlooking the palace grounds. The strains of courtly music drifted up from below, and there was the occasional pop and flare of fireworks from the river. Granny opened a likely-looking door in the tower and descended the circular stairs, which led to a landing. 'Posh carpet on the floor,' said Nanny. 'Why's it on the walls too ?' 'Them's tapestries,' said Granny. 'Cor,' said Nanny. 'You live and learn. Well, I do anyway. ' Granny stopped with her hand on a doorknob. 'What do you mean by that?' she said. 'Well, I never knew you had a sister. ' 'We never talked about her. ' 'It's a shame when families break up like that,' said Nanny. 'Huh! You said your sister Beryl was a greedy ingrate with the conscience of an oyster. ' 'Well, yes, but she is my sister. ' Granny opened the door. 'Well, well,' she said. 'What's up? What's up? Don't just stand there. ' Nanny peered around her and into the room. 'Coo,' she said. Magrat paused in the big, red-velvet ante-room. Strange thoughts fireworked around her head; she hadn't felt like this since the herbal wine. But struggling among them like a tiny prosaic potato in a spray of psychedelic chrysanthemums was an inner voice screaming that she didn't even know how to dance. Apart from in circles. But it couldn't be difficult if ordinary people managed it. The tiny inner Magrat struggling to keep its balance on the surge of arrogant self-confidence wondered if this was how Granny Weatherwax felt all the time. She raised the hem of her dress slightly and looked down at her shoes. They couldn't be real glass, or else she'd be hobbling towards some emergency first aid by now. Nor were they transparent. The human foot is a useful organ but is not, except to some people with highly specialized interests, particularly attractive to look at. The shoes were mirrors. Dozens of facets caught the light. Two mirrors on her feet. Magrat vaguely recalled something about. . . about a witch never getting caught between two mirrors, wasn't it? Or was it never trust a man with orange eyebrows? Something she'd been taught, back when she'd been an ordinary person. Something. . . like. a witch should never stand between two mirrors because, because, because the person that walked away might not be the same person. Or something. Like. . . you were spread out among the images, your whole soul was pulled out thin, and somewhere in the distant images a dark part of you would get out and come looking for you, if you weren't very careful. Or something. She overruled the thought. It didn't matter. She stepped forward, to where a little knot of other guests were waiting to make their entrance. 'Lord Henry Gleet and Lady Gleet!' The ballroom wasn't a room at all, but a courtyard open to the soft night airs. Steps led down into it. At the far end, another much wider staircase, lined with nickering torches, led up into the palace itself. On the far wall, huge and easily visible, was a clock. |
'The Honourable Douglas Incessant!' The time was a quarter to eight. Magrat had a vague recollection of some old woman shouting something about the time, but. . . that didn't matter either. . . 'Lady Volentia D'Arrangement!' She reached the top of the stairs. The butler who was announcing the arrivals looked her up and down and then, in the manner of one who had been coached carefully all afternoon for this very moment, bellowed: 'Er. . . Mysterious and beautiful stranger!' Silence spread out from the bottom of the steps like spilled paint. Five hundred heads turned to look at Magrat. A day before, even the mere thought of having five hundred people staring at her would have melted Magrat like butter in a furnace. But now she stared back, smiled, and raised her chin haughtily. Her fan snapped open like a gunshot. The mysterious and beautiful stranger, daughter of Simplicity Garlick, granddaughter of Araminta Garlick, her self-possession churning so strongly that it was crystallizing out on the sides of her personality. . . . . . stepped out. A moment later another guest stalked past the butler. The butler hesitated. Something about the figure worried him. It kept going in and out of focus. He wasn't entirely certain if there was anyone else there at all. Then his common sense, which had temporarily gone and hidden behind something, took over. After all, it was Samedi Nuit Mort - people were supposed to dress up and look weird. You were allowed to see people like that. 'Excuse me, er, sir,' he said. 'Who shall I say it is?' I'M HERE INCOGNITO. The butler was sure nothing had been said, but he was also certain that he had heard the words. 'Urn. . . fine. " he mumbled. 'Go on in, then. . . urn. ' He brightened. 'Damn good mask, sir. ' He watched the dark figure walk down the steps, and leaned against a pillar. Well, that was about it. He pulled a handkerchief out from his pocket, removed his powdered wig, and wiped his brow. He felt as though he'd just had a narrow escape, and what was even worse was that he didn't know from what. He looked cautiously around, and then sidled into the ante-room and took up a position behind a velvet curtain, where he could enjoy a quiet roll-up. He nearly swallowed it when another figure loped silently up the red carpet. It was dressed like a pirate that had just raided a ship carrying black leather goods for the discerning customer. One eye had a patch over it. The other gleamed like a malevolent emerald. And no-one that big ought to be able to walk that quietly. The butler stuck the dog-end behind his ear. 'Excuse me, milord,' he said, running after the man and touching him firmly yet respectfully on the arm. 'I shall need to see your tic. your. tic. . ,' The man transferred his gaze to the hand on his arm. The butler let go hurriedly. 'Wrowwwl?' 'Your. . . ticket. . . ' The man opened his mouth and hissed. 'Of course,' said the butler, backing away with the efficient speed of someone who certainly isn't being paid enough to face a needle-toothed maniac in black leather, 'I expect you're one of the Duc's friends, yes?' Wrowwl. ' 'No problem. no problem. . . but Sir has forgotten Sir's mask. . . ' 'Wrowwl?' The butler waved frantically to a side-table piled high with masks. 'The Duc requested that everyone here is masked,' said the butler. 'Er. I wonder if Sir would find something here to his liking?' There's always a few of them, he thought to himself. It says 'Masque' in big curly letters on the invite, in gold yet, but there's always a few buggers who thinks it means it's from someone called Maskew. This one was quite likely looting towns when he should have been learning to read. The greasy man stared at the masks. All the good ones had been taken by earlier arrivals, but that didn't seem to dismay him. He pointed. 'Want that one,' he said. 'Er. a. very good choice, my lord. Allow me to help you on - ' 'Wrowwl!' The butler backed away, clutching at his own arm. The man glared at him, then dropped the mask over his head and squinted out through an eyehole at a mirror. Damn odd, the butler thought. I mean, it's not the kind of mask the men choose. They go for skulls and birds and bulls and stuff like that. Not cats. The odd thing was that the mask had just been a pretty ginger cat head when it was on the table. On its wearer it was. . . still a cat head, only a lot more so, and somehow slightly more feline and a lot nastier than it should have been. 'Aaalwaaays waanted to bee ginger,' said the man. 'On you it looks good, sir,' trilled the butler. The cat-headed man turned his head this way and that, clearly in love with what he was seeing. Greebo yowled softly and happily to himself and ambled into the ball. He wanted something to eat, someone to fight, and then. . . well, he'd have to see. For wolves and pigs and bears, thinking that they're human is a tragedy. For a cat, it's an experience. Besides, this new shape was a lot more fun. No-one had thrown an old boot at him for over ten minutes. Discworld 12 - Witches Abroad The two witches looked around the room. 'Odd,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Not what I'd expect in, you know, a royal bedroom. ' 'Is it a royal bedroom?' 'There's a crown on the door. ' 'Oh. ' Granny looked around at the decor. 'What do you know about royal bedrooms?' she said, more or less for something to say. 'You've never been in a royal bedroom. ' 'I might have been,' said Nanny. 'You never have!' 'Remember young Verence's coronation? We all got invited to the palace?' said Nanny. 'When I went to have a - to powder my nose I saw the door open, so I went in and had a bit of a bounce up and down. ' 'That's treason. You can get put in prison for that,' said Granny severely, and added, 'What was it like?' 'Very comfy. Young Magrat doesn't know what she's missing. And it was a lot better than this, I don't mind saying,' said Nanny. The basic colour was green. Green walls, green floor. There was a wardrobe and a bedside table. Even a bedside rug, which was green. The light filtered in through a window filled with greenish glass. 'Like being at the bottom of a pond,' said Granny. She swatted something. 'And there's flies everywhere!' She paused, as if thinking very hard, and said, 'Hmm. " 'A Duc pond,' said Nanny. There were flies everywhere. They buzzed on the window and zigzagged aimlessly back and forth across the ceiling. 'Duc pond,' Nanny repeated, because people who make that kind of joke never let well alone, 'like duck - ' 'I heard,' said Granny. She flailed at a fat bluebottle. 'Anyway, you'd think there wouldn't be flies in a royal bedroom,' muttered Nanny. 'You'd think there'd be a bed, in fact,' said Granny. Which there wasn't. What there was instead, and what was preying somewhat on their minds, was a big round wooden cover on the floor. It was about six feet across. There were convenient handles. They walked around it. Flies rose up and hummed away. 'I'm thinking of a story,' said Granny. 'Me too,' said Nanny Ogg, her tone slightly shriller than usual. 'There was this girl who married this man and he said you can go anywhere you like in the palace but you mustn't open that door and she did and she found he'd murdered all his other. " Her voice trailed off. Granny was staring hard at the cover, and scratching her chin. 'Put it like this,' said Nanny, trying to be reasonable against all odds. 'What could we possibly find under there dial's worse than we could imagine?' They each took a handle. Five minutes later Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg stepped outside the Duc's bedroom. Granny closed the door very quietly. They stared at one another. 'Cor,' said Nanny, her face still pale. 'Yes,' said Granny. 'Stories!' 'I'd heard about. . . you know, people like him, but I never believed it. Yuk. I wonder what he looks like. ' 'You can't tell just by lookin',' said Granny. 'It explains the flies, at any rate,' said Nanny Ogg. She raised a hand to her mouth in horror. 'And our Magrat's down there with him!' she said. 'And you know what's going to happen. |
They're going to meet one another and - ' 'But there's hundreds of other people,' said Granny. 'It's hardly what you'd call intimate. ' 'Yes. . . but even the thought of him, you know, even touching her. I mean, it'd be like holding a -* 'Does Ella count as a princess, d'you think?' said Granny. 'What? Oh. Yeah. Probably. For foreign parts. Why?' 'Then that means there's more than one story here. Lily's letting several happen all at the same time,' said Granny. 'Think about it. It's not touching that's the trick. It's kissing. ' 'We've got to get down there!' said Nanny. 'We've got to stop it! I mean, you know me, I'm no prude, but. . . yuk. . . ' 'I say! Old woman!' They turned. A small fat woman in a red dress and a towering white wig was peering haughtily at them from behind a fox mask. 'Yes?' snapped Granny. 'Yes, my lady,' said the fat woman. 'Where are your manners? I demand that you direct me to the powder room this instant! And what do you think you're doing?' This was to Nanny Ogg, who was walking around her and staring critically at her dress. 'You're a 20, maybe a 22?' said Nanny. 'What? What is this impertinence?' Nanny Ogg rubbed her chin thoughtfully. 'Well, I dunno,' she said, 'red in a dress has never been me. You haven't got anything in blue, have you?' The choleric woman turned to strike Nanny with her fan, but a skinny hand tapped her on the shoulder. She looked up into Granny Weatherwax's face. As she passed out dreamily she was aware of a voice, a long way off, saying, 'Well, that's me fitted. But she's never a size 20. And if I had a face like that I'd never wear red. . . ' Lady Volentia D'Arrangement relaxed in the inner sanctum of the ladies' rest room. She removed her mask and fished an errant beauty spot from the depths of her decolletage. Then she reached around and down to try and adjust her bustle, an exercise guaranteed to produce the most ridiculous female gymnastics on every world except those where the panty girdle had been invented. Apart from being as well-adapted a parasite as the oak bracket fungus Lady Volentia D'Arrangement was, by and large, a blameless sort of person. She always attended events for the better class of charity, and made a point of knowing the first names of nearly all her servants - the cleaner ones, at least. And she was, on the whole, kind to animals and even to children if they had been washed and didn't make too much noise. All in all, she didn't deserve what was about to happen to her, which was the fate Mother Nature had in store for any woman in this room on this night who happened to have approximately the same measurements as Granny Weatherwax. She was aware of someone coming up beside her. 'S'cuse me, missus. ' It turned out to be a small, repulsive lower-class woman with a big ingratiating smile. 'What do you want, old woman?' said Lady Volentia. 'S'cuse me,' said Nanny Ogg. 'My friend over there would like a word with you. ' Lady Volentia looked around haughtily into. . . . . . icy, blue-eyed, hypnotic oblivion. 'What's this thing like an extra bu. . . hobo?' 'It's a bustle, Esme. ' 'It's damn uncomfortable is what it is. I keep on feeling someone's following me around. ' 'The white suits you, anyway. ' 'No it don't. Black's the only colour for a proper witch. And this wig is too hot. Who wants a foot of hair on their heads?' Granny donned her mask. It was an eagle's face in white feathers stuck with sequins. Nanny adjusted some unmentionable underpinning somewhere beneath her crinoline and straightened up. 'Cor, look at us,' she said. 'Them feathers in your hair really look good. ' 'I've never been vain,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'You know that, Gytha. No-one could ever call me vain. ' 'No, Esme,' said Nanny Ogg. Granny twirled a bit. 'Are you ready then, Dame Ogg?' she said. 'Yes. Let's do it, Lady Weatherwax. ' The dance floor was thronged. Decorations hung from every pillar, but they were black and silver, the colours of the festival of Samedi Nuit Mort. An orchestra was playing on a balcony. Dancers whirled. The din was immense. A waiter with a tray of drinks suddenly found that he was a waiter without a tray of drinks. He looked around, and then down to a small fox under a huge white wig. 'Bugger off and get us some more,' said Nanny pleasantly. 'Can you see her, your ladyship?' 'There's too many people. ' 'Well, can you see the Duc?' 'How do I know? Everyone's got masks on!' 'Hey, is that food over there?' Many of the less energetic or more hungry of the Genua nobility were clustered around the long buffet. All they were aware of, apart from sharp digs with a pair of industrious elbows, was an amiable monotone at chest height, on the lines of'. . . mind your backs. . . stand aside there. . . comin' through. ' Nanny fought her way to the table and nudged a space for Granny Weatherwax. 'Cor, what a spread, eh?' she said. 'Mind you, they have tiny chickens in these parts. ' She grabbed a plate. "Them's quails. ' 'I'll 'ave three. 'Ere, charlie chan!' A flunkey stared at her. 'Got any pickles?' 'I'm afraid not, ma'am. ' Nanny Ogg looked along a table which included roast swans, a roasted peacock that probably wouldn't have felt any better about it even if it had known that its tail feathers were going to be stuck back in afterwards, and more fruits, boiled lobsters, nuts, cakes, creams and trifles than a hermit's dream. 'Well, got any relish?' 'No, ma'am. ' 'Tomato ketchup?' 'No, ma'am. ' 'And they call this a gormay paradise,' muttered Nanny, as the band struck up the next dance. She nudged a tall figure helping himself to the lobster. 'Some place, eh?' VERY NICE. 'Good mask you've got there. ' THANK YOU. Nanny was spun around by Granny Weatherwax's hand on her shoulder. 'There's Magrat!' 'Where? Where?' said Nanny. 'Over there. . . sitting by the potted plants. ' 'Oh, yes. On the chassy longyew,' said Nanny. “That's ”sofa" in foreign, you know,' she added. 'What's she doing?' 'Being attractive to men, I think. ' 'What, Magratr 'Yeah. You're really getting good at that hypnotism, ain't you. ' * * * Magrat fluttered her fan and looked up at the Compte de Yoyo. 'La, sir," she said. 'You may get me another plate of lark's eggs, if you really must. ' 'Like a shot, dear lady!' The old man bustled off in the direction of the buffet. Magrat surveyed her empire of admirers, and then extended a languorous hand towards Captain de Vere of the Palace Guard. He stood to attention. 'Dear captain,' she said, 'you may have the pleasure of the next dance. ' 'Acting like a hussy,' said Granny disapprovingly. Nanny gave her an odd look. 'Not really,' she said. 'Anyway, a bit of hussing never did anyone any harm. At least none of those men look like the Duc. 'Ere, what you doing?' This was to a small bald-headed man who was trying surreptitiously to set up a small easel in front of them. 'Uh. if you ladies could just hold still for a few minutes,' he said shyly. 'For the woodcut?' 'What woodcut?' said Granny Weatherwax. 'You know,' said the man, opening a small penknife. 'Everyone likes to see their woodcut in the broadsheets after a ball like this? “Lady Thing enjoying a joke with Lord Whatsit”, that sort of thing?' Granny Weatherwax opened her mouth to reply, but Nanny Ogg laid a gentle hand on her arm. She relaxed a little and sought for something more suitable to say. 'I knows a joke about alligator sandwiches,' she volunteered, and shook Nanny's hand away. “There was a man, and he went into an inn and he said ”Do you sell alligator sandwiches?“ and the other man said ”Yes“ and he said, ”Then give me an alligator sandwich - and don't be a long time about it!'" She gave him a triumphant look. 'Yes?' said the woodcutter, chipping away quickly, 'And then what happened?' Nanny Ogg dragged Granny away quickly, searching for a distraction. 'Some people don't know a joke when they hear it,' said Granny. As the band launched into another number Nanny Ogg rumbled in a pocket and found the dance card that belonged to an owner now slumbering peacefully in a distant room. |
"This is,' she turned the card round, her lips moving wonderingly, 'Sir, Roger the Coverley?' 'Ma'am?' Granny Weatherwax looked around. A plump military man with big whiskers was bowing to her. He looked as though he'd enjoyed quite a few jokes in his time. 'Yes?' 'You promised me the honour of this dance, m'lady?' 'No I didn't. ' The man looked puzzled. 'But I assure you, Lady D'Arrangement. . . your card. . . my name is Colonel Moutarde. " Granny gave him a look of deep suspicion, and then read the dance card attached to her fan. 'Oh. ' 'Do you know how to dance?' hissed Nanny. 'Of course. ' 'Never seen you dance,' said Nanny. Granny Weatherwax had been on the point of giving the colonel as polite a refusal as she could manage. Now she threw back her shoulders defiantly. 'A witch can do anything she puts her mind to, Gytha Ogg. Come, Mr Colonel. ' Nanny watched as the pair disappeared into the throng. ' 'Allo, foxy lady,' said a voice behind her. She looked around. There was no-one there. 'Down here. ' She looked down. A very small body wearing the uniform of a captain in the palace guard, a powdered wig and an ingratiating smile beamed up at her. 'My name's Casanunda,' he said. 'I'm reputed to be the world's greatest lover. What do you think?' Nanny Ogg looked him up and down or, at least, down and further down. 'You're a dwarf,' she said. 'Size isn't important. ' Nanny Ogg considered her position. One colleague known for her shy and retiring nature was currently acting like that whatshername, the heathen queen who was always playing up to men and bathing in asses' milk and stuff, and the other one was acting very odd and dancing with a man even though she didn't know one foot from the other. Nanny Ogg felt she was at least owed a bit of time in which to be her own woman. 'Can you dance as well?' she said wearily. 'Oh yes. How about a date?' 'How old do you think I am?' said Nanny. Casanunda considered. 'All right, then. How about a prune?' Nanny sighed, and reached down for his hand. 'Come on. ' Lady Volentia D'Arrangement staggered limply along a passageway, a forlorn thin shape in complicated corsetry and ankle-length underwear. She wasn't at all sure what had happened. There had been that frightful woman, and then this feeling of absolute bliss and then. . . she'd been sitting on the carpet with her dress off. Lady Volentia had been to enough balls in her dull life to know that there were occasions when you woke up in strange rooms with your dress off, but that tended to be later in the evening and at least you had some idea of why you were there. . . She eased her way along, holding on to the wall. Someone was definitely going to get told off about this. A figure came around a bend in the corridor, idly tossing a turkey leg into the air with one hand and catching it with the other. 'I say,' said Lady Volentia, 'I wonder if you would be so good as to - oh. . . ' She looked up at a leather-clad figure with an eyepatch and a grin like a corsair raider. 'Wroowwwwl!' 'Oh. I say!' Nothing to this dancing, Granny Weatherwax told herself. It's just moving around to music. It helped to be able to read her partner's mind. Dancing is instinctive, after you've got past that stage of looking down to see what your feet are doing, and witches are good at reading resonating instincts. There was a slight struggle as the colonel tried to lead, but he soon gave in, partly in the face of Granny Weatherwax's sheer refusal to compromise but mainly because of her boots. Lady D'Arrangement's shoes hadn't fitted. Besides, Granny was attached to her boots. They had complicated iron fixtures, and toecaps like battering rams. When it came to dancing, Granny's boots went exactly wherever they wanted to go. She steered her helpless and slightly crippled partner towards Nanny Ogg, who had already cleared quite a space around her. What Granny could achieve with two pounds of hobnailed syncopation Nanny Ogg could achieve merely with her bosom. It was a large and experienced bosom, and not one that was subject to restraint. As Nanny Ogg bounced down, it went up; when she gyrated right, it hadn't finished twirling left. In addition, Nanny's feet moved in a complicated jig step regardless of the actual tempo, so that while her body actually progressed at the speed of a waltz her feet were doing something a bit nearer to a hornpipe. The total effect obliged her partner to dance several feet away, and many surrounding couples to stop dancing just to watch in fascination, in case the build-up of harmonic vibrations dropped her into the chandeliers. Granny and her helpless partner whirled past. 'Stop showin' off,' Granny hissed, and disappeared into the throng again. 'Who's your friend?' said Casanunda. 'She's - ' Nanny began. There was a blast of trumpets. "That was a bit off the beat,' she said. 'No, that means the Duc is arriving,' said Casanunda. The band stopped playing. The couples, as one, turned and faced the main staircase. There were two figures descending in stately fashion. My word, he's a sleek and handsome devil, Nanny told herself. It just goes to show. Esme's right. You can never tell by lookin'. And her. . . . . . that's Lily Weatherwax? The woman wasn't masked. Give or take the odd laughter line and wrinkle, it was Granny Weatherwax to the life. Almost. . . Nanny found she was turning to find the white eagle head in the crowd. All heads were turned to die staircase, but there was one staring as if her gaze was a steel rod. Lily Weatherwax wore white. Until that point it had never occurred to Nanny Ogg that there could be different colours of white. Now she knew better. The white of Lily Weatherwax's dress seemed to radiate; if all the lights went out, she felt, Lily's dress would glow. It had style. It gleamed, and had puffed sleeves and was edged with lace. And Lily Weatherwax looked - Nanny Ogg had to admit it - younger. There was the same bone structure and fine Weatherwax complexion, but it looked. . . less worn. If that's what bein' bad does to you, Nanny thought, I could of done with some of that years ago. The wages of sin is death but so is the salary of virtue, and at least the evil get to go home early on Fridays. The eyes were the same, though. Somewhere in the genetics of the Weatherwaxes was a piece of sapphire. Maybe generations of them. The Duc was unbelievably handsome. But that was understandable. He was wearing black. Even his eyes wore black. Nanny surfaced, and pushed her way through the throng to Granny Weatherwax. 'Esme?' She grabbed Granny's arm. 'Esme?' 'Hmm?' Nanny was aware that the crowd was moving, parting like a sea, between the staircase and the chaise-longue at the far end of the hall. Granny Weatherwax's knuckles were as white as her dress. 'Esme? What's happening? What are you doing?' said Nanny. 'Trying. to. stop. . . the story,' said Granny. 'What's she doing, then?' 'Letting. . . things. . . happen!' The crowd were pulling back past them. It didn't seem to be a conscious thing. It was just happening that a sort of corridor was forming. The Prince walked slowly along it. Behind Lily, faint images hung in the air so that she appeared to be followed by a succession of fading ghosts. Magrat stood up. Nanny was aware of a rainbow hue in the air. Possibly there was the tweeting of bluebirds. The Prince took Magrat by the hand. Nanny glanced up at Lily Weatherwax, who had remained a few steps up from the foot of the stairs and was smiling beneficently. Then she tried to put a focus on the future. It was horribly easy. Normally the future is branching off at every turn and it's only possible to have the haziest idea of what is likely to happen, even when you're as temporally sensitive as a witch. But here there were stories coiled around the tree of events, bending it into a new shape. Granny Weatherwax wouldn't know what a pattern of quantum inevitability was if she found it eating her dinner. If you mentioned the words 'paradigms of space-time' to her she'd just say 'What?' But that didn't mean she was ignorant. |
It just meant that she didn't have any truck with words, especially gibberish. She just knew that there were certain things that happened continually in human history, like three-dimensional cliches. Stories. 'And now we're part of it! And I can't stop it,' said Granny. 'There's got to be a place where I can stop it, and I can't find it!' The band struck up. It was playing a waltz. Magrat and the Prince whirled around the dance floor once, never taking their eyes off each other. Then a few couples dared to join them. And then, as if the whole ball was a machine whose spring had been wound up again, the floor was full of dancing couples and the sounds of conversation flowed back into the void. 'Are you going to introduce me to your friend?' said Casanunda, from somewhere near Nanny's elbow. People swept past them. 'It's all got to happen,' said Granny, ignoring the low-level interruption. 'Everything. The kiss, the clock striking midnight, her running out and losing the glass slipper, everything. ' 'Ur, yuk,' said Nanny, leaning on her partner's head. Td rather lick toads. ' 'She looks just my type,' said Casanunda, his voice slightly muffled. 'I've always been very attracted to dominant women. ' The witches looked at the whirling couple, who were staring into one another's eyes. 'I could trip them up, no trouble,' said Nanny. 'You can't. That's not something that can happen. ' 'Well, Magrat's sensible. . . more or less sensible,' said Nanny. 'Maybe she'll notice something's wrong. ' 'I'm good at what I do, Gytha Ogg,' said Granny. 'She won't notice nothing until the clock strikes midnight. ' They both turned to look up. It was barely nine. 'Y'know,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Clocks don't strike midnight. Seems to me they just strike twelve. I mean, it's just a matter of bongs. ' They both looked up at the clock again. In the swamp, Legba the black cockerel crowed. He always crowed at sunset. Nanny Ogg pounded up another flight of stairs and leaned against the wall to catch her breath. It had to be somewhere round here. 'Another time you'll learn to keep your mouth shut, Gytha Ogg,' she muttered. 'I expect we're leaving the hurly-burly of the ball for an intimate tete-a-tete somewhere?' said Casanunda hopefully, trotting along behind her. Nanny tried to ignore him and ran along a dusty passage. There was a balcony rail on one side, looking down into the ballroom. And there. . . . a small wooden door. She rammed it open with her elbow. Within, mechanisms whirred in counterpoint to the dancing figures below as if the clock was propelling them, which, in a metaphorical sense, it was. Clockwork, Nanny thought. Once you know about clockwork, you know about everything. I wish I bloody well knew about clockwork. 'Very cosy,' said Casanunda. She squeezed through the gap and into the clock space. Cog-wheels clicked past her nose. She stared at them for a moment. Lawks. All this just to chop Time up into little bits. 'It might be just the teensiest bit cramped,' said Casanunda, from somewhere near her armpit. 'But needs must, ma'am. I remember once in Quirm, there was this sedan chair and. . . ' Let's see, thought Nanny. This bit is connected to that bit, this one turns, that one turns faster, this spiky bit wobbles backwards and forwards. . . Oh, well. Just twist the first thing you can grab, as the High Priest said to the vestal virgin. * Nanny Ogg spat on her hands, gripped the largest cogwheel, and twisted. It carried on turning, pulling her with it. Blimey. Oh, well. . . Then she did what neither Granny Weatherwax nor Magrat would have dreamed of doing in the circumstances. But Nanny Ogg's voyages on the sea of inter-sexual dalliance had gone rather further than twice around the lighthouse, and she saw nothing demeaning in getting a man to help her. She simpered at Casanunda. 'Things would be a lot more comfortable in our little pie-de-terre if you could just push this little wheel around a bit,' she said. 'I'm sure you could manage it,' she added. 'Oh, no problejn, good lady,' said Casanunda. He reached up with one hand. Dwarfs are immensely strong for their size. The wheel seemed to offer him no resistance at all. Somewhere in the mechanism something resisted for a * This is the last line of a Discworld joke lost, alas, to posterity. moment and then went clonk. Big wheels turned reluctantly. Little wheels screamed on their axles. A small important piece flew out and pinged off Casanunda's small bullet head. And, much faster than nature had ever intended, the hands sped round the face. A new noise right overhead made Nanny Ogg look up. Her self-satisfied expression faded. The hammer that struck the hours was swinging slowly backwards. It struck Nanny that she was standing right under the bell at the same time as the bell, too, was struck. Bong. . . 'Oh, bugger!'. . . bong. . . . . . bong. . . . . . bong. . . Mist rolled through the swamp. And shadows moved with it, their shapes indistinct on this night when the difference between the living and the dead was only a matter of time. Mrs Gogol could feel them among the trees. The homeless. The hungry. The silent people. Those forsaken by men and gods. The people of the mists and the mud, whose only strength was somewhere on the other side of weakness, whose beliefs were as rickety and homemade as their homes. And the people from the city — not the ones who lived in the big white houses and went to balls in fine coaches, but the other ones. They were the ones that stories are never about. Stories are not, on the whole, interested in swineherds who remain swineherds and poor and humble shoe-makers whose destiny is to die slightly poorer and much humbler. These people were the ones who made the magical kingdom work, who cooked its meals and swept its floors and carted its night soil and were its faces in the crowd and whose wishes and dreams, undemanding as they were, were of no consequence. The invisibles. And me out here, she thought. Building traps for gods. There are various forms of voodoo in the multiverse, because it's a religion that can be put together from any ingredients that happen to be lying around. And all of them try, in some way, to call down a god into the body of a human being. That was stupid, Mrs Gogol thought. That was dangerous. Mrs Gogol's voodoo worked the other way about. What was a god? A focus of belief. If people believed, a god began to grow. Feebly at first, but if the swamp taught anything, it taught patience. Anything could be the focus of a god. A handful of feathers with a red ribbon around them, a hat and coat on a couple of sticks. . . anything. Because when all people had was practically nothing, then anything could be almost everything. And then you fed it, and lulled it, like a goose heading for pate, and let the power grow very slowly, and when the time was ripe you opened the path. . . backwards. A human could ride the god, rather than the other way around. There would be a price to pay later, but there always was. In Mrs Gogol's experience, everyone ended up dying. She took a pull of rum and handed the jug to Saturday. Saturday took a mouthful, and passed the jug up to something that might have been a hand. 'Let it begin,' said Mrs Gogol. The dead man picked up three small drums and began to beat out a rhythm, heartbeat fast. After a while something tapped Mrs Gogol on the shoulder and handed her the jug. It was empty. Might as well begin. . . 'Lady Bon Anna smile on me. Mister Safe Way protect me. Stride Wide Man guide me. Hotaloga Andrews catch me. 'I stand between the light and the dark, but that no matter, because I am between. 'Here is rum for you. Tobacco for you. Food for you. A home for you. 'Now you listen to me good. . . '. . . bong. For Magrat it was like waking from a dream into a dream. She'd been idly dreaming that she was dancing with the most handsome man in the room, and. . . she was dancing with the most handsome man in the room. Except that he wore two circles of smoked glass over his eyes. |
Although Magrat was soft-hearted, a compulsive daydreamer and, as Granny Weatherwax put it, a wet hen, she wouldn't be a witch if she didn't have certain instincts and the sense to trust them. She reached up and, before his hands could move, tweaked the things away. Magrat had seen eyes like that before, but never on something walking upright. Her feet, which a moment before had been moving gracefully across the floor, tripped over themselves. 'Er. . . ' she began. And she was aware that his hands, pink and well-manicured, were also cold and damp. Magrat turned and ran, knocking the couples aside in her madness to get away. Her legs tangled in the dress. The stupid shoes skittered on the floor. A couple of footmen blocked the stairs to the hall. Magrat's eyes narrowed. Getting out was what mattered. 'Hai!' 'Ouch!' And then she ran on, slipping at the top of the stairs. A glass slipper slithered across the marble. 'How the hell's anyone supposed to move in these things?' she screamed at the world in general. Hopping frantically on one foot, she wrenched the other shoe off and ran into the night. The Prince walked slowly to the top of the steps and picked up the discarded slipper. He held it. The light glittered off its facets. Granny Weatherwax leaned against the wall in the shadows. All stories had a turning point, and it had to be close. She was good at getting into other people's minds, but now she had to get into hers. She concentrated. Down deeper. . . past everyday thoughts and minor concerns, faster, faster. . . through layers of deep cogitation. . . deeper. . . past things sealed off and crusted over, old guilts and congealed regrets, but there was no time for them now. . . down. . . and there. . . the silver thread of the story. She'd been part of it, was part of it, so it had to be a part of her. It poured past. She reached out. She hated everything that predestined people, that fooled them, that made them slightly less than human. The story whipped along like a steel hawser. She gripped it. Her eyes opened in shock. Then she stepped forward. 'Excuse me, Your Highness. ' She snatched the shoe from the Duc's hands, and raised it over her head. Her expression of evil satisfaction was terrible to behold. Then she dropped the shoe. It smashed on the stairs. A thousand glittering fragments scattered across the marble. Coiled as it was around the length of turtle-shaped space-time known as the Discworld, the story shook. One broken end flapped loose and flailed through the night, trying to find any sequence to feed on. In the clearing the trees moved. So did the shadows. Shadows shouldn't be able to move unless the light moves. These did. The drumming stopped. In the silence there was the occasional sizzle as power crackled across the hanging coat. Saturday stepped forward. Green sparks flew out to his hands as he gripped the jacket and put it on. His body jerked. Erzulie Gogol breathed out. 'You are here,' she said. 'You are still yourself. You are exactly yourself. ' Saturday raised his hands, with his fists clenched. Occasionally an arm or leg would jerk as the power inside him squirrel-caged around in its search for freedom, but she could see that he was riding it. 'It will become easier,' she said, more gently now. Saturday nodded. With the power flowing inside him he had, she thought, the fire he'd had when he was alive. He had not been a particularly good man, she knew. Genua had not been a model of civic virtue. But at least he'd never told people that they wanted him to oppress them, and that everything he did was for their own good. Around the circle, the people of New Genua - the old New Genua - knelt or bowed. He hadn't been a kind ruler. But he'd fitted. And when he'd been arbitrary or arrogant or just plain wrong, he'd never suggested that this was justified by anything other than the fact that he was bigger and stronger and occasionally nastier than other people. He'd never suggested that it was because he was better. And he'd never told people they ought to be happy, and imposed a kind of happiness on them. The invisible people knew that happiness is not the natural state of mankind, and is never achieved from the outside in. Saturday nodded again, this time in satisfaction. When he opened his mouth, sparks flashed between his teeth. And when he waded through the swamp, the alligators fought to get out of his way. It was quiet in the palace kitchens now. The huge trays of roast meat, the pigs' heads with apples in their mouths, the multi-layered trifles had long ago been carried upstairs. There was a clattering from the giant sinks at the far end, where some of the maids were making a start on the washing up. Mrs Pleasant the cook had made herself a plate of red stripefish in crawfish sauce. She wasn't the finest cook in Genua - no-one got near Mrs Gogol's gumbo, people would almost come back from the dead for a taste of Mrs Gogol's gumbo - but the comparison was as narrow as that between, say, diamonds and sapphires. She'd done her best to cook up a good banquet, because she had her professional pride, but there wasn't much she felt she was able to do with lumps of meat. Genuan cooking, like the best cooking everywhere in the multiverse, had been evolved by people who had to make desperate use of ingredients their masters didn't want. No-one would even try a bird's nest unless they had to. Only hunger would make a man taste his first alligator. No-one would eat a shark's fin if they were allowed to eat the rest of the shark. She poured herself a rum and was just picking up the spoon when she felt herself being watched. A large man in a black leather doublet was staring at her from the doorway, dangling a ginger cat mask from one hand. It was a very direct stare. Mrs Pleasant found herself wishing she'd done something about her hair and was wearing a better dress. 'Yes?' she said. 'What d'you want?' 'Waaant foood, Miss-uss Pleassunt,' said Greebo. She looked him up and down. There were some odd types in Genua these days. This one must have been a guest at the ball, but there was something very. . . familiar about him. Greebo wasn't a happy cat. People had made a fuss just because he'd dragged a roast turkey off the table. Then the skinny female with the teeth had kept simpering at him and saying she'd see him later in the rose garden, which wasn't at all the cat way of doing things, and that'd got him confused, because this wasn't the right kind of body and nor was hers. And there were too many other males around. Then he'd smelled the kitchen. Cats gravitate to kitchens like rocks gravitate to gravity. 'I seen you somewhere before?' said Mrs Pleasant. Greebo said nothing. He'd followed his nose to a bowl on one of the big tables. 'Waaant,' he demanded. 'Fish heads?' said Mrs Pleasant. They were technically garbage, although what she was planning with some rice and a few special sauces would turn them into the sort of dish kings fight for. 'Waant,' Greebo repeated. Mrs Pleasant shrugged. 'You want raw fish heads, man, you take 'em,' she said. Greebo lifted the bowl uncertainly. He wasn't too good with fingers. Then he looked around conspiratorially and ducked under the table. There were the sounds of keen gurgitation and the bowl being scraped around on the floor. Greebo emerged. 'Millluk?' he suggested. Fascinated, Mrs Pleasant reached for the milk jug and a cup- 'Saaaaucerrr,' Greebo said. - and a saucer. Greebo took the saucer, gave it a long hard look, and put it on the floor. Mrs Pleasant stared. Greebo finished the milk, licking the remnant off his beard. He felt a lot better now. And there was a big fire over there. He padded over to it, sat down, spat on his paw and made an attempt to clean his ears, which didn't work because inexplicably neither ears nor paw were the right shape, and then curled up as best he could. Which wasn't very well, given that he seemed to have the wrong sort of backbone, too. After a while Mrs Pleasant heard a low, asthmatic rumble. Greebo was trying to purr. |
He had the wrong kind of throat. In a minute he was going to wake up in a bad temper and want to fight something. Mrs Pleasant got on with her own supper. Despite the fact that a hulking great man had just eaten a bowl offish heads and lapped a saucer of milk in front of her, and was now stretched out uncomfortably in front of the fire, she found she didn't feel the least bit afraid. In fact she was fighting down an impulse to scratch his tummy. Magrat wrenched off the other slipper as she ran down the long red carpet towards the palace gateway and freedom. Just getting away, that was the important thing. From was more urgent than to. And then two figures drifted out of the shadows and faced her. She raised the slipper pathetically as they approached in absolute silence, but even in the twilight she could feel their gaze. The crowds parted. Lily Weatherwax glided through, in a rustle of silk. She looked Granny up and down, without any expression of surprise. 'All in white, too,' she said, dryly. 'My word, aren't you the nice one. ' 'But I've stopped you,' said Granny, still panting with the effort. 'I've broken it. ' Lily Weatherwax looked past her. The snake sisters were coming up the steps, holding a limp Magrat between them. 'Save us all from people who think literally,' said Lily. 'The damn things come in pairs, you know. ' She crossed to Magrat and snatched the second slipper out of her hand. "The clock was interesting,' she said, turning back to Granny. 'I was impressed with the clock. But it's no good, you know. You can't stop this sort of thing. It has the momentum of inevitability. You can't spoil a good story. I should know. ' She handed the slipper to the Prince, but without taking her eyes off Granny. 'It'll fit her,' she said. Two of the courtiers held Magrat's leg as the Prince wrestled the slipper past her protesting toes. 'There,' said Lily, still without looking down. 'And do stop trying that hedge-witch hypnotism on me, Esme. ' 'It fits,' said the Prince, but in a doubtful tone of voice. 'Yes, anything would fit,' said a cheerful voice from somewhere towards the back of the crowd, 'if you were allowed to put two pairs of hairy socks on first. ' Lily looked down. Then she looked at Magrat's mask. She reached out and pulled it off. 'Ow!' 'Wrong girl,' said Lily. 'But it still doesn't matter, Esme, because it is the right slipper. So all we have to do is find the girl whose foot it fits - ' There was a commotion at the back of the crowd. Courtiers parted, revealing Nanny Ogg, oil-covered and hung with spider webs. 'If it's a five-and-a-half narrow fit, I'm your man,' she said. 'Just let me get these boots off. . . ' 'I wasn't referring to you, old woman,' said Lily coldly. 'Oh, yes you was,' said Nanny. 'We know how this bit goes, see. The Prince goes all round the city with the slipper, trying to find the girl whose foot fits. That's what you was plannin'. So I can save you a bit of trouble, how about it?' There was a flicker of uncertainty in Lily's expression. 'A girl,' she said, 'of marriageable age. ' 'No problem there,' said Nanny cheerfully. The dwarf Casanunda nudged a courtier proudly in the knees. 'She's a very close personal friend of mine,' he said proudly. Lily looked at her sister. 'You're doing this. Don't think I don't know,' she said. 'I ain't doing a thing,' said Granny. 'It's real life happening all by itself. ' Nanny grabbed the slipper out of the Prince's hands and, before anyone else could move, slid it on to her foot. Then she waggled the foot in the air. It was a perfect fit. 'There!' she said. 'See? You could have wasted the whole day. ' 'Especially because there must be hundreds of five-and-a-half-' ' - narrow fit - ' ' - narrow fit wearers in a city this size,' Granny went on. 'Unless, of course, you happened to sort of go to the right house right at the start. If you had, you know, a lucky guess?' 'But that'd be cheatin',' said Nanny. She nudged the Prince. 'I'd just like to add,' she said, 'that I don't mind doin' all the waving and opening things and other royal stuff, but I draw the line at sleepin' in the same bed as sunny jim here. ' 'Because he doesn't sleep in a bed,' said Granny. 'No, he sleeps in a pond,' said Nanny. 'We had a look. Just a great big indoor pond. ' 'Because he's a frog,' said Granny. 'With flies all over the place in case he wakes up in the night and fancies a snack,' said Nanny. 'I thought so!' said Magrat, pulling herself out of the grip of the guards. 'He had clammy hands!' 'Lots of men have clammy hands,' said Nanny. 'But this one's got 'em because he's a frog. ' 'I'm a prince of blood royal!' said the Prince. 'And a frog,' said Granny. 'I don't mind,' said Casanunda, from somewhere down below. 'I enjoy open relationships. If you want to go out with a frog,that's fine by me. . . ' Lily looked around at the crowd. Then she snapped her fingers. Granny Weatherwax was aware of a sudden silence. Nanny Ogg looked up at the people on either side of her. She waved a hand in front of a guard's face. 'Coo,' she said. 'You can't do that for long,' said Granny. 'You can't stop a thousand people for long. ' Lily shrugged. 'They're not important. Whoever will remember who was at the ball? They'll just remember the flight and the slipper and the happy ending. ' 'I've told you. You can't start it again. And he's a frog. Even you can't keep him in shape the whole day long. He turns back into his old shape at night. He's got a bedroom with a pond in it. He's a frog,' said Granny flatly. 'But only inside," said Lily. 'Inside's where it counts,' said Granny. 'Outside's quite important, mind,' said Nanny. 'Lots of people are animals inside. Lots of animals are people inside,' said Lily. 'Where's the harm?' 'He's a frog. ' 'Especially at night,' said Nanny. It had occurred to her that a husband who was a man all night and a frog all day might be almost acceptable; you wouldn't get the wage packet, but there'd be less wear and tear on the furniture. She also couldn't put out of her mind certain private speculations about the length of his tongue. 'And you killed the Baron,' said Magrat. 'You think he was a particularly nice man?' said Uly. 'Besides, he didn't show me any respect. If you've got no respect, you've got nothing. ' Nanny and Magrat found themselves looking at Granny. 'He's a frog. ' 'I found him in the swamp,' said Lily. 'I could tell he was pretty bright. I needed someone. . . amenable to persuasion. Shouldn't frogs have a chance? He'll be no worse a husband than many. Just one kiss from a princess seals the spell. ' 'A lot of men are animals,' said Magrat, who'd picked up the idea from somewhere. 'Yes. But he's a frog,' said Granny. 'Look at it my way,' said Lily. 'You see this country? It's all swamps and fogs. There's no direction. But I can make this a great city. Not a sprawling place like Ankh-Morpork, but a place that works. ' 'The girl doesn't want to marry a frog. ' 'What will that matter in a hundred years' time?' 'It matters now. ' Lily threw up her hands. 'What do you want, then? It's your choice. There's me. or there's that woman in the swamp. Light or dark. Fog or sunshine. Dark chaos or happy endings. ' 'He's a frog, and you killed the old Baron,' said Granny. 'You'd have done the same,' said Lily. 'No,' said Granny. 'I'd have thought the same, but I wouldn't have done it. ' 'What difference does that make, deep down?' 'You mean you don't know?' said Nanny Ogg. Lily laughed. 'Look at the three of you,' she said. 'Bursting with inefficient good intentions. The maiden, the mother and the crone. ' 'Who are you calling a maiden?' said Nanny Ogg. 'Who are you calling a mother?' said Magrat. Granny Weatherwax glowered briefly like the person who has discovered that there is only one straw left and everyone else has drawn a long one. 'Now, what shall I do with you?' said Lily. 'I really am against killing people unless it's necessary, but I can't have you running around acting stupidly. . . ' She looked at her fingernails. |
'So I think I shall have you put away somewhere until this has run its course. And then. . . can you guess what I'm going to do next? 'I'm going to expect you to escape. Because, after all, I am the good one. ' Ella walked cautiously through the moonlit swamp, following the strutting shape of Legba. She was aware of movement in the water, but nothing emerged - bad news like Legba gets around, even among alligators. An orange light appeared irrthe distance. It turned out to be Mrs Gogol's shack, or boat, or whatever it was. In the swamp, the difference between the water and the land was practically a matter of choice. 'Hallo? Is there anyone there?' 'Come along in, child. Take a seat. Rest up a little. ' Ella stepped cautiously on to the rocking veranda. Mrs Gogol was sitting in her chair, a white-clad raggedy doll in her lap. 'Magrat said - ' 'I know all about it. Come to Erzulie. ' 'Who are you?' 'I am your - friend, girl. ' Ella moved so as to be ready to run. 'You're not a godmother of any kind, are you?' 'No. No gods. Just a friend. Did anyone follow you?' 'I. don't think so. ' 'It's no matter if they did, girl. No matter if they did. Maybe we ought to move out into the river for a spell, even so. We'll be a lot safer with water all round. ' The shack lurched. 'You better sit down. The feets make it shaky until we get into deep water. ' Ella risked a look, nevertheless. Airs Gogol's hut travelled on four large duck feet, which were now rising out of the swamp. They splashed their way through the shallows and, gently, sculled out into the river. Greebo woke up and stretched. And the wrong sort of arms and legs! Mrs Pleasant, who had been sitting watching him, put down her glass. 'What do you want to do now, Mr Cat?' she said. Greebo padded over to the door into the outside world and scratched at it. 'Waant to go owwwt, Miss-uss Pleas-unt,' he said. 'You just have to turn the handle there,' she said. Greebo stared at the door handle like someone trying to come to terms with a piece of very advanced technology, and then gave her a pleading look. She opened the door for him, stood aside as he slunk out, and then shut it, locked it and leaned against it. 'Ember's bound to be safe with Mrs Gogol,' said Magrat. 'Hah!' said Granny. 'I quite liked her,' said Nanny Ogg. 'I don't trust anyone who drinks rum and smokes a pipe,' said Granny. 'Nanny Ogg smokes a pipe and drinks anything,' Magrat pointed out. 'Yes, but that's because she's a disgustin' old baggage,' said Granny, without looking up. Nanny Ogg took her pipe out of her mouth. 'That's right,' she said amiably. 'You ain't nothing if you don't maintain an image. ' Granny looked up from the lock. 'Can't shift it,' she said. 'It's octiron, too. Can't magic it open. ' 'It's daft, locking us up,' said Nanny. 'I'd have had us killed. ' 'That's because you're basically good,' said Magrat. 'The good are innocent and create justice. The bad are guilty, which is why they invent mercy. ' 'No, I know why she's done this,' said Granny, darkly. 'It's so's we'll know we've lost. ' 'But she said we'd escape,' said Magrat. 'I don't understand. She must know the good ones always win in the end!' 'Only in stories,' said Granny, examining the door hinges. 'And she thinks she's in charge of the stories. She bends them round herself. She thinks she's the good one. ' 'Mind you,' said Magrat, 'I don't like swamps. If it wasn't for the frog and everything, I'd see Lily's point - ' 'Then you're nothing but a daft godmother,' snapped Granny, still fiddling with the lock. 'You can't go around building a better world for people. Only people can build a better world for people. Otherwise it's just a cage. Besides, you don't build a better world by choppin' heads off and giving decent girls away to frogs. ' 'But progress - ' Magrat began. 'Don't you talk to me about progress. Progress just means bad things happen faster. Anyone got another hatpin? This one's useless. ' Nanny, who had Greebo's ability to make herself instantly at home wherever she happened to be, sat down in the corner of the cell. 'I heard this story once,' she said, 'where this bloke got locked up for years and years and he learned amazin' stuff about the universe and everythin' from another prisoner who was incredibly clever, and then he escaped and got his revenge. ' 'What incredibly clever stuff do you know about the universe, Gytha Ogg?' said Granny. 'Bugger all,' said Nanny cheerfully. 'Then we'd better bloody well escape right now. ' Nanny pulled a scrap of pasteboard out of her hat, found a scrap of pencil up there too, licked the end and thought for a while. Then she wrote: Dear Jason unt so witer (as they say in foreign parts), Well here's a thing yore ole Mum doin Time in prison again, Im a old lag, youll have to send me a cake with a phial in it and I shall have little arrows on my close just my joke. This is a Sketch of the dunjon. Im putting a X where we are, which is Inside. Magrat is shown wering a posh dress, she has been acting like a Courgette. Also inc. Esme getting fed up becaus she can't get the lock to work but I expect it will all be OK because the good ones win in the end and that's US. And all because some girl don't want to marry a Prince who is a Duck who is really a Frog and I cant say I blame her, you don't want descendants who have got Jenes and start off living in a jamjar and then hop about and get squashed. . . She was interrupted by the sound of a mandolin being played quite well, right on the other side of the wall, and a small but determined voice raised in song. ' — si consuenti d'amoure, ventre dimo tondreturo-ooo - ' 'How I hunger my love for the dining-room of your warm maceration,' said Nanny, without looking up. ' - della della t'ozentro, audri t'dren vontarieeeeee - ' 'The shop, the shop, I have a lozenge, the sky is pink,' said Nanny. Granny and Magrat looked at one another. ' - guarunto del tart, bella pore di larientos - ' 'Rejoice, candlemaker, you have a great big - ' 'I don't believe any of this,' said Granny. 'You're making it up. ' 'Word for word translation,' said Nanny. 'I can speak foreign like a native, you know that. ' 'Mrs Ogg? Is that you, my love?' They all looked up towards the barred window. There was a small face peering in. 'Casanunda?' said Nanny. 'That's me, Mrs Ogg. ' 'My love,' muttered Granny. 'How did you get up to the window?' said Nanny, ignoring this. 'I always know where I can get my hands on a step-ladder, Mrs Ogg. ' 'I suppose you don't know where you can get your hands on a key?' 'Wouldn't do any good. There's too many guards outside your door, Mrs Ogg. Even for a famous swordsman like me. Her ladyship gave strict orders. No-one's to listen to you or look at you, even. ' 'How come you're in the palace guard, Casanunda?' 'Soldier of fortune takes whatever jobs are going, Mrs Ogg,' said Casanunda earnestly. 'But all the rest of 'em are six foot tall and you're - of the shorter persuasion. ' 'I lied about my height, Mrs Ogg. I'm a world-famous liar. ' 'Is that true?' 'No. ' 'What about you being the world's greatest lover?' There was silence for a while. 'Well, maybe I'm only No. 2,' said Casanunda. 'But I try harder. ' 'Can't you go and find us a file or something, Mr Casanunda?' said Magrat. 'I'll see what I can do, Miss. ' The face disappeared. 'Maybe we could get people to visit us and then we could escape in their clothes?' said Nanny Ogg. 'Now I've gone and stuck the pin in my finger,' muttered Granny Weatherwax. 'Or maybe we could get Magrat to seduce one of the guards,' said Nanny. 'Why don't you? said Magrat, as nastily as she could manage. 'All right. I'm game. ' 'Shut up, the pair of you,' said Granny. 'I'm trying to think - ' There was another sound at the window. It was Legba. The black cockerel peered in between the bars for a moment, and then fluttered away. 'Gives me the creeps, that one,' said Nanny. 'Can't look at him without thinking wistfully of sage-and-onion and mashed potatoes. ' Her crinkled face crinkled further. 'Greebo!' she said. |
'Where'd we leave him?' 'Oh, he's only a cat,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'Cats know how to look after themselves. ' 'He's really just a big softie - ' Nanny began, before someone started pulling down the wall. A hole appeared. A grey hand appeared and grasped another stone. There was a strong smell of river mud. Rock crumbled under heavy fingers. 'Ladies?' said a resonant voice. 'Well, Mister Saturday,' said Nanny, 'as I live and breathe - saving your presence, o'course. ' Saturday grunted something and walked away. There was a hammering on the door and someone started fumbling with keys. 'We don't want to hang around here,' said Granny. 'Come on. ' They helped one another out through the hole. Saturday was on the other side of a small courtyard, striding towards the sound of the ball. And there was something behind him, trailing out like the tail of a comet. 'What's that?' 'Mrs Gogol's doing,' said Granny Weatherwax grimly. Behind Saturday, widening as it snaked through the palace grounds to the gate, was a stream of deeper darkness in the air. At first sight it seemed to contain shapes, but closer inspection indicated that they weren't shapes at all but a mere suggestion of shapes, forming and reforming. Eyes gleamed momentarily in the swirl. There was the cluttering of crickets and the whine of mosquitoes, the smell of moss and the stink of river mud. 'It's the swamp,' said Magrat. 'It's the idea of the swamp,' said Granny. 'It's what you have to have first, before you have the swamp. ' 'Oh, dear,' said Nanny. She shrugged. 'Well, Ella's got away and so have we, so this is the part where we escape, yes? That's what we're supposed to do. ' None of them moved. 'They aren't very nice people in there,' said Magrat, after a while, 'but they don't deserve alligators. " 'You witches stand right there,' said a voice behind them. Half a dozen guards were crowded around the hole in the wall. 'Life's certainly busier in the city,' said Nanny, pulling another hatpin from her hat. 'They've got crossbows,' warned Magrat. 'There's not much you can do against crossbows. Projectile weapons is Lesson Seven and I haven't had that yet. ' 'They can't pull triggers if they think they've got flippers,' said Granny menacingly. 'Now,' said Nanny, 'let's not have any of that, eh? Everyone knows the good ones always win specially when they're outnumbered. ' The guards emerged. As they did so a tall black shape dropped noiselessly from the wall behind them. 'There,' said Nanny, 'I said he wouldn't go far from his mummy, didn't I?' One or two of the guards realized that she was staring proudly past them, and turned. As far as they were concerned, they confronted a tall, broad-shouldered man with a mane of black hair, an eyepatch and a very wide grin. He stood with his arms casually folded. He waited until he had their full attention, and then Greebo let his lips part slowly. Several of the men took a step backwards then. One of them said, 'Why worry? It's not as if he's got a weap - ' Greebo raised one hand. Claws make no noise as they slide out, but they ought to. They ought to make a noise like 'tzing'. Greebo's grin widened. Ah! These still worked. . . One of the men was bright enough to raise his crossbow but stupid enough to do it with Nanny Ogg standing behind him with a hatpin. Her hand moved so swiftly that any wisdom-seeking saffron-clad youth would have started the Way of Mrs Ogg there and then. The man screamed and dropped the bow. 'Wrowwwl. . . ' Greebo leapt. Cats are like witches. They don't fight to kill, but to win. There is a difference. There's no point in killing an opponent. That way, they won't know they've lost, and to be a real winner you have to have an opponent who is beaten and knows it. There's no triumph over a corpse, but a beaten opponent, who will remain beaten every day of the remainder of their sad and wretched life, is something to treasure. Cats do not, of course, rationalize this far. They just like to send someone limping off minus a tail and a few square inches of fur. Greebo's technique was unscientific and wouldn't have stood a chance against any decent swordsmanship, but on his side was the fact that it is almost impossible to develop decent swordsmanship when you seem to have run into a food mixer that is biting your ear off. The witches watched with interest. 'I think we can leave him now,' said Nanny. 'I think he's having fun. ' They hurried towards the hall. The orchestra was in the middle of a complicated number when the lead violinist happened to glance towards the door, and then dropped his bow. The cellist turned to see what had caused this, followed his colleague's fixed stare, and in a moment of confusion tried to play his instrument backwards. In a succession of squeaks and flats, the orchestra stopped playing. The dancers continued for a while out of sheer momentum, and then stopped and milled about in confusion. And then, one by one, they too looked up. Saturday stood at the top of the steps. In the silence came the drumming, making the music that had gone before seem as insignificant as the cluttering of crickets. This was the real blood music; every other music that had ever been written was merely a pitiful attempt to sing along. It poured into the room, and with it came the heat and the warm, vegetable smell of the swamp. There was a suggestion of alligator in the air - not the presence of them, but the promise. The drumming grew louder. There were complex counter-rhythms, much more felt than heard. Saturday brushed a speck of dust off the shoulder of his ancient coat, and reached out an arm. The tall hat appeared in his hand. He reached out his other hand. The black cane with the silver top whirred out of the empty air and was snatched up triumphantly. He put the hat on his head. He twirled the cane. The drums rolled. Except that. . . maybe it wasn't drums now, maybe it was a beat in the floor itself, or in the walls, or in the air. It was fast and hot and people in the hall found their feet moving of their own accord, because the drumming seemed to reach the toes via the hindbrain without ever passing near the ears. Saturday's feet moved too. They beat out their own staccato rhythms on the marble floor. He danced down the steps. He whirled. He leapt. The tails of his coat whipped through the air. And then he landed at the foot of the step, his feet striking the ground like the thud of doom. And only now was there a stirring. There was a croak from the Prince. 'It can't be him! He's deadl Guards! Kill him!' He looked around madly at the guards by the stairs. The guard captain went pale. 'I, uh, again? I mean, I don't think. . . ' he began. 'Do it now!' The captain raised his crossbow nervously. The point of the bolt wove figures-of-eight in front of his eyes. 'I said do it!' The bow twanged. There was a thud. Saturday looked down at the feathers buried in his chest, and then grinned and raised his cane. The captain looked up with the certain terror of death in his face. He dropped his bow and turned to run, and managed two steps before he toppled forward. 'No,' said a voice behind the Prince. 'This is how you kill a dead man. ' Lily Weatherwax stepped forward, her face white with fury. 'You don't belong here any more,' she hissed. 'You're not part of the story. ' She raised a hand. Behind her, the ghost images suddenly focused on her, so that she became more iridescent. Silver fire leapt across the room. Baron Saturday thrust out his cane. The magic struck, and coursed down him to earth, leaving little silver trails that crackled for a while and then winked out. 'No, ma'am,' he said, 'there ain't no way to kill a dead man. ' The three witches watched from the doorway. 'I felt that,' said Nanny. 'It should have blown him to bits!' 'Blown what to bits?' said Granny. 'The swamp? The river? The world? He's all of them! Ooh, she's a clever one, that Mrs Gogol!' 'What?' said Magrat. 'What do you mean, all of them?' Lily backed away. She raised her hand again and sent another fireball towards the Baron. |
It hit his hat and burst off it like a firework. 'Stupid, stupid!' muttered Granny. 'She's seen it doesn't work and she's still trying it!' 'I thought you weren't on her side,' said Magrat. 'I ain't! But I don't like to see people being stupid. That kind of stuff's no use, Magrat Garlick, even you can. . . oh, no, surely not again. . . ' The Baron laughed as a third attempt earthed itself harmlessly. Then he raised his cane. Two courtiers tumbled forward. Lily Weatherwax, still backing away, came up against the foot of the main staircase. The Baron strolled forward. 'You want to try anything else, lady?' he said. Lily raised both hands. All three witches felt it - the terrible suction as she tried to concentrate all the power in the vicinity. Outside, the one guard remaining upright found that he was no longer fighting a man but merely an enraged tomcat, although this was no consolation. It just meant that Greebo had an extra pair of claws. The Prince screamed. It was a long, descending scream, and ended in a croak, somewhere around ground level. Baron Saturday took one heavy, deliberate step forward, and there was no more croak. The drums stopped abruptly. And then there was a real silence, broken only by the swish of Lily's dress as she fled up the stairs. A voice behind the witches said, 'Thank you, ladies. Could you step aside, please?' They looked around. Mrs Gogol was there, holding Embers by the hand. She had a fat, gaily-embroidered bag over her shoulder. All three watched as the voodoo woman led the girl down into the hall and through the silent crowds. "That's not right either,' said Granny under her breath. 'What?' said Magrat. 'What?' Baron Saturday thumped his stick on the floor. 'You know me,' he said. 'You all know me. You know I was killed. And now here I am. I was murdered and what did you do -?' 'How much did you do, Mrs Gogol?' muttered Granny. 'No, we ain't having this. ' 'Ssh, I can't hear what he's saying,' said Nanny. 'He's telling them they can have him ruling them again, or Embers,' said Magrat. 'They'll have Mrs Gogol,' muttered Granny. 'She'll be one o' them eminences greases. ' 'Well, she's not too bad,' said Nanny. 'In the swamp she's not too bad,' said Granny. 'With someone to balance her up she's not too bad. But Mrs Gogol tellin' a whole city what to do. that's not right. Magic's far too important to be used for rulin' people. Anyway, Lily only had people killed - Mrs Gogol'd set 'em to choppin' wood and doin' chores afterwards. I reckon, after you've had a busy life, you ort to be able to relax a bit when you're dead. ' 'Lie back and enjoy it, sort of thing,' said Nanny. Granny looked down at the white dress. 'I wish I had my old clothes on,' she said. 'Black's the proper colour for a witch. ' She strode down the steps, and then cupped her hands around her mouth. 'Coo-ee! Mrs Gogol!' Baron Saturday stopped speaking. Mrs Gogol nodded at Granny. 'Yes, Miss Weatherwax?' 'Mistress,' snapped Granny, and then softened her voice again. 'This ain't right, you know. She's the one who ought to rule, fair enough. And you used magic to help her this far, and that's all right. But it stops right here. It's up to her what happens next. You can't make things right by magic. You can only stop making them wrong. ' Mrs Gogol pulled herself up to her full, impressive height. 'Who's you to say what I can and can't do here?' 'We're her godmothers,' said Granny. 'That's right,' said Nanny Ogg. 'We've got a wand, too,' said Magrat. 'But you hate godmothers, Mistress Weatherwax,' said Mrs Gogol. 'We're the other kind,' said Granny. 'We're the kind that gives people what they know they really need, not what we think they ought to want. ' Among the fascinated crowd several pairs of lips moved as people worked this out. 'Then you've done your godmothering,' said Mrs Gogol, who thought faster than most. 'You did it very well. " 'You didn't listen,' said Granny. 'There's all sorts of things to godmotherin'. She might be quite good at ruling. She might be bad at it. But she's got to find out for herself. With no interference from anyone. ' 'What if I say no?' 'Then I expect we'll just have to go on godmotherin',' said Granny. 'Do you know how long I worked to win?' said Mrs Gogol, haughtily. 'Do you know what I lost? 'And now you've won, and there's the end of it,' said Granny. 'Are you looking to challenge me. Mistress Weatherwax?' Granny hesitated, and then straightened her shoulders. Her arms moved away from her sides, almost imperceptibly. Nanny and Magrat moved away slightly. 'If that's what you want. ' 'My voodoo against your. . . headology?' 'If you like. ' 'And what's the stake?' 'No more magic in the affairs of Genua,' said Granny. 'No more stories. No more godmothers. Just people, deciding for themselves. For good or bad. Right or wrong. ' 'Okay. ' 'And you leave Lily Weatherwax to me. ' Mrs Gogol's intake of breath was heard around the hall. 'Never!' 'Hmm?' said Granny. 'You don't think you're going to lose, do you?' 'I don't want to hurt you, Mistress Weatherwax,' said Mrs Gogol. 'That's good,' said Granny. 'I don't want you to hurt me either. ' 'I don't want there to be any fighting,' said Ella. They all looked at her. 'She's the ruler now, ain't she?' said Granny. 'We've got to listen to what she says. ' 'I'll keep out of the city,' said Mrs Gogol, ignoring her, 'but Lilith is mine. ' 'No. ' Mrs Gogol reached into her bag, and flourished the raggedy doll. 'See this?' 'Yes. I do,' said Granny. 'It was going to be her. Don't let it be you. ' 'Sorry, Mrs Gogol,' said Granny firmly, 'but I see my duty plain. ' 'You're a clever woman, Mistress Weatherwax. But you're a long way from home. ' Granny shrugged. Mrs Gogol held up the doll by its waist. It had sapphire blue eyes. 'You know about magic with mirrors? This is my kind of mirror, Mistress Weatherwax. I can make it be you. And then I can make it suffer. Don't make me do that. Please. ' 'Please yourself, Mrs Gogol. But I'll deal with Lily. ' 'I should box a bit clever if I was you, Esme,' muttered Nanny Ogg. 'She's good at this sort of thing. ' 'I think she could be very ruthless,' said Magrat. 'I've got nothing but the greatest respect for Mrs Gogol,' said Granny. 'A fine woman. But talks a bit too much. If I was her, I'd have had a couple of big nails right through that thing by now. ' 'You would, too,' said Nanny. 'It's a good thing you're good, ain't it. ' 'Right,' said Granny, raising her voice again. 'I'm going to find my sister, Mrs Gogol. This is family. ' She walked steadfastly towards the stairs. Magrat took out the wand. 'If she does anything bad to Granny, she's going to go through the rest of her life bright orange and round, with seeds in,' she said. 'I don't think Esme would like it if you did something like that,' said Nanny. 'Don't worry. She doesn't believe all that stuff about pins and dolls. ' 'She doesn't believe anything. But that doesn't matter!' said Magrat. 'Mrs Gogol does! It's her power! It's what she thinks that matters. ' 'Don't you reckon Esme knows that too?' Granny Weatherwax reached the foot of the stairs. 'Mistress Weatherwax!' Granny turned. Mrs Gogol had a long sliver of wood in her hand. Shaking her head desperately, she jabbed it into the doll's foot. Everyone saw Esme Weatherwax wince. Another sliver was thrust into a raggedy arm. Slowly, Granny raised her other hand and shuddered when she touched her sleeve. Then, limping slightly, she continued to climb the stairs. 'I can do the heart next. Mistress Weatherwax!' shouted Mrs Gogol. 'I'm sure you can. You're good at it. You know you're good at it,' said Granny, without looking around. Mrs Gogol stuck another sliver into a leg. Granny sagged, and clutched at the banister. Beside her, one of the big torches flamed. 'Next time!' said Mrs Gogol. 'Right? Next time. I can do it!' Granny turned around. She looked at the hundreds of upturned faces. When she spoke, her voice was so quiet that they had to strain to hear. 'I know you can too, Mrs Gogol. You really believe. |
Just remind me again- we're playin' for Lily, right? And for the city?' 'What does that matter now?' said Mrs Gogol. 'Ain't you going to give in?' Granny Weatherwax thrust a little finger into her ear and wiggled it thoughtfully. 'No,' she said. 'No, I don't reckon that's what I do now. Are you watchin', Mrs Gogol? Are you watchin' real close?' Her gaze travelled the room and rested for just a fraction of a second on Magrat. Then she reached over, carefully, and thrust her arm up to the elbow into the burning torch. And the doll in Erzulie Gogol's hands burst into flame. It went on blazing even after the witch had screamed and dropped it on to the floor. It went on burning until Nanny Ogg ambled over with a jug of fruit juice from the buffet, whistling between her teeth, and put it out. Granny withdrew her hand. It was unscathed. 'That's headology,' she said. 'It's the only thing that matters. Everything else is just messin' about. Hope I didn't hurt you, Mrs Gogol. ' She went on up the stairs. Mrs Gogol kept on staring at the damp ashes. Nanny Ogg patted her companionably on the shoulder. 'How did she do that?' said Mrs Gogol. 'She didn't. She let you do it,' said Nanny. 'You got to watch yourself around Esme Weatherwax. I'd like to see one of them Zen buggers come up against her one day. ' 'And she's the good one?' said Baron Saturday. 'Yeah,' said Nanny. 'Funny how things work out, really. ' She looked thoughtfully at the empty fruit juice jug in her hand. 'What this needs,' she said, in the manner of one reaching a conclusion after much careful consideration, 'is some bananas and rum and stuff in it - ' Magrat grabbed her dress as Nanny strode determinedly dak'rywards. 'Not now,' she said. 'We'd better get after Granny! She might need us!' 'Shouldn't think so for one minute,' said Nanny. 'I wouldn't like to be in Lily's shoes when Esme catches up with her. ' 'But I've never seen Granny so agitated,' said Magrat. 'Anything could happen. ' 'Good job if it does,' said Nanny. She nodded meaningfully at a flunkey who, being quick on the uptake, leapt to attention. 'But she might do something - dreadful. ' 'Good. She's always wanted to,' said Nanny. 'Another banana dak'ry, mahatma coat, chopchop. ' 'No. It wouldn't be a good idea,' Magrat persisted. 'Oh, all right,' said Nanny. She handed the empty jug to Baron Saturday, who took it in a kind of hypnotic daze. 'We're just going to sort things out,' she said. 'Sorry about this. On with the motley. if anyone's got any left. ' When the witches had gone Mrs Gogol reached down and picked up the damp remains of the doll. One or two people coughed. 'Is that it?' said the Baron. 'After twelve years?' 'The Prince is dead,' said Mrs Gogol. 'Such as he was. ' 'But you promised that I would be revenged on her,' the Baron said. 'I think there will be revenge,' said Mrs Gogol. She tossed the doll on to the floor. 'Lilith has been fighting me for twelve years and she never got through. This one didn't even have to sweat. So I think there will be revenge. ' 'You don't have to keep your word!' 'I do. I've got to keep something. ' Mrs Gogol put her arm around Ella's shoulder. 'This is it, girl,' she said. 'Your palace. Your city. There isn't a person here who will deny it. ' She glared at the guests. One or two of them stepped backwards. Ella looked up at Saturday. 'I feel I should know you,' she said. She turned to Mrs Gogol. 'And you,' she added. 'I've seen you both. . . before. A long time ago?' Baron Saturday opened his mouth to speak. Mrs Gogol held up her hand. 'We promised,' she said. 'No interference. ' 'Not from us? 'Not even from us. ' She turned back to Ella. 'We're just people. ' 'You mean. . . ' said Ella, 'I've slaved in a kitchen for years. . . and now. . . I'm supposed to rule the city? Just like that?' 'That's how it goes. ' Ella looked down, deep in thought. 'And anything I say people have to do?' she said innocently. There were a few nervous coughs from the crowd. 'Yes,' said Mrs Gogol. Ella stood looking down at the floor, idly biting a thumbnail. Then she looked up. 'Then the first thing that's going to happen is the end of the ball. Right now! I'm going to find the carnival. I've always wanted to dance in the carnival. ' She looked around at the worried faces. 'It's not compulsory for anyone else to come,' she added. The nobles of Genua had enough experience to know what it means when a ruler says something is not compulsory. Within minutes the hall was empty, except for three figures. 'But. . . but. I wanted revenge,' said the Baron. 'I wanted death. I wanted our daughter in power. ' TWO OUT OF THREE ISN'T BAD. Mrs Gogol and the Baron turned around. Death put down his drink and stepped forward. Baron Saturday straightened up. 'I am ready to go with you,' he said. Death shrugged. Ready or not, he seemed to indicate, was all the same to him. 'But I held you off,' the Baron added. 'For twelve years!" He put his arm around Erzulie's shoulders. 'When they killed me and threw me in the river, we stole life from you!' YOU STOPPED LIVING. YOU NEVER DIED. I DID NOT COME FOR YOU THEN. 'You didn't?' I HAD AN APPOINTMENT WITH YOU TONIGHT. The Baron handed his cane to Mrs Gogol. He removed the tall black hat. He shrugged off the coat. Power crackled in its folds. 'No more Baron Saturday,' he said. PERHAPS. IT'S A NICE HAT. The Baron turned to Erzulie. 'I think I have to go. ' 'Yes. ' 'What will you do?' The voodoo woman looked down at the hat in her hands. 'I will go back to the swamp,' she said. 'You could stay here. I don't trust that foreign witch. ' 'I do. So I will go back to the swamp. Because some stories have to end. Whatever Ella becomes, she'll have to make it herself. ' It was a short walk to the brown, heavy waters of the river. The Baron paused at the edge. 'Will she live happily ever after?' he said. NOT FOREVER. BUT PERHAPS FOR LONG ENOUGH. And so stories end. The wicked witch is defeated, the ragged princess comes into her own, the kingdom is restored. Happy days are here again. Happy ever after. Which means that life stops here. Stories want to end. They don't care what happens next. . . Nanny Ogg panted along a corridor. 'Never seen Esme like that before,' she said. 'She's in a very funny mood. She could be a danger to herself. ' 'She's a danger to everyone else,' said Magrat. 'She - ' The snake women stepped out into the passageway ahead of them. 'Look at it like this,' said Nanny, under her breath, 'what can they do to us?' 'I can't stand snakes,' said Magrat quietly. 'They've got those teeth, of course,' said Nanny, as if conducting a seminar. 'More like fangs, really. Come on, girl. Let's see if we can find another way. ' 'I hate them. ' Nanny tugged at Magrat, who did not move. 'Come on!' 'I really hate them. ' 'You'll be able to hate them even better from a long way off !' The sisters were nearly on them. They didn't walk, they glided. Perhaps Lily wasn't concentrating now, because they were more snake-like than ever. Nanny thought she could see scale patterns under the skin. The jawline was all wrong. 'Magrat!' One of the sisters reached out. Magrat shuddered. The snake sister opened its mouth. Then Magrat looked up and, almost dreamily, punched it so hard that it was carried several feet along the passage. It wasn't a blow that featured in any Way or Path. No-one ever drew this one as a diagram or practised it in front of a mirror with a bandage tied round their head. It was straight out of the lexicon of inherited, terrified survival reflexes. 'Use the wand!' shouted Nanny, darting forward. 'Don't ninj at them! Use the wand! That's what it's for!' The other snake instinctively turned to follow the movement, which is why instinct is not always the keynote to survival, because Magrat clubbed it on the back of the head. With the wand. It sagged, losing shape as it fell. The trouble with witches is that they'll never run away from things they really hate. And the trouble with small furry animals in a corner is that, just occasionally, one of them's a mongoose. |
Granny Weatherwax had always wondered: what was supposed to be so special about a full moon? It was only a big circle of light. And the dark of the moon was only darkness. But half-way between the two, when the moon was between the worlds of light and dark, when even the moon lived on the edge. . . maybe then a witch could believe in the moon. Now a half-moon sailed above the mists of the swamp. Lily's nest of mirrors reflected the cold light, as they reflected everything else. Leaning against the wall were the three broom-sticks. Granny picked up hers. She wasn't wearing the right colour and she wasn't wearing a hat; she needed something she was at home with. Nothing moved. 'Lily?' said Granny softly. Her own image looked out at her from the mirrors. 'It can all stop now,' said Granny. 'You could take my stick and I'll take Magrat's. She can always share with Gytha. And Mrs Gogol won't come after you. I've fixed that. And we could do with more witches back home. And no more godmothering. No more getting people killed so their daughters are ready to be in a story. I know that's why you did it. Come on home. It's an offer you can't refuse. ' The mirror slid back noiselessly. 'You're trying to be kind to me?' said Lily. 'Don't think it don't take a lot of effort,' said Granny in a more normal voice. Lily's dress rustled in the darkness as she stepped out. 'So,' she said, 'y°u beat the swamp woman. ' 'No. ' 'But you're here instead of her. ' 'Yes. ' Lily took the stick out of Granny's hands, and inspected it. 'Never used one of these things,' she said. 'You just sit on it and away you go?' 'With this one you have to be running quite fast before it takes off,' said Granny, 'but that's the general idea, yes. ' 'Hmm. Do you know the symbology of the broomstick?' said Lily. 'Is it anything to do with maypoles and folksongs and suchlike?' said Granny. 'Oh, yes. ' 'Then I don't want to hear about it. ' 'No,' said Lily. 'I imagine you don't. ' She handed the stick back. 'I'm staying here,' she said. 'Mrs Gogol may have come up with a new trick, but that doesn't mean she has won. ' 'No. Things have come to an end, see,' said Granny. 'That's how it works when you turn the world into stories. You should never have done that. You shouldn't turn the world into stories. You shouldn't treat people like they was characters, like they was things. But if you do, then you've got to know when the story ends. ' 'You've got to put on your red-hot shoes and dance the night away?' said Lily. 'Somethin' like that, yes. ' 'While everyone else lives happily ever after?' 'I don't know about that,' said Granny. 'That's up to them. What I'm sayin' is, you're not allowed to go round one more time. You've lost. ' 'You know a Weatherwax never loses,' said Lily. 'One of 'em learns tonight,' said Granny. 'But we're outside the stories,' said Lily. 'Me because I. . . am the medium through which they happen, and you because you fight them. We're the ones in the middle. The free ones -' There was a sound behind them. The faces of Magrat and Nanny Ogg appeared over the top of the stairwell. 'You need any help, Esme?' said Nanny cautiously. Lily laughed. 'Here's your little snakes, Esme. ' 'You know,' she added, 'you're really just like me. Don't you know that? There isn't a thought that's gone through my head that you haven't thought, too. There isn't a deed I've done that you haven't contemplated. But you never found the courage. That's the difference between people like me and people like you. We have the courage to do what you only dream of. ' 'Yes?' said Granny. 'Is that what you think? You think I dream?' Lily moved a finger. Magrat floated up out of the stairwell, struggling. She waved her wand frantically. 'That's what I like to see,' said Lily. 'People wishing. I never wished for anything in my life. I always made things happen. So much more rewarding. ' Magrat gritted her teeth. 'I'm sure I wouldn't look good as a pumpkin, dear,' said Lily. She waved a hand airily. Magrat rose. 'You'd be surprised at the things I can do,' said Lily dreamily, as the younger witch drifted smoothly over the flagstones. 'You should have tried mirrors yourself, Esme. It does wonders for a soul. I only let the swamp woman survive because her hate was invigorating. I do like being hated, you know. And you do know. It's a kind of respect. It shows you're having an effect. It's like a cold bath on a hot day. When stupid people find themselves powerless, when they fume in their futility, when they're beaten and they've got nothing but that yawning in the acid pit of their stomachs - well, to be honest, it's like a prayer. And the stories. to ride on stories. to borrow the strength of them. . . the comfort of them. to be in the hidden centre of them. . . Can you understand that? The sheer pleasure of seeing the patterns repeat themselves? I've always loved a pattern. Incidentally, if the Ogg woman continues to try to sneak up behind me I shall really let your young friend drift out over the courtyard and then, Esme, I might just lose interest. ' 'I was just walkin' about,' said Nanny. 'No law against it. ' 'You changed the story your way, and now I'm going to do it mine,' said Lily. 'And once again. all you have to do is go. Just go away. What happens here doesn't matter. It's a city far away of which you know little. I'm not totally certain I could out-trick you,' she added, 'but these two. . . they haven't got the right stuff in them. I could make jam of them. I hope you know that. So tonight, I suggest, a Weatherwax learns to lose?' Granny stood silent for a while, leaning on her useless broom. 'All right. Put her down,' she said. 'And then I'll say you've won. ' 'I wish I could believe that,' said Lily. 'Oh. . . but you're the nice one, aren't you? You have to keep your word. ' 'Watch me,' said Granny. She walked to the parapet and looked down. The two-faced moon was still bright enough to illuminate the billowing fogs that surrounded the palace like a sea. 'Magrat? Gytha?' she said. 'Sorry about this. You've won, Lily. There ain't nothing I can do. ' She jumped. Nanny Ogg rushed forward and stared over the edge, just in time to see a dim figure vanish in the mists. Discworld 12 - Witches Abroad All three figures left on the tower took a deep breath. 'It's a trick,' said Lily, 'to get me off guard. ' 'It isn't!' screamed Magrat, dropping to the stones. 'She had her broomstick,' said Lily. 'It don't work! It won't start!' shouted Nanny. 'Right,' she said, menacingly, striding towards the slim shape of Lily. 'We'll soon wipe that smug look off your face - ' She halted as silver pain shot through her body. Lily laughed. 'It's true, then?' she said. 'Yes. I can see it in your faces. Esme was bright enough to know she couldn't win. Don't be stupid. And don't point that silly wand at me, Miss Garlick. Old Desiderata would have defeated me long ago if she could. People have no understanding. ' 'We ought to go down there," said Magrat. 'She might be lying there - ' 'That's it. Be good. It's what you're good at,' said Lily, as they ran to the stairwell. 'But we'll be back,' snarled Nanny Ogg. 'Even if we have to live in the swamp with Mrs Gogol and eat snakes' heads!' 'Of course,' said Lily, arching an eyebrow. 'That's what I said. One needs people like you around. Otherwise one is never quite sure one is still working. It's a way of keeping score. ' She watched them disappear down the steps. A wind blew over the tower. Lily gathered up her skirts and walked to the end, where she could see the shreds of mist streaming over the rooftops far below. There were the faint strains of music from the distant carnival dance as it wound its way through the streets. It would soon be midnight. Proper midnight, not some cut-price version caused by an old woman crawling around in a clock. Lily tried to see through the murk to the bottom of the tower. 'Really, Esme,' she murmured, 'you did take losing hard. ' Nanny reached out and restrained Magrat as they ran down the spiral stairs. |
'Slow down a bit, I should,' she said. 'But she could be hurt -!' 'So could you, if you trip. Anyway,' said Nanny, 'I don't reckon Esme is lyin' in a crumpled heap somewhere. That's not the way she'd go. I reckon she did it just to make sure Lily forgot about us and wouldn't try anything on us. I reckon she thought we were - what was that Tsortean bloke who could only be wounded if you hit 'im in the right place? No-one ever beat 'im until they found out about it. His knee, I think it was. We're her Tsortean knee, right?' 'But we know you have to run really fast to get her broomstick going!' shouted Magrat. 'Yeah, I know,' said Nanny. 'That's what I thought. And now I'm thinking. . . how fast do you go when you're dropping? I mean, straight down?' 'I. don't know,' said Magrat. 'I reckon Esme thought it was worth findin' out,' said Nanny. 'That's what I reckon. ' A figure appeared around the bend in the stairs, plodding upwards. They stood aside politely to let it pass. 'Wish I could remember what bit of him you had to hit,' Nanny said. 'That's going to be nagging at me all night, now. ' THE HEEL. 'Right? Oh, thanks. ' ANY TIME. The figure continued onwards and upwards. 'He had a good mask on, didn't he,' said Magrat, eventually. She and Nanny sought confirmation in each other's face. Magrat went pale. She looked up the stairs. 'I think we should run back up and - ' she began. Nanny Ogg was much older. 'I think we should walk,' she said. Lady Volentia D'Arrangement sat in the rose garden under the big tower and blew her nose. She'd been waiting for half an hour and she'd had enough. She'd hoped for a romantic tete-a-tete: he'd seemed such a nice man, sort of eager and shy at the same time. Instead, she'd nearly been hit on the head when an old woman on a broom and wearing what looked, as far as she could see through the blur of speed, like Lady Volentia's own dress, had screamed down out of the mist. Her boots had ploughed through the roses before the curve of her flight took her up again. And some filthy smelly tomcat kept brushing up against her legs. And it had started off as such a nice evening. . . ' 'ullo, your Ladyship?' She looked around at the bushes. 'My name's Casanunda," said a hopeful voice. Lily Weatherwax turned when she heard the tinkle of glass from within the maze of mirrors. Her brow wrinkled. She ran across the flagstones and opened the door into the mirror world. There was no sound but the rustle of her dress and the soft hiss of her own breathing. She glided into the place between the mirrors. Her myriad selves looked back at her approvingly. She relaxed. Then her foot struck something. She looked down and saw on the flagstones, black in the moonlight, a broomstick lying in shards of broken glass. Her horrified gaze rose to meet a reflection. It glared back at her. 'Where's the pleasure in bein' the winner if the loser ain't alive to know they've lost?' Lilith backed away, her mouth opening and shutting. Granny Weatherwax stepped through the empty frame. Lily looked down, beyond her avenging sister. 'You broke my mirror!' 'Was this what it was all for, then?' said Granny. ' Playin' little queens in some damp city? Serving stories? What sort of power is that?' 'You don't understand. . . you've broken the mirror. . . ' 'They say you shouldn't do it,' said Granny. 'But I reckoned: what's another seven years' bad luck?' Image after image shatters, all the way around the great curve of the mirror world, the crack flying out faster than light. . . 'You have to break both to be safe. . . you've upset the balance. . . ' 'Hah! I did?' Granny stepped forward, her eyes two sapphires of bitterness. 'I'm goin' to give you the hidin' our Mam never gave you, Lily Weatherwax. Not with magic, not with headology, not with a stick like our Dad had, aye, and used a fair bit as I recall - but with skin. And not because you was the bad one. Not because you meddled with stories. Everyone has a path they got to tread. But because, and I wants you to understand this prop'ly, after you went I had to be the good one. You had all the fun. An' there's no way I can make you pay for that, Lily, but I'm surely goin' to give it a try. . . ' 'But. I. I. I'm the good one,' Lily murmured, her face pale with shock. 'I'm the good one. I can't lose. I'm the godmother. You're the wicked witch. . . and you've broken the mirror. . . '. . . moving like a comet, the crack in the mirrors reaches its furthest point and curves back, speeding down the countless worlds. . . 'You've got to help me put. . . the images must be balanced. . . ' Lily murmured faintly, backing up against the remaining glass. 'Good? Good? Feeding people to stories? Twisting people's lives? That's good, is it?' said Granny. 'You mean you didn't even have fun? If I'd been as bad as you, I've have been a whole lot worse. Better at it than you've ever dreamed of. ' She drew back her hand. . . . the crack returned towards its point of origin, carrying with it the fleeing reflections of all the mirrors. . . Her eyes widened. The glass smashed and crazed behind Lily Weatherwax. And in the mirror, the image of Lily Weatherwax turned around, smiled beatifically, and reached out of the frame to take Lily Weatherwax into its arms. 'Lily!' All the mirrors shattered, exploding outwards in a thousand pieces from the top of the tower so that, just for a moment, it was wreathed in twinkling fairy dust. Nanny Ogg and Magrat came up onto the roof like avenging angels after a period of lax celestial quality control. They stopped. Where the maze of mirrors had been were empty frames. Glass shards covered the floor and, lying on them, was a figure in a white dress. Nanny pushed Magrat behind her and crunched forward cautiously. She prodded the figure with the toe of her boot. 'Let's throw her off the tower,' said Magrat. 'All right,' said Nanny. 'Do it, then. ' Magrat hesitated. 'Well,' she said, 'when I said let's throw her off the tower, I didn't mean me personally throwing her off, I meant that if there was any justice she ought to be thrown off- ' 'Then I shouldn't say any more on that score, if I was you,' said Nanny, kneeling carefully on the crunching shards. 'Besides, I was right. This is Esme. I'd know that face anywhere. Take off your petticoat. ' 'Why?' 'Look at her arms, girl!' Magrat stared. Then she raised her hands to her mouth. 'What has she been doing?' 'Trying to reach straight through glass, by the looks of it,' said Nanny. 'Now get it off and help me tear it into strips and then go and find Mrs Gogol and see if she's got any ointments and can help us, and tell her if she can't she'd better be a long way away by morning. ' Nanny felt Granny Weatherwax's wrist. 'Maybe Lily Weatherwax could make jam of us but I'm damn sure I could knock Mrs Gogol's eye out with the fender if it came to it. ' Nanny removed her patent indestructible hat and fished around inside the point. She pulled out a velvet cloth and unwrapped it, revealing a little cache of needles and a spool of thread. She licked a thread and held a needle against the moon, squinting. 'Oh, Esme, Esme,' she said, as she bent to her sewing, 'you do take winning hard. ' Lily Weatherwax looked out at the multi-layered, silvery world. 'Where am I?' INSIDE THE MIRROR. 'Am I dead?' THE ANSWER TO THAT, said Death, is SOMEWHERE BETWEEN NO AND YES. Lily turned, and a billion figures turned with her. 'When can I get out?' WHEN YOU FIND THE ONE THAT'S REAL. Lily Weatherwax ran on through the endless reflections. A good cook is always the first one into the kitchen every morning and the last one to go home at night. Mrs Pleasant damped down the fires. She did a quick inventory of the silverware and counted the tureens. She - She was aware of being stared at. There was a cat in the doorway. It was big and grey. One eye was an evil yellow-green, the other one pearly white. What remained of its ears looked like the edge of a stamp. Nevertheless, it had a certain swagger, and generated an I-can-beat-you-with-one-paw feel that was strangely familiar. |
Airs Pleasant stared at it for a while. She was a close personal friend of Mrs Gogol and knew that shape is merely a matter of deeply-ingrained personal habit, and if you're a resident of Genua around Samedi Nuit Mort you learn to trust your judgement rather more than you trust your senses. 'Well now,' she said, with barely a trace of a tremor in her voice, 'I expect you'd like some more fish legs, I mean heads, how about that?' Greebo stretched and arched his back. 'And there's some milk in the coolroom,' said Mrs Pleasant. Greebo yawned happily. Then he scratched his ear with his back leg. Humanity's a nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there. It was a day later. 'Mrs Gogol's healing ointment really seems to work,' said Magrat. She held up a jar that was half-full of something pale green and strangely gritty and had a subtle smell which, you could quite possibly believe, occupied the whole world. 'It's got snakes' heads in it,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Don't you try to upset me,' said Magrat. 'I know the Snake's Head is a kind of flower. A fritillary, I think. It's amazing what you can do with flowers, you know. ' Nanny Ogg, who had in fact spent an instructive if gruesome half-hour watching Mrs Gogol make the stuff, hadn't the heart to say so. 'That's right,' she said. 'Flowers. No getting anything past you, I can see that. ' Magrat yawned. They had been given the run of the palace, although no-one felt like running anywhere. Granny had been installed in the next room. 'Go and get some sleep,' said Nanny. 'I'll go and take over from Mrs Gogol in a moment. ' 'But Nanny. . . Gytha. " said Magrat. 'Hmm?' 'All that. . . stuff. . . she was saying, when we were travelling. It was so. so cold. Wasn't it? Not wishing for things, not using magic to help people, not being able to do that fire thing - and then she went and did all those things! What am I supposed to make of that?' 'Ah, well,' said Nanny. 'It's all according to the general and the specific, right?' 'What does that mean?' Magrat lay down on the bed. 'Means when Esme uses words like “Everyone” and “No-one” she doesn't include herself. ' 'You know. . . when you think about it. that's terrible. ' 'That's witchcraft. Up at the sharp end. And now. . . get some sleep. ' Magrat was too tired to object. She stretched out and was soon snoring in a genteel sort of way. Nanny sat and smoked her pipe for a while, staring at the wall. Then she got up and pushed open the door. Mrs Gogol looked up from her stool by the bed. 'You go and get some sleep too,' said Nanny. 'I'll take over for a spell. ' "There's something not right,' said Mrs Gogol. 'Her hands are fine. She just won't wake up. ' 'It's all in the mind, with Esme,' said Nanny. 'I could make some new gods and get everyone to believe in 'em real good. How about that?' said Mrs Gogol. Nanny shook her head. 'I shouldn't think Esme'd want that. She's not keen on gods. She thinks they're a waste of space. ' 'I could cook up some gumbo, then. People'll come a long way to taste that. ' 'It might be worth a try,' Nanny conceded. 'Every little helps, I always say. Why not see to it? Leave the rum here. ' After the voodoo lady had gone Nanny smoked her pipe some more and drank a little rum in a thoughtful sort of way, looking at the figure on the bed. Then she bent down close to Granny Weatherwax's ear, and whispered: 'You ain't going to lose, are you?' Granny Weatherwax looked out at the multi-layered, silvery world. 'Where am I?' INSIDE THE MIRROR. 'Am I dead?' THE ANSWER TO THAT, said Death, is SOMEWHERE BETWEEN NO AND YES. Esme turned, and a billion figures turned with her. 'When can I get out?' WHEN YOU FIND THE ONE THAT'S REAL. 'Is this a trick question?' No. Granny looked down at herself. 'This one,' she said. And stories just want happy endings. They don't give a damn who they're for. Dear Jason eksetra, Well so much for Genua but I leanred about Mrs Gogol's zombie medicin and she gave me the Hityi Hidtfrt/[?] told me how to make banananana dakry and gave me a thing call a banjo youll be amazed and all in all is a decent soul I reckon if you keeps her where you can see her. It looks like we got Esme back but I don't know shes actin funny and quiet not like herself normally so Im keepin an Eye on her just in case Lily puled a farst one in the mirror. But I think shes geting better because when she woke up she arsked Magratfor a look at the wand and then she kind of twidled and twisted them rings on it and turned the po into a bunch of flowers and Magrat said she could never make the wand do that and Esme said no because, she wasted time wishing for thinges instead of working out how to make them happen. What I say is, what a good job Esme never got a wand when she was young, Lily would have bin a Picnic by comparisen. Enclosed is a picture of the cemtry here you can see folks are buried in boxes above ground the soil being so wet because you dont want to be dead and drownded at the same time, they say travelin brordens the mind, I reckon I could pull mine out my ears now and knot it under my chin, all the best, MUM. In the swamp Mrs Gogol the voodoo witch draped the tail coat over its crude stand, stuck the hat on the top of the pole and fastened the cane to one end of the crosspiece with a bit of twine. She stood back. There was a fluttering of wings. Legba dropped out of the sky and perched on the hat. Then he crowed. Usually he only crowed at nightfall, because he was a bird of power, but for once he was inclined to acknowledge the new day. It was said afterwards that, every year on Samedi Nuit Moit, when the carnival was at its height and the drums were loudest and the rum was nearly all gone, a man in a tail coat and a top hat and with the energy of a demon would appear out of nowhere and lead the dance. After all, even stories have to start somewhere. There was a splash, and then the waters of the river closed again. Magrat walked away. The wand settled into the rich mud, where it was touched only by the feet of the occasional passing crawfish, who don't have fairy godmothers and aren't allowed to wish for anything. It sank down over the months and passed, as most things do, out of history. Which was all anyone could wish for. The three broomsticks rose over Genua, with the mists that curled towards the dawn. The witches looked down at the green swamps around the city. Genua dozed. The days after Fat Lunchtirne were always quiet, as people slept it off. Currently they included Greebo, curled up in his place among the bristles. Leaving Mrs Pleasant had been a real wrench. 'Well, so much for la douche vita,' said Nanny philosophically. 'We never said goodbye to Mrs Gogol,' said Magrat. 'I reckon she knows we're going right enough,' said Nanny. 'Very knowin' woman, Mrs Gogol. ' 'But can we trust her to keep her word?' said Magrat. 'Yes,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'She's very honest, in her way,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Well, there's that,' Granny conceded. 'Also, I said I might come back. ' Magrat looked across at Granny's broomstick. A large round box was among the baggage strapped to the bristles. 'You never tried on that hat she gave you,' she said. 'I had a look at it,' said Granny coldly. 'It don't fit. ' 'I reckon Mrs Gogol wouldn't give anyone a hat that didn't fit,' said Nanny. 'Let's have a look, eh?' Granny sniffed, and undid the lid of the box. Balls of tissue paper tumbled down towards the mists as she lifted the hat out. Magrat and Nanny Ogg stared at it. They were of course used to the concept of fruit on a hat - Nanny Ogg herself had a black straw hat with wax cherries on for special family feuding occasions. But this one had rather more than just cherries. About the only fruit not on it somewhere was a melon. 'It's definitely very. . . foreign,' said Magrat. 'Go on,' said Nanny. 'Try it on. ' Granny did so, a bit sheepishly, increasing her apparent height by two feet, most of which was pineapple. 'Very colourful. Very. . . stylish,' said Nanny. 'Not everyone could wear a hat like that. |
' 'The pomegranates suit you,' said Magrat. 'And the lemons,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Eh? You two ain't laughing at me, are you?' said Granny Weatherwax suspiciously. 'Would you like to have a look?' said Magrat. 'I have a mirror somewhere. . . ' The silence descended like an axe. Magrat went red. Nanny Ogg glared at her. They watched Granny carefully. 'Ye-ess,' she said, after what seemed a long time, 'I think I should look in a mirror. ' Magrat unfroze, fumbled in her pockets and produced a small, wooden-framed hand-mirror. She passed it across. Granny Weatherwax looked at her reflection. Nanny Ogg surreptitiously manoeuvred her broomstick a bit closer. 'Hmm,' said Granny, after a while. 'It's the way the grapes hang over your ear," said Nanny, encouragingly. 'You know, that's a hat of authority if ever I saw one. ' 'Hmm. ' 'Don't you think?' said Magrat. 'Well,' said Granny, grudgingly, 'maybe it's fine for foreign parts. Where I ain't going to be seen by anyone as knows me. No-one important, anyway. ' 'And when we get home you can always eat it,' said Nanny Ogg. They relaxed. There was a feeling of a hill climbed, a dangerous valley negotiated. Magrat looked down at the brown river and the suspicious logs on its sandbanks. 'What I want to know is,' she said, 'was Mrs Gogol really good or bad? I mean, dead people and alligators and everything. . . ' Granny looked at the rising sun, poking though the mists. 'Good and bad is tricky,' she said. 'I ain't too certain about where people stand. P'raps what matters is which way you face. 'You know,' she added, 'I truly believe I can see the edge from here. ' 'Funny thing,' said Nanny, 'they say that in some foreign parts you get elephants. You know, I've always wanted to see an elephant. And there's a place in Klatch or somewhere where people climb up ropes and disappear. ' 'What for?' said Magrat. 'Search me. There's prob'ly some cunnin' foreign reason. ' 'In one of Desiderata's books,' said Magrat, 'she says that there's a very interesting thing about seeing elephants. She says that on the Sto plains, when people say they're going to see the elephant, it means they're simply going on a journey because they're fed up with staying in the same place. ' 'It's not staying in the same place that's the problem,' said Nanny, 'it's not letting your mind wander. ' 'I'd like to go up towards the Hub,' said Magrat. 'To see the ancient temples such as are described in Chapter One of The Way of the Scorpion. ' 'And they'd teach you anything you don't know already, would they?' said Nanny, with unusual sharpness. Magrat glanced at Granny. 'Probably not,' she said meekly. 'Well,' said Nanny. 'What's it to be, Esme? Are we going home? Or are we off to see the elephant?' Granny's broomstick turned gently in the breeze. 'You're a disgustin' old baggage, Gytha Ogg,' said Granny. 'That's me,' said Nanny cheerfully. 'And, Magrat Garlick - ' 'I know,' said Magrat, overwhelmed with relief, 'I'm a wet hen. ' Granny looked back towards the Hub, and the high mountains. Somewhere back there was an old cottage with the key hanging in the privy. All sorts of things were probably going on. The whole kingdom was probably going to rack and ruin without her around to keep people on the right track. It was her job. There was no telling what stupidities people would get up to if she wasn't there. . . Nanny kicked her red boots together idly. 'Well, I suppose there's no place like home,' she said. 'No,' said Granny Weatherwax, still looking thoughtful. 'No. There's a billion places like home. But only one of 'em's where you live. ' 'So we're going back?' said Magrat. 'Yes. ' But they went the long way, and saw the elephant. THE ENDfc Terry Pratchett Lords and Ladies A Novel of Discworld ® Contents Begin Reading Author’s Note About the Author Praise Other Books by Terry Pratchett Copyright About the Publisher N ow read on… When does it start? There are very few starts. Oh, some things seem to be beginnings. The curtain goes up, the first pawn moves, the first shot is fired * —but that’s not the start. The play, the game, the war is just a little window on a ribbon of events that may extend back thousands of years. The point is, there’s always something before. It’s always a case of Now Read On. Much human ingenuity has gone into finding the ultimate Before. The current state of knowledge can be summarized thus: In the beginning, there was nothing, which exploded. Other theories about the ultimate start involve gods creating the universe out of the ribs, entrails, and testicles of their father. ** There are quite a lot of these. They are interesting, not for what they tell you about cosmology, but for what they say about people. Hey, kids, which part do you think they made your town out of? But this story starts on the Discworld, which travels through space on the back of four giant elephants which stand on the shell of an enormous turtle and is not made of any bits of anyone’s bodies. But when to begin? Thousands of years ago? When a great hot cascade of stones came screaming out of the sky, gouged a hole out of Copperhead Mountain, and flattened the forest for ten miles around? The dwarfs dug them up, because they were made of a kind of iron, and dwarfs, contrary to general opinion, love iron more than gold. It’s just that although there’s more iron than gold it’s harder to sing songs about. Dwarfs love iron. And that’s what the stones contained. The love of iron. Alove so strong that it drew all iron things to itself. The three dwarfs who found the first of the rocks only got free by struggling out of their chain-mail trousers. Many worlds are iron, at the core. But the Discworld is as coreless as a pancake. On the Disc, if you enchant a needle it will point to the Hub, where the magical field is strongest. It’s simple. Elsewhere, on worlds designed with less imagination, the needle turns because of the love of iron. At the time, the dwarfs and the humans had a very pressing need for the love of iron. And now, spool time forward for thousands of years to a point fifty years or more before the ever-moving now, to a hillside and a young woman, running. Not running away from something, exactly, or precisely running toward anything, but running just fast enough to keep ahead of a young man although, of course, not so far ahead that he’ll give up. Out from the trees and into the rushy valley where, on a slight rise in the ground, are the stones. They’re about man-height, and barely thicker than a fat man. And somehow they don’t seem worth it. If there’s a stone circle you mustn’t go near, the imagination suggests, then there should be big brooding trilithons and ancient altar stones screaming with the dark memory of blood-soaked sacrifice. Not these dull stubby lumps. It will turn out that she was running a bit too fast this time, and in fact the young man in laughing pursuit will get lost and fed up and will eventually wander off back to the town alone. She does not, at this point, know this, but stands absentmindedly adjusting the flowers twined in her hair. It’s been that kind of afternoon. She knows about the stones. No one ever gets told about the stones. And no one is ever told not to go there, because those who refrain from talking about the stones also know how powerful is the attraction of prohibition. It’s just that going to the stones is not…what we do. Especially if we’re nice girls. But what we have here is not a nice girl, as generally understood. For one thing, she’s not beautiful. There’s a certain set to the jaw and arch to the nose that might, with a following wind and in the right light, be called handsome by a good-natured liar. Also, there’s a certain glint in her eye generally possessed by those people who have found that they are more intelligent than most people around them but who haven’t yet learned that one of the most intelligent things they can do is prevent said people ever finding this out. Along with the nose, this gives her a piercing expression which is extremely disconcerting. |
It’s not a face you can talk to. Open your mouth and you’re suddenly the focus of a penetrating stare which declares: what you’re about to say had better be interesting. Now the eight little stones on their little hill are being subjected to the same penetrating gaze. Hmm. And then she approaches, cautiously. It’s not the caution of a rabbit about to run. It’s closer to the way a hunter moves. She puts her hands on her hips, such as they are. There’s a skylark in the hot summer sky. Apart from that, there’s no sound. Down in the little valley, and higher in the hills, grasshoppers are sizzling and bees are buzzing and the grass is alive with micro-noise. But it’s always quiet around the stones. “I’m here,” she says. “Show me. ” A figure of a dark-haired woman in a red dress appears inside the circle. The circle is wide enough to throw a stone across, but somehow the figure manages to approach from a great distance. Other people would have run away. But the girl doesn’t, and the woman in the circle is immediately interested. “So you’re real, then. ” “Of course. What is your name, girl?” “Esmerelda. ” “And what do you want?” “I don’t want anything. ” “Everyone wants something. Otherwise, why are you here?” “I just wanted to find out if you was real. ” “To you, certainly…you have good sight. ” The girl nods. You could bounce rocks off her pride. “And now you have learned this,” said the woman in the circle, “what is it that you really want?” “Nothing. ” “Really? Last week you went all the way up to the mountains above Copperhead to talk to the trolls. What did you want from them?” The girl put her head on one side. “How do you know I did that?” “It’s at the top of your mind, girl. Anyone could see it. Anyone with… good sight. ” “I shall be able to do that one day,” said the girl smugly. “Who knows? Possibly. What did you want from the trolls?” “I…wanted to talk to them. D’you know they think time goes backward? Because you can see the past, they say, and—” The woman in the circle laughed. “But they are like the stupid dwarfs! All they are interested in is pebbles. There is nothing of interest in pebbles. ” The girl gives a kind of one-shoulder uni-shrug, as if indicating that pebbles may be full of quiet interest. “Why can’t you come out from between the stones?” There was a distinct impression that this was the wrong question to have asked. The woman carefully ignored it. “I can help you find far more than pebbles,” she said. “You can’t come out of the circle, can you?” “Let me give you what you want. ” “I can go anywhere, but you’re stuck in the circle,” said the girl. “ Can you go anywhere?” “When I am a witch I shall be able to go anywhere. ” “But you’ll never be a witch. ” “What?” “They say you won’t listen. They say you can’t keep your temper. They say you have no discipline. ” The girl tossed her hair. “Oh, you know that too, do you? Well, they would say that, wouldn’t they? But I mean to be a witch whatever they say. You can find things out for yourself. You don’t have to listen to a lot of daft old ladies who’ve never had a life. And, circle lady, I shall be the best witch there has ever been. ” “With my help, I believe you may,” said the woman in the circle. “Your young man is looking for you, I think,” she added mildly. Another of those one-shoulder shrugs, indicating that the young man can go on looking all day. “I will, will I?” “You could be a great witch. You could be anything. Anything you want. Come into the circle. Let me show you. ” The girl takes a few steps forward, and then hesitates. There is something about the woman’s tone. The smile is pleasant and friendly, but there is something in the voice—too desperate, too urgent, too hungry. “But I’m learning a lot—” “Step through the stones now !” The girl hesitates again. “How do I know—” “Circle time is nearly over! Think of what you can learn! Now! ” “But—” “Step through!” But that was a long time ago, in the past. * And besides, the bitch is… …older. A land of ice… Not winter, because that presumes an autumn and perhaps one day a spring. This is a land of ice, not just a time of ice. And three figures on horseback, looking down the snow-covered slope to a ring of eight stones. From this side they look much bigger. You might watch the figures for some time before you realized what it was about them that was strange—stranger, that is, than their clothing. The hot breath of their horses hung in the freezing air. But the breath of the riders did not. “And this time,” said the figure in the center, a woman in red, “there will be no defeat. The land will welcome us. It must hate humans now. ” “But there were witches,” said one of the other riders. “I remember the witches. ” “Once, yes,” said the woman. “But now…poor things, poor things. Scarce any power in them at all. And suggestible. Pliant minds. I have crept about, my deary. I have crept about o’ nights. I know the witches they have now. Leave the witches to me. ” “I remember the witches,” said the third rider insistently. “Minds like…like metal. ” “Not anymore. I tell you, leave them to me. ” The Queen smiled benevolently at the stone circle. “And then you can have them,” she said. “For me, I rather fancy a mortal husband. A special mortal. A union of the worlds. To show them that this time we mean to stay. ” “The King will not like that. ” “And when has that ever mattered?” “Never, lady. ” “The time is right, Lankin. The circles are opening. Soon we can return. ” The second rider leaned on the saddlehorn. “And I can hunt again,” it said. “When? When? ” “Soon,” said the Queen. “Soon. ” It was a dark night, the kind of darkness which is not simply explainable by absence of moon or stars, but the darkness that appears to flow in from somewhere else—so thick and tangible that maybe you could snatch a handful of air and squeeze the night out of it. It was the kind of darkness which causes sheep to leap fences and dogs to skulk in kennels. Yet the wind was warm, and not so much strong as loud—it howled around the forests and wailed in chimneys. On nights like this, normal people would pull the covers over their head, sensing that there were times when the world belonged to something else. In the morning it would be human again; there would be fallen branches, a few tiles off the roof, but human. For now…better to snuggle down… But there was one man awake. Jason Ogg, master blacksmith and farrier, pumped the bellows of his forge once or twice for the look of the thing, and sat down on his anvil again. It was always warm in the forge, even with the wind whistling around the eaves. He could shoe anything, could Jason Ogg. They’d brought him an ant once, for a joke, and he’d sat up all night with a magnifying glass and an anvil made out of the head of a pin. The ant was still around, somewhere—sometimes he could hear it clatter across the floor. But tonight…well, tonight, in some way, he was going to pay the rent. Of course, he owned the forge. It had been passed down for generations. But there was more to a forge than bricks and mortar and iron. He couldn’t put a name to it, but it was there. It was the difference between being a master farrier and just someone who bent iron in complicated ways for a living. And it had something to do with iron. And something to do with being allowed to be very good at his job. Some kind of rent. One day his dad had taken him aside and explained what he had to do, on nights like this. There’d be times, he said, there’d be times—and he’d know when they were without being told—there’d be times when someone would come with a horse to shoe. Make them welcome. Shoe the horse. Don’t let your mind wander. And try not to think about anything except horseshoes. He’d got quite used to it now. The wind rose, and somewhere there was the creak of a tree going over. The latch rattled. Then there was a knock at the door. Once. Twice. Jason Ogg picked up his blindfold and put it on. That was important, his dad had said. It saved you getting distracted. He undid the door. “Evening, m’lord,” he said. A WILD NIGHT. |
He smelled wet horse as it was led into the forge, hooves clattering on the stones. “There’s tea brewing on the forge and our Dreen done us some biscuits in the tin with A Present from Ankh-Morpork on it. ” THANK YOU. I TRUST YOU ARE WELL. “Yes, m’lord. I done the shoes already. Won’t hold you up long. I know you’re…very busy, like. ” He heard the click-click of footsteps cross the floor to the old kitchen chair reserved for customers, or at least for the owners of customers. Jason had laid the tools and the horseshoes and the nails ready to hand on the bench beside the anvil. He wiped his hands on his apron, picked up a file, and set to work. He didn’t like cold shoeing, but he’d shod horses ever since he was ten. He could do it by feel. He picked up a rasp and set to work. And he had to admit it. It was the most obedient horse he’d ever encountered. Pity he’d never actually seen it. It’d be a pretty good horse, a horse like that… His dad had said: don’t try to sneak a look at it. He heard the glug of the teapot and then the glingglong sound of a spoon being stirred and then the clink as the spoon was laid down. Never any sound, his dad had said. Except when he walks and talks, you’ll never hear him make a sound. No smacking of lips, stuff like that. No breathing. Oh, and another thing. When you takes the old shoes off, don’t chuck ’em in the corner for to go for melt with the other scrap. Keep ’em separate. Melt ’em separate. Keep a pot special for it, and make the new shoes out of that metal. Whatever else you do, never put that iron on another living thing. In fact, Jason had saved one set of the old shoes for pitching contests at the various village fairs, and never lost when he used them. He won so often that it made him nervous, and now they spent most of their time hanging on a nail behind the door. Sometimes the wind rattled the window frame, or made the coals crackle. A series of thumps and a squawk a little way off suggested that the chicken house at the end of the garden had parted company with the ground. The customer’s owner poured himself another cup of tea. Jason finished one hoof and let it go. Then he held out his hand. The horse shifted its weight and raised the last hoof. This was a horse in a million. Perhaps more. Eventually, he had finished. Funny, that. It never seemed to take very long. Jason had no use for a clock, but he had a suspicion that a job which took the best part of an hour was at the same time over in a matter of minutes. “There,” he said. “’Tis done. ” THANK YOU. I MUST SAY THESE ARE VERY GOOD BISCUITS. HOW DO THEY GET THE BITS OF CHOCOLATE IN? “Dunno, m’lord,” said Jason, staring fixedly at the inside of his blindfold. I MEAN, THE CHOCOLATE OUGHT TO MELT OUT WHEN THEY’RE BAKED. HOW DO THEY DO IT, DO YOU THINK? “’Tis probably a craft secret,” said Jason. “I never asks that kind o’ question. ” GOOD MAN. VERY WISE. I MUST— He had to ask, if only so’s he’d always know that he had asked. “M’lord?” YES, MR. OGG? “I ’as got one question…” YES, MR. OGG? Jason ran his tongue over his lips. “If I were to…take the blindfold off, what’d I see?” There. It was done now. There was a clicking sound on the flagstones, and a change in the air movement which suggested to Jason that the speaker was now standing in front of him. ARE YOU A MAN OF FAITH, MR. OGG? Jason gave this some swift consideration. Lancre was not knee-deep in religions. There were the Nine Day Wonderers, and the Strict Offlians, and there were various altars to small gods of one sort or another, tucked away in distant clearings. He’d never really felt the need, just like the dwarfs. Iron was iron and fire was fire—start getting metaphysical and you were scraping your thumb on the bottom of your hammer. WHAT DO YOU REALLY HAVE FAITH IN, RIGHT AT THIS MOMENT? He’s inches away, Jason thought. I could reach out and touch… There was a smell. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was hardly anything at all. It was the smell of air in old forgotten rooms. If centuries could smell, then old ones would smell like that. MR. OGG? Jason swallowed. “Well, m’lord,” he said, “right now…I really believe in this blindfold. ” GOOD MAN. GOOD MAN. AND NOW…I MUST BE GOING. Jason heard the latch lift. There was a thud as the doors scraped back, driven by the wind, and then there was the sound of hooves on the cobbles again. YOUR WORK, AS ALWAYS, IS SUPERB. “Thank you, m’lord. ” I SPEAK AS ONE CRAFTSMAN TO ANOTHER. “Thank you, m’lord. ” WE WILL MEET AGAIN. “Yes, m’lord. ” WHEN NEXT MY HORSE NEEDS SHOEING. “Yes, m’lord. ” Jason closed the door and bolted it, although there was probably no point, when you thought about it. But that was the bargain—you shod anything they brought to you, anything, and the payment was that you could shoe anything. There had always been a smith in Lancre, and everyone knew the smith in Lancre was a very powerful smith indeed. It was an ancient bargain, and it had something to do with iron. The wind slackened. Now it was a whisper around the horizons, as the sun rose. This was the octarine grass country. Good growing country, especially for corn. And here was a field of it, waving gently between the hedges. Not a big field. Not a remarkable one, really. It was just a field with corn in it, except of course during the winter, when there were just pigeons and crows in it. The wind dropped. The corn still waved. They weren’t the normal swells of the wind. They spread out from the center of the field like ripples from a dropped stone. The air sizzled and was filled with an angry buzzing. Then, in the center of the field, rustling as it bent, the young corn lay down. In a circle. And in the sky the bees swarmed and teemed, buzzing angrily. It was a few weeks to midsummer. The kingdom of Lancre dozed in the heat, which shimmered on the forests and the fields. Three dots appeared in the sky. After a while, they became identifiable as three female figures on broomsticks, flying in a manner reminiscent of the famous three plaster flying ducks. Observe them closely. The first one—let us call her the leader—flies sitting bolt upright, in defiance of air resistance, and seems to be winning. She has features that would generally be described as striking, or even handsome, but she couldn’t be called beautiful, at least by anyone who didn’t want their nose to grow by three feet. The second is dumpy and bandy-legged with a face like an apple that’s been left for too long and an expression of near-terminal good nature. She is playing a banjo and, until a better word comes to mind, singing. It is a song about a hedgehog. Unlike the broomstick belonging to the first figure, which is more or less unburdened except for a sack or two, this one is overladen with things like fluffy purple toy donkeys, corkscrews in the shape of small boys urinating, bottles of wine in straw baskets, and other international cultural items. Nestling among them is the smelliest and most evil-minded cat in the world, currently asleep. The third, and definitely the last, broomstick rider is also the youngest. Unlike the other two, who dress like ravens, she wears bright, cheerful clothes which don’t suit her now and probably didn’t even suit her ten years ago. She travels with an air of vague good-natured hopefulness. There are flowers in her hair but they’re wilting slightly, just like her. The three witches pass over the borders of Lancre, the kingdom, and very shortly afterward over the town of Lancre itself. They begin their descent over the moorlands beyond, eventually touching down near a standing stone which happens to mark the boundaries of their territories. They’re back. And everything’s all right again. For about five minutes. There was a badger in the privy. Granny Weatherwax poked it with her broom until it got the message and lumbered off. Then she took down the key which hung on the nail beside the copy of last year’s Almanack And Booke Of Dayes , and walked back up the path to her cottage. A whole winter away! There’d be a lot to do. Go and pick the goats up from Mr. |
Skindle, get the spiders out of the chimney, fish the frogs out of the well, and generally get back into the business of minding everyone’s business for them because there’d be no telling what business people’d get up to without a witch around… But she could afford an hour with her feet up first. There was a robin’s nest in the kettle, too. The birds had got in through a broken window pane. She carefully took the kettle outside and wedged it over the door so’s to be safe from weasels, and boiled up some water in a saucepan. Then she wound up the clock. Witches didn’t have much use for clocks, but she kept it for the tick…well, mainly for the tick. It made a place seem lived in. It had belonged to her mother, who’d wound it up every day. It hadn’t come as a surprise to her when her mother died, firstly because Esme Weatherwax was a witch and witches have an insight into the future and secondly because she was already pretty experienced in medicine and knew the signs. So she’d had a chance to prepare herself, and hadn’t cried at all until the day afterward, when the clock stopped right in the middle of the funeral lunch. She’d dropped a tray of ham rolls and then had to go and sit by herself in the privy for a while, so that no one would see. Time to think about that sort of thing, now. Time to think about the past… The clock ticked. The water boiled. Granny Weatherwax fished a bag of tea from the meager luggage on her broomstick, and swilled out the teapot. The fire settled down. The clamminess of a room unlived-in for months was gradually dispelled. The shadows lengthened. Time to think about the past. Witches have an insight into the future. The business she’d have to mind soon enough would be her own… And then she looked out of the window. Nanny Ogg balanced carefully on a stool and ran a finger along the top of the dresser. Then she inspected the finger. It was spotless. “Hummph,” she said. “Seems to be moderately clean. ” The daughters-in-law shivered with relief. “So far,” Nanny added. The three young women drew together in their mute terror. Her relationship with her daughters-in-law was the only stain on Nanny Ogg’s otherwise amiable character. Sons-in-law were different—she could remember their names, even their birthdays, and they joined the family like overgrown chicks creeping under the wings of a broody bantam. And grandchildren were treasures, every one. But any woman incautious enough to marry an Ogg son might as well resign herself to a life of mental torture and nameless domestic servitude. Nanny Ogg never did any housework herself, but she was the cause of housework in other people. She got down from the stool and beamed at them. “You kept the place quite nice,” she said. “Well done. ” Her smile faded. “Under the bed in the spare room,” she said. “Haven’t looked under there yet, have I?” Inquisitors would have thrown Nanny Ogg out of their ranks for being too nasty. She turned as more members of the family filed into the room, and her face contorted into the misty grin with which she always greeted grandchildren. Jason Ogg pushed his youngest son forward. This was Pewsey Ogg, aged four, who was holding something in his hands. “What you got there, then?” said Nanny. “You can show your Nan. ” Pewsey held it up. “My word, you have been a—” It happened right there, right then, right in front of her. And then there was Magrat. She’d been away eight months. Now panic was setting in. Technically she was engaged to the king, Verence II. Well…not exactly engaged , as such. There was, she was almost sure, a general unspoken understanding that engagement was a definite option. Admittedly she’d kept on telling him that she was a free spirit and definitely didn’t want to be tied down in any way, and of course this was the case, more or less, but…but… But…well…eight months. Anything could have happened in eight months. She should have come straight back from Genua, but the other two had been enjoying themselves. She wiped the dust off her mirror and examined herself critically. Not a lot to work with, really. No matter what she did with her hair it took about three minutes for it to tangle itself up again, like a garden hosepipe left in a shed. * She’d bought herself a new green dress, but what had looked exciting and attractive on the plaster model looked like a furled umbrella on Magrat. Whereas Verence had been here reigning for eight months. Of course, Lancre was so small that you couldn’t lie down without a passport, but he was a genuine king and genuine kings tended to attract young women looking for career opportunities in the queening department. She did her best with the dress and dragged a vengeful brush through her hair. Then she went up to the castle. Guard duty at Lancre castle was the province of anyone who didn’t have much of anything else to do at the moment. On duty today was Nanny Ogg’s youngest son Shawn, in ill-fitting chain-mail. He brought himself to what he probably thought was attention as Magrat pattered past, and then dropped his pike and hurried after her. “Can you slow down a bit, please, miss?” He overtook her, ran up the steps to the door, picked up a trumpet that was hanging from a nail by a bit of string, and blew an amateurish fanfare. Then he looked panicky again. “Wait right there, miss, right there…count to five, and then knock,” he said, and darted through the door, slamming it behind him. Magrat waited, and then tried the knocker. After a few seconds Shawn opened the door. He was red in the face and had a powdered wig on back to front. “Yeeeuss?” he drawled, and tried to look like a butler. “You’ve still got your helmet on under the wig,” said Magrat helpfully. Shawn deflated. His eyes swiveled upward. “Everyone at the haymaking?” said Magrat. Shawn raised his wig, removed the helmet, and put the wig back. Then he distractedly put the helmet back on top of the wig. “Yes, and Mr. Spriggins the butler is in bed with his trouble again,” said Shawn. “There’s only me, miss. And I’ve got to get the dinner started before I’m off ’ome because Mrs. Scorbic is poorly. ” “You don’t have to show me in,” said Magrat. “I do know the way. ” “No, it’s got to be done proper,” said Shawn. “You just keep movin’ slow and leave it to me. ” He ran on ahead and flung open some double doors— “Meeeyisss Magraaaaat Garrrrrli-ick!” —and scurried toward the next set of doors. By the third pair he was out of breath, but he did his best. “Meeeyisss…Magraaaaa…Garrrrrli-ick…His Majesteeeyyaa the Ki—Oh, bugger, now where’s he gone?” The throne room was empty. They eventually found Verence II, King of Lancre, in the stable yard. Some people are born to kingship. Some achieve kingship, or at least Arch-Generalissimo-Father-of-His-Countryship. But Verence had kingship thrust upon him. He hadn’t been raised to it, and had only arrived at the throne by way of one of those complicated mix-ups of fraternity and parentage that are all too common in royal families. He had in fact been raised to be a Fool, a man whose job it was to caper and tell jokes and have custard poured down his trousers. This had naturally given him a grave and solemn approach to life and a grim determination never to laugh at anything ever again, especially in the presence of custard. In the role of ruler, then, he had started with the advantage of ignorance. No one had ever told him how to be a king, so he had to find out for himself. He’d sent off for books on the subject. Verence was a great believer in the usefulness of knowledge derived from books. He had formed the unusual opinion that the job of a king is to make the kingdom a better place for everyone to live in. Now he was inspecting a complicated piece of equipment. It had a pair of shafts for a horse, and the rest of it looked like a cartful of windmills. He glanced up, and smiled in an absentminded way. “Oh, hello,” he said. “All back safe then?” “Um—” Magrat began. “It’s a patent crop rotator,” said Verence. He tapped the machine. “Just arrived from Ankh-Morpork. The wave of the future, you know. |
I’ve really been getting interested in agricultural improvement and soil efficiency. We’ll really have to get cracking on this new three-field system. ” Magrat was caught off balance. “But I think we’ve only got three fields,” she said, “and there isn’t much soil in—” “It’s very important to maintain the correct relationship between grains, legumes, and roots,” said Verence, raising his voice. “Also, I’m seriously considering clover. I should be interested to know what you think!” “Um—” “And I think we should do something about the pigs!” Verence shouted. “The Lancre Stripe! Is very hardy! But we could really bring the poundage up! By careful cross-breeding! With, say, the Sto Saddleback! I’m having a boar sent up—Shawn, will you stop blowing that damn trumpet!” Shawn lowered the trumpet. “I’m doin’ a fanfare, your majesty. ” “Yes, yes, but you’re not supposed to go on. A few brief notes are a sufficiency. ” Verence sniffed. “And something’s burning. ” “Oh, blow…it’s the carrots…” Shawn hurried away. “That’s better,” said Verence. “Where were we?” “Pigs, I think,” said Magrat, “but I really came to—” “It all comes down to the soil,” said Verence. “Get the soil right, and everything else follows. Incidentally, I’m arranging the marriage for Midsummer Day. I thought you’d like that. ” Magrat’s mouth formed an O. “We could move it, of course, but not too much because of the harvest,” said Verence. “I’ve had some invitations sent out already, to the more obvious guests,” said Verence. “And I thought it might be a nice idea to have some sort of fair or festival beforehand,” said Verence. “I asked Boggi’s in Ankh-Morpork to send up their best dressmaker with a selection of materials and one of the maids is about your size and I think you’ll be very pleased with the result,” said Verence. “And Mr. Ironfoundersson, the dwarf, came down the mountain specially to make the crown,” said Verence. “And my brother and Mr. Vittoller’s Men can’t come because they’re touring Klatch, apparently, but Hwel the playsmith has written a special play for the wedding entertainment. Something even rustics can’t muck up, he says,” said Verence. “So that’s all settled then?” said Verence. Finally, Magrat’s voice returned from some distant apogee, slightly hoarse. “Aren’t you supposed to ask me?” she demanded. “What? Um. No, actually,” said Verence. “No. Kings don’t ask. I looked it up. I’m the king, you see, and you are, no offense meant, a subject. I don’t have to ask. ” Magrat’s mouth opened for the scream of rage but, at last, her brain jolted into operation. Yes, it said, of course you can yell at him and sweep away. And he’ll probably come after you. Very probably. Um. Maybe not that probably. Because he might be a nice little man with gentle runny eyes but he’s also a king and he’s been looking things up. But very probably quite probably. But… Do you want to bet the rest of your life? Isn’t this what you wanted anyway? Isn’t it what you came here hoping for? Really? Verence was looking at her with some concern. “Is it the witching?” he said. “You don’t have to give that up entirely, of course. I’ve got a great respect for witches. And you can be a witch queen, although I think that means you have to wear rather revealing clothes and keep cats and give people poisoned apples. I read that somewhere. The witching’s a problem, is it?” “No,” Magrat mumbled, “it’s not that…um…did you mention a crown?” “You’ve got to have a crown,” said Verence. “Queens do. I looked it up. ” Her brain cut in again. Queen Magrat, it suggested. It held up the mirror of the imagination… “You’re not upset, are you?” said Verence. “What? Oh. No. Me? No. ” “Good. That’s all sorted out, then. I think that just about covers everything, don’t you?” “Um—” Verence rubbed his hands together. “We’re doing some marvelous things with legumes,” he said, as if he hadn’t just completely rearranged Magrat’s life without consulting her. “Beans, peas…you know. Nitrogen fixers. And marl and lime, of course. Scientific husbandry. Come and look at this. ” He bounced away enthusiastically. “You know,” he said, “we could really make this kingdom work. ” Magrat trailed after him. So that was all settled, then. Not a proposal, just a statement. She hadn’t been quite sure how the moment would be, even in the darkest hours of the night, but she’d had an idea that roses and sunsets and bluebirds might just possibly be involved. Clover had not figured largely. Beans and other leguminous nitrogen fixers were not a central feature. On the other hand Magrat was, at the core, far more practical than most people believed who saw no further than her vague smile and collection of more than three hundred pieces of occult jewelry, none of which worked. So this was how you got married to a king. It all got arranged for you. There were no white horses. The past flipped straight into the future, carrying you with it. Perhaps that was normal. Kings were busy people. Magrat’s experience of marrying them was limited. “Where are we going?” she said. “The old rose garden. ” Ah…well, this was more like it. Except that there weren’t any roses. The walled garden had been stripped of its walks and arbors and was now waist high in green stalks with white flowers. Bees were furiously at work in the blossoms. “Beans?” said Magrat. “ Yes! A specimen crop. I keep bringing the farmers up here to show them,” said Verence. He sighed. “They nod and mumble and smile but I’m afraid they just go off and do the same old things. ” “I know,” said Magrat. “The same thing happened when I tried to give people lessons in natural childbirth. ” Verence raised an eyebrow. Even to him the thought of Magrat giving lessons in childbirth to the fecund and teak-faced women of Lancre was slightly unreal. “Really? How had they been having babies before?” he said. “Oh, any old way,” said Magrat. They looked at the little buzzing bean field. “Of course, when you’re queen, you won’t need to—” Verence began. It happened softly, almost like a kiss, as light as the touch of sunlight. There was no wind, only a sudden heavy calmness that made the ears pop. The stems bent and broke, and lay down in a circle. The bees roared, and fled. The three witches arrived at the standing stone together. They didn’t even bother with explanations. There were some things you know. “In the middle of my bloody herbs!” said Granny Weatherwax. “On the palace garden!” said Magrat. “Poor little mite! And he was holding it up to show me, too!” said Nanny Ogg. Granny Weatherwax paused. “What’re you talking about, Gytha Ogg?” she said. “Our Pewsey was growing mustard-and-cress on a flannel for his Nan,” said Nanny Ogg, patiently. “He shows it to me, right enough, and just as I bends down and—splat! Crop circle!” “This,” said Granny Weatherwax, “is serious. It’s been years since they’ve been as bad as this. We all know what it means, don’t we. What we’ve got—” “Um,” said Magrat. “—to do now is—” “Excuse me,” said Magrat. There were some things you had to be told. “Yes?” “I don’t know what it means,” said Magrat. “I mean, old Goodie Whemper—” “—maysherestinpeace—” the older witches chorused. “—told me once that the circles were dangerous, but she never said anything about why. ” The older witches shared a glance. “Never told you about the Dancers?” said Granny Weatherwax. “Never told you about the Long Man?” said Nanny Ogg. “What Dancers? You mean those old stones up on the moor?” “All you need to know right now, ” said Granny Weatherwax, “is that we’ve got to put a stop to Them. ” “What Them?” Granny radiated innocence… “The circles, of course,” she said. “Oh, no,” said Magrat. “I can tell by the way you said it. You said Them as though it was some sort of curse. It wasn’t just a them, it was a them with a capital The. ” The old witches looked awkward again. “And who’s the Long Man?” said Magrat. “We do not,” said Granny, “ever talk about the Long Man. ” “No harm in telling her about the Dancers, at any rate,” mumbled Nanny Ogg. “Yes, but…you know…I mean…she’s Magrat,” said Granny. |
“What’s that meant to mean?” Magrat demanded. “You probably won’t feel the same way about Them, is what I am saying,” said Granny. “We’re talking about the—” Nanny Ogg began. “Don’t name ’em!” “Yeah, right. Sorry. ” “Mind you, a circle might not find the Dancers,” said Granny. “We can always hope. Could be just random. ” “But if one opens up inside the—” said Nanny Ogg. Magrat snapped. “You just do this on purpose! You talk in code the whole time! You always do this! But you won’t be able to when I’m queen !” That stopped them. Nanny Ogg put her head on one side. “Oh?” she said. “Young Verence popped the question, then?” “Yes!” “When’s the happy event?” said Granny Weatherwax, icily. “Two weeks’ time,” said Magrat. “Midsummer Day. ” “Bad choice, bad choice,” said Nanny Ogg. “Shortest night o’ the year—” “Gytha Ogg!” “And you’ll be my subjects,” said Magrat, ignoring this. “And you’ll have to curtsy and everything!” She knew as soon as she said it that it was stupid, but anger drove her on. Granny Weatherwax’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm,” she said. “We will, will we?” “Yes, and if you don’t,” said Magrat, “you can get thrown in prison. ” “My word,” said Granny. “Deary deary me. I wouldn’t like that. I wouldn’t like that at all. ” All three of them knew that the castle dungeons, which in any case had never been its most notable feature, were now totally unused. Verence II was the most amiable monarch in the history of Lancre. His subjects regarded him with the sort of good-natured contempt that is the fate of all those who work quietly and conscientiously for the public good. Besides, Verence would rather cut his own leg off than put a witch in prison, since it’d save trouble in the long run and probably be less painful. “Queen Magrat, eh?” said Nanny Ogg, trying to lighten the atmosphere a bit. “Cor. Well, the old castle could do with a bit of lightening up—” “Oh, it’ll lighten up all right,” said Granny. “Well, anyway, I don’t have to bother with this sort of thing,” said Magrat. “Whatever it is. It’s your business. I just shan’t have time, I’m sure. ” “I’m sure you can please yourself, your going-to-be-majesty,” said Granny Weatherwax. “Hah!” said Magrat. “I can! You can jol—you can damn well find another witch for Lancre! All right? Another soppy girl to do all the dreary work and never be told anything and be talked over the head of the whole time. I’ve got better things to do!” “Better things than being a witch?” said Granny. Magrat walked into it. “Yes!” “Oh, dear,” murmured Nanny. “Oh. Well, then I expect you’ll be wanting to be off,” said Granny, her voice like knives. “Back to your palace, I’ll be bound. ” “Yes!” Magrat picked up her broomstick. Granny’s arm shot out very fast and grabbed the handle. “Oh, no,” she said, “you don’t. Queens ride around in golden coaches and whatnot. Each to their own. Brooms is for witches. ” “Now come on, you two,” began Nanny Ogg, one of nature’s mediators. “Anyway, someone can be a queen and a w—” “Who cares?” said Magrat, dropping the broomstick. “I don’t have to bother with that sort of thing anymore. ” She turned, clutched at her dress, and ran. She became a figure outlined against the sunset. “You daft old besom, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg. “Just because she’s getting wed. ” “You know what she’d say if we told her,” said Granny Weatherwax. “She’d get it all wrong. The Gentry. Circles. She’d say it was… nice. Best for her if she’s out of it. ” “They ain’t been active for years and years,” said Nanny. “We’ll need some help. I mean…when did you last go up to the Dancers?” “You know how it is,” said Granny. “When it’s so quiet…you don’t think about ’em. ” “We ought to have kept ’em cleared. ” “True. ” “We better get up there first thing tomorrow,” said Nanny Ogg. “Yes. ” “Better bring a sickle, too. ” There isn’t much of the kingdom of Lancre where you could drop a football and not have it roll away from you. Most of it is moorland and steeply forested hillside, giving way to sharp and ragged mountains where even trolls wouldn’t go and valleys so deep that they have to pipe the sunlight in. There was an overgrown path up to the moorland where the Dancers stood, even though it was only a few miles from the town. Hunters tracked up there sometimes, but only by accident. It wasn’t that the hunting was bad but, well— —there were the stones. Stone circles were common enough everywhere in the mountains. Druids built them as weather computers and since it was always cheaper to build a new 33-MegaLith circle than upgrade an old slow one there were generally plenty of ancient ones around. No druids ever came near the Dancers. The stones weren’t shaped. They weren’t even positioned in any particularly significant way. There wasn’t any of that stuff about the sun striking the right stone at dawn on the right day. Someone had just dragged eight red rocks into a rough circle. But the weather was different. People said that, if it started to rain, it always began to fall inside the circle a few seconds after it had started outside, as if the rain was coming from further away. If clouds crossed the sun, it’d be a moment or two before the light faded inside the circle. William Scrope is going to die in a couple of minutes. It has to be said that he shouldn’t have been hunting deer out of season, and especially not the fine stag he was tracking, and certainly not a fine stag of the Ramtop Red species, which is officially endangered although not as endangered, right now, as William Scrope. It was ahead of him, pushing through the bracken, making so much noise that a blind man could have tracked it. Scrope waded through after it. Mist was still hanging around the stones, not in a blanket but in long raggedy strings. The stag reached the circle now, and stopped. It trotted back and forth once or twice, and then looked up at Scrope. He raised the crossbow. The stag turned, and leapt between the stones. There were only confused impressions from then on. The first was of— — distance. The circle was a few yards across, it shouldn’t suddenly appear to contain so much distance. And the next was of— — speed. Something was coming out of the circle, a white dot growing bigger and bigger. He knew he’d aimed the bow. But it was whirled out of his hands as the thing struck, and suddenly there was only the sensation of— — peace. And the brief remembrance of pain. William Scrope died. William Scrope looked through his hands at the crushed bracken. The reason that it was crushed was that his own body was sprawled upon it. His newly deceased eyes surveyed the landscape. There are no delusions for the dead. Dying is like waking up after a really good party, when you have one or two seconds of innocent freedom before you recollect all the things you did last night which seemed so logical and hilarious at the time, and then you remember the really amazing thing you did with a lampshade and two balloons, which had them in stitches, and now you realize you’re going to have to look a lot of people in the eye today and you’re sober now and so are they but you can both remember. “Oh,” he said. The landscape flowed around the stones. It was all so obvious now, when you saw it from the outside… Obvious. No walls, only doors. No edges, only corners— WILLIAM SCROPE. “Yes?” IF YOU WOULD PLEASE STEP THIS WAY. “Are you a hunter?” I LIKE TO THINK I AM A PICKER-UP OF UNCONSIDERED TRIFLES. Death grinned hopefully. Scrope’s post-physical brow furrowed. “What? Like…sherry, custard…that sort of thing?” Death sighed. Metaphors were wasted on people. Sometimes he felt that no one took him seriously enough. I TAKE AWAY PEOPLE’S LIVES IS WHAT I MEAN, he said testily. “Where to?” WE SHALL HAVE TO SEE, WON’T WE? William Scrope was already fading into the mist. “That thing that got me—” YES? “I thought they were extinct!” “NO. THEY JUST WENT AWAY. “Where to?” Death extended a bony digit. OVER THERE. Magrat hadn’t originally intended to move into the palace before the wedding, because people would talk. |
Admittedly a dozen people lived in the palace, which had a huge number of rooms, but she’d still be under the same roof, and that was good enough. Or bad enough. That was before. Now her blood was sizzling. Let people talk. She had a pretty good idea which people they’d be, too. Which person, anyway. Witch person. Hah. Let them talk all they liked. She got up early and packed her possessions, such as they were. It wasn’t exactly her cottage, and most of the furniture went with it. Witches came and went, but witches’ cottages went on forever, usually with the same thatch they started with. But she did own the set of magical knives, the mystic colored cords, the assorted grails and crucibles, and a box full of rings, necklaces, and bracelets heavy with the hermetic symbols of a dozen religions. She tipped them all into a sack. Then there were the books. Goodie Whemper had been something of a bookworm among witches. There were almost a dozen. She hesitated about the books, and finally she let them stay on the shelves. There was the statutory pointy hat. She’d never liked it anyway, and had always avoided wearing it. Into the sack with it. She looked around wild-eyed until she spotted the small cauldron in the inglenook. That’d do. Into the sack with that, and then tie the neck with string. On the way up to the palace she crossed the bridge over Lancre Gorge and tossed the sack into the river. It bobbed for a moment in the strong current, and then sank. She’d secretly hoped for a string of multicolored bubbles, or even a hiss. But it just sank. Just as if it wasn’t anything very important. Another world, another castle… The elf galloped over the frozen moat, steam billowing from its black horse and from the thing it carried over its neck. It rode up the steps and into the hall itself, where the Queen sat amidst her dreams… “My lord Lankin?” “A stag!” It was still alive. Elves were skilled at leaving things alive, often for weeks. “From out of the circle?” “ Yes, lady!” “It’s weakening. Did I not tell you?” “How long ? How long ?” “Soon. Soon. What went through the other way?” The elf tried to avoid her face. “Your…pet, lady. ” “No doubt it won’t go far. ” The Queen laughed. “No doubt it will have an amusing time…” It rained briefly at dawn. There’s nothing nastier to walk through than shoulder-high wet bracken. Well, there is. There are an uncountable number of things nastier to walk through, especially if they’re shoulder-high. But here and now, thought Nanny Ogg, it was hard to think of more than one or two. They hadn’t landed inside the Dancers, of course. Even birds detoured rather than cross that airspace. Migrating spiders on gossamer threads floating half a mile up curved around it. Clouds split in two and flowed around it. Mist hung around the stones. Sticky, damp mist. Nanny hacked vaguely at the clinging bracken with her sickle. “You there, Esme?” she muttered. Granny Weatherwax’s head rose from a clump of bracken a few feet away. “There’s been things going on,” she said, in a cold and deliberate tone. “Like what?” “All the bracken and weeds is trampled around the stones. I reckon someone’s been dancing. ” Nanny Ogg gave this the same consideration as would a nuclear physicist who’d just been told that someone was banging two bits of sub-critical uranium together to keep warm. “They never, ” she said. “They have. And another thing…” It was hard to imagine what other thing there could be, but Nanny Ogg said “Yes?” anyway. “Someone got killed up here. ” “Oh, no,” moaned Nanny Ogg. “Not inside the circle too. ” “Nope. Don’t be daft. It was outside. A tall man. He had one leg longer’n the other. And a beard. He was probably a hunter. ” “How’d you know all that?” “I just trod on ’im. ” The sun rose through the mists. The morning rays were already caressing the ancient stones of Unseen University, premier college of wizardry, five hundred miles away. Not that many wizards were aware of this. For most of the wizards of Unseen University their lunch was the first meal of the day. They were not, by and large, breakfast people. The Archchancellor and the Librarian were the only two who knew what the dawn looked like from the front, and they tended to have the entire campus to themselves for several hours. The Librarian was always up early because he was an orang-utan, and they are naturally early risers, although in his case he didn’t bellow a few times to keep other males off his territory. He just unlocked the Library and fed the books. And Mustrum Ridcully, the current Archchancellor, liked to wander around the sleepy buildings, nodding to the servants and leaving little notes for his subordinates, usually designed for no other purpose than to make it absolutely clear that he was up and attending to the business of the day while they were still fast asleep. * Today, however, he had something else on his mind. More or less literally. It was round. There was healthy growth all around it. He could swear it hadn’t been there yesterday. He turned his head this way and that, squinting at the reflection in the mirror of the other mirror he was holding above his head. The next member of staff to wake up after Ridcully and the Librarian was the Bursar; not because he was a naturally early riser, but because by around ten o’clock the Archchancellor’s very limited supply of patience came to an end and he would stand at the bottom of the stairs and shout: “Bursaaar!” —until the Bursar appeared. In fact it happened so often that the Bursar, a natural neurovore, * frequently found that he’d got up and dressed himself in his sleep several minutes before the bellow. On this occasion he was upright and fully clothed and halfway to the door before his eyes snapped open. Ridcully never wasted time on small talk. It was always large talk or nothing. “Yes, Archchancellor?” said the Bursar, glumly. The Archchancellor removed his hat. “What about this, then?” he demanded. “Um, um, um… what, Archchancellor?” “This, man! This!” Close to panic, the Bursar stared desperately at the top of Ridcully’s head. “The what? Oh. The bald spot?” “I have not got a bald spot!” “Um, then—” “I mean it wasn’t there yesterday!” “Ah. Well. Um. ” At a certain point something always snapped inside the Bursar, and he couldn’t stop himself. “Of course these things do happen and my grandfather always swore by a mixture of honey and horse manure, he rubbed it on every day—” “I’m not going bald!” A tic started to dance across the Bursar’s face. The words started to come out by themselves, without the apparent intervention of his brain. “—and then he got this device with a glass rod and, and, and you rubbed it with a silk cloth and—” “I mean it’s ridiculous! My family have never gone bald, except for one of my aunts!” “—and, and, and then he’d collect morning dew and wash his head, and, and, and—” Ridcully subsided. He was not an unkind man. “What’re you taking for it at the moment?” he murmured. “Dried, dried, dried, dried,” stuttered the Bursar. “The old dried frog pills, right?” “R-r-r-r. ” “Left-hand pocket?” “R-r-r-r. ” “OK…right…swallow…” They stared at one another for a moment. The Bursar sagged. “M-m-much better now, Archchancellor, thank you. ” “Something’s definitely happening, Bursar. I can feel it in my water. ” “Anything you say, Archchancellor. ” “Bursar?” “Yes, Archchancellor?” “You ain’t a member of some secret society or somethin’, are you?” “Me? No, Archchancellor. ” “Then it’d be a damn good idea to take your underpants off your head. ” “Know him?” said Granny Weatherwax. Nanny Ogg knew everyone in Lancre, even the forlorn thing on the bracken. “It’s William Scrope, from over Slice way,” she said. “One of three brothers. He married that Palliard girl, remember? The one with the air-cooled teeth?” “I hope the poor woman’s got some respectable black clothes,” said Granny Weatherwax. “Looks like he’s been stabbed,” said Nanny. She turned the body over, gently but firmly. Corpses as such didn’t worry her. |
Witches generally act as layers-out of the dead as well as midwives; there were plenty of people in Lancre for whom Nanny Ogg’s face had been the first and last thing they’d ever seen, which had probably made all the bit in the middle seem quite uneventful by comparison. “Right through,” she said. “Stabbed right through. Blimey. Who’d do a thing like that?” Both the witches turned to look at the stones. “I don’t know what , but I knows where it come from,” said Granny. Now Nanny Ogg could see that the bracken all around the stones was indeed well trodden down, and quite brown. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” said Granny. “You’d better not go into—” “I knows exactly where I should go, thank you. ” There were eight stones in the Dancers. Three of them had names. Granny walked around the ring until she reached the one known as the Piper. She removed a hatpin from among the many that riveted her pointy hat to her hair and held it about six inches from the stone. Then she let it go, and watched what happened. She went back to Nanny. “There’s still power there,” she said. “Not much, but the ring is holding. ” “But who’d be daft enough to come up here and dance around the stones?” said Nanny Ogg, and then, as a treacherous thought drifted across her mind, she added, “Magrat’s been away with us the whole time. ” “We shall have to find out,” said Granny, setting her face in a grim smile. “Now help me up with the poor man. ” Nanny Ogg bent to the task. “Coo, he’s heavy. We could’ve done with young Magrat up here. ” “No. Flighty,” said Granny Weatherwax. “Head easily turned. ” “Nice girl, though. ” “But soppy. She thinks you can lead your life as if fairy stories work and folk songs are really true. Not that I don’t wish her every happiness. ” “Hope she does all right as queen,” said Nanny. “We taught her everything she knows,” said Granny Weatherwax. “Yeah,” said Nanny Ogg, as they disappeared into the bracken. “D’you think…maybe…?” “What?” “D’you think maybe we ought to have taught her everything we know?” “It’d take too long. ” “Yeah, right. ” It took a while for letters to get as far as the Archchancellor. The post tended to be picked up from the University gates by anyone who happened to be passing, and then left lying on a shelf somewhere or used as a pipe lighter or a bookmark or, in the case of the Librarian, as bedding. This one had only taken two days, and was quite intact apart from a couple of cup rings and a bananary fingerprint. It arrived on the table along with the other post while the faculty were at breakfast. The Dean opened it with a spoon. “Anyone here know where Lancre is?” he said. “Why?” said Ridcully, looking up sharply. “Some king’s getting married and wants us to come. ” “Oh dear, oh dear,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Some tinpot king gets wed and he wants us to come?” “It’s up in the mountains,” said the Archchancellor, quietly. “Good trout fishin’ in those parts, as I recall. My word. Lancre. Good grief. Hadn’t thought about the place in years. You know, there’s glacier lakes up there where the fish’ve never seen a rod. Lancre. Yes. ” “And it’s far too far,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. Ridcully wasn’t listening. “And there’s deer. Thousands of head of deer. And elk. Wolves all over the place. Mountain lions too, I shouldn’t wonder. I heard that Ice Eagles have been seen up there again, too. ” His eyes gleamed. “There’s only half a dozen of ’em left,” he said. Mustrum Ridcully did a lot for rare species. For one thing, he kept them rare. “It’s the back of beyond,” said the Dean. “Right off the edge of the map. ” “Used to stay with my uncle up there, in the holidays,” said Ridcully, his eyes misty with distance. “Great days I had up there. Great days. The summers up there…and the sky’s a deeper blue than anywhere else, it’s very…and the grass…and…” He returned abruptly from the landscapes of memory. “Got to go, then,” he said. “Duty calls. Head of state gettin’ married. Important occasion. Got to have a few wizards there. Look of the thing. Nobblyess obligay. ” “Well, I’m not going,” said the Dean. “It’s not natural, the countryside. Far too many trees. Never could stand it. ” “The Bursar could do with an outing,” said Ridcully. “Seems a bit jumpy just lately, can’t imagine why. ” He leaned forward to look along the High Table. “Bursaaar!” The Bursar dropped his spoon into his oatmeal. “See what I mean?” said Ridcully. “Bundle o’ nerves the whole time. I WAS SAYING YOU COULD DO WITH SOME FRESH AIR, BURSAR. ” He nudged the Dean heavily. “Hope he’s not going off his rocker, poor fella,” he said, in what he chose to believe was a whisper. “Spends too much time indoors, if you get my drift. ” The Dean, who went outdoors about once a month, shrugged his shoulders. “I EXPECT YOU’D LIKE A LITTLE TIME AWAY FROM THE UNIVERSITY, EH?” said the Archchancellor, nodding and grimacing madly. “Peace and quiet? Healthy country livin’?” “I, I, I, I should like that very much, Archchancellor,” said the Bursar, hope rising in his face like an autumn mushroom. “Good man. Good man. You shall come with me,” said Ridcully, beaming. The Bursar’s expression froze. “Got to be someone else, too,” said Ridcully. “Volunteers, anyone?” The wizards, townies to a man, bent industriously over their food. They always bent industriously over their food in any case, but this time they were doing it to avoid catching Ridcully’s eye. “What about the Librarian?” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, throwing a random victim to the wolves. There was a sudden babble of relieved agreement. “Good choice,” said the Dean. “Just the thing for him. Countryside. Trees. And…and…trees. ” “Mountain air,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Yes, he’s been looking peaky lately,” said the Reader in Invisible Writings. “It’d be a real treat for him,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Home away from home, I expect,” said the Dean. “Trees all over the place. ” They all looked expectantly at the Archchancellor. “He doesn’t wear clothes,” said Ridcully. “And he goes ‘ook’ all the time. ” “He does wear the old green robe thing,” said the Dean. “Only when he’s had a bath. ” Ridcully rubbed his beard. In fact he quite liked the Librarian, who never argued with him and always kept himself in shape, even if that shape was a pear shape. It was the right shape for an orang-utan. The thing about the Librarian was that no one noticed he was an orang-utan anymore, unless a visitor to the University happened to point it out. In which case someone would say, “Oh, yes. Some kind of magical accident, wasn’t it? Pretty sure it was something like that. One minute human, next minute an ape. Funny thing, really…can’t remember what he looked like before. I mean, he must have been human, I suppose. Always thought of him as an ape, really. It’s more him. ” And indeed it had been an accident among the potent and magical books of the University library that had as it were bounced the Librarian’s genotype down the evolutionary tree and back up a different branch, with the significant difference that now he could hang on to it upside down with his feet. “Oh, all right,” said the Archchancellor. “But he’s got to wear something during the ceremony, if only for the sake of the poor bride. ” There was a whimper from the Bursar. All the wizards turned toward him. His spoon landed on the floor with a small thud. It was wooden. The wizards had gently prevented him from having metal cutlery since what was now known as the Unfortunate Incident At Dinner. “A-a-a-a,” gurgled the Bursar, trying to push himself away from the table. “Dried frog pills,” said the Archchancellor. “Someone fish ’em out of his pocket. ” The wizards didn’t rush this. You could find anything in a wizard’s pocket—peas, unreasonable things with legs, small experimental universes, anything… The Reader in Invisible Writings craned to see what had unglued his colleague. “Here, look at his porridge,” he said. There was a perfect round depression in the oatmeal. “Oh dear, another crop circle,” said the Dean. The wizards relaxed. |
“Damn things turning up everywhere this year,” said the Archchancellor. He hadn’t taken his hat off to eat the meal. This was because it was holding down a poultice of honey and horse manure and a small mouse-powered electrostatic generator he’d got those clever young fellas in the High Energy Magic research building to knock together for him, clever fellas they were, one day he might even understand half of what they were always gabblin’ on about… In the meantime, he’d keep his hat on. “Particularly strong, too,” said the Dean. “The gardener told me yesterday they’re playing merry hell with the cabbages. ” “I thought them things only turned up out in fields and things,” said Ridcully. “Perfectly normal natural phenomenon. ” “If there is a suitably high flux level, the inter-continuum pressure can probably overcome quite a high base reality quotient,” said the Reader in Invisible Writings. The conversation stopped. Everyone turned to look at this most wretched and least senior member of the staff. The Archancellor glowered. “I don’t even want you to begin to start explainin’ that,” he said. “You’re probably goin’ to go on about the universe bein’ a rubber sheet with weights on it again, right?” “Not exactly a—” “And the word ‘quantum’ is hurryin’ toward your lips again,” said Ridcully. “Well, the—” “ And ‘continuinuinuum’ too, I expect,” said Ridcully. The Reader in Invisible Writings, a young wizard whose name was Ponder Stibbons, sighed deeply. “No, Archchancellor, I was merely pointing out—” “It’s not wormholes again, is it?” Stibbons gave up. Using a metaphor in front of a man as unimaginative as Ridcully was like a red rag to a bu—was like putting something very annoying in front of someone who was annoyed by it. It was very hard, being a reader in Invisible Writings. * “I reckon you’d better come too,” said Ridcully. “Me, Archchancellor?” “Can’t have you skulking around the place inventing millions of other universes that’re too small to see and all the rest of that continuinuinuum stuff,” said Ridcully. “Anyway, I shall need someone to carry my rods and crossbo—my stuff,” he corrected himself. Stibbons stared at his plate. It was no good arguing. What he had really wanted out of life was to spend the next hundred years of it in the University, eating big meals and not moving much in between them. He was a plump young man with a complexion the color of something that lives under a rock. People were always telling him to make something of his life, and that’s what he wanted to do. He wanted to make a bed of it. “But, Archchancellor,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, “it’s still too damn far. ” “Nonsense,” said Ridcully. “They’ve got that new turnpike open all the way to Sto Helit now. Coaches every Wednesday, reg’lar. Bursaaar! Oh, give him a dried frog pill, someone…Mr. Stibbons, if you could happen to find yourself in this universe for five minutes, go and arrange some tickets. There. All sorted out, right?” Magrat woke up. And knew she wasn’t a witch anymore. The feeling just crept over her, as part of the normal stock-taking that any body automatically does in the first seconds of emergence from the pit of dreams: arms: 2, legs: 2, existential dread: 58%, randomized guilt: 94%, witchcraft level: 00. 00. The point was, she couldn’t remember ever being anything else. She’d always been a witch. Magrat Garlick, third witch, that was what she was. The soft one. She knew she’d never been much good at it. Oh, she could do some spells and do them quite well, and she was good at herbs, but she wasn’t a witch in the bone like the old ones. They made sure she knew it. Well, she’d just have to learn queening. At least she was the only one in Lancre. No one’d be looking over her shoulder the whole time, saying things like, “You ain’t holding that scepter right !” Right… Someone had stolen her clothes in the night. She got up in her nightshirt and hopped over the cold flagstones to the door. She was halfway there when it opened of its own accord. She recognized the small dark girl that came in, barely visible behind a stack of linen. Most people in Lancre knew everyone else. “Millie Chillum?” The linen bobbed a curtsy. “Yes’m?” Magrat lifted up part of the stack. “It’s me, Magrat,” she said. “Hello. ” “Yes’m. ” Another bob. “What’s up with you, Millie?” “Yes’m. ” Bob, bob. “I said it’s me. You don’t have to look at me like that. ” “Yes’m. ” The nervous bobbing continued. Magrat found her own knees beginning to jerk in sympathy but as it were behind the beat, so that as she was bobbing down she overtook the girl bobbing up. “If you say ‘yes’m’ again, it will go very hard with you,” she managed, as she went past. “Y—right, your majesty, m’m. ” Faint light began to dawn. “I’m not queen yet, Millie. And you’ve known me for twenty years,” panted Magrat, on the way up. “Yes’m. But you’re going to be queen. So me mam told me I was to be respectful,” said Millie, still curtsying nervously. “Oh. Well. All right, then. Where are my clothes?” “Got ’em here, your pre-majesty. ” “They’re not mine. And please stop going up and down all the time. I feel a bit sick. ” “The king ordered ’em from Sto Helit special, m’m. ” “Did he, eh? How long ago?” “Dunno, m’m. ” He knew I was coming home, thought Magrat. How? What’s going on here? There was a good deal more lace than Magrat was used to, but that was, as it were, the icing on the cake. Magrat normally wore a simple dress with not much underneath it except Magrat. Ladies of quality couldn’t get away with that kind of thing. Millie had been provided with a sort of technical diagram, but it wasn’t much help. They studied it for some time. “This is a standard queen outfit, then?” “Couldn’t say, m’m. I think his majesty just sent ’em a lot of money and said to send you everything. ” They spread out the bits on the floor. “Is this the pantoffle?” Outside, on the battlements, the guard changed. In fact he changed into his gardening apron and went off to hoe the beans. Inside, there was considerable sartorial discussion. “I think you’ve got it up the wrong way, m’m. Which bit’s the farthingale?” “Says here Insert Tabbe A into Slotte B. Can’t find Slotte B. ” “These’re like saddlebags. I’m not wearing these. And this thing?” “A ruff, m’m. Um. They’re all the rage in Sto Helit, my brother says. ” “You mean they make people angry? And what’s this?” “Brocade, I think. ” “It’s like cardboard. Do I have to wear this sort of thing everyday ?” “Don’t know, I’m sure, m’m. ” “But Verence just trots around in leather gaiters and an old jacket!” “Ah, but you’re queen. Queens can’t do that sort of thing. Everyone knows that, m’m. It’s all right for kings to go wandering around with their arse half out their trous—” She rammed her hand over her mouth. “It’s all right,” said Magrat. “I’m sure even kings have…tops to their legs just like everyone else. Just go on with what you were saying. ” Millie had gone bright red. “I mean, I mean, I mean, queens has got to be ladylike,” she managed. “The king got books about it. Ettiquetty and stuff. ” Magrat surveyed herself critically in the mirror. “It really suits you, your soon-going-to-be-majesty,” said Millie. Magrat turned this way and that. “My hair’s a mess,” she said, after a while. “Please m’m, the king said he’s having a hairdresser come all the way from Ankh-Morpork, m’m. For the wedding. ” Magrat patted a tress into place. It was beginning to dawn on her that being a queen was a whole new life. “My word,” she said. “And what happens now?” “Dunno, m’m. ” “What’s the king doing?” “Oh, he had breakfast early and buggered off over to Slice to show old Muckloe how to breed his pigs out of a book. ” “So what do I do? What’s my job ?” Millie looked puzzled although this did not involve much of a change in her general expression. “Dunno, m’m. Reigning, I suppose. Walking around in the garden. Holding court. Doin’ tapestry. That’s very popular among queens. And then…er…later on there’s the royal succession…” “At the moment,” said Magrat firmly, “we’ll have a go at the tapestry. |
” Ridcully was having difficulty with the Librarian. “I happen to be your Archchancellor, sir!” “Oook. ” “You’ll like it up there! Fresh air! Bags of trees! More woods than you can shake a stick at!” “Oook!” “Come down this minute!” “Oook!” “The books’ll be quite safe here during the holidays. Good grief, it’s hard enough to get students to come in here at the best of times—” “Oook!” Ridcully glared at the Librarian, who was hanging by his toes from the top shelf of Parazoology Ba to Mn. “Oh, well,” he said, his voice suddenly low and cunning, “it’s a great shame, in the circumstances. They’ve got a pretty good library in Lancre castle, I heard. Well, they call it a library—it’s just a lot of old books. Never had a catalogue near ’em, apparently. ” “Oook?” “Thousands of books. Someone told me there’s incunibles, too. Shame, really, you not wanting to see them. ” Ridcully’s voice could have greased axles. “Oook?” “But I can see your mind is quite made up. So I shall be going. Farewell. ” Ridcully paused outside the Library door, counting under his breath. He’d reached “three” when the Librarian knuckled through at high speed, caught by the incunibles. “So that’ll be four tickets, then?” said Ridcully. Granny Weatherwax set about finding out what had been happening around the stones in her own distinctive way. People underestimate bees. Granny Weatherwax didn’t. She had half a dozen hives of them and knew, for example, there is no such creature as an individual bee. But there is such a creature as a swarm, whose component cells are just a bit more mobile than those of, say, the common whelk. Swarms see everything and sense a lot more, and they can remember things for years, although their memory tends to be external and built out of wax. A honeycomb is a hive’s memory—the placement of egg cells, pollen cells, queen cells, honey cells, different types of honey, are all part of the memory array. And then there are the big fat drones. People think all they do is hang around the hive all year, waiting for those few brief minutes when the queen even notices their existence, but that doesn’t explain why they’ve got more sense organs than the roof of the CIAbuilding. Granny didn’t really keep bees. She took some old wax every year, for candles, and the occasional pound of honey that the hives felt they could spare, but mainly she had them for someone to talk to. For the first time since she’d returned home, she went to the hives. And stared. Bees were boiling out of the entrances. The thrum of wings filled the normally calm little patch behind the raspberry bushes. Brown bodies zipped through the air like horizontal hail. She wished she knew why. Bees were her one failure. There wasn’t a mind in Lancre she couldn’t Borrow. She could even see the world through the eyes of earthworms. * But a swarm, a mind made up of thousands of mobile parts, was beyond her. It was the toughest test of all. She’d tried over and over again to ride on one, to see the world through ten thousand pairs of multifaceted eyes all at once, and all she’d ever got was a migraine and an inclination to make love to flowers. But you could tell a lot from just watching bees. The activity, the direction, the way the guard bees acted… They were acting extremely worried. So she went for a lie down, as only Granny Weatherwax knew how. Nanny Ogg tried a different way, which didn’t have much to do with witchcraft but did have a lot to do with her general Oggishness. She sat for a while in her spotless kitchen, drinking rum and smoking her foul pipe and staring at the paintings on the wall. They had been done by her youngest grandchildren in a dozen shades of mud, most of them of blobby stick figures with the word GRAN blobbily blobbed in underneath in muddy blobby letters. In front of her the cat Greebo, glad to be home again, lay on his back with all four paws in the air, doing his celebrated something-found-in-the-gutter impersonation. Finally Nanny got up and ambled thoughtfully down to Jason Ogg’s smithy. A smithy always occupied an important position in the villages, doing the duty of town hall, meeting room, and general clearing house for gossip. Several men were lounging around in it now, filling in time between the normal Lancre occupations of poaching and watching the women do the work. “Jason Ogg, I wants a word with you. ” The smithy emptied like magic. It was probably something in Nanny Ogg’s tone of voice. But Nanny reached out and grabbed one man by the arm as he tried to go past at a sort of stumbling crouch. “I’m glad I’ve run into you, Mr. Quarney,” she said. “Don’t rush off. Store doing all right, is it?” Lancre’s only storekeeper gave her the look a three-legged mouse gives an athletic cat. Nevertheless, he tried. “Oh, terrible bad, terrible bad business is right now, Mrs. Ogg. ” “Same as normal, eh?” Mr. Quarney’s expression was pleading. He knew he wasn’t going to get out without something , he just wanted to know what it was. “Well, now,” said Nanny, “you know the widow Scrope, lives over in Slice?” Quarney’s mouth opened. “She’s not a widow,” he said. “She—” “Bet you half a dollar?” said Nanny. Quarney’s mouth stayed open, and around it the rest of his face recomposed itself in an expression of fascinated horror. “So she’s to be allowed credit, right, until she gets the farm on its feet,” said Nanny, in the silence. Quarney nodded mutely. “That goes for the rest of you men listening outside the door,” said Nanny, raising her voice. “Dropping a cut of meat on her doorstep once a week wouldn’t come amiss, eh? And she’ll probably want extra help come harvest. I knows I can depend on you all. Now, off you go…” They ran for it, leaving Nanny Ogg standing triumphantly in the doorway. Jason Ogg looked at her hopelessly, a fifteen-stone man reduced to a four-year-old boy. “Jason?” “I got to do this bit of brazing for old—” “So,” said Nanny, ignoring him, “what’s been happening in these parts while we’ve been away, my lad?” Jason poked at the fire distractedly with an iron bar. “Oh, well, us had a big whirlwind on Hogswatchnight and one of Mother Peason’s hens laid the same egg three times, and old Poorchick’s cow gave birth to a seven-headed snake, and there was a rain of frogs over in Slice—” “Been pretty normal, then,” said Nanny Ogg. She refilled her pipe in a casual but meaningful way. “All very quiet, really,” said Jason. He pulled the bar out of the fire, laid it on the anvil, and raised his hammer. “I’ll find out sooner or later, you know,” said Nanny Ogg. Jason didn’t turn his head, but his hammer stopped in mid-air. “I always does, you know,” said Nanny Ogg. The iron cooled from the color of fresh straw to bright red. “You knows you always feels better for telling your old mum,” said Nanny Ogg. The iron cooled from red to spitting black. But Jason, used all day to the searing heat of a forge, seemed to be uncomfortably warm. “I should beat it up before it gets cold,” said Nanny Ogg. “Weren’t my fault, Mum! How could I stop ’em?” Nanny sat back in the chair, smiling happily. “What them would these be, my son?” “That young Diamanda and that Perdita and that girl with the red hair from over in Bad Ass and them others. I says to old Peason, I says you’d have something to say, I tole ’em Mistress Weatherwax’d get her knic—would definitely be sarcastic when she found out,” said Jason. “But they just laughs. They said they could teach ’emselves witching. ” Nanny nodded. Actually, they were quite right. You could teach yourself witchcraft. But both the teacher and the pupil had to be the right kind of person. “Diamanda?” she said. “Don’t recall the name. ” “Really she’s Lucy Tockley,” said Jason. “She says Diamanda is more…more witchy. ” “Ah. The one that wears the big floppy felt hat?” “Yes, Mum. ” “She’s the one that paints her nails black, too?” “Yes, Mum. ” “Old Tockley sent her off to school, didn’t he?” “Yes, Mum. She came back while you was gone. ” “Ah. ” Nanny Ogg lit her pipe from the forge. Floppy hat and black nails and education. Oh, dear. |
“How many of these gels are there, then?” she said. “Bout half a dozen. But they’m good at it, Mum. ” “Yeah?” “And it ain’t as if they’ve been doing anything bad. ” Nanny Ogg stared reflectively at the glow in the forge. There was a bottomless quality to Nanny Ogg’s silences. And also a certain directional component. Jason was quite clear that the silence was being aimed at him. He always fell for it. He tried to fill it up. “And that Diamanda’s been properly educated,” he said. “She knows some lovely words. ” Silence. “And I knows you’ve always said there weren’t enough young girls interested in learnin’ witching these days,” said Jason. He removed the iron bar and hit it a few times, for the look of the thing. More silence flowed in Jason’s direction. “They goes and dances up in the mountains every full moon. ” Nanny Ogg removed her pipe and inspected the bowl carefully. “People do say,” said Jason, lowering his voice, “that they dances in the altogether. ” “Altogether what?” said Nanny Ogg. “You know, Mum. In the nudd. ” “Cor. There’s a thing. Anyone see where they go?” “Nah. Weaver the thatcher says they always gives him the slip. ” “Jason?” “Yes, Mum?” “They bin dancin’ around the stones. ” Jason hit his thumb. There were a number of gods in the mountains and forests of Lancre. One of them was known as Herne the Hunted. He was a god of the chase and the hunt. More or less. Most gods are created and sustained by belief and hope. Hunters danced in animal skins and created gods of the chase, who tended to be hearty and boisterous with the tact of a tidal wave. But they are not the only gods of hunting. The prey has an occult voice too, as the blood pounds and the hounds bay. Herne was the god of the chased and the hunted and all small animals whose ultimate destiny is to be an abrupt damp squeak. He was about three feet high with rabbit ears and very small horns. But he did have an extremely good turn of speed, and was using it to the full as he tore madly through the woods. “They’re coming! They’re coming! They’re all coming back! ” “Who are?” said Jason Ogg. He was holding his thumb in the water trough. Nanny Ogg sighed. “Them,” she said. “You know. Them. We ain’t certain, but…” “Who’s Them?” Nanny hesitated. There were some things you didn’t tell ordinary people. On the other hand, Jason was a blacksmith, which meant he wasn’t ordinary. Blacksmiths had to keep secrets. And he was family; Nanny Ogg had had an adventurous youth and wasn’t very good at counting, but she was pretty certain he was her son. “You see,” she said, waving her hands vaguely, “them stones…the Dancers…see, in the old days…see, once upon a time…” She stopped, and tried again to explain the essentially fractal nature of reality. “Like…there’s some places that’re thinner than others, where the old doorways used to be, well, not doorways, never exactly understood it myself, not doorways as such, more places where the world is thinner …Anyway, the thing is , the Dancers…are a kind of fence…we, well, when I say we I mean thousands of years ago…I mean, but they’re not just stones, they’re some kind of thunderbolt iron but…there’s things like tides, only not with water, it’s when worlds get closer together’n you can nearly step between ’em…anyway, if people’ve been hangin’ around the stones, playin’ around…then They’ll be back, if we’re not careful. ” “What They?” “That’s the whole trouble,” said Nanny, miserably. “If I tells you, you’ll get it all wrong. They lives on the other side of the Dancers. ” Her son stared at her. Then a faint grin of realization wandered across his face. “Ah,” he said. “I knows. I heard them wizards down in Ankh is always accidentally rippin’ holes in this fabric o’ reality they got down there, and you get them horrible things coming out o’ the Dungeon Dimensions. Huge buggers with dozens o’ eyeballs and more legs’n a Morris team. ” He gripped his No. 5 hammer. “Don’t you worry, Mum. If they starts poppin’ out here, we’ll soon—” “No, it ain’t like that,” said Nanny. “Those live outside. But Them lives…over there. ” Jason looked completely lost. Nanny shrugged. She’d have to tell someone, sooner or later. “The Lords and Ladies,” she said. “Who’re they?” Nanny looked around. But, after all, this was a forge. There had been a forge here long before there was a castle, long before there was even a kingdom. There were horseshoes everywhere. Iron had entered the very walls. It wasn’t just a place of iron, it was a place where iron died and was reborn. If you couldn’t speak the words here, you couldn’t speak ’em anywhere. Even so, she’d rather not. “ You know,” she said. “The Fair Folk. The Gentry. The Shining Ones. The Star People. You know. ” “What?” Nanny put her hand on the anvil, just in case, and said the word. Jason’s frown very gently cleared, at about the same speed as a sunrise. “Them?” he said. “But aren’t they nice and—?” “See?” said Nanny. “I told you you’d get it wrong!” “ How much?” said Ridcully. The coachman shrugged. “Take it or leave it,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir,” said Ponder Stibbons. “It’s the only coach. ” “Fifty dollars each is daylight robbery!” “No,” said the coachman patiently. “Daylight robbery,” he said, in the authoritative tones of the experienced, “is when someone steps out into the road with an arrow pointing at us and then all his friends swings down from the rocks and trees and take away all our money and things. And then there’s nighttime robbery, which is like daytime robbery except they set fire to the coach so’s they can see what they’re about. Twilight robbery, now, your basic twilight robbery is—” “Are you saying,” said Ridcully, “that getting robbed is included in the price ?” “Bandits’ Guild,” said the coachman. “Forty dollars per head, see. It’s a kind of flat rate. ” “What happens if we don’t pay it?” said Ridcully. “You end up flat. ” The wizards went into a huddle. “We’ve got a hundred and fifty dollars,” said Ridcully. “We can’t get any more out of the safe because the Bursar ate the key yesterday. ” “Can I try an idea, sir?” said Ponder. “All right. ” Ponder gave the coachman a bright smile. “Pets travel free?” he suggested. “Oook?” Nanny Ogg’s broomstick skimmed a few feet above the forest paths, cornering so fast that her boots scraped through the leaves. She leapt off at Granny Weatherwax’s cottage so quickly that she didn’t switch it off, and it kept going until it stuck in the privy. The door was open. “Cooee?” Nanny glanced into the scullery, and then thumped up the small narrow staircase. Granny Weatherwax was stretched rigid on her bed. Her face was gray, her skin was cold. People had discovered her like this before, and it always caused embarrassment. So now she reassured visitors but tempted fate by always holding, in her rigid hands, a small handwritten sign which read: I ATE’NT DEAD. The window was propped open with a piece of wood. “Ah,” said Nanny, far more for her own benefit than for anyone else’s, “I sees you’re out. I’ll, I’ll, I’ll just put the kettle on, shall I, and wait ’til you comes back?” Esme’s skill at Borrowing unnerved her. It was all very well entering the minds of animals and such, but too many witches had never come back. For several years Nanny had put out lumps of fat and bacon rind for a bluetit that she was sure was old Granny Postalute, who’d gone out Borrowing one day and never came back. Insofar as a witch could consider things uncanny, Nanny Ogg considered it uncanny. She went back down to the scullery and lowered a bucket down the well, remembering to fish the newts out this time before she boiled the kettle. Then she watched the garden. After a while a small shape flittered across it, heading for the upstairs window. Nanny poured out the tea. She carefully took one spoonful of sugar out of the sugar basin, tipped the rest of the sugar into her cup, put the spoonful back in the basin, put both cups on a tray, and climbed the stairs. Granny Weatherwax was sitting up in her bed. Nanny looked around. There was a large bat hanging upside down from a beam. |
Granny Weatherwax rubbed her ears. “Shove the po under it, will you, Gytha?” she mumbled. “They’re a devil for excusing themselves on the carpet. ” Nanny unearthed the shyest article of Granny Weatherwax’s bedroom crockery and moved it across the rug with her foot. “I brought you a cup of tea,” she said. “Good job, too. Mouth tastes of moths,” said Granny. “Thought you did owls at night?” said Nanny. “Yeah, but you ends up for days trying to twist your head right round,” said Granny. “At least bats always faces the same way. Tried rabbits first off, but you know what they are for remembering things. Anyway, you know what they thinks about the whole time. They’re famous for it. ” “Grass. ” “Right. ” “Find out anything?” said Nanny. “Half a dozen people have been going up there. Every full moon!” said Granny. “Gels, by the shape of them. You only see silhouettes, with bats. ” “You done well there,” said Nanny, carefully. “Girls from round here, you reckon?” “Got to be. They ain’t using broomsticks. ” Nanny Ogg sighed. “There’s Agnes Nitt, old Threepenny’s daughter,” she said. “And the Tockley girl. And some others. ” Granny Weatherwax looked at her with her mouth open. “I asked our Jason,” she said. “Sorry. ” The bat burped. Granny genteelly covered her hand with her mouth. “I’m a silly old fool, ain’t I?” she said, after a while. “No, no,” said Nanny. “Borrowing’s a real skill. You’re really good at it. ” “Prideful, that’s what I am. Once upon a time I’d of thought of asking people, too, instead of fooling around being a bat. ” “Our Jason wouldn’t have told you. He only told me ’cos I would’ve made ’is life a living hell if he didn’t,” said Nanny Ogg. “That’s what a mother’s for. ” “I’m losing my touch, that’s what it is. Getting old, Gytha. ” “You’re as old as you feel, that’s what I always say. ” “That’s what I mean. ” Nanny Ogg looked worried. “Supposing Magrat’d been here,” said Granny. “She’d see me being daft. ” “Well, she’s safe in the castle,” said Nanny. “Learning how to be queen. ” “At least the thing about queening,” said Granny, “is that no one notices if you’re doing it wrong. It has to be right ’cos it’s you doing it. ” “S’funny, royalty,” said Nanny. “It’s like magic. You take some girl with a bum like two pigs in a blanket and a head full of air and then she marries a king or a prince or someone and suddenly she’s this radiant right royal princess. It’s a funny old world. ” “I ain’t going to kowtow to her, mind,” said Granny. “You never kowtow to anyone anyway,” said Nanny Ogg patiently. “You never bowed to the old king. You barely gives young Verence a nod. You never kowtows to anyone ever, anyway. ” “That’s right!” said Granny. “That’s part of being a witch, that is. ” Nanny relaxed a bit. Granny being an old woman made her uneasy. Granny in her normal state of barely controlled anger was far more her old self. Granny stood up. “Old Tockley’s girl, eh?” “That’s right. ” “Her mother was a Keeble, wasn’t she? Fine woman, as I recall. ” “Yeah, but when she died the old man sent her off to Sto Lat to school. ” “Don’t hold with schools,” said Granny Weatherwax. “They gets in the way of education. All them books. Books? What good are they? There’s too much reading these days. We never had time to read when we was young, I know that. ” “We were too busy makin’ our own entertainment. ” “Right. Come on—we ain’t got much time. ” “What d’you mean?” “It’s not just the girls. There’s something out there, too. Some kind of mind, movin’ around. ” Granny shivered. She’d been aware of it in the same way that a skilled hunter, moving through the hills, is aware of another hunter—by the silences where there should have been noise, by the trampling of a stem, by the anger of the bees. Nanny Ogg had never liked the idea of Borrowing, and Magrat had always refused even to give it a try. The old witches on the other side of the mountain had too much trouble with inconvenient in-body experiences to cope with the out-of-body kind. So Granny was used to having the mental dimension to herself. There was a mind moving around in the kingdom, and Granny Weatherwax didn’t understand it. She Borrowed. You had to be careful. It was like a drug. You could ride the minds of animals and birds, but never bees, steering them gently, seeing through their eyes. Granny Weatherwax had many times flicked through the channels of consciousness around her. It was, to her, part of the heart of witchcraft. To see through other eyes… …through the eyes of gnats, seeing the slow patterns of time in the fast pattern of one day, their minds traveling rapidly as lightning… …to listen with the body of a beetle, so that the world is a three-dimensional pattern of vibrations… …to see with the nose of a dog, all smells now colors… But there was a price. No one asked you to pay it, but the very absence of demand was a moral obligation. You tended not to swat. You dug lightly. You fed the dog. You paid. You cared ; not because it was kind or good, but because it was right. You left nothing but memories, you took nothing but experience. But this other roving intelligence…it’d go in and out of another mind like a chainsaw, taking, taking, taking. She could sense the shape of it, the predatory shape, all cruelty and cool unkindness; a mind full of intelligence, that’d use other living things and hurt them because it was fun. She could put a name to a mind like that. Elf. Branches thrashed high in the trees. Granny and Nanny strode through the forest. At least, Granny Weatherwax strode. Nanny Ogg scurried. “The Lords and Ladies are trying to find a way,” said Granny. “And there’s something else. Something’s already come through. Some kind of animal from the other side. Scrope chased a deer into the circle and the thing must have been there, and they always used to say something can come through if something goes the other way—” “What thing?” “You know what a bat’s eyesight is like. Just a big shape is all it saw. Something killed old Scrope. It’s still around. Not an…not one o’ the Lords and Ladies,” said Granny, “but something from El…that place. ” Nanny looked at the shadows. There are a lot of shadows in a forest at night. “Ain’t you scared?” she said. Granny cracked her knuckles. “No. But I hope it is. ” “Ooo, it’s true what they say. You’re a prideful one, Esmerelda Weatherwax. ” “Who says that?” “Well, you did. Just now. ” “I wasn’t feeling well. ” Other people would probably say: I wasn’t myself. But Granny Weatherwax didn’t have anyone else to be. The two witches hurried on through the gale. From the shelter of a thorn thicket, the unicorn watched them go. Diamanda Tockley did indeed wear a floppy black velvet hat. It had a veil, too. Perdita Nitt, who had once been merely Agnes Nitt before she got witchcraft, wore a black hat with a veil too, because Diamanda did. Both of them were seventeen. And she wished she was naturally skinny, like Diamanda, but if you can’t be skinny you can at least look unhealthy. So she wore so much thick white makeup in order to conceal her naturally rosy complexion that if she turned around suddenly her face would probably end up on the back of her head. They’d done the Raising of the Cone of Power, and some candle magic, and some scrying. Now Diamanda was showing them how to do the cards. She said they contained the distilled wisdom of the Ancients. Perdita had found herself treacherously wondering who these Ancients were—they clearly weren’t the same as old people , who were stupid, Diamanda said, but she wasn’t quite clear why they were wiser than, say, modern people. Also, she didn’t understand what the Feminine Principle was. And she wasn’t too clear about this Inner Self business. She was coming to suspect that she didn’t have one. And she wished she could do her eyes like Diamanda did. And she wished she could wear heels like Diamanda did. Amanita DeVice had told her that Diamanda slept in a real coffin. |
She wished she had the nerve to have a dagger-and-skull tattoo on her arm like Amanita did, even if it was only in ordinary ink and she had to wash it off every night in case her mother saw it. A tiny, nasty voice from Perdita’s inner self suggested that Amanita wasn’t a good choice of name. Or Perdita, for that matter. And it said that maybe Perdita shouldn’t meddle with things she didn’t understand. The trouble was, she knew, that this meant nearly everything. She wished she could wear black lace like Diamanda did. Diamanda got results. Perdita wouldn’t have believed it. She’d always known about witches, of course. They were old women who dressed like crows, except for Magrat Garlick, who was frankly mental and always looked as if she was going to burst into tears. Perdita remembered Magrat bringing a guitar to a Hogswatchnight party once and singing wobbly folk songs with her eyes shut in a way that suggested that she really believed in them. She hadn’t been able to play, but this was all right because she couldn’t sing, either. People had applauded because, well, what else could you do? But Diamanda had read books. She knew about stuff. Raising power at the stones, for one thing. It really worked. Currently she was showing them the cards. The wind had got up again tonight. It rattled the shutters and made soot fall down the chimney. It seemed to Perdita that it had blown all the shadows into the corners of the room— “Are you paying attention, sister?” said Diamanda coldly. That was another thing. You had to call one another ‘sister,’ out of fraternity. “Yes, Diamanda,” she said, meekly. “ This is the Moon,” Diamanda repeated, “for those who weren’t paying attention. ” She held up the card. “And what do we see here—you, Muscara?” “Um…it’s got a picture of the moon on it?” said Muscara ( née Susan) in a hopeful voice. “Of course it’s not the moon. It’s a nonmimetic convention, not tied to a conventional referencing system, actually ,” said Diamanda. “Ah. ” A gust rocked the cottage. The door burst open and slammed back against the wall, giving a glimpse of cloud-wracked sky in which a nonmimetic convention was showing a crescent. Diamanda waved a hand. There was a brief flash of octarine light. The door jerked shut. Diamanda smiled in what Perdita thought of as her cool, knowing way. She placed the card on the black velvet cloth in front of her. Perdita looked at it gloomily. It was all very pretty, the cards were colored like little pasteboard jewels, and they had interesting names. But that little traitor voice whispered: how the hell can they know what the future holds? Cardboard isn’t very bright. On the other hand, the coven was helping people…more or less. Raising power and all that sort of thing. Oh dear, supposing she asks me ? Perdita realized that she was feeling worried. Something was wrong. It had just gone wrong. She didn’t know what it was, but it had gone wrong now. She looked up. “Blessings be upon this house,” said Granny Weatherwax. In much the same tone of voice have people said, “Eat hot lead, Kincaid,” and, “I expect you’re wondering after all that excitement whether I’ve got any balloons and lampshades left. ” Diamanda’s mouth dropped open. “’Ere, you’re doing that wrong. You don’t want to muck about with a hand like that,” said Nanny Ogg helpfully, looking over her shoulder. “You’ve got a Double Onion there. ” “Who are you ?” Suddenly they were there. Perdita thought: one minute there’s shadows, the next minute they were there , solid as anything. “What’s all the chalk on the floor, then?” said Nanny Ogg. “You’ve got all chalk on the floor. And heathen writing. Not that I’ve got anything against heathens,” she added. She appeared to think about it. “I’m practic’ly one,” she added further, “but I don’t write on the floor. What’d you want to write all on the floor for?” She nudged Perdita. “You’ll never get the chalk out,” she said, “it gets right into the grain. ” “Um, it’s a magic circle,” said Perdita. “Um, hello, Mrs. Ogg. Um. It’s to keep bad influences away…” Granny Weatherwax leaned forward slightly. “Tell me, my dear,” she said to Diamanda, “do you think it’s working?” She leaned forward further. Diamanda leaned backward. And then slowly leaned forward again. They ended up nose to nose. “Who’s this?” said Diamanda, out of the corner of her mouth. “Um, it’s Granny Weatherwax,” said Perdita. “Um. She’s a witch, um…” “What level?” said Diamanda. Nanny Ogg looked around for something to hide behind. Granny Weatherwax’s eyebrow twitched. “Levels, eh?” she said. “Well, I suppose I’m level one. ” “Just starting?” said Diamanda. “Oh dear. Tell you what,” said Nanny Ogg quietly to Perdita, “if we was to turn the table over, we could probably hide behind it, no problem. ” But to herself she was thinking: Esme can never resist a challenge. None of us can. You ain’t a witch if you ain’t got self-confidence. But we’re not getting any younger. It’s like being a hired swordfighter, being a top witch. You think you’re good, but you know there’s got to be someone younger, practicing every day, polishing up their craft, and one day you’re walkin’ down the road and you hears this voice behind you sayin’: go for your toad, or similar. Even for Esme. Sooner or later, she’ll come up against someone faster on the craftiness than she is. “Oh, yes,” said Granny, quietly. “Just starting. Every day, just starting. ” Nanny Ogg thought: but it won’t be today. “You stupid old woman,” said Diamanda, “you don’t frighten me. Oh, yes. I know all about the way you old ones frighten superstitious peasants, actually. Muttering and squinting. It’s all in the mind. Simple psychology. It’s not real witchcraft. ” “I’ll, er, I’ll just go into the scullery and, er, see if I can fill any buckets with water, shall I?” said Nanny Ogg, to no one in particular. “I ’spect you’d know all about witchcraft,” said Granny Weatherwax. “I’m studying, yes,” said Diamanda. Nanny Ogg realized that she had removed her own hat and was biting nervously at the brim. “I ’spect you’re really good at it,” said Granny Weatherwax. “Quite good,” said Diamanda. “ Show me. ” She is good, thought Nanny Ogg. She’s been facing down Esme’s stare for more’n a minute. Even snakes generally give up after a minute. If a fly had darted through the few inches of space between their stares it would have flashed into flame in the air. “I learned my craft from Nanny Gripes,” said Granny Weatherwax, “who learned it from Goody Heggety, who got it from Nanna Plumb, who was taught it by Black Aliss, who—” “So what you’re saying is, ” said Diamanda, loading the words into the sentence like cartridges in a chamber, “that no one has actually learned anything new ?” The silence that followed was broken by Nanny Ogg saying: “Bugger, I’ve bitten right through the brim. Right through. ” “I see, ” said Granny Weatherwax. “Look,” said Nanny Ogg hurriedly, nudging the trembling Perdita, “right through the lining and everything. Two dollars and curing his pig that hat cost me. That’s two dollars and a pig cure I shan’t see again in a hurry. ” “So you can just go away, old woman,” said Diamanda. “But we ought to meet again,” said Granny Weatherwax. The old witch and the young witch weighed one another up. “Midnight?” said Diamanda. “Midnight? Nothing special about midnight. Practic’ly anyone can be a witch at midnight,” said Granny Weatherwax. “How about noon?” “Certainly. What are we fighting for?” said Diamanda. “Fighting? We ain’t fighting. We’re just showing each other what we can do. Friendly like,” said Granny Weatherwax. She stood up. “I’d better be goin’,” she said. “Us old people need our sleep, you know how it is. ” “And what does the winner get?” said Diamanda. There was just a trace of uncertainty in her voice now. It was very faint, on the Richter scale of doubt it was probably no more than a plastic teacup five miles away falling off a low shelf onto a carpet, but it was there. “Oh, the winner gets to win,” said Granny Weatherwax. “That’s what it’s all about. Don’t bother to see us out. |
You didn’t see us in. ” The door slammed back. “Simple psychokinesis,” said Diamanda. “Oh, well. That’s all right then,” said Granny Weatherwax, disappearing into the night. “Explains it all, that does. ” There used to be such simple directions, back in the days before they invented parallel universes—Up and Down, Right and Left, Backward and Forward, Past and Future… But normal directions don’t work in the multiverse, which has far too many dimensions for anyone to find their way. So new ones have to be invented so that the way can be found. Like: East of the Sun, West of the Moon. Or: Behind the North Wind. Or: At the Back of Beyond. Or: There and Back Again. Or: Beyond the Fields We Know. And sometimes there’s a short cut. A door or a gate. Some standing stones, a tree cleft by lightning, a filing cabinet. Maybe just a spot on some moorland somewhere… A place where there is very nearly here. Nearly, but not quite. There’s enough leakage to make pendulums swing and psychics get nasty headaches, to give a house a reputation for being haunted, to make the occasional pot hurl across a room. There’s enough leakage to make the drones fly guard. Oh, yes. The drones. There are things called drone assemblies. Sometimes, on fine summer days, the drones from hives for miles around will congregate in some spot, and fly circles in the air, buzzing like tiny early warning systems, which is what they are. Bees are sensible. It’s a human word. But bees are creatures of order, and programmed into their very genes is a hatred of chaos. If some people once knew where such a spot was, if they had experience of what happens when here and there become entangled, then they might—if they knew how—mark such a spot with certain stones. In the hope that enough daft buggers would take it as a warning, and keep away. “Well, what’d you think?” said Granny, as the witches hurried home. “The little fat quiet one’s got a bit of natural talent,” said Nanny Ogg. “I could feel it. The rest of ’em are just along for the excitement, to my mind. Playing at witches. You know, ooh-jar boards and cards and wearing black lace gloves with no fingers to ’em and paddlin’ with the occult. ” “I don’t hold with paddlin’ with the occult,” said Granny firmly. “Once you start paddlin’ with the occult you start believing in spirits, and when you start believing in spirits you start believing in demons, and then before you know where you are you’re believing in gods. And then you’re in trouble. ” “But all them things exist,” said Nanny Ogg. “That’s no call to go around believing in them. It only encourages ’em. ” Granny Weatherwax slowed to a walk. “What about her ?” she said. “What exactly about her do you mean?” “You felt the power there?” “Oh, yeah. Made my hair stand on end. ” “Someone gave it to her, and I know who. Just a slip of a gel with a head full of wet ideas out of books, and suddenly she’s got the power and don’t know how to deal with it. Cards! Candles! That’s not witchcraft, that’s just party games. Paddlin’ with the occult. Did you see she’d got black fingernails?” “Well, mine ain’t so clean—” “I mean painted. ” “I used to paint my toenails red when I was young,” said Nanny, wistfully. “Toenails is different. So’s red. Anyway,” said Granny, “you only did it to appear allurin’. ” “It worked, too. ” “Hah!” They walked along in silence for a bit. “I felt a lot of power there,” Nanny Ogg said, eventually. “Yes. I know. ” “A lot. ” “Yes. ” “I’m not saying you couldn’t beat her,” said Nanny quickly. “I’m not saying that. But I don’t reckon I could, and it seemed to me it’d raise a bit of a sweat even on you. You’ll have to hurt her to beat her. ” “I’m losin’ my judgment, aren’t I?” “Oh, I—” “She riled me, Gytha. Couldn’t help myself. Now I’ve got to duel with a gel of seventeen, and if I wins I’m a wicked bullyin’ old witch, and if I loses…” She kicked up a drift of old leaves. “Can’t stop myself, that’s my trouble. ” Nanny Ogg said nothing. “And I loses my temper over the least little—” “Yes, but—” “I hadn’t finished talkin’. ” “Sorry, Esme. ” A bat fluttered by. Granny nodded to it. “Heard how Magrat’s getting along?” she said, in a tone of voice which forced casualness embraced like a corset. “Settling in fine, our Shawn says. ” “Right. ” They reached a crossroads; the white dust glowed very faintly in the moonlight. One way led into Lancre, where Nanny Ogg lived. Another eventually got lost in the forest, became a footpath, then a track, and eventually reached Granny Weatherwax’s cottage. “When shall we… two …meet again?” said Nanny Ogg. “Listen,” said Granny Weatherwax. “She’s well out of it, d’you hear? She’ll be a lot happier as a queen!” “I never said nothing,” said Nanny Ogg mildly. “I know you never! I could hear you not saying anything! You’ve got the loudest silences I ever did hear from anyone who wasn’t dead!” “See you about eleven o’clock, then?” “Right!” The wind got up again as Granny walked along the track to her cottage. She knew she was on edge. There was just too much to do. She’d got Magrat sorted out, and Nanny could look after herself, but the Lords and the Ladies…she hadn’t counted on them. The point was… The point was that Granny Weatherwax had a feeling she was going to die. This was beginning to get on her nerves. Knowing the time of your death is one of those strange bonuses that comes with being a true magic user. And, on the whole, it is a bonus. Many a wizard has passed away happily drinking the last of his wine cellar and incidentally owing very large sums of money. Granny Weatherwax had always wondered how it felt, what it was that you suddenly saw looming up. And what it turned out to be was a blankness. People think that they live life as a moving dot traveling from the Past into the Future, with memory streaming out behind them like some kind of mental cometary tail. But memory spreads out in front as well as behind. It’s just that most humans aren’t good at dealing with it, and so it arrives as premonitions, forebodings, intuitions, and hunches. Witches are good at dealing with it, and to suddenly find a blank where these tendrils of the future should be has much the same effect on a witch as emerging from a cloud bank and seeing a team of sherpas looking down on him does on an airline pilot. She’d got a few days, and then that was it. She’d always expected to have a bit of time to herself, get the garden in order, have a good clean up around the place so that whatever witch took over wouldn’t think she’d been a sloven, pick out a decent burial plot, and then spend some time sitting out in the rocking chair, doing nothing at all except looking at the trees and thinking about the past. Now…no chance. And other things were happening. Her memory seemed to be playing up. Perhaps this is what happened. Perhaps you just drained away toward the end, like old Nanny Gripes, who ended up putting the cat on the stove and the kettle out for the night. Granny shut the door behind her and lit a candle. There was a box in the dresser drawer. She opened it on the kitchen table and took out the carefully folded piece of paper. There was a pen and ink in there, too. After some thought, she picked up where she had left off: …and to my friend Gytha Ogg I leave my bedde and the rag rugge the smith in Bad Ass made for me, and the matchin jug and basin and wosfname sett she always had her eye on, and my broomstick what will be Right as Rain with a bit of work. To Magrat Garlick I leave the Contentes elsewhere in this box, my silver tea service with the milk jug in the shape of a humerous cow what is an Heir Loom, also the Clocke what belonged to my mother, but I charge her alwayes to keep it wound, for when the clocke stops— There was a noise outside. If anyone else had been in the room with her Granny Weatherwax would have thrown open the door boldly, but she was by herself. She picked up the poker very carefully, moved surprisingly soundlessly to the door given the nature of her boots, and listened intently. There was something in the garden. |
It wasn’t much of a garden. There were the Herbs, and the soft fruit bushes, a bit of lawn and, of course, the beehives. And it was open to the woods. The local wildlife knew better than to invade a witch’s garden. Granny opened the door carefully. The moon was setting. Pale silver light turned the world into monochrome. There was a unicorn on the lawn. The stink of it hit her. Granny advanced, holding the poker in front of her. The unicorn backed away, and pawed at the ground. Granny saw the future plain. She already knew the when. Now she was beginning to apprehend the how. “So,” she said, under her breath, “I knows where you came from. And you can damn well get back there. ” The thing made a feint at her, but the poker swung toward it. “Can’t stand the iron, eh? Well, just you trot back to your mistress and tell her that we know all about iron in Lancre. And I knows about her. She’s to keep away, understand? This is my place!” Then it was moonlight. Now it was day. There was quite a crowd in what passed for Lancre’s main square. Not much happened in Lancre anyway, and a duel between witches was a sight worth seeing. Granny Weatherwax arrived at a quarter to noon. Nanny Ogg was waiting on a bench by the tavern. She had a towel around her neck, and was carrying a bucket of water in which floated a sponge. “What’s that for?” said Granny. “Half time. And I done you a plate of oranges. ” She held up the plate. Granny snorted. “You look as if you could do with eating something, anyway,” said Nanny. “You don’t look as if you’ve had anything today…” She glanced down at Granny’s boots, and the grubby hem of her long black dress. There were scraps of bracken and bits of heather caught on it. “You daft old besom!” she hissed. “What’ve you been doing !” “I had to—” “You’ve been up at the Stones, haven’t you! Trying to hold back the Gentry. ” “Of course,” said Granny. Her voice wasn’t faint. She wasn’t swaying. But her voice wasn’t faint and she wasn’t swaying, Nanny Ogg could see, because Granny Weatherwax’s body was in the grip of Granny Weatherwax’s mind. “Someone’s got to,” she added. “You could have come and asked me!” “You’d have talked me out of it. ” Nanny Ogg leaned forward. “You all right, Esme?” “Fine! I’m fine! Nothing wrong with me, all right?” “Have you had any sleep at all?” she said. “Well—” “You haven’t, have you? And then you think you can just stroll down here and confound this girl, just like that?” “I don’t know,” said Granny Weatherwax. Nanny Ogg looked hard at her. “You don’t, do you?” she said, in a softer tone of voice. “Oh, well…you better sit down here, before you fall down. Suck an orange. They’ll be here in a few minutes. ” “No she won’t,” said Granny. “She’ll be late. ” “How d’you know?” “No good making an entrance if everyone isn’t there to see you, is it? That’s headology. ” In fact the young coven arrived at twenty past twelve, and took up station on the steps of the market pentangle on the other side of the square. “Look at ’em,” said Granny Weatherwax. “All in black, again. ” “Well, we wear black too,” said Nanny Ogg the reasonable. “Only ’cos it’s respectable and serviceable,” said Granny morosely. “Not because it’s romantic. Hah. The Lords and Ladies might as well be here already. ” After some eye contact, Nanny Ogg ambled across the square and met Perdita in the middle. The young would-be witch looked worried under her makeup. She held a black lace handkerchief in her hands, and was twisting it nervously. “Morning, Mrs. Ogg,” she said. “Afternoon, Agnes. ” “Um. What happens now?” Nanny Ogg took out her pipe and scratched her ear with it. “Dunno. Up to you, I suppose. ” “Diamanda says why does it have to be here and now?” “So’s everyone can see,” said Nanny Ogg. “That’s the point, ain’t it? Nothing hole and corner about it. Everyone’s got to know who’s best at witchcraft. The whole town. Everyone sees the winner win and the loser lose. That way there’s no argument, eh?” Perdita glanced toward the tavern. Granny Weatherwax had dozed off. “Quietly confident,” said Nanny Ogg, crossing her fingers behind her back. “Um, what happens to the loser?” said Perdita. “Nothing, really,” said Nanny Ogg. “Generally she leaves the place. You can’t be a witch if people’ve seen you beat. ” “Diamanda says she doesn’t want to hurt the old lady too much,” said Perdita. “Just teach her a lesson. ” “That’s nice. Esme’s a quick learner. ” “Um. I wish this wasn’t happening, Mrs. Ogg. ” “That’s nice. ” “Diamanda says Mistress Weatherwax has got a very impressive stare, Mrs. Ogg. ” “That’s nice. ” “So the test is…just staring, Mrs. Ogg. ” Nanny put her pipe in her mouth. “You mean the old first-one-to-blink-or-look-away challenge?” “Um, yes. ” “Right. ” Nanny thought about it, and shrugged. “Right. But we’d better do a magic circle first. Don’t want anyone else getting hurt, do we?” “Do you mean using Skorhian Runes or the Triple Invocation octogram?” said Perdita. Nanny Ogg put her head on one side. “Never heard of them things, dear,” she said. “I always does a magic circle like this…” She sidled crabwise away from the fat girl, dragging one toe in the dust. She edged around in a rough circle about fifteen feet across, still dragging her boot, until she backed into Perdita. “Sorry. There. Done it. ” “ That’s a magic circle?” “Right. People can come to harm else. All kinds of magic zipping around the place when witches fight. ” “But you didn’t chant or anything. ” “No?” “There has to be a chant, doesn’t there?” “Dunno. Never done one. ” “Oh. ” “I could sing you a comic song if you likes,” said Nanny helpfully. “Um, no. Um. ” Perdita had never heard Nanny sing, but news gets around. “I like your black lace hanky,” said Nanny, not a bit abashed. “Very good for not showing the bogies. ” Perdita stared at the circle as though hypnotized. “Um. Shall we start, then?” “Right. ” Nanny Ogg scurried back to the bench and elbowed Granny in the ribs. “Wake up!” Granny opened an eye. “I weren’t asleep, I was just resting me eyes. ” “All you’ve got to do is stare her down!” “At least she knows about the importance of the stare, then. Hah! Who does she think she is? I’ve been staring at people all my life!” “Yes, that’s what’s bothering me— aaahh…who’s Nana’s little boy, then? ” The rest of the Ogg clan had arrived. Granny Weatherwax personally disliked young Pewsey. She disliked all small children, which is why she got on with them so well. In Pewsey’s case, she felt that no one should be allowed to wander around in just a vest even if they were four years old. And the child had a permanently runny nose and ought to be provided with a handkerchief or, failing that, a cork. Nanny Ogg, on the other hand, was instant putty in the hands of any grandchild, even one as sticky as Pewsey. “Want sweetie,” growled Pewsey, in that curiously deep voice some young children have. “Just in a moment, my duck, I’m talking to the lady,” Nanny Ogg fluted. “Want sweetie now. ” “Bugger off, my precious, Nana’s busy right this minute. ” Pewsey pulled hard on Nanny Ogg’s skirts. “ Now sweetie now !” Granny Weatherwax leaned down until her impressive nose was about level with Pewsey’s gushing one. “If you don’t go away,” she said gravely, “I will personally rip your head off and fill it with snakes. ” “There!” said Nanny Ogg. “There’s lots of poor children in Klatch that’d be grateful for a curse like that. ” Pewsey’s little face, after a second or two of uncertainty, split into a pumpkin grin. “Funny lady,” he said. “Tell you what,” said Nanny, patting Pewsey on the head and then absentmindedly wiping her hand on her dress, “you see them young ladies on the other side of the square? They’ve got lots of sweeties. ” Pewsey waddled off. “That’s germ warfare, that is,” said Granny Weatherwax. “Come on,” said Nanny. “Our Jason’s put a couple of chairs in the circle. You sure you’re all right?” “I’ll do. ” Perdita Nitt traipsed across the road again. “Er…Mrs. Ogg?” “Yes, dear?” “Er. |
Diamanda says you don’t understand, she says they won’t be trying to outstare one another…” Magrat was bored. She’d never been bored when she was a witch. Permanently bewildered and overworked yes , but not bored. She kept telling herself it’d probably be better when she really was queen, although she couldn’t quite see how. In the meantime she wandered aimlessly through the castle’s many rooms, the swishing of her dress almost unheard above the background roar of the turbines of tedium: — humdrumhumdrumhumdrum — She’d spent the whole morning trying to learn to do tapestry, because Millie assured her that’s what queens did, and the sampler with its message “Gods bless this Hosue” was even now lying forlornly on her chair. In the Long Gallery were huge tapestries of ancient battles, done by previous bored regal incumbents; it was amazing how all the fighters had been persuaded to stay still long enough. And she’d looked at the many, many paintings of the queens themselves, all of them pretty, all of them well-dressed according to the fashion of their times, and all of them bored out of their tiny well-shaped skulls. Finally she went back to the solar. This was the big room on top of the main tower. In theory, it was there to catch the sun. It did. It also caught the wind and the rain. It was a sort of drift net for anything the sky happened to throw. She yanked on the bellpull that in theory summoned a servant. Nothing happened. After a couple of further pulls, and secretly glad of the exercise, she went down to the kitchen. She would have liked to spend more time there. It was always warm and there was generally someone to talk to. But nobblyess obligay—queens had to live Above Stairs. Below Stairs there was only Shawn Ogg, who was cleaning the oven of the huge iron stove and reflecting that this was no job for a military man. “Where’s everyone gone?” Shawn leapt up, banging his head on the stove. “Ow! Sorry, miss! Um! Everyone’s…everyone’s down in the square, miss. I’m only here because Mrs. Scorbic said she’d have my hide if I didn’t get all the yuk off. ” “What’s happening in the square, then?” “They say there’s a couple of witches having a real set-to, miss. ” “What? Not your mother and Granny Weatherwax!” “Oh no, miss. Some new witch. ” “In Lancre? A new witch?” “I think that’s what Mum said. ” “I’m going to have a look. ” “Oh, I don’t think that’d be a good idea, miss,” said Shawn. Magrat drew herself up regally. “We happen to be Queen,” she said. “Nearly. So you don’t tell one one can’t do things, or one’ll have you cleaning the privies!” “But I does clean the privies,” said Shawn, in a reasonable voice. “Even the garderobe—” “And that’s going to go, for a start,” said Magrat, shuddering. “One’s seen it. ” “Doesn’t bother me, miss, it’ll give me Wednesday afternoons free,” said Shawn, “but what I meant was, you’ll have to wait till I’ve gone down to the armory to fetch my horn for the fanfare. ” “One won’t need a fanfare, thank you very much. ” “But you got to have a fanfare, miss. ” “One can blow my own trumpet, thank you. ” “Yes, miss. ” “Miss what?” “Miss Queen. ” “And don’t you forget it. ” Magrat arrived at as near to a run as was possible in the queen outfit, which ought to have had castors. She found a circle of several hundred people and, near the edge, a very pensive Nanny Ogg. “What’s happening, Nanny?” Nanny turned. “Oops, sorry. Didn’t hear no fanfare,” she said. “I’d curtsy, only it’s my legs. ” Magrat looked past her at the two seated figures in the circle. “What’re they doing?” “Staring contest. ” “But they’re looking at the sky. ” “Bugger that Diamanda girl! She’s got Esme trying to outstare the sun,” said Nanny Ogg. “No looking away, no blinking…” “How long have they been doing it?” “About an hour,” said Nanny gloomily. “That’s terrible!” “It’s bloody stupid is what it is,” said Nanny. “Can’t think what’s got into Esme. As if power’s all there is to witching! She knows that. Witching’s not power, it’s how you harness it. ” There was a pale gold haze over the circle, from magical fallout. “They’ll have to stop at sunset,” said Magrat. “Esme won’t last until sunset,” said Nanny. “Look at her. All slumped up. ” “I suppose you couldn’t use some magic to—” Magrat began. “Talk sense,” said Nanny. “If Esme found out, she’d kick me round the kingdom. Anyway, the others’d spot it. ” “Perhaps we could create a small cloud or something?” said Magrat. “No! That’s cheating!” “Well, you always cheat. ” “I cheat for myself. You can’t cheat for other people. ” Granny Weatherwax slumped again. “I could have it stopped,” said Magrat. “You’d make an enemy for life. ” “I thought Granny was my enemy for life. ” “If you think that, my girl, you’ve got no understanding,” said Nanny. “One day you’ll find out Esme Weatherwax is the best friend you ever had. ” “But we’ve got to do something! Can’t you think of anything ?” Nanny Ogg looked thoughtfully at the circle. Occasionally a little wisp of smoke curled up from her pipe. The magical duel was subsequently recorded in Bird-whistle’s book Legendes and Antiquities of the Ramptops and went as follows: “The duel beinge ninety minutes advanced, a small boy child upon a sudden ran across the square and stept within the magic circle, whereup he fell down with a terrible scream also a flash. The olde witche looked around, got out of her chair, picked him up, and carried him to his grandmother, then went back to her seat, whilom the young witch never averted her eyes from the Sunne. But the other young witches stopped the duel averring, Look, Diamanda has wonne, the reason being, Weatherwax looked away. Whereupon the child’s grandmother said in a loude voice, Oh yes? Pulle the other onne, it have got bells on. This is not a conteft about power, you stupid girls, it is a contest about witchcraft, do you not even begin to know what being a witch IS? “Is a witch someone who would look round when she heard a child scream? “And the townspeople said, Yess!” “That was wonderful ,” said Mrs. Quarney, the storekeeper’s wife. “The whole town cheered. A true miffic quality. ” They were in the tavern’s back room. Granny Weatherwax was lying on a bench with a damp towel over her face. “Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” said Magrat. “That girl was left without a leg to stand on, everyone says. ” “Yes,” said Magrat. “Strutted off with her nose in a sling, as they say. ” “Yes,” said Magrat. “Is the little boy all right?” They all looked at Pewsey, who was sitting in a suspicious puddle on the floor in the corner with a bag of sweets and a sticky ring around his mouth. “Right as rain,” said Nanny Ogg. “Nothing worse’n a bit of sunburn. He screams his head off at the least little thing, bless him,” she said proudly, as if this was some kind of rare talent. “Gytha?” said Granny, from under the towel. “Yes?” “You knows I don’t normally touch strong licker, but I’ve heard you mention the use of brandy for medicinal purposes. ” “Coming right up. ” Granny raised her towel and focused one eye on Magrat. “Good afternoon, your pre-majesty,” she said. “Come to be gracious at me, have you?” “Well done,” said Magrat, coldly. “Can one have a word with you, Na—Mrs. Ogg? Outside?” “Right you are, your queen,” said Nanny. In the alley outside Magrat spun around with her mouth open. “You—” Nanny held up her hand. “I know what you’re going to say,” she said. “But there wasn’t any danger to the little mite. ” “But you—” “Me?” said Nanny. “I hardly did anything. They didn’t know he was going to run into the circle, did they? They both reacted just like they normally would, didn’t they? Fair’s fair. ” “Well, in a way, but—” “No one cheated ,” said Nanny. Margrat sagged into silence. Nanny patted her on the shoulder. “So you won’t be telling anyone you saw me wave the bag of sweets at him, will you?” she said. “No, Nanny. ” “There’s a good going-to-be-queen. ” “Nanny?” “Yes, dear?” Magrat took a deep breath. “How did Verence know when we were coming back?” It seemed to Magrat that Nanny thought for just a few seconds too long. |
“Couldn’t say,” she said at last. “Kings are a bit magical, mind. They can cure dandruff and that. Probably he woke up one morning and his royal prerogative gave him a tickle. ” The trouble with Nanny Ogg was that she always looked as if she was lying. Nanny Ogg had a pragmatic attitude to the truth; she told it if it was convenient and she couldn’t be bothered to make up something more interesting. “Keeping busy up there, are you?” she said. “One’s doing very well, thank you,” said Magrat, with what she hoped was queenly hauteur. “Which one?” said Nanny. “Which one what?” “Which one’s doing very well?” “Me!” “You should have said,” said Nanny, her face poker straight. “So long as you’re keeping busy, that’s the important thing. ” “He knew we were coming back,” said Magrat firmly. “He’d even got the invitations sorted out. Oh, by the way…there’s one for you—” “I know, one got it this morning,” said Nanny. “Got all that fancy nibbling on the edges and gold and everything. Who’s Ruservup?” Magrat had long ago got a handle on Nanny Ogg’s world-view. “RSVP,” she said. “It means you ought to say if you’re coming. ” “Oh, one’ll be along all right, catch one staying away,” said Nanny. “Has one’s Jason sent one his invite yet? Thought not. Not a skilled man with a pen, our Jason. ” “Invitation to what?” said Magrat. She was getting fed up with ones. “Didn’t Verence tell one?” said Nanny. “It’s a special play that’s been written special for you. ” “Oh, yes,” said Magrat. “The Entertainment. ” “Right,” said Nanny. “It’s going to be on Midsummer’s Eve. ” “It’s got to be special, on Midsummer’s Eve,” said Jason Ogg. The door to the smithy had been bolted shut. Within were the eight members of the Lancre Morris Men, six times winners of the Fifteen Mountains All-Comers Morris Championship, * now getting to grips with a new art form. “I feel a right twit,” said Bestiality Carter, Lancre’s only baker. “A dress on! I just hope my wife doesn’t see me!” “Says here,” said Jason Ogg, his enormous forefinger hesitantly tracing its way along the page, “that it’s a beaut-i-ful story of the love of the Queen of the Fairies—that’s you, Bestiality—” “—thank you very much—” “—for a mortal man. Plus a hum-our-rus int-ter-lude with Comic Artisans…” “What’s an artisan?” said Weaver the thatcher. “Dunno. Type of well, I reckon. ” Jason scratched his head. “Yeah. They’ve got ’em down on the plains. I repaired a pump for one once. Artisan wells. ” “What’s comic about them?” “Maybe people fall down ’em in a funny way?” “Why can’t we do a Morris like normal?” said Obidiah Carpenter the tailor. * “Morris is for every day,” said Jason. “We got to do something cultural. This come all the way from Ankh-Morpork. ” “We could do the Stick and Bucket Dance,” volunteered Baker the weaver. “ No one is to do the Stick and Bucket Dance ever again,” said Jason. “Old Mr. Thrum still walks with a limp, and it were three months ago. ” Weaver the thatcher squinted at his copy of the script. “Who’s this bugger Exeunt Omnes ?” he said. “I don’t think much of my part,” said Carpenter, “it’s too small. ” “It’s his poor wife I feel sorry for,” said Weaver, automatically. “Why?” said Jason. † “And why’s there got to be a lion in it?” said Baker the weaver. “’Cos it’s a play!” said Jason. “No one’d want to see it if it had a…a donkey in it! Oi can just see people comin’ to see a play ’cos it had a donkey in it. This play was written by a real playsmith! Hah, I can just see a real playsmith putting donkeys in a play! He says he’ll be very interested to hear how we get on! Now just you all shut up!” “I don’t feel like the Queen of the Fairies,” moaned Bestiality Carter. * “You’ll grow into it,” said Weaver. “I hope not. ” “And you’ve got to rehearse,” said Jason. “There’s no room,” said Thatcher the carter. “Well, I ain’t doin’ it where anyone else can see,” said Bestiality. “Even if we go out in the woods somewhere, people’ll be bound to see. Me in a dress!” “They won’t recognize you in your makeup,” said Weaver. “Makeup?” “Yeah, and your wig,” said Tailor the other weaver. “He’s right, though,” said Weaver. “If we’re going to make fools of ourselves, I don’t want no one to see me until we’re good at it. ” “Somewhere off the beaten track, like,” said Thatcher the carter. “Out in the country,” said Tinker the tinker. “Where no one goes,” said Carter. Jason scratched his cheese-grater chin. He was bound to think of somewhere. “And who ’s going to play Exeunt Omnes?” said Weaver. “He doesn’t have much to say, does he?” The coach rattled across the featureless plains. The land between Ankh-Morpork and the Ramtops was fertile, well-cultivated and dull, dull, dull. Travel broadens the mind. This landscape broadened the mind because the mind just flowed out from the ears like porridge. It was the kind of landscape where, if you saw a distant figure cutting cabbages, you’d watch him until he was out of sight because there was simply nothing else for the eye to do. “I spy,” said the Bursar, “with my little eye, something beginning with…H. ” “Oook. ” “No. ” “Horizon,” said Ponder. “You guessed!” “Of course I guessed. I’m supposed to guess. We’ve had S for Sky, C for Cabbage, O for…for Ook, and there’s nothing else. ” “I’m not going to play anymore if you’re going to guess. ” The Bursar pulled his hat down over his ears and tried to curl up on the hard seat. “There’ll be lots to see in Lancre,” said the Archchancellor. “The only piece of flat land they’ve got up there is in a museum. ” Ponder said nothing. “Used to spend whole summers up there,” said Ridcully. He sighed. “You know…things could have been very different. ” Ridcully looked around. If you’re going to relate an intimate piece of personal history, you want to be sure it’s going to be heard. The Librarian looked out at the jolting scenery. He was sulking. This had a lot to do with the new bright blue collar around his neck with the word “PONGO” on it. Someone was going to suffer for this. The Bursar was trying to use his hat like a limpet uses its shell. “There was this girl. ” Ponder Stibbons, chosen by a cruel fate to be the only one listening, looked surprised. He was aware that, technically, even the Archchancellor had been young once. After all, it was just a matter of time. Common sense suggested that wizards didn’t flash into existence aged seventy and weighing nineteen stone. But common sense needed reminding. He felt he ought to say something. “Pretty, was she, sir?” he said. “No. No, I can’t say she was. Striking. That’s the word. Tall. Hair so blond it was nearly white. And eyes like gimlets, I tell you. ” Ponder tried to work this out. “You don’t mean that dwarf who runs the delicatessen in—” he began. “I mean you always got the impression she could see right through you,” said Ridcully, slightly more sharply than he had intended. “And she could run…” He lapsed into silence again, staring at the newsreels of memory. “I would’ve married her, you know,” he said. Ponder said nothing. When you’re a cork in someone else’s stream of consciousness, all you can do is spin and bob in the eddies. “What a summer,” murmured Ridcully. “Very like this one, really. Crop circles were bursting like raindrops. And…well, I was having doubts, you know. Magic didn’t seem to be enough. I was a bit…lost. I’d have given it all up for her. Every blasted octogram and magic spell. Without a second thought. You know when they say things like ‘she had a laugh like a mountain stream’?” “I’m not personally familiar with it,” said Ponder, “but I have read poetry that—” “Load of cobblers, poetry,” said Ridcully. “I’ve listened to mountain streams and they just go trickle, trickle, gurgle. And you get them things in them, you know, insect things with little…anyway. Doesn’t sound like laughter at all, is my point. Poets always get it wrong. ’S’like ‘she had lips like cherries. ’ Small, round, and got a stone in the middle? Hah!” He shut his eyes. After a while Ponder said, “So what happened, sir?” “What?” “The girl you were telling me about. ” “What girl?” “This girl. |
” “Oh, that girl. Oh, she turned me down. Said there were things she wanted to do. Said there’d be time enough. ” There was another pause. “What happened then?” Ponder prompted. “Happened? What d’you think happened? I went off and studied. Term started. Wrote her a lot of letters but she never answered ’em. Probably never got ’em, they probably eat the mail up there. Next year I was studying all summer and never had time to go back. Never did go back. Exams and so on. Expect she’s dead now, or some fat old granny with a dozen kids. Would’ve wed her like a shot. Like a shot. ” Ridcully scratched his head. “Hah…just wish I could remember her name…” He stretched out with his feet on the Bursar. “’S’funny, that,” he said. “Can’t even remember her name. Hah! She could outrun a horse—” “Kneel and deliver!” The coach rattled to a halt. Ridcully opened an eye. “What’s that?” he said. Ponder jerked awake from a reverie of lips like mountain streams and looked out of the window. “I think,” he said, “it’s a very small highwayman. ” The coachman peered down at the figure in the road. It was hard to see much from this angle, because of the short body and the wide hat. It was like looking at a well-dressed mushroom with a feather in it. “I do apologize for this,” said the very small highwayman. “I find myself a little short. ” The coachman sighed and put down the reins. Properly arranged holdups by the Bandits’ Guild were one thing, but he was blowed if he was going to be threatened by an outlaw that came up to his waist and didn’t even have a crossbow. “You little bastard,” he said. “I’m going to knock your block off. ” He peered closer. “What’s that on your back? A hump?” “Ah, you’ve noticed the stepladder,” said the low highwayman. “Let me demonstrate—” “What’s happening?” said Ridcully, back in the coach. “Um, a dwarf has just climbed up a small stepladder and kicked the coachman in the middle of the road,” said Ponder. “That’s something you don’t see every day,” said Ridcully. He looked happy. Up to now, the journey had been quite uneventful. “Now he’s coming toward us. ” “Oh, good. ” The highwayman stepped over the groaning body of the driver and marched toward the door of the coach, dragging his stepladder behind him. He opened the door. “Your money or, I’m sorry to say, your—” A blast of octarine fire blew his hat off. The dwarf’s expression did not change. “I wonder if I might be allowed to rephrase my demands?” Ridcully looked the elegantly dressed stranger up and down or, rather, down and further down. “You don’t look like a dwarf,” he said, “apart from the height, that is. ” “Don’t look like a dwarf apart from the height?” “I mean, the helmet and iron boots department is among those you are lacking in,” said Ridcully. The dwarf bowed and produced a slip of pasteboard from one grubby but lace-clad sleeve. “My card,” he said. It read: Ponder peered over Ridcully’s shoulder. “Are you really an outrageous liar?” “No. ” “Why are you trying to rob coaches, then?” “I am afraid I was waylaid by bandits. ” “But it says here,” said Ridcully, “that you are a finest swordsman. ” “I was outnumbered. ” “How many of them were there?” “Three million. ” “Hop in,” said Ridcully. Casanunda threw his stepladder into the coach and then peered into the gloom. “Is that an ape asleep in there?” “Yes. ” The Librarian opened one eye. “What about the smell?” “He won’t mind. ” “Hadn’t you better apologize to the coachman?” said Ponder. “No, but I could kick him again harder if he likes. ” “And that’s the Bursar,” said Ridcully, pointing to Exhibit B, who was sleeping the sleep of the near-terminally overdosed on dried frog pills. “Hey, Bursar? Bursssaaar? No, he’s out like a light. Just push him under the seat. Can you play Cripple Mr. Onion?” “Not very well. ” “Capital!” Half an hour later Ridcully owed the dwarf $8,000. “But I put it on my visiting card,” Casanunda pointed out. “Outrageous liar. Right there. ” “Yes, but I thought you were lying!” Ridcully sighed and, to Ponder’s amazement, produced a bag of coins from some inner recess. They were large coins and looked suspiciously realistic and golden. Casanunda might have been a libidinous soldier of fortune by profession but he was a dwarf by genetics, and there are some things dwarfs know. “Hmm,” he said. “You don’t have ‘outrageous liar’ on your visiting card, by any chance?” “No!” said Ridcully excitedly. “It’s just that I can recognize chocolate money when I see it. ” “You know,” said Ponder, as the coach jolted along a canyon, “this reminds me of that famous logical puzzle. ” “What logical puzzle?” said the Archchancellor. “Well,” said Ponder, gratified at the attention, “it appears that there was this man, right, who had to choose between going through two doors, apparently, and the guard on one door always told the truth and the guard on the other door always told a lie, and the thing was , behind one door was certain death, and behind the other door was freedom, and he didn’t know which guard was which, and he could only ask them one question and so: what did he ask?” The coach bounced over a pothole. The Librarian turned over in his sleep. “Sounds like Psychotic Lord Hargon of Quirm to me,” said Ridcully, after a while. “That’s right,” said Casanunda. “He was a devil for jokes like that. How many students can you get in an Iron Maiden, that kind of thing. ” “So this was at his place, then, was it?” said Ridcully. “What? I don’t know,” said Ponder. “Why not? You seem to know all about it. ” “I don’t think it was anywhere. It’s a puzzle. ” “Hang on,” said Casanunda, “I think I’ve worked it out. One question, right?” “Yes,” said Ponder, relieved. “And he can ask either guard?” “ Yes. ” “Oh, right. Well, in that case he goes up to the smallest guard and says, ‘Tell me which is the door to freedom if you don’t want to see the color of your kidneys and incidentally I’m walking through it behind you, so if you’re trying for the Mr. Clever Award just remember who’s going through it first. ’” “No, no, no!” “Sounds logical to me,” said Ridcully. “Very good thinking. ” “But you haven’t got a weapon!” “Yes I have. I wrested it from the guard while he was considering the question,” said Casanunda. “Clever,” said Ridcully. “Now that , Mr. Stibbons, is logical thought. You could learn a lot from this man—” “—dwarf—” “—sorry, dwarf. He doesn’t go on about parasite universes all the time. ” “Parallel!” snapped Ponder, who had developed a very strong suspicion that Ridcully was getting it wrong on purpose. “Which ones are the parasite ones, then?” “There aren’t any! I mean, there aren’t any, Archchancellor. * Parallel universes, I said. Universes where things didn’t happen like—” He hesitated. “Well, you know that girl?” “What girl?” “The girl you wanted to marry?” “How’d you know that?” “You were talking about her just after lunch. ” “Was I? More fool me. Well, what about her?” “Well…in a way, you did marry her,” said Ponder. Ridcully shook his head. “Nope. Pretty certain I didn’t. You remember that sort of thing. ” “Ah, but not in this universe—” The Librarian opened one eye. “You suggestin’ I nipped into some other universe to get married?” said Ridcully. “No! I mean, you got married in that universe and not in this universe,” said Ponder. “Did I? What? A proper ceremony and everything?” “Yes!” “Hmm. ” Ridcully stroked his beard. “You sure?” “Certain, Archchancellor. ” “My word! I never knew that. ” Ponder felt he was getting somewhere. “So—” “Yes?” “Why don’t I remember it?” Ponder had been ready for this. “Because the you in the other universe is different from the you here,” he said. “It was a different you that got married. He’s probably settled down somewhere. He’s probably a great-grandad by now. ” “He never writes, I know that,” said Ridcully. “And the bastard never invited me to the wedding. ” “Who?” “Him. ” “But he’s you!” “Is he? Huh! You’d think I’d think of me , wouldn’t you? What a bastard!” It wasn’t that Ridcully was stupid. Truly stupid wizards have the life expectancy of a glass hammer. |
He had quite a powerful intellect, but it was powerful like a locomotive, and ran on rails and was therefore almost impossible to steer. There are indeed such things as parallel universes, although parallel is hardly the right word—universes swoop and spiral around one another like some mad weaving machine or a squadron of Yossarians with middle-ear trouble. And they branch. But, and this is important, not all the time. The universe doesn’t much care if you tread on a butterfly. There are plenty more butterflies. Gods might note the fall of a sparrow but they don’t make any effort to catch them. Shoot the dictator and prevent the war? But the dictator is merely the tip of the whole festering boil of social pus from which dictators emerge; shoot one, and there’ll be another one along in a minute. Shoot him too? Why not shoot everyone and invade Poland? In fifty years’, thirty years’, ten years’ time the world will be very nearly back on its old course. History always has a great weight of inertia. Almost always… At circle time, when the walls between this and that are thinner, when there are all sorts of strange leakages…Ah, then choices are made, then the universe can be sent careening down a different leg of the well-known Trousers of Time. But there are also stagnant pools, universes cut off from past and future. They have to steal pasts and futures from other universes; their only hope is to batten on to the dynamic universes as they pass through the fragile period, as remora fish hang on to a passing shark. These are the parasite universes and, when the crop circles burst like raindrops, they have their chance… Lancre castle was far bigger than it needed to be. It wasn’t as if Lancre could have been bigger at one time; inhospitable mountains crowded it on three sides, and a more or less sheer drop occupied where the fourth side would have been if a sheer drop hadn’t been there. As far as anyone knew, the mountains didn’t belong to anyone. They were just mountains. The castle rambled everywhere. No one even knew how far the cellars went. These days everyone lived in the turrets and halls near the gate. “I mean, look at the crenellations,” said Magrat. “What, m’m?” “The cut-out bits on top of the walls. You could hold off an army here. ” “That’s what a castle’s for, isn’t it, m’m?” Magrat sighed. “Can we stop the ‘m’m’, please? It makes you sound uncertain. ” “Mm, m’m?” “I mean, who is there to fight up here? Not even trolls could come over the mountains, and anyone coming up the road is asking for a rock on the head. Besides, you only have to cut down Lancre bridge. ” “Dunno, m’m. Kings’ve got to have castles, I s’pose. ” “Don’t you ever wonder about anything, you stupid girl?” “What good does that do, m’m?” I called her a stupid girl, thought Magrat. Royalty is rubbing off on me. “Oh, well,” she said, “where’ve we got to?” “We’re going to need two thousand yards of the blue chintz material with the little white flowers,” said Millie. “And we haven’t even measured half the windows yet,” said Magrat, rolling up the tape measure. She looked down the length of the Long Gallery. The thing about it, the thing that made it so noticeable, the first thing anyone noticed about it, was that it was very long. It shared certain distinctive traits with the Great Hall and the Deep Dungeons. Its name was a perfectly accurate description. And it would be, as Nanny Ogg would say, a bugger to carpet. “Why? Why a castle in Lancre?” she said, mainly to herself, because talking to Millie was like talking to yourself. “We’ve never fought anyone. Apart from outside the tavern on a Saturday night. ” “Couldn’t say, I’m sure, m’m,” said Millie. Magrat sighed. “Where’s the king today?” “He’s opening Parliament, m’m. ” “Hah! Parliament!” Which had been another of Verence’s ideas. He’d tried to introduce Ephebian democracy to Lancre, giving the vote to everyone, or at least everyone “who be of good report and who be male and hath forty years and owneth a hosue * worth more than three and a half goats a year,” because there’s no sense in being stupid about things and giving the vote to people who were poor or criminal or insane or female, who’d only use it irresponsibly. It worked, more or less, although the Members of Parliament only turned up when they felt like it and in any case no one ever wrote anything down and, besides, no one ever disagreed with whatever Verence said because he was King. What’s the point of having a king, they thought, if you have to rule yourself? He should do his job, even if he couldn’t spell properly. No one was asking him to thatch roofs or milk cows, were they? “I’m bored, Millie. Bored, bored, bored. I’m going for a walk in the gardens. ” “Shall I fetch Shawn with the trumpet?” “Not if you want to live. ” Not all the gardens had been dug up for agricultural experiments. There was, for example, the herb garden. To Magrat’s expert eye it was a pretty poor herb garden, since it just contained plants that flavored food. And at that Mrs. Scorbic’s repertoire stopped short at mint and sage. There wasn’t a sprig of vervain or yarrow or Old Man’s Trousers anywhere in it. And there was the famous maze or, at least, it would be a famous maze. Verence had planted it because he’d heard that stately castles should have a maze and everyone agreed that, once the bushes were a bit higher than their current height of about one foot, it would indeed be a very famous maze and people would be able to get lost in it without having to shut their eyes and bend down. Magrat drifted disconsolately along the gravel path, her huge wide dress leaving a smooth trail. There was a scream from the other side of the hedge, but Magrat recognized the voice. There were certain traditions in Lancre castle which she had learned. “Good morning, Hodgesaargh,” she said. The castle falconer appeared around the corner, dab-bing at his face with a handkerchief. On his other arm, claws gripping like a torture instrument, was a bird. Evil red eyes glared at Magrat over a razor-sharp beak. “I’ve got a new hawk,” said Hodgesaargh proudly. “It’s a Lancre crowhawk. They’ve never been tamed before. I’m taming it. I’ve already stopped it pecking myooooow—” He flailed the hawk madly against the wall until it let go of his nose. Strictly speaking, Hodgesaargh wasn’t his real name. On the other hand, on the basis that someone’s real name is the name they introduce themselves to you by, he was definitely Hodgesaargh. This was because the hawks and falcons in the castle mews were all Lancre birds and therefore naturally possessed of a certain “sod you” independence of mind. After much patient breeding and training Hodgesaargh had managed to get them to let go of someone’s wrist, and now he was working on stopping them viciously attacking the person who had just been holding them, i. e. , invariably Hodgesaargh. He was nevertheless a remarkably optimistic and good-natured man who lived for the day when his hawks would be the finest in the world. The hawks lived for the day when they could eat his other ear. “I can see you’re doing very well,” said Magrat. “You don’t think, do you, that they might respond better to cruelty?” “Oh, no, miss,” said Hodgesaargh, “you have to be kind. You have to build up a bond, you see. If they don’t trust you theyaaaagh—” “I’ll just leave you to get on with it then, shall I?” said Magrat, as feathers filled the air. Magrat had been gloomily unsurprised to learn that there was a precise class and gender distinction in falconry—Verence, being king, was allowed a gyrfalcon, whatever the hell that was, any earls in the vicinity could fly a peregrine, and priests were allowed sparrowhawks. Commoners were just about allowed a stick to throw. * Magrat found herself wondering what Nanny Ogg would be allowed—a small chicken on a spring, probably. There was no specific falcon for a witch but, as a queen, the Lancre rules of falconry allowed her to fly the wowhawk or Lappet-faced Worrier. It was small and shortsighted and preferred to walk everywhere. |
It fainted at the sight of blood. And about twenty wowhawks could kill a pigeon, if it was a sick pigeon. She’d spent an hour with one on her wrist. It had wheezed at her, and eventually it had dozed off upside down. But at least Hodgesaargh had a job to do. The castle was full of people doing jobs. Everyone had something useful to do except Magrat. She just had to exist. Of course, everyone would talk to her, provided she talked to them first. But she was always interrupting something important. Apart from ensuring the royal succession, which Verence had sent off for a book about, she— “You just keep back there, girl. You don’t want to come no further,” said a voice. Magrat bridled. “Girl? One happens to be very nearly of the royal blood by marriage!” “Maybe, but the bees don’t know that,” said the voice. Magrat stopped. She’d stepped out beyond what were the gardens from the point of view of the royal family and into what were the gardens from the point of view of everyone else—beyond the world of hedges and topiary and herb gardens and into the world of old sheds, piles of flowerpots, compost and, just here, beehives. One of the hives had the lid off. Beside it, in the middle of a brown cloud, smoking his special bee pipe, was Mr. Brooks. “Oh,” she said, “it’s you, Mr. Brooks. ” Technically, Mr. Brooks was the Royal Beekeeper. But the relationship was a careful one. For one thing, although most of the staff were called by their last names Mr. Brooks shared with the cook and the butler the privilege of an honorific. Because Mr. Brooks had secret powers. He knew all about honey flows and the mating of queens. He knew about swarms, and how to destroy wasps’ nests. He got the general respect shown to those, like witches and blacksmiths, whose responsibilities are not entirely to the world of the humdrum and everyday—people who, in fact, know things that others don’t about things that others can’t fathom. And he was generally found doing something fiddly with the hives, ambling across the kingdom in pursuit of a swarm, or smoking his pipe in his secret shed which smelled of old honey and wasp poison. You didn’t offend Mr. Brooks, not unless you wanted swarms in your privy while he sat cackling in his shed. He carefully replaced the lid on the hive and walked away. A few bees escaped from the gaping holes in his beekeeping veil. “Afternoon, your ladyship,” he conceded. “Hello, Mr. Brooks. What’ve you been doing?” Mr. Brooks opened the door of his secret shed, and rummaged about inside. “They’re late swarming,” said the beekeeper. “I was just checking up on ’em. Fancy a cup of tea, girl?” You couldn’t stand on ceremony with Mr. Brooks. He treated everyone as an equal, or more often as a slight inferior; it probably came of ruling thousands, every day. And at least she could talk to him. Mr. Brooks had always seemed to her as close to a witch as it was possible to be while still being male. The shed was stuffed full of bits of hive, mysterious torture instruments for extracting honey, old jars, and a small stove on which a grubby teapot steamed next to a huge saucepan. He took her silence for acceptance, and poured out two mugs. “Is it herbal?” she quavered. “Buggered if I know. It’s just brown leaves out of a tin. ” Magrat looked uncertainly into a mug which pure tannin was staining brown. But she rallied. One thing you had to do when you were queen, she knew, was Put Commoners at their Ease. She cast around for some easeful question. “It must be very interesting, being a beekeeper,” she said. “Yes. It is. ” “One’s often wondered—” “What?” “How do you actually milk them?” The unicorn prowled through the forest. It felt blind, and out of place. This wasn’t a proper land. The sky was blue, not flaming with all the colors of the aurora. And time was passing. To a creature not born subject to time, it was a sensation not unakin to falling. It could feel its mistress inside its head, too. That was worse even than the passing of time. In short, it was mad. Magrat sat with her mouth open. “I thought queens were born ,” she said. “Oh, no,” said Mr. Brooks. “There ain’t no such thing as a queen egg. The bees just decides to feed one of ’em up as a queen. Feeds ’em royal jelly. ” “What happens if they don’t?” “Then it just becomes an ordinary worker, your ladyship,” said Mr. Brooks, with a suspiciously republican grin. Lucky for it, Magrat thought. “So they have a new queen, and then what happens to the old one?” “Usually the old girl swarms,” said Mr. Brooks. “Pushes off and takes some of the colony with her. I must’ve seen a thousand swarms, me. Never seen a Royal swarm, though. ” “What’s a Royal swarm?” “Can’t say for sure. It’s in some of the old bee books. A swarm of swarms. It’s something to see, they say. ” The old beekeeper looked wistful for a moment. “’Course,” he went on, righting himself, “the real fun starts if the weather’s bad and the ole queen can’t swarm, right?” He moved his hand in a sly circular motion. “What happens then is, the two queens—that’s the old queen, right? and the new queen—the two queens start astalkin’ one another among the combs, with the rain adrummin’ on the roof of the hive, and the business of the hive agoin’ on all around them,” Mr. Brooks moved his hands graphically, and Magrat leaned forward, “all among the combs, the drones all hummin’, and all the time they can sense one another, ’cos they can tell, see, and then they spots one another and—” “Yes? Yes?” said Magrat, leaning forward. “Slash! Stab!” Magrat hit her head on the wall of the hut. “Can’t have more’n one queen in a hive,” said Mr. Brooks calmly. Magrat looked out at the hives. She’d always liked the look of beehives, up until now. “Many’s the time I’ve found a dead queen in front of the hive after a spell of wet weather,” said Mr. Brooks, happily. “Can’t abide another queen around the place, you know. And it’s a right old battle, too. The old queen’s more cunnin’. But the new queen, she’s really got everything to fight for. ” “Sorry?” “If she wants to be mated. ” “Oh. ” “But it gets really interestin’ in the autumn,” said Mr. Brooks. “Hive don’t need any dead weight in the winter, see, and there’s all these drones hangin’ around not doing anything, so the workers drag all the drones down to the hive entrance, see, and they bite their—” “Stop! This is horrible!” said Magrat. “I thought beekeeping was, well, nice. ” “Of course, that’s around the time of year when the bees wear out,” said Mr. Brooks. “What happens is, see, your basic bee, why, it works ‘til it can’t work no more, and you’ll see a lot of old workers acrawlin’ around in front of the hive ’cos—” “Stop it! Honestly, this is too much. I’m queen, you know. Almost. ” “Sorry, miss,” said Mr. Brooks. “I thought you wanted to know a bit about beekeeping. ” “Yes, but not this !” Magrat swept out. “Oh, I dunno,” said Mr. Brooks. “Does you good to get close to Nature. ” He shook his head cheerfully as she disappeared among the hedges. “Can’t have more than one queen in a hive,” he said. “Slash! Stab! Hehheh!” From somewhere in the distance came the scream of Hodgesaargh as nature got close to him. Crop circles opened everywhere. Now the universes swung into line. They ceased their boiling spaghetti dance and, to pass through this chicane of history, charged forward neck and neck in their race across the rubber sheet of incontinent Time. At such time, as Ponder Stibbons dimly perceived, they had an effect on one another—shafts of reality crackled back and forward as the universes jostled for position. If you were someone who had trained their mind to be the finest of receivers, and were running it at the moment with the gain turned up until the knob broke, you might pick up some very strange signals indeed… The clock ticked. Granny Weatherwax sat in front of the open box, reading. Occasionally she stopped and closed her eyes and pinched her nose. Not knowing the future was bad enough, but at least she understood why. Now she was getting flashes of déjà vu. It had been going on all week. |
But they weren’t her déjà vus. She was getting them for the first time, as it were—flashes of memory that couldn’t have existed. Couldn’t have existed. She was Esme Weatherwax, sane as a brick, always had been, she’d never been— There was a knock at the door. She blinked, glad to be free of those thoughts. It took her a second or two to focus on the present. Then she folded up the paper, slipped it into its envelope, pushed the envelope back into its bundle, put the bundle into the box, locked the box with a small key which she hung over the fireplace, and walked to the door. She did a last-minute check to make sure she hadn’t absentmindedly taken all her clothes off, or something, and opened it. “Evenin’,” said Nanny Ogg, holding out a bowl with a cloth over it, “I’ve brung you some—” Granny Weatherwax was looking past her. “Who’re these people?” she said. The three girls looked embarrassed. “See, they came round my house and said—” Nanny Ogg began. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess,” said Granny. She strode out, and inspected the trio. “Well, well, well,” she said. “My word. My word. Three girls who want to be witches, am I right?” Her voice went falsetto. “‘Oh, please, Mrs. Ogg, we has seen the error of our ways, we want to learn proper witchcraft. ’ Yes?” “Yes. Something like that,” said Nanny. “But—” “This is witchcraft,” said Granny Weatherwax. “It’s not…it’s not a game of conkers. Oh, deary, deary me. ” She walked along the very short row of trembling girls. “What’s your name, girl?” “Magenta Frottidge, ma’am. ” “I bet that’s not what your mum calls you?” Magenta looked at her feet. “She calls me Violet, ma’am. ” “Well, it’s a better color than magenta,” said Granny. “Want to be a bit mysterious, eh? Want to make folks feel you got a grip on the occult? Can you do magic? Your friend taught you anything, did she? Knock my hat off. ” “What, ma’am?” Granny Weatherwax stood back, and turned around. “Knock it off. I ain’t trying to stop you. Go on. ” Magenta-shading-to-Violet shaded to pink. “Er…In ever got the hang of the psycho-thingy…” “Oh, dear. Well, just let’s see what the rest can do…Who’re you, girl?” “Amanita, ma’am. ” “Such a pretty name. Let’s see what you can do. ” Amanita looked around nervously. “I, er, don’t think I can while you’re watching me—” she began. “That’s a shame. What about you, on the end?” “Agnes Nitt,” said Agnes, who was much faster on the uptake than the other two and saw that there was no point in pushing Perdita. “Go on, then. Try. ” Agnes concentrated. “Oh, deary, deary me,” said Granny. “And my hat’s still on. Show them, Gytha. ” Nanny Ogg sighed, picked up a piece of fallen branch, and hurled it at Granny’s hat. Granny caught the stick in mid-air. “But, but—you said we had to use magic—” Amanita began. “No, I didn’t,” said Granny. “But anyone could have done that ,” said Magenta. “Yes, but that’s not the point,” said Granny. “The point is that you didn’t. ” She smiled, which was unusual for her. “Look, I don’t want to be nasty to you. You’re young. The world’s full of things you could be doing. You don’t want to be witches. Not if you knew what it means. Now just go away. Go home. Don’t try the paranormal until you know what’s normal. Go on. Run along. ” “But that’s just trickery! That’s what Diamanda said! You just use words and trickery—” Magenta protested. Granny raised a hand. In the trees, the birds stopped singing. “Gytha?” Nanny Ogg gripped her own hat brim defensively. “Esme, listen, this hat cost me two whole dollars—” The boom echoed through the woods. Bits of hat lining zigzagged gently out of the sky. Granny pointed her finger at the girls, who tried to lean out of the way. “Now,” she said, “why don’t you go and see to your friend? She was beat. She probably ain’t very happy. That’s no time to go leaving people. ” They still stared at her. Her finger seemed to fascinate them. “I just asked you to go home. Perfectly reasonable voice. Do you want me to shout ?” They turned and ran. Nanny Ogg glumly pushed her hand through the stricken hat brim. “It took me ages to get that pig cure together,” she mumbled. “You need eight types of leaves. Willow leaves, tansy leaves, Old Man’s Trousers leaves…I was collecting ’em all day. It’s not as though leaves grow on trees—” Granny Weatherwax watched the disappearing girls. Nanny Ogg paused. Then she said: “Takes you back, eh? I remember when I was fifteen, standing in front of old Biddy Spective, and she said in that voice of hers, ‘You want to be a what ?’ and I was that frightened I near widd—” “I never stood in front of no one,” said Granny Weatherwax distantly. “I camped on old Nanny Gripes’ garden until she promised to tell me everything she knew. Hah. That took her a week and I had the afternoons free. ” “You mean you weren’t Chosen?” “Me? No. I chose,” said Granny. The face she turned to Nanny Ogg was one she wouldn’t forget in a hurry, although she might try. “I chose, Gytha Ogg. And I want that you should know this right now. Whatever happens. I ain’t never regretted anything. Never regretted one single thing. Right?” “If you say so, Esme. ” What is magic? There is the wizards’ explanation, which comes in two forms, depending on the age of the wizard. Older wizards talk about candles, circles, planets, stars, bananas, chants, runes, and the importance of having at least four good meals every day. Younger wizards, particularly the pale ones who spend most of their time in the High Energy Magic building, * chatter at length about fluxes in the morphic nature of the universe, the essentially impermanent quality of even the most apparently rigid time-space framework, the implausibility of reality, and so on: what this means is that they have got hold of something hot and are gabbling the physics as they go along… It was almost midnight. Diamanda ran up the hill toward the Dancers, the briars and heather tearing at her dress. The humiliation banged back and forth in her skull. Stupid malicious old women! And stupid people , too! She’d won. According to the rules, she’d won! But everyone had laughed at her. That stung. The recollection of those stupid faces, all grinning. And everyone supporting those horrible old women, who had no idea about the meaning of witchcraft and what it could become. She’d show them. Ahead of her, the Dancers were dark against the moonlit clouds. Nanny Ogg looked under her bed in case there was a man there. Well, you never knew your luck. She was going to have an early night. It had been a busy day. There was a jar of boiled sweets by her bed, and a thick glass bottle of the clear fluid from her complicated still out behind the woodshed. It wasn’t exactly whiskey, and it wasn’t exactly gin, but it was exactly 90° proof, and a great comfort during those worrying moments that sometimes occurred around 3 A. M. when you woke up and forgot who you were. After a glass of the clear liquid you still didn’t remember who you were, but that was all right now because you were someone else anyway. She plumped up the four pillows, kicked her fluffy slippers into the corner, and pulled the blankets over her head, creating a small, warm, and slightly rank cave. She sucked a boiled sweet; Nanny had only one tooth left, and that had taken all she could throw at it for many years, so a sweet at bedtime wasn’t going to worry it much. After a few seconds a sense of pressure on her feet indicated that the cat Greebo had taken up his accustomed place on the end of the bed. Greebo always slept on Nanny’s bed; the way he’d affectionately try to claw your eyeballs out in the morning was as good as an alarm clock. But she always left a window open all night in case he wanted to go out and disembowel something, bless him. Well, well. Elves. (They couldn’t hear you say the word inside your head, anyway. At least, not unless they were real close. ) She really thought they’d seen the last of them. How long was it, now? Must be hundreds and hundreds of years, maybe thousands. Witches didn’t like to talk about it, because they’d made a big mistake about the elves. |
They’d seen through the buggers in the end, of course, but it had been a close thing. And there’d been a lot of witches in those days. They’d been able to stop them at every turn, make life in this world too hot for them. Fought them with iron. Nothing elvish could stand iron. It blinded them, or something. Blinded them all over. There weren’t many witches now. Not proper witches. More of a problem, though, was that people didn’t seem to be able to remember what it was like with the elves around. Life was certainly more interesting then, but usually because it was shorter. And it was more colorful, if you liked the color of blood. It got so people didn’t even dare talk openly about the bastards. You said: The Shining Ones. You said: The Fair Folk. And you spat, and touched iron. But generations later, you forgot about the spitting and the iron, and you forgot why you used those names for them, and you remembered only that they were beautiful. Yes, there’d been a lot of witches in them days. Too many women found an empty cradle, or a husband that never came home from the hunt. Had been the hunt. Elves! The bastards…and yet…and yet…somehow, yes, they did things to memory. Nanny Ogg turned over in bed. Greebo growled in protest. Take dwarfs and trolls, for e. g. People said: Oh, you can’t trust ’em, trolls are OK if you’ve got ’em in front of you, and some of ’em are decent enough in their way, but they’re cowardly and stupid, and as for dwarfs, well, they’re greedy and devious devils, all right, fair enough, sometimes you meet one of the clever little sods that’s not too bad, but overall they’re no better’n trolls, in fact— —they’re just like us. But they ain’t any prettier to look at and they’ve got no style. And we’re stupid, and the memory plays tricks, and we remember the elves for their beauty and the way they move, and forget what they were. We’re like mice saying, “Say what you like, cats have got real style. ” People never quaked in their beds for fear of dwarfs. They never hid under the stairs from trolls. They might have chased ’em out of the henhouse, but trolls and dwarfs were never any more than a bloody nuisance. They were never a terror in the night. We only remembers that the elves sang. We forgets what it was they were singing about. Nanny Ogg turned over again. There was a slithering noise from the end of the bed, and a muffled yowl as Greebo hit the floor. And Nanny sat up. “Get your walking paws on, young fella-me-lad. We’re going out. ” As she passed through the midnight kitchen she paused, took one of the big black flatirons from the hob by the fire, and attached it to a length of clothesline. For all her life she’d walked at night through Lancre with no thought of carrying a weapon of any sort. Of course, for most of that time she’d recognizably been a witch, and any importunate prowler would’ve ended up taking his essentials away in a paper bag, but even so it was generally true of any woman in Lancre. Man too, come to that. Now she could sense her own fear. The elves were coming back all right, casting their shadows before them. Diamanda reached the crest of the hill. She paused. She wouldn’t put it past that old Weatherwax woman to have followed her. She felt sure there had been something tracking her in the woods. There was no one else around. She turned. “Evenin’, miss. ” “You? You did follow me!” Granny got to her feet from the shadow of the Piper, where she had been sitting quite invisibly in the blackness. “Learned that from my dad,” she said. “When he went hunting. He always used to say a bad hunter chases, a good hunter waits. ” “Oh? So you’re hunting me now?” “No. I was just waiting. I knew you’d come up here. You haven’t got anywhere else to go. You’ve come to call her, haven’t you? Let me see your hands. ” It wasn’t a request, it was a command. Diamanda found her hands moving of their own accord. Before she could pull them back the old woman had grabbed them and held them firmly; her skin felt like sacking. “Never done a hard day’s work in your life, have you?” said Granny, pleasantly. “Never picked cabbages with the ice on ’em, or dug a grave, or milked a cow, or laid out a corpse. ” “You don’t have to do all that to be a witch!” Diamanda snapped. “Did I say so? And let me tell you something. About beautiful women in red with stars in their hair. And probably moons, too. And voices in your head when you slept. And power when you came up here. She offered you lots of power, I expect. All you wanted. For free. ” Diamanda was silent. “Because it happened before. There’s always someone who’ll listen. ” Granny Weatherwax’s eyes seemed to lose their focus. “When you’re lonely, and people around you seem too stupid for words, and the world is full of secrets that no one’ll tell you…” “Are you reading my mind?” “Yours?” Granny’s attention snapped back, and her voice lost its distant quality. “Hah! Flowers and suchlike. Dancing about without yer drawers on. Mucking about with cards and bits of string. And it worked, I expect. She gave you power, for a while. Oh, she must have laughed. And then there is less power and more price. And then no power, and you’re payin’ every day. They always take more than they give. And what they give has less than no value. And they end up taking everything. What they like to get from us is our fear. What they want from us most of all is our belief. If you call them, they will come. You’ll give them a channel if you call them here, at circle time, where the world’s thin enough to hear. The power in the Dancers is weak enough now as it is. And I’m not having the…the Lords and Ladies back. ” Diamanda opened her mouth. “I ain’t finished yet. You’re a bright girl. Lots of things you could be doing. But you don’t want to be a witch. It’s not an easy life. ” “You mad old woman, you’ve got it all wrong! Elves aren’t like that—” “Don’t say the word. Don’t say the word. They come when called. ” “Good! Elf, elf, elf! Elf—” Granny slapped her face, hard. “Even you knows that’s stupid and childish,” she said. “Now you listen to me. If you stay here, there’s to be none of this stuff anymore. Or you can go somewhere else and find a future, be a great lady, you’ve got the mind for it. And maybe you’ll come back in ten years loaded down with jewels and stuff, and lord it over all us stay-at-homes, and that will be fine. But if you stay here and keep trying to call the…Lords and Ladies, then you’ll be up against me again. Not playing stupid games in the daylight, but real witchcraft. Not messing around with moons and circles, but the true stuff, out of the blood and the bone and out of the head. And you don’t know nothin ’ about that. Right? And it don’t allow for mercy. ” Diamanda looked up. Her face was red where the slap had landed. “Go?” she said. Granny reacted a second too late. Diamanda darted between the stones. “You stupid child! Not that way!” The figure was already getting smaller, even though it appeared to be only a few feet away. “Oh, drat!” Granny dived after her, and heard her skirt rip as the pocket tore. The poker she’d brought along whirred away and clanked against one of the Dancers. There was a series of jerks and tings as the hobnails tore out of her boots and sped toward the stones. No iron could go through the stones, no iron at all. Granny was already racing over the turf when she realized what that meant. But it didn’t matter. She’d made a choice. There was a feeling of dislocation, as directions danced and twirled around. And then snow underfoot. It was white. It had to be white, because it was snow. But patterns of color moved across it, reflecting the wild dance of the permanent aurora in the sky. Diamanda was struggling. Her footwear was barely suitable for a city summer, and certainly not for a foot of snow. Whereas Granny Weatherwax’s boots, even without their hobnails, could have survived a trot across lava. Even so, the muscles that were propelling them had been doing it for too long. Diamanda was outrunning her. More snow was falling, out of a night sky. |
There was a ring of riders waiting a little way from the stones, with the Queen slightly ahead. Every witch knew her, or the shape of her. Diamanda tripped and fell, and then managed to bring herself up to a kneeling position. Granny stopped. The Queen’s horse whinnied. “Kneel before your Queen, you,” said the elf. She was wearing red, with a copper crown in her hair. “Shan’t. Won’t,” said Granny Weatherwax. “You are in my kingdom, woman,” said the Queen. “You do not come or go without the leave of me. You will kneel!” “I come and go without the leave of anyone ,” said Granny Weatherwax. “Never done it before, ain’t starting now. ” She put a hand on Diamanda’s shoulder. “These are your elves,” she said. “Beautiful, ain’t they?” The warriors must have been more than two meters tall. They did not wear clothes so much as items strung together—scraps of fur, bronze plates, strings of brightly colored feathers. Blue and green tattoos covered most of their exposed skin. Several of them held drawn bows, the tips of their arrows following Granny’s every move. Their hair massed around their heads like a halo, thick with grease. And although their faces were indeed the most beautiful Diamanda had ever seen, it was beginning to creep over her that there was something subtly wrong, some quirk of expression that did not quite fit. “The only reason we’re still alive now is that we’re more fun alive than dead,” said Granny’s voice behind her. “You know you shouldn’t listen to the crabbed old woman,” said the Queen. “What can she offer?” “More than snow in summertime,” said Granny. “Look at their eyes. Look at their eyes. ” The Queen dismounted. “Take my hand, child,” she said. Diamanda stuck out a hand gingerly. There was something about the eyes. It wasn’t the shape or the color. There was no evil glint. But there was… …a look. It was such a look that a microbe might encounter if it could see up from the bottom end of the microscope. It said: You are nothing. It said: You are flawed, you have no value. It said: You are animal. It said: Perhaps you may be a pet, or perhaps you may be a quarry. It said: And the choice is not yours. She tried to pull her hand away. “Get out of her mind, old crone. ” Granny’s face was running with sweat. “I ain’t in her mind, elf. I’m keeping you out. ” The Queen smiled. It was the most beautiful smile Diamanda had ever seen. “And you have some power, too. Amazing. I never thought you’d amount to anything, Esmerelda Weatherwax. But it’s no good here. Kill them both. But not at the same time. Let the other one watch. ” She climbed on to her horse again, turned it around, and galloped off. Two of the elves dismounted, drawing thin bronze daggers from their belts. “Well, that’s about it, then,” said Granny Weatherwax, as the warriors approached. She dropped her voice. “When the time comes,” she said, “run. ” “What time?” “You’ll know. ” Granny fell to her knees as the elves approached. “Oh, deary me, oh spare my life, I am but a poor old woman and skinny also,” she said. “Oh spare my life, young sir. Oh lawks. ” She curled up, sobbing. Diamanda looked at her in astonishment, not least at how anyone could expect to get away with something like that. Elves had been away from humans for a long time. The first elf reached her, hauled her up by her shoulder, and got a doubled-handed, bony-knuckled punch in an area that Nanny Ogg would be surprised that Esme Weatherwax even knew about. Diamanda was already running. Granny’s elbow caught the other elf in the chest as she set off after her. Behind her, she heard the merry laughter of the elves. Diamanda had been surprised at Granny’s old lady act. She was far more surprised when Granny drew level. But Granny had more to run away from. “They’ve got horses!” Granny nodded. And it’s true that horses go faster than people, but it’s not instantly obvious to everyone that this is only true over moderate distances. Over short distances a determined human can outrun a horse, because they’ve only got half as many legs to sort out. Granny reached over and gripped Diamanda’s arm. “Head for the gap between the Piper and the Drummer!” “Which ones are they?” “You don’t even know that? ” Humans can outrun a horse, indeed. It was preying on Granny Weatherwax’s mind that no one can outrun an arrow. Something whined past her ear. The circle of stones seemed as far away as ever. Nothing for it. It oughtn’t to be possible. She’d only ever tried it seriously when she was lying down, or at least when she had something to lean against. She tried it now… There were four elves chasing them. She didn’t even think about looking into their minds. But the horses…ah, the horses… They were carnivores, minds like an arrowhead. The rules of Borrowing were: you didn’t hurt, you just rode inside their heads, you didn’t involve the subject in any way… Well, not so much a rule , as such, more of a general guideline. A stone-tipped arrow went through her hat. Hardly really a guideline, even. In fact, not even— Oh, drat. She plunged into the lead horse’s mind, down through the layers of barely controlled madness which is what is inside even a normal horse’s brain. For a moment she looked out through its bloodshot eyes at her own figure, staggering through the snow. For a moment she was trying to control six legs at once, two of them in a separate body. In terms of difficulty, playing one tune on a musical instrument and singing a totally different one * was a stroll in the country by comparison. She knew she couldn’t do it for more than a few seconds before total confusion overwhelmed mind and body. But a second was all she needed. She let the confusion arise, dumped it in its entirety in the horse’s mind, and withdrew sharply, picking up control of her own body as it began to fall. There was one horrible moment in the horse’s head. It wasn’t sure what it was, or how it had got there. More importantly, it didn’t know how many legs it had. There was a choice of two or four, or possibly even six. It compromised on three. Granny heard it scream and collapse noisily, by the sound of things taking a couple of others with it. “Hah!” She risked a look sideways at Diamanda. Who wasn’t there. She was in the snow some way back, trying with difficulty to get to her feet. The face she turned to Granny was as pale as the snow. There was an arrow sticking out of her shoulder. Granny darted back, grabbed the girl and hauled her upright. “Come on! Nearly there!” “Can’t r’n…c’ld…” Diamanda slumped forward. Granny caught her before she hit the snow and, with a grunt of effort, slung her over her shoulder. A few more steps, and all she had to do was fall forwar… A clawed hand snatched at her dress… And three figures fell, rolling over and over in the summer bracken. The elf was first to its feet, looking around in dazed triumph. It already had a long copper knife in its hand. It focused on Granny, who had landed on her back. She could smell the rankness of it as it raised the knife, and she sought desperately for a way into its head… Something flashed past her vision. A length of rope had caught the elf’s neck, and went tight as something swished through the air. The creature stared in horror as a flatiron whirred a few feet away from its face and swung past its ear, winding around and around with increasing speed but a decreasing orbital radius until it connected heavily with the back of the elf’s head, lifting it off its feet and dropping it heavily on the turf. Nanny Ogg appeared in Granny’s vision. “Cor, it doesn’t half whiff, don’t it?” she said. “You can smell elves a mile off. ” Granny scrambled upright. There was nothing but grass inside the circle. No snow, no elves. She turned to Diamanda. So did Nanny. The girl was lying unconscious. “Elf-shot,” said Granny. “Oh, bugger. ” “The point’s still in there. ” Nanny scratched her head. “I could probably get the point out, no problem,” she said, “but I don’t know about the poison…we could tie a tourniquet around the affected part. ” “Hah! Her neck’d be favorite, then. |
” Granny sat down with her chin on her knees. Her shoulders ached. “Got to get me breath back,” she said. Images swam in the forefront of her mind. Here it came again. She knew there were such things as alternative futures, after all, that’s what the future meant. But she’d never heard of alternative pasts. She could remember having just gone through the stones, if she concentrated. But she could remember other things. She could remember being in bed in her own house, but that was it, it was a house, not a cottage, but she was her , they were her own memories…she had a nagging feeling that she was asleep, right now… Dully, she tried to focus on Nanny Ogg. There was something comfortingly solid about Gytha Ogg. Nanny had produced a penknife. “What the hell are you doing?” “Going to put it out of its misery, Esme. ” “Doesn’t look miserable to me. ” Nanny Ogg’s eyes gleamed speculatively. “Could soon arrange that, Esme. ” “Don’t go torturing it just because it’s lying down, Gytha. ” “Damn well ain’t waiting for it to stand up again, Esme. ” “Gytha. ” “Well, they used to carry off babies. I ain’t having that again. The thought of someone carrying off our Pewsey—” “Even elves ain’t that daft. Never seen such a sticky child in all my life. ” Granny pulled gently at Diamanda’s eyelid. “Out cold,” she said. “Off playing with the fairies. ” She picked the girl up. “Come on. I’ll carry her, you bring Mr. Tinkerbell. ” “That was brave of you, carrying her over your shoulder,” said Nanny. “With them elves firing arrows, too. ” “And it meant less chance of one hitting me, too,” said Granny. Nanny Ogg was shocked. “What? You never thought that, did you?” “Well, she’d been hit already. If I’d been hit too, neither of us’d get out,” said Granny, simply. “But that’s—that’s a bit heartless , Esme. ” “Heartless it may be, but headless it ain’t. I’ve never claimed to be nice, just to be sensible. No need to look like that. Now, are you coming or are you going to stand there with your mouth open all day?” Nanny closed her mouth, and then opened it again to say: “What’re you going to do?” “Well, do you know how to cure her?” “Me? No!” “Right! Me neither. But I know someone who might know,” she said. “And we can shove him in the dungeons for now. Lots of iron bars down there. That should keep him quiet. ” “How’d he get through?” “He was holding on to me. I don’t know how it works. Maybe the stone…force opens to let humans through, or something. Just so long as his friends stay inside, that’s all I’m bothered about. ” Nanny heaved the unconscious elf on to her shoulders without much effort. * “Smells worse than the bottom of a goat’s bed,” she said. “It’s a bath for me when I get home. ” “Oh, dear,” said Granny. “It gets worse, don’t it?” What is magic? Then there is the witches’ explanation, which comes in two forms, depending on the age of the witch. Older witches hardly put words to it at all, but may suspect in their hearts that the universe really doesn’t know what the hell is going on and consists of a zillion trillion billion possibilities, and could become any one of them if a trained mind rigid with quantum certainty was inserted in the crack and twisted ; that, if you really had to make someone’s hat explode, all you needed to do was twist into that universe where a large number of hat molecules all decide at the same time to bounce off in different directions. Younger witches, on the other hand, talk about it all the time and believe it involves crystals, mystic forces, and dancing about without yer drawers on. Everyone may be right, all at the same time. That’s the thing about quantum. It was early morning. Shawn Ogg was on guard on the battlements of Lancre castle, all that stood between the inmates and any mighty barbarian hordes that might be in the area. He enjoyed the military life. Sometimes he wished a small horde would attack, just so’s he could Save the Day. He daydreamed of leading an army into battle, and wished the king would get one. A brief scream indicated that Hodgesaargh was giving his charges their morning finger. Shawn ignored the noise. It was part of the background hum of the castle. He was passing the time by seeing how long he could hold his breath. He had any amount of ways of passing the time, since guard duty in Lancre involved such an awful lot of it. There was Getting The Nostrils Really Clean , that was a good one. Or Farting Tunes. Or Standing On One Leg. Holding His Breath and Counting was something he fell back on when he couldn’t think of anything else and his meals hadn’t been too rich in carbohydrates. There were a couple of loud creaks from the door knocker, far below. There was so much rust on it now that the only way it could be coaxed into making any sound was to lift it up, which made it squeak, and then force it mightily downward, which caused another squeak and, if the visitor was lucky, a faint thud. Shawn took a deep breath and leaned over the battlements. “Halt! Who Goes There?” he said. A ringing voice came up from below. “It’s me, Shawn. Your mum. ” “Oh, hello, Mum. Hello, Mistress Weatherwax. ” “Let us in, there’s a good boy. ” “Friend or Foe?” “What?” “It’s what I’ve got to say, Mum. It’s official. And then you’ve got to say Friend. ” “I’m your mum. ” “You’ve got to do it properly, Mum,” said Shawn, in the wretched tones of one who knows he’s going to lose no matter what happens next, “otherwise what’s the point?” “It’s going to be Foe in a minute, my lad. ” “Oooaaaww, Mum! ” “Oh, all right. Friend, then. ” “Yes, but you could just be saying that—” “Let us in right now, Shawn Ogg. ” Shawn saluted, slightly stunning himself with the butt of his spear. “Right you are, Mistress Weatherwax. ” His round, honest face disappeared from view. After a minute or two they heard the creaking of the portcullis. “How did you do that?” said Nanny Ogg. “Simple,” said Granny. “He knows you wouldn’t make his daft head explode. ” “Well, I know you wouldn’t, too. ” “No you don’t. You just know I ain’t done it up to now. ” Magrat had thought this sort of thing was just a joke, but it was true. The castle’s Great Hall had one long, one very long dining table, and she and Verence sat at either end of it. It was all to do with etiquette. The king had to sit at the head of the table. That was obvious. But if she sat on one side of him it made them both uneasy, because they had to keep turning to talk to each other. Opposite ends and shouting was the only way. Then there was the logistics of the sideboard. Again, the easy option—them just going over and helping themselves—was out of the question. If kings went round putting their own food on their own plate, the whole system of monarchy would come crashing down. Unfortunately, this meant that service had to be by means of Mr. Spriggins the butler, who had a bad memory, a nervous twitch and a rubber knee, and a sort of medieval elevator system that connected with the kitchen and sounded like the rattle of a tumbril. The elevator shaft was a kind of heat sink. Hot food was cold by the time it arrived. Cold food got colder. No one knew what would happen to ice cream, but it would probably involve some rewriting of the laws of thermodynamics. Also, the cook couldn’t get the hang of vegetarianism. The traditional palace cuisine was heavy in artery-clogging dishes so full of saturated fats that they oozed out in great wobbly globules. Vegetables existed as things to soak up spare gravy, and were generally boiled to a uniform shade of yellow in any case. Magrat had tried explaining things to Mrs. Scorbic the cook, but the woman’s three chins wobbled so menacingly at words like “vitamins” that she’d made an excuse to back out of the kitchen. At the moment she was making do with an apple. The cook knew about apples. They were big roasted floury things scooped out and filled with raisins and cream. So Magrat had resorted to stealing a raw one from the apple loft. She was also plotting to find out where the carrots were kept. |
Verence was distantly visible behind the silver candlesticks and a pile of account books. Occasionally they looked up and smiled at each other. At least, it looked like a smile but it was a little hard to be sure at this distance. Apparently he’d just said something. Magrat cupped her hands around her mouth. “Pardon?” “We need a—” “Sorry?” “What?” “What?” Finally Magrat got up and waited while Spriggins, purple in the face with the effort, moved her chair down toward Verence. She could have done it herself, but it wasn’t what queens did. “We ought to have a Poet Laureate,” said Verence, marking his place in a book. “Kingdoms have to have one. They write poems for special celebrations. ” “Yes?” “I thought perhaps Mrs. Ogg? I hear she’s quite an amusing songstress. ” Magrat kept a straight face. “I…er…I think she knows lots of rhymes for certain words,” she said. “Apparently the going rate is fourpence a year and a butt of sack,” said Verence, peering at the page. “Or it may be a sack of butt. ” “What exactly will she have to do?” said Magrat. “It says here the role of the Poet Laureate is to recite poems on State occasions,” said Verence. Magrat had witnessed some of Nanny Ogg’s humorous recitations, especially the ones with the gestures. She nodded gravely. “Provided,” she said, “and I want to be absolutely sure you understand me on this, provided she takes up her post after the wedding. ” “Oh, dear? Really?” “ After the wedding. ” “Oh. ” “Trust me. ” “Well, of course, if it makes you happy—” There was a commotion outside the double doors, which were flung back. Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax stamped in, with Shawn trying to overtake them. “Oooaaww, Mum ! I’m supposed to go in first to say who it is!” “We’ll tell them who we are. Wotcha, your majesties,” said Nanny. “Blessing be upon this castle,” said Granny. “Magrat, there’s some doctorin’ needs doing. Here. ” Granny swept a candlestick and some crockery on to the floor with a dramatic motion and laid Diamanda on the table. In fact there were several acres of table totally devoid of any obstruction, but there’s no sense in making an entrance unless you’re prepared to make a mess. “But I thought she was fighting you yesterday!” said Magrat. “Makes no difference,” said Granny. “Morning, your majesty. ” King Verence nodded. Some kings would have shouted for the guards at this point but Verence did not because he was sensible, this was Granny Weatherwax and in any case the only available guard was Shawn Ogg, who was trying to straighten out his trumpet. Nanny Ogg had drifted over to the sideboard. It wasn’t that she was callous, but it had been a busy few hours and there was a lot of breakfast that no one seemed to be interested in. “What happened to her?” said Magrat, inspecting the girl carefully. Granny looked around the room. Suits of armor, shields hanging on the walls, rusty old swords and pikes…probably enough iron here… “She was shot by an elf—” “But—” said Magrat and Verence at the same time. “Don’t ask questions now, got no time. Shot by an elf. Them horrible arrows of theirs. They make the mind go wandering off all by itself. Now—can you do anything?” Despite her better nature, Magrat felt a spark of righteous ire. “Oh, so suddenly I’m a witch again when you—” Granny Weatherwax sighed. “No time for that , either,” she said. “I’m just askin’. All you have to do is say no. Then I’ll take her away and won’t bother you again. ” The quietness of her voice was so unexpected that Magrat tripped over her own anger, and tried to right herself. “I wasn’t saying I wouldn’t , I was just—” “Good. ” There was a series of clangs as Nanny Ogg lifted the silver tureen lids. “Hey, they’ve got three kinds of eggs!” “Well, there’s no fever,” said Magrat. “Slow pulse. Eyes unfocused. Shawn?” “Yes, Miss Queen?” “Boiled, scrambled, and fried. That’s what I call posh. ” “Run down to my cottage and bring back all the books you can find. I’m sure I read something about this once, Granny. Shawn?” Shawn paused halfway to the door. “Yes, Miss Queen?” “On your way out, stop off in the kitchens and ask them to boil up a lot of water. We can start by getting the wound clean, at any rate. But look, elves—” “I’ll let you get on with it, then,” said Granny, turning away. “Can I have a word with you, your majesty? There’s something downstairs you ought to see. ” “I shall need some help,” said Magrat. “Nanny’ll do it. ” “That’s me,” said Nanny indistinctly, spraying crumbs. “ What are you eating?” “Fried egg and ketchup sandwich,” said Nanny happily. “You better get the cook to boil you, too,” said Magrat, rolling up her sleeves. “Go and see her. ” She looked at the wound. “And see if she’s got any mouldy bread…. ” The basic unit of wizardry is the Order or the College or, of course, the University. The basic unit of witchcraft is the witch, but the basic continuous unit, as has already been indicated, is the cottage. A witch’s cottage is a very specific architectural item. It is not exactly built, but put together over the years as the areas of repair join up, like a sock made entirely of darns. The chimney twists like a corkscrew. The roof is thatch so old that small but flourishing trees are growing in it, the floors are switchbacks, it creaks at night like a tea clipper in a gale. If at least two walls aren’t shored up with balks of timber then it’s not a true witch’s cottage at all, but merely the home of some daft old bat who reads tea leaves and talks to her cat. Cottages tend to attract similar kinds of witches. It’s natural. Every witch trains up one or two young witches in their life, and when in the course of mortal time the cottage becomes vacant it’s only sense for one of them to move in. Magrat’s cottage traditionally housed thoughtful witches who noticed things and wrote things down. Which herbs were better than others for headaches, fragments of old stories, odds and ends like that. There were a dozen books of tiny handwriting and drawings, the occasional interesting flower or unusual frog pressed carefully between the pages. It was a cottage of questioning witches, research witches. Eye of what newt? What species of ravined salt-sea shark? It’s all very well a potion calling for Love-in-idleness, but which of the thirty-seven common plants called by that name in various parts of the continent was actually meant ? The reason that Granny Weatherwax was a better witch than Magrat was that she knew that in witchcraft it didn’t matter a damn which one it was, or even if it was a piece of grass. The reason that Magrat was a better doctor than Granny was that she thought it did. The coach slowed to a halt in front of the barricade across the road. The bandit chieftain adjusted his eyepatch. He had two good eyes, but people respect uniforms. Then he strolled toward the coach. “Morning, Jim. What’ve we got today, then?” “Uh. This could be difficult,” said the coachman. “Uh, there’s a handful of wizards. And a dwarf. And an ape. ” He rubbed his head, and winced. “Yes. Definitely an ape. Not, and I think I should make this clear, any other kind of man-shaped thing with hair on. ” “You all right, Jim?” “I’ve had this lot ever since Ankh-Morpork. Don’t talk to me about dried frog pills. ” The bandit chief raised his eyebrows. “All right. I won’t. ” He knocked on the coach door. The window slid down. “I wouldn’t like you to think of this as a robbery,” he said. “I’d like you to think of it more as a colorful anecdote you might enjoy telling your grandchildren about. ” A voice from within said, “That’s him! He stole my horse!” A wizard’s staff poked out. The chieftain saw the knob on the end. “Now, then,” he said, pleasantly. “I know the rules. Wizards aren’t allowed to use magic against civilians except in genuine life-threatening situa—” There was a burst of octarine light. “Actually, it’s not a rule,” said Ridcully. “It’s more a guideline. ” He turned to Ponder Stibbons. “Interestin’ use of Stacklady’s Morphic Resonator here, I hope you noticed. ” Ponder looked down. |
The chieftain had been turned into a pumpkin although, in accordance with the rules of universal humor, he still had his hat on. “And now,” said Ridcully, “I’d be obliged if all you fellows hidin’ behind the rocks and things would just step out where I can see you. Very good. Mr. Stibbons, you and the Librarian just pass around with the hat, please. ” “But this is robbery!” said the coachman. “And you’ve turned him into a fruit!” “A vegetable,” said Ridcully. “Anyway, it’ll wear off in a couple of hours. ” “And I’m owed a horse,” said Casanunda. The bandits paid up, reluctantly handing over money to Ponder and reluctantly but very quickly handing over money to the Librarian. “There’s almost three hundred dollars, sir,” said Ponder. “And a horse, remember. In fact, there were two horses. I’d forgotten about the other horse until now. ” “Capital! We’re in pocket on the trip. So if these gentlemen would just remove the roadblock, we’ll be on our way. ” “In fact, there was a third horse I’ve just remembered about. ” “This isn’t what you’re supposed to do! You’re supposed to be robbed!” shouted the coachman. Ridcully pushed him off the board. “We’re on holiday,” he said. The coach rattled away. There was a distant cry of “And four horses, don’t forget” before it rounded a bend. The pumpkin developed a mouth. “Have they gone?” “Yes, boss. ” “Roll me into the shade, will you? And no one say anything about this ever again. Has anyone got any dried frog pills?” Verence II respected witches. They’d put him on the throne. He was pretty certain of that, although he couldn’t quite work out how it had happened. And he was in awe of Granny Weatherwax. He followed her meekly toward the dungeons, hurrying to keep up with her long stride. “What’s happening, Mistress Weatherwax?” “Got something to show you. ” “You mentioned elves. ” “That’s right. ” “I thought they were a fairy story. ” “Well?” “I mean…you know…an old wives’ tale?” “So?” Granny Weatherwax seemed to generate a gyroscopic field—if you started out off-balance, she saw to it that you remained there. He tried again. “Don’t exist, is what I’m trying to say. ” Granny reached a dungeon door. It was mainly age-blackened oak, but with a large barred grille occupying some of the top half. “In there. ” Verence peered inside. “Good grief!” “I got Shawn to unlock it. I don’t reckon anyone else saw us come in. Don’t tell anyone. If the dwarfs and the trolls find out, they’ll tear the walls apart to get him out. ” “Why? To kill him?” “Of course. They’ve got better memories than humans. ” “What am I supposed to do with it?” “Just keep it locked up. How should I know? I’ve got to think!” Verence peered in again at the elf. It was lying curled up in the center of the floor. “ That’s an elf? But it’s…just a long, thin human with a foxy face. More or less. I thought they were supposed to be beautiful?” “Oh, they are when they’re conscious,” said Granny, waving a hand vaguely. “They project this…this…when people look at them, they see beauty, they see something they want to please. They can look just like you want them to look. ’S’called glamour. You can tell when elves are around. People act funny. They stop thinking clear. Don’t you know anything?” “I thought…elves were just stories…like the Tooth Fairy…” “Nothing funny about the Tooth Fairy,” said Granny. “Very hard-working woman. I’ll never know how she manages with the ladder and everything. No. Elves are real. Oh, drat. Listen…” She turned, and held up a finger. “Feudal system, right?” “What?” “Feudal system! Pay attention. Feudal system. King on top, then barons and whatnot, then everyone else…witches off to one side a bit,” Granny added diplomatically. She steepled her fingers. “Feudal system. Like them pointy buildings heathen kings get buried in. Understand?” “Yes. ” “Right. That’s how the elves see things, yes? When they get into a world, everyone else is on the bottom. Slaves. Worse than slaves. Worse than animals, even. They take what they want, and they want everything. But worst of all, the worst bit is…they read your mind. They hear what you think, and in self-defense you think what they want. Glamour. And it’s barred windows at night, and food out for the fairies, and turning around three times before you talks about ’em, and horseshoes over the door. ” “I thought that sort of thing was, you know,” the king grinned sickly, “folklore?” “Of course it’s folklore, you stupid man!” “I do happen to be king, you know,” said Verence reproachfully. “You stupid king, your majesty. ” “Thank you. ” “I mean it doesn’t mean it’s not true! Maybe it gets a little muddled over the years, folks forget details, they forget why they do things. Like the horseshoe thing. ” “I know my granny had one over the door,” said the king. “There you are. Nothing to do with its shape. But if you lives in an old cottage and you’re poor, it’s probably the nearest bit of iron with holes in it that you can find. ” “Ah. ” “The thing about elves is they’ve got no…begins with m,” Granny snapped her fingers irritably. “Manners?” “Hah! Right, but no. ” “Muscle? Mucus? Mystery?” “No. No. No. Means like…seein’ the other person’s point of view. ” Verence tried to see the world from a Granny Weatherwax perspective, and suspicion dawned. “Empathy?” “Right. None at all. Even a hunter, a good hunter, can feel for the quarry. That’s what makes ’em a good hunter. Elves aren’t like that. They’re cruel for fun, and they can’t understand things like mercy. They can’t understand that anything apart from themselves might have feelings. They laugh a lot, especially if they’ve caught a lonely human or a dwarf or a troll. Trolls might be made out of rock, your majesty, but I’m telling you that a troll is your brother compared to elves. In the head, I mean. ” “But why don’t I know all this?” “Glamour. Elves are beautiful. They’ve got,” she spat the word, “ style. Beauty. Grace. That’s what matters. If cats looked like frogs we’d realize what nasty, cruel little bastards they are. Style. That’s what people remember. They remember the glamour. All the rest of it, all the truth of it, becomes…old wives’ tales. ” “Magrat’s never said anything about them. ” Granny hesitated. “Magrat doesn’t know too much about elves,” she said. “Hah. She ain’t even a young wife yet. They’re not something that gets talked about a lot these days. It’s not good to talk about them. It’s better if everyone forgets about them. They…come when they’re called. Not called like ‘Cooee. ’ Called inside people’s heads. It’s enough for people just to want them to be here. ” Verence waved his hands in the air. “I’m still learning about monarchy,” he said. “I don’t understand this stuff. ” “You don’t have to understand. You’re a king. Listen. You know about weak places in the world? Where it joins other worlds?” “No. ” “There’s one up on the moor. That’s why the Dancers were put up around it. They’re a kind of wall. ” “Ah. ” “But sometimes the barriers between worlds is weaker, see? Like tides. At circle time. ” “Ah. ” “And if people act stupidly then, even the Dancers can’t keep the gateway shut. ’Cos where the world’s thin, even the wrong thought can make the link. ” “Ah. ” Verence felt the conversation had orbited back to that area where he could make a contribution. “Stupidly?” he said. “Calling them. Attracting them. ” “Ah. So what do I do?” “Just go on reigning. I think we’re safe. They can’t get through. I’ve stopped the girls, so there’ll be no more channeling. You keep this one firmly under lock and key, and don’t tell Magrat. No sense in worrying her, is there? Something came through, but I’m keeping an eye on it. ” Granny rubbed her hands together in grim satisfaction. “I think I’ve got it sorted,” she said. She blinked. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “What did I just say?” she said. “Uh. You said you thought you’d got it sorted,” said the king. Granny Weatherwax blinked. “That’s right,” she said. “I said that. Yes. And I’m in the castle, aren’t I? Yes. |
” “Are you all right, Mistress Weatherwax?” said the king, his voice taut with sudden worry. “Fine, fine. Fine. In the castle. And the children are all right, too?” “Sorry?” She blinked again. “What?” “You don’t look well…” Granny screwed up her face and shook her head. “Yes. The castle. I’m me, you’re you, Gytha’s upstairs with Magrat. That’s right. ” She focused on the king. “Just a bit of…of overtiredness there. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about at all. ” Nanny Ogg looked doubtfully at Magrat’s preparation. “A mouldy bread poultice doesn’t sound very magical to me ,” she said. “Goodie Whemper used to swear by it. But I don’t know what we can do about the coma. ” Magrat thumbed hopefully through the crackling, ancient pages. Her ancestral witches had written things down pretty much as they occurred to them, so that quite important spells and observations would be interspersed with comments about the state of their feet. “It says here, ‘The smalle pointy stones sometimes found are knowne as Elf-shot, beinge the heads of Elf arrows from Times Past. ’ That’s all I can find. And there’s a drawing. But I’ve seen these little stones around, too. ” “Oh, there’s lots of them,” said Nanny, bandaging Diamanda’s shoulder. “Dig ’em up all the time, in my garden. ” “But elves don’t shoot people! Elves are good. ” “They probably just fired at Esme and the girl in fun, like?” “But—” “Look, dear, you’re going to be queen. It’s an important job. You look after the king now, and let me and Esme look after…other stuff. ” “Being Queen? It’s all tapestry and walking around in unsuitable dresses! I know Granny. She doesn’t like anything that’s…that’s got style and grace. She’s so sour. ” “I daresay she’s got her reasons,” said Nanny amiably. “Well, that’s got the girl patched up. What shall we do with her now?” “We’ve got dozens of spare bedrooms,” said Magrat, “and they’re all ready for the guests. We can put her in one of them. Um. Nanny?” “Yes?” “Would you like to be a bridesmaid?” “Not really, dear. Bit old for that sort of thing. ” Nanny hovered. “There isn’t anything you need to ask me, though, is there?” “What do you mean?” “What with your mum being dead and you having no female relatives and everything…” Magrat still looked puzzled. “After the wedding, is what I’m hinting about,” said Nanny. “Oh, that. No, most of that’s being done by a caterer. The cook here isn’t much good at canapes and things. ” Nanny looked carefully at the ceiling. “And what about after that?” she said. “If you catch my meaning. ” “I’m getting a lot of girls in to do the clearing up. Look, don’t worry. I’ve thought of everything. I wish you and Granny wouldn’t treat me as if I don’t know anything. ” Nanny coughed. “Your man,” she said. “Been around a bit, I expect? Been walking out with dozens of young women, I’ve no doubt. ” “Why do you say that? I don’t think he has. Fools don’t have much of a private life and, of course, he’s been very busy since he’s been king. He’s a bit shy with girls. ” Nanny gave up. “Oh, well,” she said, “I’m sure you’ll work it all out as you—” Granny and the king reappeared. “How’s the girl?” said Granny. “We took out the arrow and cleaned up the wound, anyway,” said Magrat. “But she won’t wake up. Best if she stays here. ” “You sure?” said Granny. “She needs keeping an eye on. I’ve got a spare bedroom. ” “She shouldn’t be moved,” said Magrat, briskly. “They’ve put their mark on her,” said Granny. “You sure you know how to deal with it?” “I do know it’s quite a nasty wound,” said Magrat, briskly. “I ain’t exactly thinking about the wound,” said Granny. “She’s been touched by them is what I mean. She’s—” “I’m sure I know how to deal with a sick person,” said Magrat. “I’m not totally stupid, you know. ” “She’s not to be left alone,” Granny persisted. “There’ll be plenty of people around,” said Verence. “The guests start arriving tomorrow. ” “Being alone isn’t the same as not having other people around,” said Granny. “This is a castle , Granny. ” “Right. Well. We won’t keep you, then,” said Granny. “Come, Gytha. ” Nanny Ogg helped herself to an elderly lamb chop from under one of the silver covers, and waved it vaguely at the royal pair. “Have fun,” she said. “Insofar as that’s possible. ” “Gytha!” “Coming. ” Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder. Elves are marvelous. They cause marvels. Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies. Elves are glamorous. They project glamour. Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment. Elves are terrific. They beget terror. The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes look for them behind words that have changed their meaning. No one ever said elves are nice. Elves are bad. “Well, that’s it,” said Nanny Ogg, as the witches walked out over the castle’s drawbridge. “Well done, Esme. ” “It ain’t over,” said Granny Weatherwax. “You said yourself they can’t get through now. No one else round here’s going to try any magic at the stones, that’s sure enough. ” “Yes, but it’ll be circle time for another day or so yet. Anything could happen. ” “That Diamanda girl’s out of it, and you’ve put the wind up the others,” said Nanny Ogg, tossing the lamb bone into the dry moat. “Ain’t no one else going to call ’em, I know that. ” “There’s still the one in the dungeon. ” “You want to get rid of it?” said Nanny. “I’ll send our Shawn to King Ironfoundersson up at Copperhead, if you like. Or I could hop on the old broomstick meself and go and drop the word to the Mountain King. The dwarfs and trolls’ll take it off our hands like a shot. No more problem. ” Granny ignored this. “There’s something else,” she said. “Something we haven’t thought of. She’ll still be looking for a way. ” They’d reached the town square now. She surveyed it. Of course, Verence was king and that was right and proper, and this was his kingdom and that was right and proper too. But in a deeper sense the kingdom belonged to her. And to Gytha Ogg, of course. Verence’s writ only ran to the doings of mankind; even the dwarfs and trolls didn’t acknowledge him as king, although they were very polite about it. But when it came to the trees and the rocks and the soil, Granny Weatherwax saw it as hers. She was sensitive to its moods. It was still being watched. She could sense the watchfulness. Sufficiently close examination changes the thing being observed, and what was being observed was the whole country. The whole country was under attack, and here she was, her mind unraveling… “Funny thing,” said Nanny Ogg, to no one in particular, “while I was sitting up there at the Dancers this morning I thought, funny thing…” “What’re you going on about now?” “I remember when I was young there was a girl like Diamanda. Bad-tempered and impatient and talented and a real pain in the bum to the old witches. I don’t know if you happen to remember her, by any chance?” They passed Jason’s forge, which rang to the sound of his hammer. “I never forgot her,” said Granny, quietly. “Funny thing, how things go round in circles…” “No they don’t,” said Granny Weatherwax firmly. “I wasn’t like her. You know what the old witches round here were like. Set in their ways. No more than a bunch of old wart-charmers. And I wasn’t rude to them. I was just…firm. Forthright. I stood up for meself. Part of being a witch is standing up for yourself—you’re grinning. ” “Just wind, I promise. ” “It’s completely different with her. No one’s ever been able to say I wasn’t open to new ideas. ” “Well known for being open to new ideas, you are,” said Nanny Ogg. “I’m always saying, that Esme Weatherwax, she’s always open to new ideas. ” “Right. ” Granny Weatherwax looked up at the forested hills around the town, and frowned. “The thing is,” she said, “girls these days don’t know how to think with a clear mind. You’ve got to think clearly and not be distracted. That’s Magrat for you, always being distracted. It gets in the way of doing the proper thing. ” She stopped. “I can feel her, Gytha. The Queen of the Fairies. She can get her mind past the stones. |
Blast that girl! She’s got a way in. She’s everywhere. Everywhere I look with my mind, I can smell her. ” “Everything’s going to be all right,” said Nanny, patting her on the shoulder. “You’ll see. ” “She’s looking for a way,” Granny repeated. “Good morrow, brothers, and wherehap do we whist this merry day?” said Carter the baker. The rest of the Lancre Morris Men looked at him. “You on some kind of medication or what?” said Weaver the thatcher. “Just trying to enter into the spirit of the thing,” said Carter. “That’s how rude mechanicals talk. ” “Who’re rude mechanicals?” said Baker the weaver. “They’re the same as Comic Artisans, I think,” said Carter the baker. “I asked my mum what artisans are,” said Jason. “Yeah?” “They’re us. ” “And we’re Rude Mechanicals as well?” said Baker the weaver. “I reckon. ” “Bum!” “Well, we certainly don’t talk like these buggers in the writing,” said Carter the baker. “I never said ‘folde-rol’ in my life. And I can’t understand any of the jokes. ” “You ain’t supposed to understand the jokes, this is a play, ” said Jason. “Drawers!” said Baker the weaver. “Oh, shut up. And push the cart. ” “Don’t see why we couldn’t do the Stick and Bucket Dance…” mumbled Tailor the other weaver. “We’re not doing the Stick and Bucket dance! I never want to hear any more ever about the Stick and Bucket dance! I still get twinges in my knee! So shut up about the Stick and Bucket dance!” “Belly!” shouted Baker, who wasn’t a man to let go of an idea. The cart containing the props bumped and skidded on the rutted track. Jason had to admit that Morris dancing was a lot easier than acting. People didn’t keep turning up to watch and giggle. Small children didn’t stand around jeering. Weaver and Thatcher were in almost open rebellion now, and mucking up the words. The evenings were becoming a constant search for somewhere to rehearse. Even the forest wasn’t private enough. It was amazing how people would just happen to be passing. Weaver stopped pushing, and wiped his brow. “You’d have thought the Blasted Oak would’ve been safe,” he said. “Half a mile from the nearest path, and damn me if after five minutes you can’t move for charcoal burners, hermits, trappers, tree tappers, hunters, trolls, bird-limers, hurdle-makers, swine-herds, truffle hunters, dwarfs, bodgers and suspicious buggers with big coats on. I’m surprised there’s room in the forest for the bloody trees. Where to now?” They’d reached a crossroads, if such it could be called. “Don’t remember this one,” said Carpenter the poacher. “Thought I knew all the paths around here. ” “That’s ’cos you only ever sees ’em in the dark,” said Jason. “Yeah, everyone knows ’tis your delight on a shining night,” said Thatcher the carter. “’Tis his delight every night,” said Jason. “Hey,” said Baker the weaver, “we’re getting really good at this rude mechanism, ain’t we?” “Let’s go right,” said Jason. “Nah, it’s all briars and thorns that way. ” “All right, then, left then. ” “It’s all winding,” said Weaver. “What about the middle road?” said Carter. Jason peered ahead. There was a middle track, hardly more than an animal path, which wound away under shady trees. Ferns grew thickly alongside it. There was a general green, rich, dark feel to it, suggested by the word “bosky. ” * His blacksmith’s senses stood up and screamed. “Not that way,” he said. “Ah, come on ,” said Weaver. “What’s wrong with it?” “Goes up to the Dancers, that path does,” said Jason. “Me mam said no one was to go up to the Dancers ’cos of them young women dancing round ’em in the nudd. ” “Yeah, but they’ve been stopped from that,” said Thatcher. “Old Granny Weatherwax put her foot down hard and made ’em put their drawers on. ” “And they ain’t to go there anymore, neither,” said Carter. “So it’ll be nice and quiet for the rehearsing. ” “Me mam said no one was to go there,” said Jason, a shade uncertainly. “Yeah, but she probably meant…you know…with magical intent,” said Carter. “Nothing magical about prancing around in wigs and stuff. ” “Right,” said Thatcher. “ And it’ll be really private. ” “And,” said Weaver, “ if any young women fancies sneaking back up there to dance around without their drawers on, we’ll be sure to see ’em. ” There was a moment of absolute, introspective silence. “I reckon,” said Thatcher, voicing the unspoken views of nearly all of them, “we owes it to the community. ” “We-ell,” said Jason, “me mam said…” “Anyway, your mum’s a fine one to talk,” said Weaver. “My dad said that when he was young, your mum hardly ever had—” “Oh, all right,” said Jason, clearly outnumbered. “Can’t see it can do any harm. We’re only actin’. It’s…it’s make-believe. It’s not as if it’s anything real. But no one’s to do any dancing. Especially, and I want everyone to be absolutely def’nite about this, the Stick and Bucket dance. ” “Oh, we’ll be acting all right,” said Weaver. “And keeping watch as well, o’course. ” “It’s our duty to the community,” said Thatcher, again. “Make-believe is bound to be all right,” said Jason, uncertainly. Clang boinng clang ding… The sound echoed around Lancre. Grown men, digging in their gardens, flung down their spades and hurried for the safety of their cottages… Clang boinnng goinng ding… Women appeared in doorways and yelled desperately for their children to come in at once… … BANG buggrit Dong boinng … Shutters thundered shut. Some men, watched by their frightened families, poured water on the fire and tried to stuff sacks up the chimney… Nanny Ogg lived alone, because she said old people needed their pride and independence. Besides, Jason lived on one side, and he or his wife whatshername could easily be roused by means of a boot applied heavily to the wall, and Shawn lived on the other side and Nanny had got him to fix up a long length of string with some tin cans on it in case his presence was required. But this was only for emergencies, such as when she wanted a cup of tea or felt bored. Bond drat clang … Nanny Ogg had no bathroom but she did have a tin bath, which normally hung on a nail on the back of the privy. Now she was dragging it indoors. It was almost up the garden, after being bounced off various trees, walls, and garden gnomes on the way. Three large black kettles steamed by her fireside. Beside them were half a dozen towels, the loofah, the pumice stone, the soap, the soap for when the first soap got lost, the ladle for fishing spiders out, the waterlogged rubber duck with the prolapsed squeaker, the bunion chisel, the big scrubbing brush, the small scrubbing brush, the scrubbing brush on a stick for difficult crevices, the banjo, the thing with the pipes and spigots that no one ever really knew the purpose of, and a bottle of Klatchian Nights bath essence, one drop of which could crinkle paint. Bong clang slam… Everyone in Lancre had learned to recognize Nanny’s pre-ablutive activities, out of self-defense. “But it ain’t April!” neighbors told themselves, as they drew the curtains. In the house just up the hill from Nanny Ogg’s cottage Mrs. Skindle grabbed her husband’s arm. “The goat’s still outside!” “Are you mad? I ain’t going out there! Not now!” “You know what happened last time! It was paralyzed all down one side for three days, man, and we couldn’t get it down off the roof!” Mr. Skindle poked his head out of the door. It had all gone quiet. Too quiet. “She’s probably pouring the water in,” he said. “You’ve got a minute or two,” said his wife. “Go on, or we’ll be drinking yogurt for weeks. ” Mr. Skindle took down a halter from behind the door, and crept out to where his goat was tethered near the hedge. It too had learned to recognize the bathtime ritual, and was rigid with apprehension. There was no point in trying to drag it. Eventually he picked it up bodily. There was a distant but insistent sloshing noise, and the bonging sound of a floating pumice stone bouncing on the side of a tin bath. Mr. Skindle started to run. Then there was the distant tinkle of a banjo being tuned. The world held its breath. Then it came, like a tornado sweeping across a prairie. |
“AAaaaaeeeeeee—” Three flowerpots outside the door cracked, one after the other. Shrapnel whizzed past Mr. Skindle’s ear. “—wizzaaardsah staaafff has a knobontheend, knobontheend—” He threw the goat through the doorway and leapt after it. His wife was waiting, and slammed the door shut behind him. The whole family, including the goat, got under the table. It wasn’t that Nanny Ogg sang badly. It was just that she could hit notes which, when amplified by a tin bath half full of water, ceased to be sound and became some sort of invasive presence. There had been plenty of singers whose high notes could smash a glass, but Nanny’s high C could clean it. The Lancre Morris Men sat glumly on the turf, passing an earthenware jug between them. It had not been a good rehearsal. “Don’t work, does it?” said Thatcher. “’S’not funny, that I do know,” said Weaver. “Can’t see the king killing himself laughing at us playing a bunch of mechanical artisans not being very good at doin’ a play. ” “You’re just no good at it,” said Jason. “We’re sposed to be no good at it,” said Weaver. “Yeah, but you’re no good at acting like someone who’s no good at acting,” said Tinker. “I don’t know how, but you ain’t. You can’t expect all the fine lords and ladies—” A breeze blew over the moor, tasting of ice at midsummer. “—to laugh at us not being any good at being no good at acting. ” “I don’t see what’s funny about a bunch of rude artisans trying to do a play anyway,” said Weaver. Jason shrugged. “It says all the gentry—” A tang on the wind, the sharp tin taste of snow… “—in Ankh-Morpork laughed at it for weeks and weeks,” he said. “It was on Broad Way for three months. ” “What’s Broad Way?” “That’s where all the theaters are. The Dysk, Lord Wynkin’s Men, the Bearpit…” “They’d laugh at any damn thing down there,” said Weaver. “Anyway, they all think we’m all simpletons up here. They all think we say oo-aah and sings daft folk songs and has three brain cells huddlin’ together for warmth ’cos of drinking scumble all the time. ” “Yeah. Pass that jug. ” “Swish city bastards. ” “They don’t know what it’s like to be up to the armpit in a cow’s backside on a snowy night. Hah!” “And there ain’t one of ’em that—what’re you talking about? You ain’t got a cow. ” “No, but I know what it’s like. ” “They don’t know what it’s like to get one wellie sucked off in a farmyard full of gyppoe and that horrible moment where you waves the foot around knowin’ that wherever you puts it down it’s going to go through the crust. ” The stoneware jug glugged gently as it was passed from hand to unsteady hand. “True. That’s very true. And you ever seen ’em Morris dancing? ’Nuff to make you hang up your hanky. ” “What, Morris dancing in a city ?” “Well, down in Sto Helit, anyway. Bunch o’ soft wizards and merchants. I watched ’em a whole hour and there wasn’t even a groinin’. ” “Swish city bastards. Comin’ up here, takin’ our jobs…” “Don’t be daft. They don’t know what a proper job is. ” The jug glugged, but with a deeper tone, suggesting that it contained a lot of emptiness. “Bet they’ve never been up to the armpit—” “The point is. The point is. The point. The point is. Hah. All laughin’ at decent rude artisans, eh? I mean. I mean. I mean. What’s it all about? I mean. I mean. I mean. Play’s all about some mechanical…rude buggers makin’ a pig’s ear out of doin’ a play about a bunch of lords and ladies—” A chill in the air, sharp as icicles… “It needs something else. ” “Right. Right. ” “A mythic element. ” “Right. My point. My point. My point. Needs a plot they can go home whistlin’. Exactly. ” “So it should be done here, in the open air. Open to the sky and the hills. ” Jason Ogg wrinkled his brows. They were always pretty wrinkled anyway, whenever he was dealing with the complexities of the world. Only when it came to iron did he know exactly what to do. But he held up a wavering finger and tried to count his fellow thespians. Given that the jug was now empty, this was an effort. There seemed, on average, to be seven other people. But he had a vague, nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. “Out here,” he said, uncertainly. “Good idea,” said Weaver. “Wasn’t it your idea?” said Jason. “I thought you said it. ” “I thought you did. ” “Who cares who said it?” said Thatcher. “’S’a good idea. Seems…right. ” “What was that about the miffic quality?” “What’s miffic?” “Something you’ve got to have,” said Weaver, theatrical expert. “Very important, your miffics. ” “Me mam said no one was to go—” Jason began. “We shan’t be doing any dancing or anything,” said Carter. “I can see you don’t want people skulking around up here by ’emselves, doin’ magic. But it can’t be wrong if everyone comes here. I mean, the king and everyone. Your mam, too. Hah, I’d like to see any girls with no drawers on get past her!” “I don’t think it’s just—” Jason began. “And the other one’ll be there, too,” said Weaver. They considered Granny Weatherwax. “Cor, she frightens the life out of me, her,” said Thatcher, eventually. “The way she looks right through you. I wouldn’t say a word against her, mark you, a fine figure of a woman,” he said loudly, and then added rather more quietly, “but they do say she creeps around the place o’nights, as a hare or a bat or something. Changes her shape and all. Not that I believes a word of it,” he raised his voice, then let it sink again, “but old Weezen over in Slice told me once he shot a hare in the leg one night and next day she passed him on the lane and said ‘Ouch’ and gave him a right ding across the back of his head. ” “My dad said,” said Weaver, “that one day he was leading our old cow to market and it took ill and fell down in the lane near her cottage and he couldn’t get it to move and he went up to her place and he knocked on the door and she opened it and before he could open his mouth she said, ‘Yer cow’s ill, Weaver’…just like that…And then she said—” “Was that the old brindled cow what your dad had?” said Carter. “No, it were my uncle had the brindled cow, we had the one with the crumpled horn,” said Weaver. “Anyway—” “Could have sworn it was brindled,” said Carter. “I remember my dad looking at it over the hedge one day and saying, ‘That’s fine brindling on that cow, you don’t get brindling like that these days. ’ That was when you had that old field alongside Cabb’s Well. ” “We never had that field, it was my cousin had that field,” said Weaver. “Anyway—” “You sure?” “ Anyway ,” said Weaver, ”she said, ‘You wait there, I’ll give you something for it,’ and she goes out into her back kitchen and comes back with a couple of big red pills, and she—” “How’d it get crumpled, then?” said Carter. “— and she gave him one of the pills and said, ‘What you do, you raise the old cow’s tail and shove this pill where the sun don’t shine, and in half a minute she’ll be up and running as fast as she can,’ and he thanked her, and then as he was going out of the door he said, ‘What’s the other pill for?’ and she gave him a look and said, ‘Well, you want to catch her, don’t you?’” “That’d be that deep valley up near Slice,” said Carter. They looked at him. “What, exactly, are you talking about?” said Weaver. “It’s right behind the mountain,” said Carter, nodding knowingly. “Very shady there. That’s what she meant, I expect. The place where the sun doesn’t shine. Long way to go for a pill, but I suppose that’s witches for you. ” Weaver winked at the others. “Listen,” he said, “I’m telling you she meant…well, where the monkey put his nut. ” Carter shook his head. “No monkeys in Slice,” he said. His face became suffused with a slow grin. “Oh, I get it! She was daft!” “Them playwriters down in Ankh,” said Baker, “boy, they certainly know about us. Pass me the jug. ” Jason turned his head again. He was getting more and more uneasy. His hands, which were always in daily contact with iron, were itching. “Reckon we ought to be getting along home now, lads,” he managed. “’S’nice night,” said Baker, staying put. “Look at them stars a-twinklin’. ” “Turned a bit cold, though,” said Jason. |
“Smells like snow,” said Carter. “Oh, yeah,” said Baker. “That’s right. Snow at midsummer. That’s what they get where the sun don’t shine. ” “Shutup, shutup, shutup,” said Jason. “What’s up with you?” “It’s wrong! We shouldn’t be up here! Can’t you feel it?” “Oh, sit down, man,” said Weaver. “It’s fine. Can’t feel nothing but the air. And there’s still more scumble in the jug. ” Baker leaned back. “I remember an old story about this place,” he said. “Some man went to sleep up here once, when he was out hunting. ” The bottle glugged in the dusk. “So what? I can do that,” said Carter. “I go to sleep every night, reg’lar. ” “Ah, but this man, when he woke up and went home, his wife was carrying on with someone else and all his children had grown up and didn’t know who he was. ” “Happens to me just about every day,” said Weaver gloomily. Baker sniffed. “You know, it does smell a bit like snow. You know? That kind of sharp smell. ” Thatcher leaned back, cradling his head on his arm. “Tell you what,” he said, “if I thought my old woman’d marry someone else and my hulking great kids’d bugger off and stop eating up the larder every day I’d come up here with a blanket like a shot. Who’s got that jug?” Jason took a pull out of nervousness, and found that he felt better as the alcohol dissolved his synapses. But he made an effort. “Hey, lads,” he slurred, “’ve got ’nother jug coolin’ in the water trough down in the forge, what d’you say? We could all go down there now. Lads? Lads?” There was the soft sound of snoring. “Oh, lads. ” Jason stood up. The stars wheeled. Jason fell down, very gently. The jug rolled out of his hands and bounced across the grass. The stars twinkled, the breeze was cold, and it smelled of snow. The king dined alone, which is to say, he dined at one end of the big table and Magrat dined at the other. But they managed to meet up for a last glass of wine in front of the fire. They always found it difficult to know what to say at moments like this. Neither of them was used to spending what might be called quality time in the company of another person. The conversation tended toward the cryptic. And mostly it was about the wedding. It’s different , for royalty. For one thing, you’ve already got everything. The traditional wedding list with the complete set of Tupperware and the twelve-piece dining set looks a bit out of place when you’ve already got a castle with so many furnished rooms that have been closed up for so long that the spiders have evolved into distinct species in accordance with strict evolutionary principles. And you can’t simply multiply it all up and ask for An Army in a Red and White Motif to match the kitchen wallpaper. Royalty, when they marry, either get very small things, like exquisitely constructed clockwork eggs, or large bulky items, like duchesses. And then there’s the guest list. It’s bad enough at an ordinary wedding, what with old relatives who dribble and swear, brothers who get belligerent after one drink, and various people who Aren’t Talking to other people because of What They Said About Our Sharon. Royalty has to deal with entire countries who get belligerent after one drink, and entire kingdoms who Have Broken Off Diplomatic Relations after what the Crown Prince Said About Our Sharon. Verence had managed to work that all out, but then there were the species to consider. Trolls and dwarfs got on all right in Lancre by the simple expedient of having nothing to do with one another, but too many of them under one roof, especially if drink was flowing, and especially if it was flowing in the direction of the dwarfs, and people would Be Breaking People’s Arms Off because of what, more or less, Their Ancestors Said About Our Sharon. And then there’s other things… “How’s the girl they brought in?” “I’ve told Millie to keep an eye on her. What are they doing, those two?” “I don’t know. ” “You’re king, aren’t you?” Verence shifted uneasily. “But they’re witches. I don’t like to ask them questions. ” “Why not?” “They might give me answers. And then what would I do?” “What did Granny want to talk to you about?” “Oh…you know…things…” “It wasn’t about…sex, was it?” Verence suddenly looked like a man who had been expecting a frontal attack and suddenly finds nasty things happening behind him. “No! Why?” “Nanny was trying to give me motherly advice. It was all I could do to keep a straight face. Honestly, they both treat me as if I’m a big child. ” “Oh, no. Nothing like that. ” They sat on either side of the huge fireplace, both crimson with embarrassment. Then Magrat said: “Er…you did send off for that book, did you? You know…the one with the woodcuts?” “Oh, yes. Yes, I did. ” “It ought to have arrived by now. ” “Well, we only get a mail coach once a week. I expect it’ll come tomorrow. I’m fed up with running down there every week in case Shawn gets there first. ” “You are king. You could tell him not to. ” “Don’t like to, really. He’s so keen. ” A large log crackled into two across the iron dogs. “Can you really get books about…that?” “You can get books about anything. ” They both stared at the fire. Verence thought: she doesn’t like being a queen, I can see that, but that’s what you are when you marry a king, all the books say so… And Magrat thought: he was much nicer when he was a man with silver bells on his hat and slept every night on the floor in front of his master’s door. I could talk to him then… Verence clapped his hands together. “Well, that’s about it, then. Busy day tomorrow, what with all the guests coming and everything. ” “Yes. It’s going to be a long day. ” “Very nearly the longest day. Haha. ” “Yes. ” “I expect they’ve put warming pans in our beds. ” “Has Shawn got the hang of it now?” “I hope so. I can’t afford any more mattresses. ” It was a great hall. Shadows piled up in the corners, clustered at either end. “I suppose,” said Magrat, very slowly, as they stared at the fire, “they haven’t really had many books here in Lancre. Up until now. ” “Literacy is a great thing. ” “They got along without them, I suppose. ” “Yes, but not properly. Their husbandry is really very primitive. ” Magrat looked at the fire. Their wifery wasn’t up to much either, she thought. “So we’d better be off to bed, then, do you think?” “I suppose so. ” Verence took down two silver candlesticks, and lit the candles with a taper. He handed one to Magrat. “Goodnight, then. ” “Goodnight. ” They kissed, and turned away, and headed for their own rooms. The sheets on Magrat’s bed were just beginning to turn brown. She pulled out the warming pan and dropped it out of the window. She glared at the garderobe. Magrat was probably the only person in Lancre who worried about things being biodegradable. Everyone else just hoped things would last and knew that damn near everything went rotten if you left it long enough. At home—correction, at the cottage where she used to live —there had been a privy at the bottom of the garden. She’d approved of it. With a regular bucket of ashes and a copy of last year’s Almanack on a nail and a bunch-of-grapes cutout on the door it functioned quite effectively. About once every few months she’d have to dig a big hole and get someone to help her move the shed itself. The garderobe was this: a sort of small roofed-in room inside the wall, with a wooden seat positioned over a large square hole that went down all the way to the foot of the castle wall far below, where there was an opening from which biodegradability took place once a week by means of an organo-dynamic process known as Shawn Ogg and his wheelbarrow. That much Magrat understood. It kind of fitted in with the whole idea of royalty and commonality. What shocked her were the hooks. They were for storing clothes in the garderobe. Millie had explained that the more expensive furs and things were hung there. Moths were kept away by the draught from the hole and…the smell. * Magrat had put her foot down about that, at least. Now she lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. |
Of course she wanted to marry Verence, even with his weak chin and slightly runny eyes. In the pit of the night Magrat knew that she was in no position to be choosy, and getting a king in the circumstances was a stroke of luck. It was just that she had preferred him when he’d been a Fool. There’s something about a man who tinkles gently as he moves. It was just that she could see a future of bad tapestry and sitting looking wistfully out of the window. It was just that she was fed up with books of etiquette and lineage and Twurp’s Peerage of the Fifteen Mountains and the Sto Plains. You had to know this kind of thing, to be a queen. There were books full of the stuff in the Long Gallery, and she hadn’t even explored the far end. How to address the third cousin of an earl. What the pictures on shields meant, all those lions passant and regardant. And the clothes weren’t getting any better. Magrat had drawn the line at a wimple, and she wasn’t at all happy about the big pointy hat with the scarf dangling from it. It probably looked beautiful on the Lady of Shallot, but on Magrat it looked as though someone had dropped a big ice cream on her neck. Nanny Ogg sat in front of her fire in her dressing gown, smoking her pipe and idly cutting her toenails. There was the occasional ping and ricochet from distant parts of the room, and a small tinkle as an oil lamp was smashed. Granny Weatherwax lay on her bed, still and cold. In her blue-veined hands, the words: I ATE’NT DEAD… Her mind drifted across the forest, searching, searching… The trouble was, she could not go where there were no eyes to see or ears to hear. So she never noticed the hollow near the stones, where eight men slept. And dreamed… Lancre is cut off from the rest of the lands of mankind by a bridge over Lancre Gorge, above the shallow but poisonously fast and treacherous Lancre River. * The coach pulled up at the far end. There was a badly painted red, black, and white post across the road. The coachman sounded his horn. “What’s up?” said Ridcully, leaning out of the window. “Troll bridge. ” “Whoops. ” After a while there was a booming sound under the bridge, and a troll clambered over the parapet. It was quite overdressed, for a troll. In addition to the statutory loincloth, it was wearing a helmet. Admittedly it had been designed for a human head, and was attached to the much larger troll head by string, but there probably wasn’t a better word than “wearing. ” “What’s up?” said the Bursar, waking up. “There’s a troll on the bridge,” said Ridcully, “but it’s underneath a helmet, so it’s probably official and will get into serious trouble if it eats people. * Nothing to worry about. ” The Bursar giggled, because he was on the upcurve of whatever switchback his mind was currently riding. The troll appeared at the coach window. “Afternoon, your lordships,” it said. “Customs inspection. ” “I don’t think we have any,” babbled the Bursar happily. “I mean, we used to have a tradition of rolling boiled eggs downhill on Soul Cake Tuesday, but—” “I means,” said the troll, “do you have any beer, spirits, wines, liquors, hallucinogenic herbage, or books of a lewd or licentious nature?” Ridcully pulled the Bursar back from the window. “No,” he said. “No?” “No. ” “Sure?” “Yes. ” “Would you like some?” “We haven’t even got,” said the Bursar, despite Ridcully’s efforts to sit on his head, “any billygoats. ” There are some people that would whistle “Yankee Doodle” in a crowded bar in Atlanta. Even these people would consider it tactless to mention the word “billygoat” to a troll. The troll’s expression changed very slowly, like a glacier eroding half a mountain. Ponder tried to get under the seat. “So we’ll just trit-trot along, shall we?” said the Bursar, his voice by now slightly muffled. “He doesn’t mean it,” said the Archchancellor quickly. “It’s the dried frog talking. ” “You don’t want to eat me ,” said the Bursar. “You want to eat my brother , he’s much mfmfph mfmfph…” “Well, now,” said the troll, “seems to me that—” He spotted Casanunda. “Oh- ho ,” he said, “ dwarf smuggling, eh?” “Don’t be ridiculous, man,” said Ridcully, “there’s no such thing as dwarf smuggling. ” “Yeah? Then what’s that you’ve got there?” “I’m a giant,” said Casanunda. “Giants are a lot bigger. ” “I’ve been ill. ” The troll looked perplexed. This was post-graduate thinking for a troll. But he was looking for trouble. He found it on the roof of the coach, where the Librarian had been sunbathing. “What’s in that sack up there?” “That’s not a sack. That’s the Librarian. ” The troll prodded the large mass of red hair. “Ook…” “What? A monkey?” “Oook?” Several minutes later, the travelers leaned on the parapet, looking down reflectively at the river far below. “Happen often, does it?” said Casanunda. “Not so much these days,” said Ridcully. “It’s like—what’s that word, Stibbons? About breedin’ and passin’ on stuff to yer kids?” “Evolution,” said Ponder. The ripples were still sloshing against the banks. “Right. Like, my father had a waistcoat with embroidered peacocks on it, and he left it to me, and now I’ve got it. They call it hereditarery—” “No, that’s not—” Ponder began, with no hope whatsoever that Ridcully would listen. “—so anyway, most people left back home know the difference between apes and monkeys now,” said Ridcully. “Evolution, that is. It’s hard to breed when you’ve got a headache from being bounced up and down on the pavement. ” The ripples had stopped now. “Do you think trolls can swim?” said Casanunda. “No. They just sink and walk ashore,” said Ridcully. He turned, and leaned back on his elbows. “This really takes me back, you know. The old Lancre River. There’s trout down there that’d take your arm off. ” “Not just trout,” said Ponder, watching a helmet emerge from the water. “And limpid pools further up,” said Ridcully. “Full of, of, of…limpids, stuff like that. And you can bathe naked and no one’d see. And water meadows full of…water, don’tyerknow, and flowers and stuff. ” He sighed. “You know, it was on this very bridge that she told me she—” “He’s got out of the river,” said Ponder. But the troll wasn’t moving very fast, because the Librarian was nonchalantly levering one of the big stones out of the parapet. “On this very bridge I asked—” “That’s a big club he’s got,” said Casanunda. “This bridge, I may say, was where I nearly—” “Could you stop holding that rock in such a provocative way?” said Ponder. “Oook. ” “It’d be a help. ” “The actual bridge, if anyone’s interested, is where my whole life took a diff—” “Why don’t we just go on?” said Ponder. “He’s got a steep climb. ” “Good thing for him he hasn’t got up here, eh?” said Casanunda. Ponder swiveled the Librarian around and pushed him toward the coach. “This is the bridge, in fact, where—” Ridcully turned around. “Are you coming or not?” said Casanunda, with the reins in his hand. “I was actually having a quality moment of misty nostalgic remembrance,” said Ridcully. “Not that any of you buggers noticed, of course. ” Ponder held the door open. “Well, you know what they say. You can’t cross the same river twice, Archchancellor,” he said. Ridcully stared at him. “Why not? This is a bridge. ” On the roof of the coach the Librarian picked up the coach-horn, bit the end of it reflectively—well, you never knew—and then blew it so hard that it uncurled. It was early morning in Lancre town, and it was more or less deserted. Farmers had got up hours before to curse and swear and throw a bucket at the cows and had then gone back to bed. The sound of the horn bounced off the houses. Ridcully leapt out of the coach and took a deep, theatrical breath. “Can’t you smell that?” he said. “That’s real fresh mountain air, that is. ” He thumped his chest. “I’ve just trodden in something rural,” said Ponder. “Where is the castle, sir?” “I think it could be that huge black towering thing looming over the town,” said Casanunda. The Archchancellor stood in the middle of the square and turned slowly with his arms spread wide. “See that tavern?” he said. |
“Hah! If I had a penny for every time they threw me out of there, I’d have…five dollars and thirty-eight pence. And over there is the old forge, and there’s Mrs. Persifleur’s, where I had lodgings. See that peak up there? That’s Copperhead, that is. I climbed that one day with old Carbonaceous the troll. Oh, great days, great days. And see that wood down there, on the hill? That’s where she—” His voice trailed into a mumble. “Oh, my word. It all comes back to me…What a summer that was. They don’t make ’em like that anymore. ” He sighed. “You know,” he said, “I’d give anything to walk through those woods with her again. There were so many things we never—oh, well. Come on. ” Ponder looked around at Lancre. He’d been born and raised in Ankh-Morpork. As far as he was concerned, the countryside was something that happened to other people, and most of them had four legs. As far as he was concerned, the countryside was like raw chaos before the universe, which was to say something with cobbles and walls, something civilized , was created. “This is the capital city?” he said. “More or less,” said Casanunda, who tended to feel the same way about places that weren’t paved. “I bet there’s not a single delicatessen anywhere,” said Ponder. “And the beer here,” said Ridcully, “the beer here—well, you’d just better taste the beer here! And there’s stuff called scumble, they make it from apples and…and damned if I know what else they put in it, except you daren’t pour it into metal mugs. You ought to try it, Mr. Stibbons. It’d put hair on your chest. And yours—” he turned to the next one down from the coach, who turned out to be the Librarian. “Oook?” “Well, I, er, I should just drink anything you like, in your case,” said Ridcully. He hauled the mail sack down from the roof. “What do we do with this?” he said. There were ambling footsteps behind him, and he turned to see a short, red-faced youth in ill-fitting and baggy chain-mail, which made him look like a lizard that had lost a lot of weight very quickly. “Where’s the coach driver?” said Shawn Ogg. “He’s ill,” said Ridcully. “He had a sudden attack of bandits. What do we do with the mail?” “I take the palace stuff, and we generally leave the sack hanging up on a nail outside the tavern so that people can help themselves,” said Shawn. “Isn’t that dangerous?” said Ponder. “Don’t think so. It’s a strong nail,” said Shawn, rummaging in the sack. “I meant, don’t people steal letters?” “Oh, they wouldn’t do that, they wouldn’t do that. One of the witches’d go and stare at ’em if they did that. ” Shawn stuffed a few packages under his arm and hung the sack on the aforesaid nail. “Yes, that’s another thing they used to have round here,” said Ridcully. “Witches! Let me tell you about the witches round here—” “Our mum’s a witch,” said Shawn conversationally, rummaging in the sack. “As fine a body of women as you could hope to meet,” said Ridcully, with barely a hint of mental gear-clashing. “And not a bunch of interfering power-mad old crones at all, whatever anyone might say. ” “Are you here for the wedding?” “That’s right. I’m the Archchancellor of Unseen University, this is Mr. Stibbons, a wizard, this—where are you? Oh, there you are—this is Mr. Casanunda—” “Count,” said Casanunda. “I’m a Count. ” “Really? You never said. ” “Well, you don’t, do you? It’s not the first thing you say. ” Ridcully’s eyes narrowed. “But I thought dwarfs didn’t have titles,” he said. “I performed a small service for Queen Agantia of Skund,” said Casanunda. “Did you? My word. How small?” “Not that small. ” “My word. And that’s the Bursar, and this is the Librarian. ” Ridcully took a step backward, waved his hands in the air, and silently mouthed the words: Don’t Say Monkey. “Pleased to meet you,” said Shawn, politely. Ridcully felt moved to investigate. “The Librarian,” he repeated. “Yes. You said. ” Shawn nodded at the orang-utan. “How d’you do?” “Ook. ” “You might be wondering why he looks like that,” Ridcully prompted. “No, sir. ” “No?” “My mum says none of us can help how we’re made,” said Shawn. “What a singular lady. And what is her name?” said Ridcully. “Mrs. Ogg, sir. ” “Ogg? Ogg? Name rings a bell. Any relation to Sobriety Ogg?” “He was my dad, sir. ” “Good grief. Old Sobriety’s son? How is the old devil?” “Dunno, sir, what with him being dead. ” “Oh dear. How long ago?” “These past thirty years,” said Shawn. “But you don’t look any older than twen—” Ponder began. Ridcully elbowed him sharply in the ribcage. “This is the countryside,” he hissed. “People do things differently here. And more often. ” He turned back to Shawn’s pink and helpful face. “Things seem to be waking up a bit,” he said, and indeed shutters were coming down around the square. “We’ll get some breakfast in the tavern. They used to do wonderful breakfasts. ” He sniffed again, and beamed. “Now that ,” he said, “is what I call fresh air. ” Shawn looked around carefully. “Yes, sir,” he said. “That’s what we call it, too. ” There was the sound of someone frantically running, and then a pause, and King Verence II appeared around the corner, walking slowly and calmly with a very red face. “Certainly gives people a rosy complexion,” said Ridcully cheerfully. “It’s the king!” hissed Shawn. “And me without my trumpet!” “Um,” said Verence. “Post been yet, Shawn?” “Oh, yes, sire!” said Shawn, almost as flustered as the king. “Got it right here. Don’t you worry about it! I’ll open it all up and have it on your desk right away, sire!” “Um…” “Something the matter, sire?” “Um…I think perhaps…” Shawn was already tearing at the wrappers. “Here’s that book on etiquette you’ve been waiting for, sire, and the pig stockbook, and…what’s this one…?” Verence made a grab for it. Shawn automatically tried to hang on to it. The wrapping split, and the large bulky book thumped on to the cobbles. Its fluttering pages played their woodcuts to the breeze. They looked down. “Wow!” said Shawn. “My word,” said Ridcully. “Um,” said the king. “Oook?” Shawn picked up the book very, very carefully, and turned a few pages. “Hey, look at this one! He’s doing it with his feet! I didn’t know you could do it with your feet!” He nudged Ponder Stibbons. “Look, sir!” Ridcully peered at the king. “You all right, your majesty?” he said. Verence squirmed. “Um…” “And, look, here’s one where both chaps are doing it with sticks…” “What?” said Verence. “Wow,” said Shawn. “Thank you, sire. This is going to really come in handy, I can tell you. I mean, I’ve picked up bits and pieces here and there, but—” Verence snatched the book from Shawn’s hands and looked at the title page. “‘Martial Arts’? Martial Arts. But I’m sure I wrote Marit—” “Sire?” There was one exquisite moment while Verence fought for mental balance, but he won. “Ah. Yes. Right. Uh. Well, yes. Uh. Of course. Yes. Well, you see, a well-trained army is…is essential to the security of any kingdom. That’s right. Yes. Fine. Magrat and me, we thought…yes. It’s for you, Shawn. ” “I’ll start practicing right away, sire!” “Um. Good. ” Jason Ogg awoke, and wished he hadn’t. Let’s be clear. Many authorities have tried to describe a hangover. Dancing elephants and so on are often employed for this purpose. The descriptions never work. They always smack of, hoho, here’s one for the lads, let’s have some hangover machismo, hoho, landlord, another nineteen pints of lager, hey, we supped some stuff last night, hoho… Anyway, you can’t describe a scumble hangover. The best bit of it is a feeling that your teeth have dissolved and coated themselves on your tongue. Eventually the blacksmith sat up and opened his eyes. * His clothes were soaked with dew. His head felt full of wisps and whispers. He stared at the stones. The scumble jar was lying in the leather. After a moment or two he picked it up, and took an experimental swig. It was empty. He nudged Weaver in the ribs with his boot. “Wake up, you old bugger. We’ve been up here all night!” One by one, the Morris Men made the short but painful journey into consciousness. |
“I’m going to get some stick from our Eva when I get home,” moaned Carter. “You might not,” said Thatcher, who was on his hands and knees looking for his hat. “Maybe when you gets ’ome she’ll have married someone else, eh?” “Maybe a hundred years’ll have gone past,” said Carter, hopefully. “Cor, I hope so,” said Weaver, brightening up. “I had sevenpence invested in The Thrift Bank down in Ohulan. I’ll be a millionaire at complicated interest. I’ll be as rich as Creosote. ” “Who’s Creosote?” said Thatcher. “Famous rich bugger,” said Baker, fishing one of his boots out of a peat pool. “Foreign. ” “Wasn’t he the one, everything he touched turned to gold?” said Carter. “Nah, that was someone else. Some king or other. That’s what happens in foreign parts. One minute you’re all right, next minute, everything you touch turns to gold. He was plagued with it. ” Carter looked puzzled. “How did he manage when he had to—” “Let that be a lesson to you, young Carter,” said Baker. “You stay here where folks are sensible, not go gadding off abroad where you might suddenly be holding a fortune in your hands and not have anything to spend it on. ” “We’ve slept out here all night,” said Jason uncertainly. “That’s dangerous, that is. ” “You’re right there, Mr. Ogg,” said Carter. “I think something went to the toilet in my ear. ” “I mean strange things can enter your head. ” “That’s what I mean, too. ” Jason blinked. He was certain he’d dreamed. He could remember dreaming. But he couldn’t remember what the dream had been about. But there was still the feeling in his head of voices talking to him, but too far away to be heard. “Oh, well,” he said, managing to stand up at the third attempt, “probably no harm done. Let’s get on home and see what century it is. ” “What century is it, anyway?” said Thatcher. “Century of the Fruitbat, isn’t it?” said Baker. “Might not be anymore,” said Carter hopefully. It turned out that it was, indeed, the Century of the Fruitbat. Lancre didn’t have much use for units of time any smaller than an hour or larger than a year, but people were clearly putting up bunting in the town square and a gang of men were erecting the Maypole. Someone was nailing up a very badly painted picture of Verence and Magrat under which was the slogan: God Bles Their Majestieys. With hardly a word exchanged, the men parted and staggered their separate ways. A hare lolloped through the morning mist until it reached the drunken, ancient cottage in its clearing in the woods. It reached a tree stump between the privy and The Herbs. Most woodland animals avoided The Herbs. This was because animals that didn’t avoid The Herbs over the past fifty years had tended not to have descendants. A few tendrils waved in the breeze and this was odd because there wasn’t any breeze. It sat on the stump. And then there was a sensation of movement. Something left the hare and moved across the air to an open upstairs window. It was invisible, at least to normal eyesight. The hare changed. Before, it had moved with purpose. Now it flopped down and began to wash its ears. After a while the back door opened and Granny Weatherwax walked out stiffly, holding a bowl of bread and milk. She put it down on the step and turned back without a second glance, closing the door again behind her. The hare hopped closer. It’s hard to know if animals understand obligations, or the nature of transactions. But that doesn’t matter. They’re built into witchcraft. If you want to really upset a witch, do her a favor which she has no means of repaying. The unfulfilled obligation will nag at her like a hangnail. Granny Weatherwax had been riding the hare’s mind all night. Now she owed it something. There’d be bread and milk left outside for a few days. You had to repay, good or bad. There was more than one type of obligation. That’s what people never really understood, she told herself as she stepped back into the kitchen. Magrat hadn’t understood it, nor that new girl. Things had to balance. You couldn’t set out to be a good witch or a bad witch. It never worked for long. All you could try to be was a witch , as hard as you could. She sat down by the cold hearth, and resisted a temptation to comb her ears. They had broken in somewhere. She could feel it in the trees, in the minds of tiny animals. She was planning something. Something soon. There was of course nothing special about midsummer in the occult sense, but there was in the minds of people. And the minds of people was where elves were strong. Granny knew that sooner or later she’d have to face the Queen. Not Magrat, but the real Queen. And she would lose. She’d worked all her life on controlling the insides of her own head. She’d prided herself on being the best there was. But no longer. Just when she needed all her self reliance, she couldn’t rely on her mind. She could sense the probing of the Queen—she could remember the feel of that mind, from all those decades ago. And she seemed to have her usual skill at Borrowing. But herself —if she didn’t leave little notes for herself, she’d be totally at sea. Being a witch meant knowing exactly who you were and where you were, and she was losing the ability to know both. Last night she’d found herself setting the table for two people. She’d tried to walk into a room she didn’t have. And soon she’d have to fight an elf. If you fought an elf and lost…then, if you were lucky, you would die. Magrat was brought breakfast in bed by a giggling Millie Chillum. “Guests are arriving already, ma’am. And there’s flags and everything down in the square! And Shawn has found the coronation coach!” “How can you lose a coach?” said Magrat. “It was locked up in one of the old stables, ma’am. He’s giving it a fresh coat of gold paint right now. ” “But we’re going to be married here ,” said Magrat. “We don’t have to go anywhere. ” “The king said perhaps you could both ride around a bit. Maybe as far as Bad Ass, he said. With Shawn Ogg as a military escort. So people can wave and shout hooray. And then come back here. ” Magrat put on her dressing gown and crossed to the tower window. She could see down over the outer walls and into Lancre town square, which was already quite full of people. It would have been a market day in any case, but people were erecting benches as well and the Maypole was already up. There were even a few dwarfs and trolls, politely maintaining a distance from one another. “I just saw a monkey walk across the square,” said Magrat. “The whole world’s coming to Lancre!” said Millie, who had once been as far as Slice. Magrat caught sight of the distant picture of herself and her fiancé. “This is stupid,” she said to herself, but Millie heard her and was shocked. “What can you mean, ma’am?” Magrat spun around. “All this! For me !” Millie backed away in sudden fright. “I’m just Magrat Garlick! Kings ought to marry princesses and duchesses and people like that! People who are used to it! I don’t want people shouting hooray just because I’ve gone by in a coach! And especially not people who’ve known me all my life! All this—this,” her frantic gesture took in the hated garderobe, the huge four-poster bed, and the dressing room full of stiff and expensive clothes, “this stuff …it’s not for me ! It’s for some kind of idea. Didn’t you ever get those cutouts, those dolls, you know, when you were a girl…dolls you cutout, and there were cut-out clothes as well? And you could make her anything you wanted? That’s me ! It’s…it’s like the bees! I’m being turned into a queen whether I want to or not! That’s what’s happening to me!” “I’m sure the king bought you all those nice clothes because—” “I don’t mean just clothes. I mean people’d be shouting hooray if—if anyone went past in the coach!” “But you were the one who fell in love with the king, ma’am,” said Millie, bravely. Magrat hesitated for a moment. She’d never quite analyzed that emotion. Eventually she said, “No. He wasn’t king then. No one knew he was going to be king. He was just a sad, nice little man in a cap and bells who everyone ignored. |
” Millie backed away a bit more. “I expect it’s nerves, ma’am,” she gabbled. “Everyone feels nervous on the day before their wedding. Shall I…shall I see if I can make you some herbal—” “I’m not nervous! And I can do my own herbal tea if I happen to want any!” “Cook’s very particular who goes into the herb garden, ma’am,” said Millie. “I’ve seen that herb garden! It’s all leggy sage and yellowy parsley! If you can’t stuff it up a chicken’s bum, she doesn’t think it’s an herb! Anyway…who’s queen in this vicinity?” “I thought you didn’t want to be, ma’am?” said Millie. Magrat stared at her. For a moment she looked as if she was arguing with herself. Millie might not have been the best-informed girl in the world, but she wasn’t stupid. She was at the door and through it just as the breakfast tray hit the wall. Magrat sat down on the bed with her head in her hands. She didn’t want to be queen. Being a queen was like being an actor, and Magrat had never been any good at acting. She’d always felt she wasn’t very good at being Magrat, if it came to that. The bustle of the pre-nuptial activities rose up from the town. There’d be folkdancing, of course—there seemed to be no way of preventing it—and probably folksinging would be perpetrated. And there’d be dancing bears and comic jugglers and the greasy pole competition, which for some reason Nanny Ogg always won. And bowling-with-a-pig. And the bran tub, which Nanny Ogg usually ran; it was a brave man who plunged his hand into a bran tub stocked by a witch with a broad sense of humor. Magrat had always liked the fairs. Up until now. Well, there were still some things she could do. She dressed herself in her commoner’s clothes for the last time, and let herself out and down the back stairs to the widdershins tower and the room where Diamanda lay. Magrat had instructed Shawn to keep a good fire going in the grate, and Diamanda was still sleeping, peacefully, the unwakeable sleep. Magrat couldn’t help noticing that Diamanda was strikingly good-looking and, from what she’d heard, quite brave enough to stand up to Granny Weatherwax. She could hardly wait to get her better so that she could envy her properly. The wound seemed to be healing up nicely, but there seemed to be— Magrat strode to the bellpull in the corner and hauled on it. After a minute or two Shawn Ogg arrived, panting. There was gold paint on his hands. “What,” said Magrat, “are all these things?” “Um. Don’t like to say, ma’am…” “One happens to be…very nearly…the queen,” said Magrat. “Yes, but the king said…well, Granny said—” “Granny Weatherwax does not happen to rule the kingdom,” said Magrat. She hated herself when she spoke like this, but it seemed to work. “And anyway she’s not here. One is here, however, and if you don’t tell one what’s going on I’ll see to it that you do all the dirty jobs around the palace. ” “But I do all the dirty jobs anyway,” said Shawn. “I shall see to it that there are dirtier ones. ” Magrat picked up one of the bundles. It was made up of strips of sheet wrapped around what turned out to be an iron bar. “They’re all around her,” she said. “Why?” Shawn looked at his feet. There was gold paint on his boots, too. “Well, our mum said…” “Yes?” “Our mum said I was to see to it that there was iron round her. So me and Millie got some bars from down the smithy and wrapped ’em up like this and Millie packed ’em round her. ” “Why?” “To keep away the…the Lords and Ladies, ma’am. ” “What? That’s just old superstition! Anyway, everyone knows elves were good, whatever Granny Weatherwax says. ” Behind her, Shawn flinched. Magrat pulled the wrapped iron lumps out of the bed and tossed them into the corner. “No old wives’ tales here, thank you very much. Is there anything else people haven’t been telling me, by any chance?” Shawn shook his head, guiltily aware of the thing in the dungeon. “Huh! Well, go away. Verence wants the kingdom to be modern and efficient, and that means no horseshoes and stuff around the place. Go on, go away. ” “Yes, Miss Queen. ” At least I can do something positive around here, Magrat told herself. Yes. Be sensible. Go and see him. Talk. Magrat clung to the idea that practically anything could be sorted out if only people talked to one another. “Shawn?” He paused at the door. “Yes, ma’am?” “Has the king gone down to the Great Hall yet?” “I think he’s still dressing, Miss Queen. He hasn’t rung for me to do the trumpet, I know that. ” In fact, Verence, who didn’t like going everywhere preceded by Shawn’s idea of a fanfare, had already gone downstairs incognito. But Magrat slipped along to his room, and knocked on the door. Why be bashful? It’d be her room as well from tomorrow, wouldn’t it? She tried the handle. It turned. Without quite willing it, Magrat went in. Rooms in the castle could hardly be said to belong to anyone in any case. They’d had too many occupants over the centuries. The very atmosphere was the equivalent of those walls scattered with outbreaks of drawing-pin holes where last term’s occupants hung the posters of rock groups long disbanded. You couldn’t stamp your personality on that stone. It stamped back harder. For Magrat, stepping into a man’s bedroom was like an explorer stepping on to that part of the map marked Here Be Dragons. * And it wasn’t exactly what it ought to have been. Verence had arrived at the bedroom concept fairly late in life. When he was a boy, the entire family slept on straw in the cottage attic. As an apprentice in the Guild of Joculators, he’d slept on a pallet in a long dormitory of other sad, beaten young men. When he was a fully fledged Fool he’d slept, by tradition, curled up in front of his master’s door. Suddenly, at a later age than is usual, he’d been introduced to the notion of soft mattresses. And now Magrat was privy to the big secret. It hadn’t worked. There was the Great Bed of Lancre, which was said to be able to sleep a dozen people, although in what circumstances and why it should be necessary history had never made clear. It was huge and made of oak. It was also, very clearly, unslept in. Magrat pulled back the sheets, and smelled the scorched smell of linen. But it also smelled unaired, as if it hadn’t been slept in. She stared around the room until her eye lit on the little still-life by the door. There was a folded nightshirt, a candlestick, and a small pillow. As far as Verence had been concerned, a crown merely changed which side of the door you slept. Oh, gods. He’d always slept in front of the door of his master. And now he was king, he slept in front of the door to his kingdom. Magrat felt her eyes fill with tears. You couldn’t help loving someone as soppy as that. Fascinated, and aware that she was where she technically shouldn’t be, Magrat blew her nose and explored further. A heap of discarded garments by the bed suggested that Verence had mastered the art of hanging up clothes as practiced by half the population of the world, and also that he had equally had difficulty with the complex topological maneuvers necessary to turn his socks the right way out. There was a tiny dressing table and a mirror. Stuck to the mirror frame was a dried and faded flower that looked, to Magrat, very like the ones she habitually wore in her hair. She shouldn’t have gone on looking. She admitted that to herself, afterward. But she seemed to have no self-control. There was a wooden bowl in the middle of the dresser table, full of odd coins, bits of string, and the general detritus of the nightly emptied pocket. And a folded paper. Much folded, as if it had stayed in said pocket for some time. She picked it up, and unfolded it. There were little kingdoms all over the hubward slopes of the Ramtops. Every narrow valley, every ledge that something other than a goat could stand on, was a kingdom. There were kingdoms in the Ramtops so small that, if they were ravaged by a dragon, and that dragon had been killed by a young hero, and the king had given him half his kingdom as per Section Three of the Heroic Code, then there wouldn’t have been any kingdom left. |
There were wars of annexation that went on for years just because someone wanted a place to keep the coal. Lancre was one of the biggest kingdoms. It could actually afford a standing army. * Kings and queens and various sub-orders of aristocracy were even now streaming over Lancre bridge, watched by a sulking and soaking-wet troll who had given up on bridge-keeping for the day. The Great Hall had been thrown open. Jugglers and fire-eaters strolled among the crowd. Up in the minstrels gallery a small orchestra was playing the Lancre one-string fiddle and famed Ramtop bagpipes, but fortunately they were more or less drowned out by the noise of the crowd. Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax moved through said crowd. In deference to this being a festive occasion, Nanny Ogg had exchanged her normal black pointy hat for one the same shape but in red, with wax cherries on it. “All the hort mond are here,” Nanny observed, taking a drink off a passing tray. “Even some wizards from Ankh-Morpork, our Shawn said. One of them said I had a fine body, he said. Been tryin’ to remember all morning who that could have been. ” “Spoiled for choice,” said Granny, but it was automatic nastiness, with no real heart to it. It worried Nanny Ogg. Her friend seemed preoccupied. “There’s some gentry we don’t want to see here,” said Granny. “I won’t be happy until all this is over. ” Nanny Ogg craned to try and see over the head of a small emperor. “Can’t see Magrat around,” she said. “There’s Verence talking to some other kings, but can’t see our Magrat at all. Our Shawn said Millie Chillum said she was just a bag of nerves this morning. ” “All these high-born folks,” said Granny, looking around at the crowned heads. “I feel like a fish out of water. ” “Well, the way I see it, it’s up to you to make your own water,” said Nanny, picking up a cold roast chicken leg from the buffet and stuffing it up a sleeve. “Don’t drink too much. We’ve got to keep alert, Gytha. Remember what I said. Don’t let yourself get distracted—” “That’s never the delectable Mrs. Ogg, is it?” Nanny turned. There was no one behind her. “Down here,” said the voice. She looked down, into a wide grin. “Oh, blast,” she said. “It’s me, Casanunda,” said Casanunda, who was dwarfed still further by an enormous * powdered wig. “You remember? We danced the night away in Genua?” “No we didn’t. ” “Well, we could have done. ” “Fancy you turning up here,” said Nanny, weakly. The thing about Casanunda, she recalled, was that the harder you slapped him down the faster he bounced back, often in an unexpected direction. “Our stars are entwined,” said Casanunda. “We’re fated for one another. I wants your body, Mrs. Ogg. ” “I’m still using it. ” And while she suspected, quite accurately, that this was an approach the world’s second greatest lover used on anything that appeared to be even vaguely female, Nanny Ogg had to admit that she was flattered. She’d had many admirers in her younger days, but time had left her with a body that could only be called comfortable and a face like Mr. Grape the Happy Raisin. Long-banked fires gave off a little smoke. Besides, she’d rather liked Casanunda. Most men were oblique in their approach, whereas his direct attack was refreshing. “It’d never work,” she said. “We’re basically incompatible. When I’m 5' 4" you’ll still only be 3' 9". Anyway, I’m old enough to be your mother. ” “You can’t be. My mother’s nearly 300, and she’s got a better beard than you. ” And of course that was another point. By dwarf standards, Nanny Ogg was hardly more than a teenager. “La, sir,” she said, giving him a playful tap that made his ears ring, “you do know how to turn a simple country girl’s head and no mistake!” Casanunda picked himself up and adjusted his wig happily. “I like a girl with spirit,” he said. “How about you and me having a little tête-à-tête when this is over?” Nanny Ogg’s face went blank. Her cosmopolitan grip of language had momentarily let her down. “Excuse me a minute,” she said. She put her drink down on his head and pushed through the crowd until she found a likely looking duchess, and prodded her in the bustle regions. “Hey, your grace, what’s a tater tate?” “I beg your pardon?” “A tater tate? Do you do it with your clothes on or what?” “It means an intimate meeting, my good woman. ” “Is that all? Oh. Ta. ” Nanny Ogg elbowed her way back to the vibrating dwarf. “You’re on,” she said. “I thought we could have a little private dinner, just you and me,” said Casanunda. “In one of the taverns?” Never, in a long history of romance, had Nanny Ogg ever been taken out for an intimate dinner. Her courtships had been more noted for their quantity than their quality. “OK,” was all she could think of to say. “Dodge your chaperone and meet me at six o’clock?” Nanny Ogg glanced at Granny Weatherwax, who was watching them disapprovingly from a distance. “She’s not my—” she began. Then it dawned on her that Casanunda couldn’t possibly have really thought that Granny Weatherwax was chaperoning her. Compliments and flattery had also been very minor components in the machinery of Nanny Ogg’s courtships. “Yes, all right,” she said. “And now I shall circulate, so that people don’t talk and ruin your reputation,” said Casanunda, bowing and kissing Nanny Ogg’s hand. Her mouth dropped open. No one had ever kissed her hand before, either, and certainly no one had ever worried about her reputation, least of all Nanny Ogg. As the world’s second greatest lover bustled off to accost a countess, Granny Weatherwax—who had been watching from a discreet distance * —said, in an amiable voice: “You haven’t got the morals of a cat, Gytha Ogg. ” “Now, Esme, you know that’s not true. ” “All right. You have got the morals of a cat, then. ” “That’s better. ” Nanny Ogg patted her mass of white curls and wondered if she had time to go home and put her corsets on. “We must stay on our guard, Gytha. ” “Yes, yes. ” “Can’t let other considerations turn our heads. ” “No, no. ” “You’re not listening to a word I say, are you?” “What?” “You could at least find out why Magrat isn’t down here. ” “All right. ” Nanny Ogg wandered off, dreamily. Granny Weatherwax turned— —there should have been violins. The murmur of the crowd should have faded away, and the crowd itself should have parted in a quite natural movement to leave an empty path between her and Ridcully. There should have been violins. There should have been something. There shouldn’t have been the Librarian accidentally knuckling her on the toe on his way to the buffet, but this, in fact, there was. She hardly noticed. “Esme?” said Ridcully. “Mustrum?” said Granny Weatherwax. Nanny Ogg bustled up. “Esme, I saw Millie Chillum and she said—” Granny Weatherwax’s vicious elbow jab winded her. Nanny took in the scene. “Ah,” she said, “I’ll just, I’ll just…I’ll just go away, then. ” The gazes locked again. The Librarian knuckled past again with an entire display of fruit. Granny Weatherwax paid him no heed. The Bursar, who was currently on the median point of his cycle, tapped Ridcully on the shoulder. “I say, Archchancellor, these quails’ eggs are amazingly go—” “DROP DEAD. Mr. Stibbons, fish out the frog pills and keep knives away from him, please. ” The gazes locked again. “Well, well,” said Granny, after a year or so. “This must be some enchanted evening,” said Ridcully. “Yes. That’s what I’m afraid of. ” “That really is you, isn’t it?” “It’s really me,” said Granny. “You haven’t changed a bit, Esme. ” “Nor have you, then. You’re still a rotten liar, Mustrum Ridcully. ” They walked toward one another. The Librarian shuttled between them with a tray of meringues. Behind them, Ponder Stibbons groveled on the floor for a spilled bottle of dried frog pills. “Well, well,” said Ridcully. “Fancy that. ” “Small world. ” “Yes indeed. ” “You’re you and I’m me. Amazing. And it’s here and now. ” “Yes, but then was then. ” “I sent you a lot of letters,” said Ridcully. “Never got ’em. ” There was a glint in Ridcully’s eye. “That’s odd. |
And there was me putting all those destination spells on them too,” he said. He gave her a critical up-and-down glance. “How much do you weigh, Esme? Not a spare ounce on you, I’ll be bound. ” “What do you want to know for?” “Indulge an old man. ” “Nine stones, then. ” “Hmm…should be about right…three miles hubward…you’ll feel a slight lurch to the left, nothing to worry about…” In a lightning movement, he grabbed her hand. He felt young and light-headed. The wizards back at the University would have been astonished. “Let me take you away from all this. ” He snapped his fingers. There has to be at least an approximate conservation of mass. It’s a fundamental magical rule. If something is moved from A to B, something that was at B has got to find itself at A. And then there’s momentum. Slow as the disc spins, various points of its radii are moving at different speeds relative to the Hub, and a wizard projecting himself any distance toward the Rim had better be prepared to land jogging. The three miles to Lancre Bridge merely involved a faint tug, which Ridcully had been ready for, and he landed up leaning against the parapet with Esme Weatherwax in his arms. The customs troll who had until a fraction of a second previously been sitting there ended up lying full length on the floor of the Great Hall, coincidentally on top of the Bursar. Granny Weatherwax looked over at the rushing water, and then at Ridcully. “Take me back this instant,” she said. “You’ve got no right to do that. ” “Dear me, I seem to have run out of power. Can’t understand it, very embarrassing, fingers gone all limp,” said Ridcully. “Of course, we could walk. It’s a lovely evening. You always did get lovely evenings here. ” “It was all fifty or sixty years ago!” said Granny. “You can’t suddenly turn up and say all those years haven’t happened. ” “Oh, I know they’ve happened all right,” said Ridcully. “I’m the head wizard now. I’ve only got to give an order and a thousand wizards will…uh…disobey, come to think of it, or say ‘What?’, or start to argue. But they have to take notice. ” “I’ve been to that University a few times,” said Granny. “A bunch of fat old men in beards. ” “That’s right! That’s them !” “A lot of ’em come from the Ramtops,” said Granny. “I knew a few boys from Lancre who became wizards. ” “Very magical area,” Ridcully agreed. “Something in the air. ” Below them, the cold black waters raced, always dancing to gravity, never flowing uphill. “There was even a Weatherwax as Archchancellor, years ago,” said Ridcully. “So I understand. Distant cousin. Never knew him,” said Granny. They both stared down at the river for a moment. Occasionally a twig or a branch would whirl along in the current. “Do you remember—” “I have a…very good memory, thank you. ” “Do you ever wonder what life would have been like if you’d said yes?” said Ridcully. “No. ” “I suppose we’d have settled down, had children, grandchildren, that sort of thing…” Granny shrugged. It was the sort of thing romantic idiots said. But there was something in the air tonight… “What about the fire?” she said. “What fire?” “Swept through our house just after we were married. Killed us both. ” “ What fire? I don’t know anything about any fire?” Granny turned around. “Of course not! It didn’t happen. But the point is, it might have happened. You can’t say ‘if this didn’t happen then that would have happened’ because you don’t know everything that might have happened. You might think something’d be good, but for all you know it could have turned out horrible. You can’t say ‘If only I’d…’ because you could be wishing for anything. The point is, you’ll never know. You’ve gone past. So there’s no use thinking about it. So I don’t. ” “The Trousers of Time,” said Ridcully, moodily. He picked a fragment off the crumbling stonework and dropped it into the water. It went plunk , as is so often the case. “What?” “That’s the sort of thing they go on about in the High Energy Magic building. And they call themselves wizards! You should hear them talk. The buggers wouldn’t know a magic sword if it bit them on the knee. That’s young wizards today. Think they bloody invented magic. ” “Yes? You should see the girls that want to be witches these days,” said Granny Weatherwax. “Velvet hats and black lipstick and lacy gloves with no fingers to ’em. Cheeky, too. ” They were side by side now, watching the river. “Trousers of Time,” said Ridcully. “One of you goes down one leg, one of you goes down the other. And there’s all these continuinuinuums all over the place. When I was a lad there was just one decent universe and this was it , and all you had to worry about was creatures breaking through from the Dungeon Dimensions, but at least there was this actual damn universe and you knew where you stood. Now it turns out there’s millions of the damn things. And there’s this damn cat they’ve discovered that you can put in a box and it’s dead and alive at the same time. Or something. And they all run around saying marvelous, marvelous, hooray, here comes another quantum. Ask ’em to do a decent levitation spell and they look at you as if you’ve started to dribble. You should hear young Stibbons talk. Went on about me not inviting me to my own wedding. Me!” From the side of the gorge a kingfisher flashed, hit the water with barely a ripple, and ricocheted away with something silver and wriggly in its beak. “Kept going on about everything happening at the same time,” Ridcully went on morosely. “Like there’s no such thing as a choice. You just decide which leg you’re heading for. He says that we did get married, see. He says all the things that might have been have to be. So there’s thousands of me out there who never became a wizard, just like there’s thousands of you who, oh, answered letters. Hah! To them, we’re something that might have been. Now, d’you call that proper thinking for a growing lad? When I started wizarding, old ‘Tudgy’ Spold was Archchancellor, and if any young wizard’d even mentioned that sort of daft thing, he’d feel a staff across his backside. Hah!” Somewhere far below, a frog plopped off a stone. “Mind you, I suppose we’ve all passed a lot of water since then. ” It dawned gently on Ridcully that the dialogue had become a monologue. He turned to Granny, who was staring round-eyed at the river as if she’d never seen water before. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she said. “I beg your pardon? I was only—” “Not you. I wasn’t talking to you. Stupid! I’ve been stupid. But I ain’t been daft! Hah! And I thought it was my memory going! And it was, too. It was going and fetching!” “What?” “I was getting scared! Me! And not thinking clear! Except I was thinking clear!” “What!” “Never mind! Well, I won’t say this hasn’t been…nice,” said Granny. “But I’ve got to get back. Do the thing with the fingers again. And hurry. ” Ridcully deflated a little. “Can’t,” he said. “You did it just now. ” “That’s the point. I wasn’t joking when I said I couldn’t do it again. It takes a lot out of you, transmigration. ” “You used to be able to do it all the time, as I recall,” said Granny. She risked a smile. “Our feet hardly touched the ground. ” “I was younger then. Now, once is enough. ” Granny’s boots creaked as she turned and started to walk quickly back toward the town. Ridcully lumbered after her. “What’s the hurry?” “Got important things to do,” said Granny, without turning around. “Been letting everyone down. ” “Some people might say this is important. ” “No. It’s just personal. Personal’s not the same as important. People just think it is. ” “You’re doing it again!” “What?” “I don’t know what the other future would have been like,” said Ridcully, “but I for one would have liked to give it a try. ” Granny paused. Her mind was crackling with relief. Should she tell him about the memories? She opened her mouth to do so, and then thought again. No. He’d get soppy. “I’d have been crabby and bad-tempered,” she said, instead. “That goes without saying. |
” “Hah! And what about you? I’d have put up with all your womanizing and drunkenness, would I?” Ridcully looked bewildered. “What womanizing?” “We’re talking about what might have been. ” “But I’m a wizard! We hardly ever womanize. There’s laws about it. Well…rules. Guidelines, anyway. ” “But you wouldn’t have been a wizard then. ” “And I’m hardly ever drunk. ” “You would have been if you’d been wedded to me. ” He caught up with her. “Even young Ponder doesn’t think like this,” he said. “You’ve made up your mind that it would have been dreadful, have you?” “Yes. ” “Why?” “Why’d you think?” “I asked you !” “I’m too busy for this,” said Granny. “Like I said, personal ain’t the same as important. Make yourself useful, Mr. Wizard. You know it’s circle time, don’t you?” Ridcully’s hand touched the brim of his hat. “Oh, yes. ” “And you know what that means?” “They tell me it means that the walls between realities get weaker. The circles are…what’s the word Stibbons uses? Isoresons. They connect levels of, oh, something daft…similar levels of reality. Which is bloody stupid. You’d be able to walk from one universe to another. ” “Ever tried it?” “No!” “A circle is a door half open. It doesn’t need much to open it up all the way. Even belief’ll do it. That’s why they put the Dancers up, years ago. We got the dwarfs to do it. Thunderbolt iron, those stones. There’s something special about ’em. They’ve got the love of iron. Don’t ask me how it works. Elves hate it even more than ordinary iron. It…upsets their senses, or something. But minds can get through…” “Elves? Everyone knows elves don’t exist anymore. Not proper elves. I mean, there’s a few folk who say they’re elves—” “Oh, yeah. Elvish ancestry. Elves and humans breed all right, as if that’s anything to be proud of. But you just get a race o’skinny types with pointy ears and a tendency to giggle and burn easily in sunshine. I ain’t talking about them. There’s no harm in them. I’m talking about real wild elves, what we ain’t seen here for—” The road from the bridge to the town curved between high banks, with the forest crowding in on either side and in places even meeting overhead. Thick ferns, already curling like green breakers, lined the clay banks. They rustled. The unicorn leapt on the road. Thousands of universes, twisting together like a rope being plaited from threads… There’s bound to be leakages, a sort of mental equivalent of the channel breakthrough on a cheap hi-fi that gets you the news in Swedish during quiet bits in the music. Especially if you’ve spent your life using your mind as a receiver. Picking up the thoughts of another human being is very hard, because no two minds are on the same, er, wavelength. But somewhere out there, at the point where the parallel universes tangle, are a million minds just like yours. For a very obvious reason. Granny Weatherwax smiled. Millie Chillum and the king and one or two hangers-on were clustered around the door to Magrat’s room when Nanny Ogg arrived. “What’s happening?” “I know she’s in there,” said Verence, holding his crown in his hands in the famous Ai- Señor-Mexican-Bandits-Have-Raided-Our- Village position. “Millie heard her shout go away and I think she threw something at the door. ” Nanny Ogg nodded sagely. “Wedding nerves,” she said. “Bound to happen. ” “But we’re all going to attend the Entertainment,” said Verence. “She really ought to attend the Entertainment. ” “Well, I dunno,” said Nanny. “Seeing our Jason and the rest of ’em prancing about in straw wigs…I mean, they mean well, but it’s not something a young—a fairly young—girl has to see on the night before her nuptials. You asked her to unlock the door?” “I did better than that,” said Verence. “I instructed her to. That was right, wasn’t it? If even Magrat won’t obey me, I’m a poor lookout as king. ” “Ah,” said Nanny, after a moment’s slow consideration. “You’ve not entirely spent a lot of time in female company, have you? In a generalized sort of way?” “Well, I—” The crown spun in Verence’s nervous fingers. Not only had the bandits invaded the village, but the Magnificent Seven had decided to go bowling instead. “Tell you what,” said Nanny, patting him on the back, “you go and preside over the Entertainment and hobnob with the other nobs. I’ll see to Magrat, don’t you worry. I’ve been a bride three times, and that’s only the official score. ” “Yes, but she should—” “I think if we go easy on the ‘shoulds,’” said Nanny, “we might all make it to the wedding. Now, off you all go. ” “Someone ought to stay here,” said Verence. “Shawn will be on guard, but—” “No one’s going to invade, are they?” said Nanny. “Let me sort this out. ” “Well…if you’re sure…” “Go on!” Nanny Ogg waited until she heard them go down the main staircase. After a while a rattle of coaches and general shouting suggested that the wedding party was leaving, minus the bride-to-be. She counted to a hundred, under her breath. Then: “Magrat?” “Go away!” “I know how it is,” said Nanny. “I was a bit worried on the night before my wedding. ” She refrained from adding: because there was a reasonable chance Jason would turn up as an extra guest. “I am not worried! I am angry !” “Why?” “You know!” Nanny took off her hat and scratched her head. “You’ve got me there,” she said. “And he knew. I know he knew, and I know who told him,” said the muffled voice behind the door. “It was all arranged. You must all have been laughing!” Nanny frowned at the impassive woodwork. “Nope,” she said. “Still all at sea this end. ” “Well, I’m not saying any more. ” “Everyone’s gone to the Entertainment,” said Nanny Ogg. No reply. “And later they’ll be back. ” A further absence of dialogue. “Then there’ll be carousing and jugglers and fellas that put weasels down their trousers,” said Nanny. Silence. “And then it’ll be tomorrow, and then what’re you going to do?” Silence. “You can always go back to your cottage. No one’s moved in. Or you can stop along of me, if you like. But you’ll have to decide, d’you see, because you can’t stay locked in there. ” Nanny leaned against the wall. “I remember years ago my granny telling me about Queen Amonia, well, I say queen, but she never was queen except for about three hours because of what I’m about to unfold, on account of them playing hide-and-seek at the wedding party and her hiding in a big heavy old chest in some attic and the lid slamming shut and no one finding her for seven months, by which time you could definitely say the wedding cake was getting a bit stale. ” Silence. “Well, if you ain’t telling me, I can’t hang around all night,” said Nanny. “It’ll all be better in the morning, you’ll see. ” Silence. “Why don’t you have an early night?” said Nanny. “Our Shawn’ll do you a hot drink if you ring down. It’s a bit nippy out here, to tell you the truth. It’s amazing how these old stone places hang on to the chill. ” Silence. “So I’ll be off then, shall I?” said Nanny, to the unyielding silence. “Not doing much good here, I can see that. Sure you don’t want to talk?” Silence. “Stand before your god, bow before your king, and kneel before your man. Recipe for a happy life, that is,” said Nanny, to the world in general. “Well, I’m going away now. Tell you what, I’ll come back early tomorrow, help you get ready, that sort of thing. How about it?” Silence. “So that’s all sorted out then,” said Nanny. “Cheerio. ” She waited a full minute. By rights, by the human mechanics of situations like this, the bolts should have been drawn back and Magrat should have peeped out into the corridor, or possibly even called out to her. She did not. Nanny shook her head. She could think of at least three ways of getting into the room, and only one of them involved going through the door. But there was a time and a place for witchcraft, and this wasn’t it. Nanny Ogg had led a long and generally happy life by knowing when not to be a witch, and this was one of those times. She went down the stairs and out of the castle. |
Shawn was standing guard at the main gate, surreptitiously practicing karate chops on the evening air. He stopped and looked embarrassed as Nanny Ogg approached. “Wish I was going to the Entertainment, Mum. ” “I daresay the king will be very generous to you come payday on account of your duty,” said Nanny Ogg. “Remind me to remind him. ” “Aren’t you going?” “Well, I’m…I’m just going for a stroll into town,” said Nanny. “I expect Esme went with ’em, did she?” “Couldn’t say, Mum. ” “Just a few things I got to do. ” She hadn’t gone much further before a voice behind her said, “Ello, oh moon of my delight. ” “You do sneak up on people, Casanunda. ” “I’ve arranged for us to have dinner at the Goat and Bush,” said the dwarf Count. “Ooo, that’s a horrible expensive place,” said Nanny Ogg. “Never eaten there. ” “They’ve got some special provisions in, what with the wedding and all the gentry here,” said Casanunda. “I’ve made special arrangements. ” These had been quite difficult. Food as an aphrodisiac was not a concept that had ever caught on in Lancre, apart from Nanny Ogg’s famous Carrot and Oyster Pie. * As far as the cook at the Goat and Bush was concerned, food and sex were only linked in certain humorous gestures involving things like cucumbers. He’d never heard of chocolate, banana skins, avocado and ginger, marshmallow, and the thousand other foods people had occasionally employed to drive an A-to-B freeway through the rambling pathways of romance. Casanunda had spent a busy ten minutes sketching out a detailed menu, and quite a lot of money had changed hands. He’d arranged a careful romantic candlelit supper. Casanunda had always believed in the art of seduction. Many tall women accessible by stepladder across the continent had reflected how odd it was that the dwarfs, a race to whom the aforesaid art of seduction consisted in the main part of tactfully finding out what sex, underneath all that leather and chain-mail, another dwarf was , had generated someone like Casanunda. It was as if Eskimos had produced a natural expert in the care and attention of rare tropical plants. The great pent-up waters of dwarfish sexuality had found a leak at the bottom of the dam—small, but with enough power to drive a dynamo. Everything that his fellow dwarfs did very occasionally as nature demanded he did all the time, sometimes in the back of a sedan chair and once upside down in a tree—but, and this is important, with care and attention to detail that was typically dwarfish. Dwarfs would spend months working on an exquisite piece of jewelry, and for broadly similar reasons Casanunda was a popular visitor to many courts and palaces, for some strange reason generally while the local lord was away. He also had a dwarfish ability with locks, always a useful talent for those awkward moments sur la boudoir. And Nanny Ogg was an attractive lady, which is not the same as being beautiful. She fascinated Casanunda. She was an incredibly comfortable person to be around, partly because she had a mind so broad it could accommodate three football fields and a bowling alley. “I wish I had my crossbow,” muttered Ridcully. “With that head on my wall I’d always have a place to hang my hat. ” The unicorn tossed its head and pawed the ground. Steam rose from its flanks. “I ain’t sure that would work,” said Granny. “You sure you’ve got no whoosh left in them fingers of yours?” “I could create an illusion,” said the wizard. “That’s not hard. ” “It wouldn’t work. The unicorn is an elvish creature. Magic don’t work on ’em. They see through illusions. They ought to, they’re good enough at ’em. How about the bank? Reckon you could scramble up it?” They both glanced at the banks. They were red clay, slippery as priests. “Let’s walk backward,” said Granny. “Slowly. ” “How about its mind? Can you get in?” “There’s someone in there already. The poor thing’s her pet. It obeys only her. ” The unicorn walked after them, trying to watch both of them at the same time. “What shall we do when we come to the bridge?” “You can still swim, can’t you?” “The river’s a long way down. ” “But there’s a deep pool there. Don’t you remember? You dived in there once. One moonlit night…” “I was young and foolish then. ” “Well? You’re old and foolish now. ” “I thought unicorns were more…fluffy. ” “See clear! Don’t let the glamour get you! See what’s in front of your eyes! It’s a damn great horse with a horn on the end!” said Granny. The unicorn pawed the ground. Granny’s feet scraped the bridge. “Got here by accident, can’t get back,” she said. “If’n there’d been one of us it’d be charging by now. We’re about halfway across the bridge—” “Lot of snow runoff in that river,” said Ridcully, doubtfully. “Oh, yes,” said Granny. “See you at the weir. ” And she was gone. The unicorn, which had been trying to decide between targets, was left with Ridcully. It could count up to one. It lowered its head. Ridcully had never liked horses, animals which seemed to him to have only the weakest possible grip on sanity. As the unicorn charged, he vaulted the parapet and dropped, without much aerodynamic grace, into the icy waters of the Lancre. The Librarian liked the stage. He was always in the front seat on the first night of a new production at any of Ankh’s theaters, his prehensile abilities allowing him to clap twice as hard as anyone else or, if necessary, hurl peanut shells. And he was feeling let down. There were hardly any books in the castle, except for serious volumes on etiquette and animal breeding and estate management. As a rule, royalty doesn’t read much. He wasn’t expecting to be amazed at the Entertainment. He’d peered behind the bit of sacking that was doing service as a dressing room, and seen half a dozen heavily built men arguing with one another. This did not bode well for an evening of thespianic splendor, although there was always the possibility that one of them might hit another one in the face with a custard pie. * He had managed to get the three of them seats in the front row. This wasn’t according to the rules of precedence, but it was amazing how everyone squeezed up to make room. He’d also found some peanuts. No one ever knew how he managed that. “Oook?” “No, thank you,” said Ponder Stibbons. “They give me wind. ” “Oook?” “I like to listen to a man who likes to talk! Whoops! Sawdust and treacle! Put that in your herring and smoke it!” “I don’t think he wants one,” said Ponder. The curtain went up, or at least was pulled aside by Carter the baker. The Entertainment began. The Librarian watched in deepening gloom. It was amazing. Normally he quite liked a badly acted play, provided enough confectionery stayed airborne, but these people weren’t even good at bad acting. Also, no one seemed to be on the point of throwing anything. He fished a peanut out of the bag and rolled it in his fingers, while staring intently at the left ear of Tailor the other weaver. And felt his hair rise. This is very noticeable on an orang-utan. He glanced up at the hill behind the erratic actors, and growled under his breath. “Oook?” Ponder nudged him. “Quiet!” he hissed. “They’re getting the hang of it…” There was an echo to the voice of the one in the straw wig. “What’d she say?” said Ponder. “Oook!” “How’d she do that? That’s good makeup, that—” Ponder fell silent. Suddenly the Librarian felt very alone. Everyone else in the audience had their gaze fastened firmly on the turf stage. He moved a hand up and down in front of Stibbons’s face. The air was wavering over the hill, and the grass on its side moved in a way that made the ape’s eyes ache. “Oook?” Over the hill, between the little stones, it began to snow. “Oook?” Alone in her room, Magrat unpacked the wedding dress. And that was another thing. She ought to have been involved in the dress, at least. She was going to— would have been the one wearing it, after all. |
There should have been weeks of choosing the material, and fittings, and changing her mind, and changing the material, and changing the pattern, and more fittings… …although of course she was her own woman and didn’t need that kind of thing at all… …but she should have had the choice. It was white silk, with a tasteful amount of lace. Magrat knew she wasn’t much up on the language of dressmaking. She knew what things were , she just didn’t know the names. All those ruches and pleats and gores and things. She held the dress against her and gave it a critical examination. There was a small mirror against the wall. After a certain amount of internal tussling Magrat gave in and tried the dress on. It wasn’t as if she’d be wearing it tomorrow. If she never did try it on, she’d always wonder if it had fitted. It fitted. Or, rather, it didn’t fit but in a flattering way. Whatever Verence had paid, it had been worth it. The dressmaker had done cunning things with the material, so that it went in where Magrat went straight up and down and billowed out where Magrat didn’t. The veil had silk flowers on the headband. I’m not going to start crying again, Magrat told herself. I’m going to stay angry. I’m going to wind up the anger until it’s thick enough to become rage, and when they come back I shall— —what? She could try being icy. She could sweep majestically past them…this was a good dress for that…and that’d teach them. And then what? She couldn’t stay here, not with everyone knowing. And they’d find out. About the letter. News went around Lancre faster than turpentine through a sick donkey. She’d have to go away. Perhaps find somewhere where there were no witches and start up again, although at the moment her feelings about witches were such that she’d prefer practically any other profession, insofar as there were other professions for an ex-witch. Magrat stuck out her chin. The way she felt now, with the bile bubbling like a hot spring, she’d create a new profession. One that with any luck didn’t involve men and meddling old women. And she’d keep that damn letter, just to remind her. All the time she’d wondered how Verence was able to have things arranged weeks before she got back, and it was as simple as this. How they must have laughed… It occurred briefly to Nanny Ogg that she really should be somewhere else, but at her time of life invitations to intimate candlelit suppers were not a daily occurrence. There had to be a time when you stopped worrying about the rest of the world and cared a little for yourself. There had to be a time for a quiet, inner moment. “This is damn good wine,” she said, picking up another bottle. “What did you say it’s called?” She peered at the label. “Chateau Maison? Chat-eau…that’s foreign for cat’s water, you know, but that’s only their way, I know it ain’t real cat’s water. Real cat’s water is sharper. ” She hammered the cork into the bottle with the end of her knife, then stuck her finger over the neck and gave it a vigorous shaking “to mix the goodness in. ” “But I don’t hold with drinking it out of ladies’ boots,” she said. “I know it’s supposed to be the thing to do, but I can’t see what’s so wonderful about walking home with your boots full of wine. Ain’t you hungry? If you don’t want that bit of gristle, I’ll eat it. Any more of them lobsters? Never had lobster before. And that mayonnaise. And them little eggs stuffed with stuff. Mind you, that bramble jam tasted of fish, to my mind. ” “’S caviar,” murmured Casanunda. He was sitting with his chin on his hand, watching her in rapt infatuation. He was, he was surprised to find, enjoying himself immensely while not horizontal. He knew how this sort of dinner was supposed to go. It was one of the basic weapons in the seducer’s armory. The amoratrix was plied with fine wines and expensive yet light dishes. There was much knowing eye contact across the table, and tangling of feet underneath it. There was much pointed eating of pears and bananas and so on. And thus the ship of temptation steered, gently yet inexorably, to a good docking. And then there was Nanny Ogg. Nanny Ogg appreciated fine wine in her very own way. It would never have occurred to Casanunda that anyone would top up white wine with port merely because she’d reached the end of the bottle. As for the food…well, she enjoyed that, too. Casanunda had never seen that elbow action before. Show Nanny Ogg a good dinner and she went at it with knife, fork, and rammer. Watching her eat a lobster was a particular experience he would not forget in a hurry. They’d be picking bits of claw out of the woodwork for weeks. And the asparagus…he might actually try to forget Nanny Ogg putting away asparagus, but he suspected the memory would come creeping back. It must be a witch thing, he told himself. They’re always very clear about what they want. If you climbed cliffs and braved rivers and ski’d down mountains to bring a box of chocolates to Gytha Ogg, she’d have the nougat centers out of the bottom layer even before you got your crampons off. That’s it. Whatever a witch does, she does one hundred percent. Hubba, hubba! “Ain’t you going to eat all those prawns? Just push the plate this way, then. ” He had tried a little footsie to keep his hand in, as it were, but an accidental blow on the ankle from one of Nanny’s heavy iron-nailed boots had put a stop to that. And then there had been the gypsy violinist. At first Nanny had complained about people playin’ the fiddle while she was trying to concentrate on her eatin’, but between courses she’d snatched it off the man, thrown the bow into a bowl of camellias, retuned the instrument to something approaching a banjo, and had given Casanunda three rousing verses of what, him being foreign, she chose to call Il Porcupino Nil Sodomy Est. Then she’d drunk more wine. What also captivated Casanunda was the way Nanny Ogg’s face became a mass of cheerful horizontal lines when she laughed, and Nanny Ogg laughed a lot. In fact Casanunda was finding, through the faint haze of wine, that he was actually having fun. “I take it there is no Mr. Ogg?” he said, eventually. “Oh, yes, there’s a Mr. Ogg,” said Nanny. “We buried him years ago. Well, we had to. He was dead. ” “It must be very hard for a woman living all alone?” “Dreadful,” said Nanny Ogg, who had never prepared a meal or wielded a duster since her eldest daughter had been old enough to do it for her, and who had at least four meals cooked for her every day by various terrified daughters-in-law. “It must be especially lonely at night,” said Casanunda, out of habit as much as anything else. “Well, there’s Greebo,” said Nanny. “He keeps my feet warm. ” “Greebo—” “The cat. I say, do you think there’s any pudding?” Later, she asked for a doggy bottle. Mr. Brooks the beekeeper ladled some greenish, foul-smelling liquid out of the saucepan that was always simmering in his secret hut, and filled his squirter. There was a wasps’ nest in the garden wall. It’d be a mortuary by morning. That was the thing about bees. They always guarded the entrance to the hive, with their lives if necessary. But wasps were adept at finding the odd chink in the woodwork around the back somewhere and the sleek little devils’d be in and robbing the hive before you knew it. Funny. The bees in the hive’d let them do it, too. They guarded the entrance, but if a wasp found another way in, they didn’t know what to do. He gave the plunger a push. A stream of liquid bubbled out and left a smoking streak on the floor. Wasps looked pretty enough. But if you were for bees, you had to be against wasps. There seemed to be some sort of party going on in the hall. He vaguely remembered getting an invitation but, on the whole, that sort of thing never really caught his imagination. And especially now. Things were wrong. None of the hives showed any signs of swarming. Not one. As he passed the hives in the dusk he heard the humming. You got that, on a warm night. Battalions of bees stood at the hive entrance, fanning the air with their wings to keep the brood cool. |
But there was also the roar of bees circling the hive. They were angry, and on guard. There was a series of small weirs just on the borders of Lancre. Granny Weatherwax hauled herself up on to the damp woodwork, and squelched to the bank where she emptied her boots. After a while a pointy wizard’s hat drifted downriver, and rose to reveal a pointy wizard underneath it. Granny lent a hand to help Ridcully out of the water. “There,” she said, “bracing, wasn’t it? Seemed to me you could do with a cold bath. ” Ridcully tried to clean some mud out of his ear. He glared at Granny. “Why aren’t you wet?” “I am. ” “No you’re not. You’re just damp. I’m wet through. How can you float down a river and just be damp?” “I dries out quick. ” Granny Weatherwax glared up the rocks. A short distance away the steep road ran on to Lancre, but there were other, more private ways known to her among the trees. “So,” she said, more or less to herself. “She wants to stop me going there, does she? Well, we’ll see about that. ” “Going where?” said Ridcully. “Ain’t sure,” said Granny. “All I know is, if she don’t want me to go there, that’s where I’m going. But I hadn’t bargained on you turnin’ up and having a rush of blood to the heart. Come on. ” Ridcully wrung out his robe. A lot of the sequins had come off. He removed his hat and unscrewed the point. Headgear picks up morphic vibrations. Quite a lot of trouble had once been caused in Unseen University by a former Archchancellor’s hat, which had picked up too many magical vibrations after spending so much time on wizardly heads and had developed a personality of its very own. Ridcully had put a stop to this by having his own hat made to particular specifications by an Ankh-Morpork firm of completely insane hatters. It was not a normal wizard hat. Few wizards have ever made much use of the pointy bit, except maybe to keep the odd pair of socks in it. But Ridcully’s hat had small cupboards. It had surprises. It had four telescopic legs and a roll of oiled silk in the brim that extended downward to make a small but serviceable tent, and a patent spirit stove just above it. It had inner pockets with three days’ supply of iron rations. And the tip unscrewed to dispense an adequate supply of spirituous liquors for use in emergencies, such as when Ridcully was thirsty. Ridcully waved the small pointed cup at Granny. “Brandy?” he said. “What have you got on your head?” Ridcully felt his pate gingerly. “Um…” “Smells like honey and horse apples to me. And what’s that thing?” Ridcully lifted the small cage off his head. There was a small treadmill in it, in a complex network of glass rods. A couple of feeding bowls were visible. And there was a small, hairy and currently quite wet mouse. “Oh, it’s something some of the young wizards came up with,” said Ridcully diffidently. “I said I’d…try it out for them. The mouse hair rubs against the glass rods and there’s sparks, don’t’y’know, and…and…” Granny Weatherwax looked at the Archchancellor’s somewhat grubby hair and raised an eyebrow. “My word,” she said. “What will they think of next?” “Don’t really understand how it works, Stibbons is the man for this sort of thing, I thought I’d help them out…” “Lucky you were going bald, eh?” In the darkness of her sickroom Diamanda opened her eyes, if they were her eyes. There was a pearly sheen to them. The song was as yet only on the threshold of hearing. And the world was different. A small part of her mind was still Diamanda, and looked out through the mists of enchantment. The world was a pattern of fine silver lines, constantly moving, as though everything was coated with filigree. Except where there was iron. There the lines were crushed and tight and bent. There, the whole world was invisible. Iron distorted the world. Keep away from iron. She slipped out of bed, using the edge of the blanket to grasp the door handle, and opened the door. Shawn Ogg was standing very nearly to attention. Currently he was guarding the castle and Seeing How Long He Could Stand On One Leg. Then it occurred to him that this wasn’t a proper activity for a martial artist, and he turned it into No. 19, the Flying Chrysanthemum Double Drop Kick. After a while he realized that he had been hearing something. It was vaguely rhythmical, and put him in mind of a grasshopper chirruping. It was coming from inside the castle. He turned carefully, keeping alert in case the massed armies of Foreign Parts tried to invade while his back was turned. This needed working out. He wasn’t on guard from things inside the castle, was he? “On guard” meant things outside. That was the point of castles. That’s why you had all the walls and things. He’d got the big poster they gave away free with Jane’s All the World’s Siege Weapons. He knew what he was talking about. Shawn was not the quickest of thinkers, but his thoughts turned inexorably to the elf in the dungeon. But that was locked up. He’d locked the door himself. And there was iron all over the place, and Mum had been very definite about the iron. Nevertheless… He was methodical about it. He raised the drawbridge and dropped the portcullis and peered over the wall for good measure, but there was just the dusk and the night breeze. He could feel the sound now. It seemed to be coming out of the stone, and had a saw-toothed edge to it that grated on his nerves. It couldn’t have got out, could it? No, it stood to reason. People hadn’t gone around building dungeons you could get out of. The sound swung back and forth across the scale. Shawn leaned his rusty pike against the wall and drew his sword. He knew how to use it. He practiced for ten minutes every day, and it was one sorry hanging sack of straw when he’d finished with it. He slipped into the keep by the back door and sidled along the passages toward the dungeon. There was no one else around. Of course, everyone was at the Entertainment. And they’d be back any time now, carousing all over the place. The castle felt big, and old, and cold. Any time now. Bound to. The noise stopped. Shawn peered around the corner. There were the steps, there was the open doorway to the dungeons. “Stop!” shouted Shawn, just in case. The sound echoed off the stones. “Stop! Or…or…or…Stop!” He eased his way down the steps and looked through the archway. “I warn you! I’m learning the Path of the Happy Jade Lotus!” There was the door to the cell, standing ajar. And a white-clad figure next to it. Shawn blinked. “Aren’t you Miss Tockley?” She smiled at him. Her eyes glowed in the dim light. “You’re wearing chain-mail, Shawn,” she said. “What, miss?” He glanced at the open door again. “That’s terrible. You must take it off, Shawn. How can you hear with all that stuff around your ears?” Shawn was aware of the empty space behind him. But he daren’t look around. “I can hear fine, miss,” he said, trying to ease himself around so that his back was against a wall. “But you can’t hear truly ,” said Diamanda, drifting forward. “The iron makes you deaf. ” Shawn was not yet used to thinly clad young women approaching him with a dreamy look on their faces. He fervently wished he could take the Path of the Retreating Back. He glanced sideways. There was a tall skinny shape outlined in the open cell doorway. It was standing very carefully, as if it wanted to keep as far away from its surroundings as possible. Diamanda was smiling at him in a funny way. He ran. Somehow, the woods had changed. Ridcully was certain that in his youth they’d been full of bluebells and primroses and—and bluebells and whatnot and so on. Not bloody great briars all over the place. They snagged at his robe and once or twice some tree-climbing equivalent knocked his hat off. What made it worse was that Esme Weatherwax seemed to avoid all of them. “How do you manage that?” “I just know where I am all the time,” said Granny. “Well? I know where I am, too. ” “No you don’t. You just happen to be present. That’s not the same. ” “Well, do you happen to know where a proper path is?” “This is a short cut. |
” “Between two places where you’re not lost, d’you mean?” “I keep tellin’ you, I ain’t lost! I’m…directionally challenged. ” “Hah!” But it was a fact about Esme Weatherwax, he had to admit. She might be lost, and he had reason to suspect this was the case now, unless there were in this forest two trees with exactly the same arrangement of branches and a strip of his robe caught on one of them, but she did have a quality that in anyone not wearing a battered pointy hat and an antique black dress might have been called poise. Absolute poise. It would be hard to imagine her making an awkward movement unless she wanted to. He’d seen that years ago, although of course at the time he’d just been amazed at the way her shape fitted perfectly into the space around it. And— He’d got caught up again. “Wait a minute!” “Entirely the wrong sort of clothes for the country!” “I wasn’t expecting a hike through the woods! This is a ceremonial damn costume!” “Take it off, then. ” “Then how will anyone know I’m a wizard?” “I’ll be sure to tell them!” Granny Weatherwax was getting rattled. She was also, despite everything that she’d said, getting lost. But the point was that you couldn’t get lost between the weir at the bottom of the Lancre rapids and Lancre town itself. It was uphill all the way. Besides, she’d walked through the local forests all her life. They were her forests. She was pretty sure they’d passed the same tree twice. There was a bit of Ridcully’s robe hanging on it. It was like getting lost in her own garden. She was also sure she’d seen the unicorn a couple of times. It was tracking them. She’d tried to get into its mind. She might as well have tried to climb an ice wall. It wasn’t as if her own mind was tranquil. But now at least she knew she was sane. When the walls between the universes are thin, when the parallel strands of If bunch together to pass through the Now, then certain things leak across. Tiny signals, perhaps, but audible to a receiver skilled enough. In her head were the faint, insistent thoughts of a thousand Esme Weatherwaxes. Magrat wasn’t sure what to pack. Most of her original clothes seemed to have evaporated since she’d been in the castle, and it was hardly good manners to take the ones Verence had bought for her. The same applied to the engagement ring. She wasn’t sure if you were allowed to keep it. She glared at herself in the mirror. She’d have to stop thinking like this. She seemed to have spent her whole life trying to make herself small, trying to be polite, apologizing when people walked over her, trying to be good-mannered. And what had happened? People had treated her as if she was small and polite and good-mannered. She’d stick the, the, the damn letter on the mirror, so they’d all know why she’d gone. She’d a damn good mind to go off to one of the cities and become a courtesan. Whatever that was. And then she heard the singing. It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful sound Magrat had ever heard. It flowed straight through the ears and into the hindbrain, into the blood, into the bone… A silk camisole dropped from her fingers on to the floor. She wrenched at the door, and a tiny part of her mind still capable of rational thought remembered about the key. The song filled the passageway. She gripped some folds of the wedding dress to make running easier and hurried toward the stairs… Something bulleted out of another doorway and bore her to the floor. It was Shawn Ogg. Through the chromatic haze she could see his worried face peering out from its hood of rusty— —iron. The song changed while staying the same. The complex harmonies, the fascinating rhythm did not alter but suddenly grated, as if she was hearing the song through different ears. She was dragged into the doorway. “Are you all right, Miss Queen?” “What’s happening?” “Dunno, Miss Queen. But I think we’ve got elves. ” “Elves?” “And they’ve got Miss Tockley. Um. You know you took the iron away—” “What are you talking about, Shawn?” Shawn’s face was white. “That one down the dungeons started singing, and they’d put their mark on her, so she’s doing what they want—” “Shawn!” “And Mum said they don’t kill you, if they can help it. Not right away. You’re much more fun if you’re not dead. ” Magrat stared at him. “I had to run away! She was trying to get my hood off! I had to leave her, miss! You understand, miss?” “Elves?” “You got to hold on to something iron, miss! They hate iron!” She slapped his face, hurting her fingers on the mail. “You’re gabbling, Shawn!” “They’re out there, miss! I heard the drawbridge go down! They’re out there and we’re in here and they don’t kill you, they keep you alive—” “Stand to attention, soldier!” It was all she could think of. It seemed to work. Shawn pulled himself together. “Look,” said Magrat, “everyone knows there really aren’t any elves any mo…” Her voice faded. Her eyes narrowed. “Everyone but Magrat Garlick knows different, yes?” Shawn shook. Magrat grabbed his shoulders. “Me mum and Mistress Weatherwax said you wasn’t to know!” Shawn wailed. “They said it was witch business!” “And where are they now, when they’ve got some witch business to mind?” said Magrat. “I don’t see them, do you? Are they behind the door? No! Are they under the bed? How strange, they’re not…there’s just me, Shawn Ogg. And if you don’t tell me everything you know right now I’ll make you regret the day I was born. ” Shawn’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he considered this. Then he shook himself free of Magrat’s grasp and listened at the door. The singing had stopped. For a moment Magrat thought she heard footsteps outside the door, hurrying away. “Well, Miss Queen, our mum and Mistress Weatherwax was up at the Dancers—” Magrat listened. Finally she said, “And where’s everyone now?” “Dunno, miss. All gone to the Entertainment…but they ought to’ve been back by now. ” “Where’s the Entertainment?” “Dunno, miss. Miss?” “Yes?” “Why’ve you got your wedding dress on?” “Never you mind. ” “It’s unlucky for the groom to see the bride in her dress before the wedding,” said Shawn, taking refuge in run-of-the-mill idiocies to relieve his terror. “It will be for him if I see him first,” snarled Magrat. “Miss?” “Yes?” “I’m feared about what’s happened to everyone. Our Jason said they’d be back in an hour or so, and that was hours ago. ” “But there’s almost a hundred guests and everyone from the town, practically. Elves couldn’t do anything to them. ” “They wouldn’t have to, miss. ” Shawn went to the unglazed window. “Look, miss. I can drop down on to the granary in the stable yard from here. It’s thatch, I’ll be all right. Then I can sneak around the kitchens and out by the little gate by the hubward tower with military precision. ” “What for?” “To get help, miss. ” “But you don’t know if there’s any help to get. ” “Can you think of anything else, miss?” She couldn’t. “It’s very…brave of you, Shawn,” said Magrat. “You stay here and you’ll be right as rain,” said Shawn. “Tell you what…How about if I lock the door and take the key with me? Then even if they sing at you they can’t get you to open the door. ” Magrat nodded. Shawn tried to smile. “Wish we had another suit of mail,” he said. “But it’s all in the armory. ” “I’ll be fine,” said Magrat. “Off you go, then. ” Shawn nodded. He waited for a moment on the window ledge, and then dropped into the darkness. Magrat pushed the bed against the door and sat on it. It occurred to her that she should have gone as well. But that would mean leaving the castle empty, and that didn’t feel right. Besides, she was scared. There was one candle in the room, and that was half burned down. When it was gone, there’d be nothing but the moonlight. Magrat had always liked moonlight. Up to now. It was quiet outside. There should be the noises of the town. It crept over her that letting Shawn go away with a key to the door was not a wholly sensible thing, because if they caught him they could open— There was a scream, which went on for a long time. And then the night rolled back in again. |
After a few minutes there was a scrabbling at the lock, such as might be made by someone trying to manipulate a key held in several thicknesses of cloth, so as not to come into contact with the iron. The door began to open, and wedged up against the bed. “Will you not step outside, lady?” The door creaked again. “Will you not come dance with us, pretty lady?” The voice had strange harmonics and an echo that buzzed around the inside of the head for several seconds after the last word had been spoken. The door burst open. Three figures slid into the room. One looked up the bed, and the others poked into dark corners. Then one of them crossed to the window and looked out. The crumbling wall stretched down to the thatched roof entirely unoccupied. The figure nodded to two more shapes in the courtyard, its blond hair glowing in the moonlight. One of them pointed up, to where a figure, its long white dress billowing in the breeze, was climbing up the wall of the keep. The elf laughed. This was going to be more enjoyable than it’d suspected. Magrat pulled herself over the windowsill and collapsed, panting, on the floor. Then she staggered across to the door, which was missing its key. But there were two heavy wooden bars, which she slotted into place. There was a wooden shutter for the window. They’d never let her get away with it again. She’d been expecting an arrow but…no, something as simple as that wouldn’t have been enough fun. She glared at the darkness. So…there was this room. She didn’t even know which one it was. She found a candlestick and a bundle of matches and, after some scrabbling, got it lit. There were some boxes and cases piled by the bed. So…a guest room. The thoughts trickled through the silence of her brain, one after another. She wondered if they’d sing to her, and if she could stand it again. Maybe if you knew what to expect… There was a gentle tap at the door. “We have your friends downstairs, lady. Come dance with me. ” Magrat stared desperately around the room. It was as featureless as guest bedrooms everywhere. Jug and basin on a stand, the horrible garderobe alcove inadequately concealed behind a curtain, the bed which had a few bags and bundles tossed on it, a battered chair with all the varnish gone and a small square of carpet made gray with age and ground-in dust. The door rattled. “Let me in, sweet lady. ” The window was no escape this time. There was the bed to hide under, and that’d work for all of two seconds, wouldn’t it? Her eye was drawn by some kind of horrible magic back to the room’s garderobe, lurking behind its curtain. Magrat lifted the lid. The shaft was definitely wide enough to admit a body. Garderobes were notorious in that respect. Several unpopular kings had met their end, as it were, in the garderobe, at the hands of an assassin with good climbing ability, a spear, and a fundamental approach to politics. Something hit the door hard. “Lady, shall I sing to you?” Magrat reached a decision. It was the hinges that gave way eventually, the rusty bolts finally losing their grip on the stone. The alcove’s half-drawn curtain moved in the breeze. The elf smiled, strode to the curtain, and pulled it aside. The oak lid was up. The elf looked down. Magrat rose up behind it like a white ghost and hit it hard across the back of the neck with the chair, which shattered. The elf tried to turn and keep its balance, but there was still enough chair left in Magrat’s hands for her to catch it on the desperate upswing. It toppled backward, flailed at the lid, and only succeeded in pulling it shut behind it. Magrat heard a thump and a scream of rage as it dropped into the noisome darkness. It’d be too much to hope that the fall would kill it. After all, it’d land in something soft. “Not just high,” said Magrat to herself, “but stinking. ” Hiding under the bed is only good for about two seconds, but sometimes two seconds is enough. She let go of the chair. She was shaking. But she was still alive, and that felt good. That’s the thing about being alive. You’re alive to enjoy it. Magrat peered out into the passage. She had to move. She picked up a stricken chair leg for the little comfort that it gave, and ventured out. There was a scream again, from the direction of the Great Hall. Magrat looked the other way, toward the Long Gallery. She ran. There had to be a way out, somewhere, some gate, some window… Some enterprising monarch had glazed the windows some time ago. The moonlight shone through in big silver blocks, interspersed with squares of deep shadow. Magrat ran from light to shade, light to shade, down the endless room. Monarch after monarch flashed past, like a speeded-up film. King after king, all whiskers and crowns and beards. Queen after queen, all corsages and stiff bodices and Lappet-faced wowhawks and small dogs and— Some shape, some trick of moonlight, some expression on a painted face somehow cut through her terror and caught her eye. That was a portrait she’d never seen before. She’d never walked down this far. The idiot vapidity of the assembled queens had depressed her. But this one… This one, somehow, reached out to her. She stopped. It couldn’t have been done from life. In the days of this queen, the only paint known locally was a sort of blue, and generally used on the body. But a few generations ago King Lully I had been a bit of a historian and a romantic. He’d researched what was known of the early days of Lancre, and where actual evidence had been a bit sparse he had, in the best traditions of the keen ethnic historian, inferred from revealed self-evident wisdom * and extrapolated from associated sources. He’d commissioned the portrait of Queen Ynci the Short-Tempered, one of the founders of the kingdom. She had a helmet with wings and a spike on it and a mass of black hair plaited into dreadlocks with blood as a setting lotion. She was heavily made-up in the woad-and-blood-and-spirals school of barbarian cosmetics. She had a 42 D-cup breastplate and shoulder pads with spikes. She had knee pads with spikes on, and spikes on her sandals, and a rather short skirt in the fashionable tartan and blood motif. One hand rested nonchalantly on a double-headed battle axe with a spike on it, the other caressed the hand of a captured enemy warrior. The rest of the captured enemy warrior was hanging from various pine trees in the background. Also in the picture was Spike, her favorite war pony, of the now extinct Lancre hill breed which was the same general shape and disposition as a barrel of gunpowder, and her war chariot, which picked up the popular spiky theme. It had wheels you could shave with. Magrat stared. They’d never mentioned this. They’d told her about tapestries, and embroidery, and farthingales, and how to shake hands with lords. They’d never told her about spikes. There was a sound at the end of the gallery, from back the way she’d come. She grabbed her skirts and ran. There were footsteps behind her, and laughter. Left down the cloisters, then along the dark passage above the kitchens, and past the— A shape moved in the shadows. Teeth flashed. Magrat raised the chair leg, and stopped in mid-strike. “Greebo?” Nanny Ogg’s cat rubbed against her legs. His hair was flat against his body. This unnerved Magrat even more. This was Greebo , undisputed king of Lancre’s cat population and father of most of it, in whose presence wolves trod softly and bears climbed trees. He was frightened. “Come here, you bloody idiot!” She grabbed him by the scruff of his scarred neck and ran on, while Greebo gratefully sank his claws into her arm to the bone * and scrambled up to her shoulder. She must be somewhere near the kitchen now, because that was Greebo’s territory. This was an unknown and shadowy area, terror incognita, where the flesh of carpets and the plaster pillars ran out and the stone bone of the castle showed through. She was sure there were footsteps behind her, very fast and light. If she hurried around the next corner— In her arms, Greebo tensed like a spring. Magrat stopped. |
Around the next corner— Without her apparently willing it, the hand holding the broken wood came up, moving slowly back. She stepped to the corner and stabbed in one movement. There was a triumphant hiss which turned into a screech as the wood scraped down the side of the waiting elf’s neck. It reeled away. Magrat bolted for the nearest doorway, weeping in panic, and wrenched at the handle. It swung open. She darted through, slammed the door, flailed in the dark for the bars, felt them clonk home, and collapsed on to her knees. Something hit the door outside. After a while Magrat opened her eyes, and then wondered if she really had opened her eyes, because the darkness was no less dark. There was a feeling of space in front of her. There were all sorts of things in the castle, old hidden rooms, anything…there could be a pit there, there could be anything. She fumbled for the doorframe, guided herself upright, and then groped cautiously in the general direction of the wall. There was a shelf. This was a candle. And this was a bundle of matches. So, she insisted above her own heartbeat, this was a room that got used recently. Most people in Lancre still used tinderboxes. Only the king could afford matches all the way from Ankh-Morpork. Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg got them too, but they didn’t buy them. They got given them. It was easy to get given things, if you were a witch. Magrat lit the stub of candle, and turned to see what kind of room she’d scuttled into. Oh, no… “Well, well,” said Ridcully. “There’s a familiar tree. ” “Shut up. ” “I thought someone said we just had to walk uphill,” said Ridcully. “Shut up. ” “I remember once when we were in these woods you let me—” “Shut up. ” Granny Weatherwax sat down on a stump. “We’re being mazed,” she said. “Someone’s playing tricks on us. ” “I remember a story once,” said Ridcully, “where these two children were lost in the woods and a lot of birds came and covered them with leaves. ” Hope showed in his voice like a toe peeking out from under a crinoline. “Yes, that’s just the sort of bloody stupid thing a bird would think of,” said Granny. She rubbed her head. “ She’s doing it,” she said. “It’s an elvish trick. Leading travelers astray. She’s mucking up my head. My actual head. Oh, she’s good. Making us go where she wants. Making us go round in circles. Doing it to me. ” “Maybe you’ve got your mind on other things,” said Ridcully, not quite giving up hope. “Course I’ve got my mind on other things, with you falling over all the time and gabbling a lot of nonsense,” said Granny. “If Mr. Cleverdick Wizard hadn’t wanted to dredge up things that never existed in the first place I wouldn’t be here, I’d be in the center of things, knowing what’s going on. ” She clenched her fists. “Well, you don’t have to be,” said Ridcully. “It’s a fine night. We could sit here and—” “You’re falling for it too,” said Granny. “All that dreamy-weamy, eyes-across-a-crowded-room stuff. Can’t imagine how you keep your job as head wizard. ” “Mainly by checking my bed carefully and makin’ sure someone else has already had a slice of whatever it is I’m eating,” said Ridcully, with disarming honesty. “There’s not much to it, really. Mainly it’s signin’ things and having a good shout—” Ridcully gave up. “Anyway, you looked pretty surprised when you saw me,” he said. “Your face went white. ” “Anyone’d go white, seeing a full-grown man standing there looking like a sheep about to choke,” said Granny. “You really don’t let up, do you?” said Ridcully. “Amazing. You don’t give an inch. ” Another leaf drifted past. Ridcully didn’t move his head. “You know,” he said, his voice staying quite level, “either autumn comes really early in these parts, or the birds here are the ones out of that story I mentioned, or someone’s in the tree above us. ” “I know. ” “You know?” “Yes, because I’ve been paying attention while you were dodging the traffic in Memory Lane,” said Granny. “There’s at least five of ’em, and they’re right above us. How’s those magic fingers of yours?” “I could probably manage a fireball. ” “Wouldn’t work. Can you carry us out of here?” “Not both of us. ” “Just you?” “Probably, but I’m not going to leave you. ” Granny rolled her eyes. “It’s true, you know,” she said. “All men are swains. Push off, you soft old bugger. They’re not intending to kill me. At least, not yet. But they don’t hardly know nothing about wizards and they’ll chop you down without thinking. ” “Now who’s being soft?” “I don’t want to see you dead when you could be doin’ something useful. ” “Running away isn’t useful. ” “It’s going to be a lot more useful than staying here. ” “I’d never forgive myself if I went. ” “And I’d never forgive you if you stayed, and I’m a lot more unforgiving than you are,” said Granny. “When it’s all over, try to find Gytha Ogg. Tell her to look in my old box. She’ll know what’s in there. And if you don’t go now—” An arrow hit the stump beside Ridcully. “The buggers are firing at me!” he shouted. “If I had my crossbow—” “I should go and get it, then,” said Granny. “Right! I’ll be back instantly!” Ridcully vanished. A moment later several lumps of castle masonry dropped out of the space he had just occupied. “That’s him out of the way, then,” said Granny, to no one in particular. She stood up, and gazed around at the trees. “All right,” she said, “here I am. I ain’t running. Come and get me. Here I am. All of me. ” Magrat calmed down. Of course it existed. Every castle had one. And of course this one was used. There was a trodden path through the dust to the rack a few feet away from the door, where a few suits of unraveling chain-mail hung on a rack, next to the pikes. Shawn probably came in here every day. It was the armory. Greebo hopped down from Magrat’s shoulders and wandered off down the cobwebbed avenues, in his endless search for anything small and squeaky. Magrat followed him, in a daze. The kings of Lancre had never thrown anything away. At least, they’d never thrown anything away if it was possible to kill someone with it. There was armor for men. There was armor for horses. There was armor for fighting dogs. There was even armor for ravens, although King Gurnt the Stupid’s plan for an aerial attack force had never really got off the ground. There were more pikes, and swords, cutlasses, rapiers, epees, broadswords, flails, morningstars, maces, clubs, and huge knobs with spikes. They were all piled together and, in those places where the roof had leaked, were rusted into a lump. There were longbows, short bows, pistol bows, stirrup bows, and crossbows, piled like firewood and stacked with the same lack of care. Odd bits of armor were piled in more heaps, and were red with rust. In fact rust was everywhere. The whole huge room was full of the death of iron. Magrat went on, like some clockwork toy that won’t change direction until it bumps into something. The candlelight was reflected dully in helmets and breastplates. The sets of horse armor in particular were terrible, on their rotting wooden frames—they stood like exterior skeletons, and, like skeletons, nudged the mind into thoughts of mortality. Empty eye sockets stared sightlessly down at the little candlelit figure. “Lady?” The voice came from outside the door, far behind Magrat. But it echoed around her, bouncing off the centuries of moldering armaments. They can’t come in here, Magrat thought. Too much iron. In here, I’m safe. “If lady wants to play, we will fetch her friends. ” As Magrat turned, the light caught the edge of something, and gleamed. Magrat pulled aside a huge shield. “Lady?” Magrat reached out. “Lady?” Magrat’s hands held a rusty iron helmet, with wings. “Come dance at the wedding, lady. ” Magrat’s hands closed on a well-endowed breastplate, with spikes. Greebo, who had been tracking mice through a prone suit of armor, stuck his head out of a leg. A change had come over Magrat. It showed in her breathing. She’d been panting, with fear and exhaustion. Then, for a few seconds, there was no sound of her breathing at all. |
And finally it returned. Slowly. Deeply. Deliberately. Greebo saw Magrat, who he’d always put down as basically a kind of mouse in human shape, lift the hat with the wings on it and put it on her head. Magrat knew all about the power of hats. In her mind’s ear she could hear the rattle of the chariots. “Lady? We will bring your friends to sing to you. ” She turned. The candlelight sparkled off her eyes. Greebo drew back into the safety of his armor. He recalled a particular time when he’d leapt out on a vixen. Normally Greebo could take on a fox without raising a sweat but, as it turned out, this one had cubs. He hadn’t found out until he chased her into her den. He’d lost a bit of one ear and quite a lot of fur before he’d got away. The vixen had a very similar expression to the one Magrat had now. “Greebo? Come here!” The cat turned and tried to find a place of safety in the suit’s breastplate. He was beginning to doubt he’d make it through the knight. Elves prowled the castle gardens. They’d killed the fish in the ornamental pond, eventually. Mr. Brooks was perched on a kitchen chair, working at a crevice in the stable wall. He’d been aware of some sort of excitement, but it was involving humans and therefore of secondary importance. But he did notice the change in the sound from the hives, and the splintering of wood. A hive had already been tipped over. Angry bees clouded around three figures as feet ripped through comb and honey and brood. The laughter stopped as a white-coated, veiled figure appeared over the hedge. It raised a long metal tube. No one ever knew what Mr. Brooks put in his squirter. There was old tobacco in it, and boiled-up roots, and bark scrapings, and herbs that even Magrat had never heard of. It shot a glistening stream over the hedge which hit the middle elf between the eyes, and sprayed over the other two. Mr. Brooks watched dispassionately until their struggles stopped. “Wasps,” he said. Then he went and found a box, lit a lantern and, with great care and delicacy, oblivious to the stings, began to repair the damaged combs. Shawn couldn’t feel much in his arm anymore, except in the hot dull way that indicated at least one broken bone, and he knew that two of his fingers shouldn’t be looking like that. He was sweating, despite being only in his vest and drawers. He should never have taken his chain-mail off, but it’s hard to say no when an elf is pointing a bow at you. Shawn knew what, fortunately, many people didn’t—chain-mail isn’t much defense against an arrow. It certainly isn’t when the arrow is being aimed between your eyes. He’d been dragged along the corridors to the armory. There were at least four elves, but it was hard to see their faces. Shawn remembered when the traveling Magic Lanthorn show had come to Lancre. He’d watched entranced as different pictures had been projected on to one of Nanny Ogg’s bedsheets. The elf faces put him in mind of that. There were eyes and a mouth in there somewhere, but everything else seemed to be temporary, the elves’ features passing across their faces like the pictures on the screen. They didn’t say much. They just laughed a lot. They were a merry folk, especially when they were twisting your arm to see how far it could go. The elves spoke to one another in their own language. Then one of them turned to Shawn, and indicated the armory door. “We wish the lady to come out,” it said. “You must say to her, if she does not come out, we will play with you some more. ” “What will you do to us if she does come out?” said Shawn. “Oh, we shall still play with you,” said the elf. “That’s what makes it so much fun. But she must hope, must she not? Talk to her now. ” He was pushed up to the door. He knocked on it, in what he hoped was a respectful way. “Um. Miss Queen?” Magrat’s voice was muffled. “Yes?” “It’s me, Shawn. ” “I know. ” “I’m out here. Um. I think they’ve hurt Miss Tockley. Um. They say they’ll hurt me some more if you don’t come out. But you don’t have to come out because they daren’t come in there because of all the iron. So I shouldn’t listen to them if I was you. ” There were some distant clankings, and then a twang. “Miss Magrat?” “Ask her,” said the elf, “if there is any food and water in there. ” “Miss, they say—” One of the elves jerked him away. Two of them took up station either side of the doorway, and one put his pointed ear to it. Then it knelt down and peered through the keyhole, taking care not to come too near the metal of the lock. There was a sound no louder than a click. The elf remained motionless for a moment, and then keeled over gently, without a sound. Shawn blinked. There was about an inch of crossbow bolt sticking out of its eye. The feathers had been sheared off by its passage through the keyhole. “Wow,” he said. The armory door swung open, revealing nothing but darkness. One of the elves started to laugh. “So much for him,” it said. “How stupid…Lady? Will you listen to your warrior?” He gripped Shawn’s broken arm, and twisted. Shawn tried not to scream. Purple lights flashed in front of his eyes. He wondered what would happen if he passed out. He wished his mum was here. “Lady,” said the elf, “if you—” “All right,” said Magrat’s voice, from somewhere in the darkness. “I’m going to come out. You must promise not to hurt me. ” “Oh, indeed I do, lady. ” “And you’ll let Shawn go. ” “Yes. ” The elves on either side of the doorway nodded at each other. “Please?” Magrat pleaded. “Yes. ” Shawn groaned. If it had been Mum or Mistress Weatherwax, they’d have fought to the death. Mum was right—Magrat always was the nice soft one… …who’d just fired a crossbow through a keyhole. Some eighth sense made Shawn shift his weight. If the elf relaxed his grip for just one second, Shawn was ready to stagger. Magrat appeared in the doorway. She was carrying an ancient wooden box with the word “Candles” on the side in peeling paint. Shawn looked hopefully along the corridor. Magrat smiled brightly at the elf beside him. “This is for you,” she said, handing over the box. The elf took it automatically. “But you mustn’t open it. And remember you promised not to hurt me. ” The elves closed in behind Magrat. One of them raised a hand, with a stone knife in it. “Lady?” said the elf holding the box, which was rocking gently in its hands. “Yes?” said Magrat, meekly. “I lied to you. ” The knife plunged toward her back. And shattered. The elf looked at Magrat’s innocent expression, and opened the box. Greebo had spent an irritating two minutes in that box. Technically, a cat locked in a box may be alive or it may be dead. You never know until you look. In fact, the mere act of opening the box will determine the state of the cat, although in this case there were three determinate states the cat could be in: these being Alive, Dead, and Bloody Furious. Shawn dived sideways as Greebo went off like a Claymore mine. “Don’t worry about him,” said Magrat dreamily, as the elf flailed at the maddened cat. “He’s just a big softy. ” She drew a knife out of the folds of her dress, turned, and stabbed the elf behind her. It wasn’t an accurate thrust, but it didn’t have to be. Not with an iron blade. She completed the movement by daintily raising the hem of her dress and kicking the third elf just under the knee. Shawn saw a flash of metal as her foot retreated under the silk again. She elbowed the screaming elf aside, trotted into the doorway, and came back with a crossbow. “Shawn,” she said, “which one hurt you?” “All of them,” said Shawn, weakly. “But the one fighting Greebo stabbed Diamanda. ” The elf pulled Greebo off his face. Green-blue blood was streaming from a dozen wounds and Greebo hung on to its arm as he was flailed against the wall. “Stop it,” said Magrat. The elf looked down at the bow, and froze. “I will not beg for mercy,” it said. “Good,” said Magrat, and fired. That left one elf rolling in circles on the flagstones, clutching at its knee. Magrat stepped daintily over the body of another elf, vanished into the armory for a moment, and came back with an axe. |
The elf stopped moving, and focused all its attention on her. “Now,” said Magrat, conversationally, “I’m not going to lie to you about your chances, because you haven’t got any. I’m going to ask you some questions. But first of all, I’m going to get your attention. ” The elf was expecting it, and managed to roll aside as the axe splintered the stones. “Miss?” said Shawn weakly, as Magrat raised the axe again. “Yes?” “Mum says they don’t feel pain, miss. ” “No? But they can certainly be put to inconvenience. ” Magrat lowered the axe. “Of course, there’s armor,” she said. “We could put this one in a suit of armor. How about it?” “No!” The elf tried to pull away across the floor. “Why not?” said Magrat. “Better than axes, yes?” “No!” “Why not?” “It is like being buried in the earth,” hissed the elf. “No eyes, no ears, no mouth!” “Chain-mail, then,” said Magrat. “No!” “Where is the king? Where is everyone?” “I will not say!” “All right. ” Magrat vanished into the armory again, and came back dragging a suit of chain-mail. The elf tried to scramble away. “You won’t get it on,” said Shawn, from where he lay. “You’ll never get it over its arms—” Magrat picked up the axe. “Oh, no,” said Shawn. “Miss!” “You will never get him back,” said the elf. “She has him. ” “We shall see,” said Magrat. “All right, Shawn. What shall we do with it?” In the end they dragged it into a storeroom next to the dungeon and manacled it to the bars of the window. It was still whimpering at the touch of the iron as Magrat slammed the door. Shawn was trying to keep at a respectful distance. It was the way Magrat kept smiling all the time. “Now let’s have a look at that arm of yours,” she said. “I’m all right,” said Shawn, “but they stabbed Diamanda in the kitchen. ” “Was it her I heard screaming?” “Uh. Partly. Uh. ” Shawn stared down in fascination at the dead elves as Magrat stepped over them. “You killed them,” he said. “Did I do it wrong?” “Um. No,” said Shawn cautiously. “No, you did it…quite well, really. ” “And there’s one in the pit,” said Magrat. “You know… the pit. What day is it?” “Tuesday. ” “And you clean it out on…?” “Wednesdays. Only I missed last Wednesday because I had—” “Then we probably don’t need to worry about it. Are there any more around?” “I…don’t think so. Uh. Miss Queen?” “Yes, Shawn?” “Could you put the axe down, please? I’d feel a lot better if you put the axe down. The axe, Miss Queen. You keep swinging it about. It could go off at any second. ” “What axe?” “The one you’re holding. ” “Oh, this axe. ” Magrat appeared to notice it for the first time. “That arm looks bad. Let’s get down to the kitchen and I’ll splint it. Those fingers don’t look good, either. Did they kill Diamanda?” “I don’t know. And I don’t know why. I mean, she was helping them. ” “Yes. Wait a moment. ” Magrat disappeared one more time into the armory, and came back carrying a sack. “Come on. Greebo!” Greebo gave her a sly look, and stopped washing himself. “D’you know a funny thing about Lancre?” said Magrat, as they sidled down the stairs. “What’s that, miss?” “We never throw anything away. And you know another thing?” “No, miss. ” “They couldn’t have painted her from life, of course. I mean, people didn’t paint portraits in those days. But the armor …hah! All they had to do was look. And you know what?” Shawn suddenly felt frightened. He’d been scared before, but it had been immediate and physical. But Magrat, like this, frightened him more than the elves. It was like being charged by a sheep. “No, miss?” he said. “No one told me about her. You’d think it’s all tapestry and walking around in long dresses!” “What, miss?” Magrat waved an arm expressively. “All this!” “Miss!” said Shawn, from knee level. Magrat looked down. “What?” “Please put the axe down!” “Oh. Sorry. ” Hodgesaargh spent his nights in a little shed adjoining the mews. He too had received an invitation to the wedding, but it had been snatched from his hand and eaten in mistake for one of his fingers by Lady Jane, an ancient and evil-tempered gyrfalcon. So he’d gone through his usual nightly routine, bathing his wounds and eating a meal of stale bread and ancient cheese and going to bed early to bleed gently by candlelight over a copy of Beaks and Talons. He looked up at a sound from the mews, picked up the candlestick, and wandered out. An elf was looking at the birds. It had Lady Jane perched on its arm. Hodgesaargh, like Mr. Brooks, didn’t take much interest in events beyond his immediate passion. He was aware that there were a lot of visitors in the castle and, as far as he was concerned, anyone looking at the hawks was a fellow enthusiast. “That’s my best bird,” he said proudly. “I’ve nearly got her trained. She’s very good. I’m training her. She’s very intelligent. She knows eleven words of command. ” The elf nodded solemnly. Then it slipped the hood off the bird’s head, and nodded toward Hodgesaargh. “Kill,” it commanded. Lady Jane’s eyes glittered in the torchlight. Then she leapt, and hit the elf full in the throat with two sets of talons and a beak. “She does that with me, too,” said Hodgesaargh. “Sorry about that. She’s very intelligent. ” Diamanda was lying on the kitchen floor, in a pool of blood. Magrat knelt beside her. “She’s still alive. Just. ” She grabbed the hem of her dress, and tried to rip it. “Damn the thing. Help me, Shawn. ” “Miss?” “We need bandages!” “But—” “Oh, stop gawping. ” The skirt tore. A dozen lace roses unraveled. Shawn had never been privy to what queens wore under their clothes, but even starting with certain observations concerning Millie Chillum and working his way up, he’d never considered metal underwear. Magrat thumped the breastplate. “Fairly good fit,” she said, defying Shawn to point out that in certain areas there was quite a lot of air between the metal and Magrat. “Not that a few tucks and a rivet here and there wouldn’t help. Don’t you think it looks good?” “Oh, yes,” said Shawn. “Uh. Sheet iron is really you. ” “You really think so?” “Oh, yes,” said Shawn, inventing madly. “You’ve got the figure for it. ” She set and splinted his arm and fingers, working methodically, using strips of silk as bandages. Diamanda was less easy. Magrat cleaned and stitched and bandaged, while Shawn sat and watched, trying to ignore the insistent hot-ice pain from his arm. He kept repeating, “They just laughed and stabbed her. She didn’t even try to run away. It was like they were playing. ” For some reason Magrat shot a glance at Greebo, who had the decency to look embarrassed. “Pointy ears and hair you want to stroke,” she said, vaguely. “And they can fascinate you. And when they’re happy they make a pleasing noise. ” “What?” “Just thinking to myself. ” Magrat stood up. “OK. I’ll build up the fire and fetch a couple of crossbows and load them up for you. And you keep the door shut and let no one in, d’you hear? And if I don’t come back…try and go somewhere where there’s people. Get up to the dwarfs at Copperhead. Or the trolls. ” “What are you going to do?” “I’m going to see what’s happened to everyone. ” Magrat opened the sack she’d brought down from the armory. There was a helmet in it. It had wings on, and to Shawn’s mind was quite impractical. * There was also a pair of mail gloves and a choice assortment of rusty weaponry. “But there’s probably more of those things out there!” “Better out there than in here. ” “Can you fight?” “Don’t know. Never tried,” said Magrat. “But if we wait here, someone’s bound to come. ” “Yes. I’m afraid they will. ” “What I mean is, you don’t have to do this!” “Yes I do. I’m getting married tomorrow. One way or the other. ” “But—” “Shut up!” She’s going to get killed, Shawn thought. It’s enough to be able to pick up a sword. You have to know which end to poke into the enemy. I’m supposed to be on guard and she’s going to get killed— But— But— She shot one of them in the eye, right through the keyhole. I couldn’t have done that. I’d have said something like “Hands up!” first. But they were in the way and she just…got them out of her way. |
She’s still going to die. She’s just probably going to die bravely. I wish my mum was here. Magrat finished rolling up the stained remnant of the wedding dress and stowed it in the sack. “Have we got any horses?” “There’s…elf horses in the courtyard, miss. But I don’t think you’ll be able to ride one. ” It struck Shawn immediately that this wasn’t the right thing to say. It was black, and larger than what Magrat had to think of as a human horse. It rolled red eyes at her, and tried to get into position to kick. Magrat managed to mount only by practically tethering every leg to the rings in the stable wall, but when she was on, the horse changed. It had the docility of the severely whipped, and seemed to have no mind of its own. “It’s the iron,” said Shawn. “What does it do to them? It can’t hurt. ” “Don’t know, miss. Seems they just freeze up, kind of thing. ” “Drop the portcullis after I’m through. ” “Miss—” “Are you going to tell me not to go?” “But—” “Shut up, then. ” “But—” “I remember a folksong about a situation just like this,” said Magrat. “This girl had her fiancé stolen by the Queen of the Elves and she didn’t hang around whining, she jolly well got on her horse and went and rescued him. Well, I’m going to do that too. ” Shawn tried to grin. “You’re going to sing ?” he said. “I’m going to fight. I’ve got everything to fight for, haven’t I? And I’ve tried everything else. ” Shawn wanted to say: but that’s not the same! Going and fighting when you’re a real person isn’t like folksongs! In real life you die! In folksongs you just have to remember to keep one finger in your ear and how to get to the next chorus! In real life no one goes wack-fol-a-diddle-di-do-sing-too-rah-li-ay! But he said : “But, miss, if you don’t come back—” Magrat turned in the saddle. “I’ll be back. ” Shawn watched her urge the sluggish horse into a trot and disappear over the drawbridge. “Good luck!” he shouted. Then he lowered the portcullis and went back into the keep, where there were three loaded crossbows on the kitchen table. There was also the book on martial arts that the king had sent for specially. He pumped up the fire, turned a chair to face the door, and turned to the Advanced Section. Magrat was halfway down the road to the square when the adrenaline wore off and her past life caught up with her. She looked down at the armor, and the horse, and thought: I’m out of my mind. It was that bloody letter. And I was frightened. I thought I’d show everyone what I’m made of. And now they’ll probably find out: I’m made of lots of tubes and greeny purple wobbly bits. I was just lucky with those elves. And I didn’t think. As soon as I think, I get things wrong. I don’t think I’ll be that lucky again… Luck? She thought wistfully of her bags of charms and talismans at the bottom of the river. They’d never really worked, if her life was anything to go by, but maybe—it was a horrible thought—maybe they’d just stopped it getting worse. There were hardly any lights in the town, and a lot of the houses had their shutters up. The horse’s hooves clattered loudly on the cobbles. Magrat peered into the shadows. Once, they’d just been shadows. Now they could be gateways to anything. Clouds were pressing in from the Hub. Magrat shivered. This was something she’d never seen before. It was true night. Night had fallen in Lancre, and it was an old night. It was not the simple absence of day, patrolled by the moon and stars, but an extension of something that had existed long before there was any light to define it by absence. It was unfolding itself from under tree roots and inside stones, crawling back across the land. Magrat’s sack of what she considered to be essential props might be at the bottom of the river but she had been a witch for more than ten years, and she could feel the terror in the air. People remember badly. But societies remember well, the swarm remembers, encoding the information to slip it past the censors of the mind, passing it on from grandmother to grandchild in little bits of nonsense they won’t bother to forget. Sometimes the truth keeps itself alive in devious ways despite the best efforts of the official keepers of information. Ancient fragments chimed together now in Magrat’s head. Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen… From ghosties and bogles and long-leggity beasties… My mother said I never should… We dare not go a-hunting, for fear… And things that go bump… Play with the fairies in the wood… Magrat sat on the horse she didn’t trust and gripped the sword she didn’t know how to use while the ciphers crept out of memory and climbed into a shape. They steal cattle and babies… They steal milk… They love music, and steal away musicians… In fact they steal everything. We’ll never be as free as them, as beautiful as them, as clever as them, as light as them; we are animals. Chilly wind soughed in the forest beyond the town. It had always been a pleasant forest to walk in at nights but now, she knew, it would not be so again. The trees would have eyes. There would be distant laughter in the wind. What they take is everything. Magrat spurred the horse into a walk. Somewhere in the town a door slammed shut. And what they give you is fear. There was the sound of hammering from across the street. A man was nailing something on his door. He glanced around in terror, saw Magrat, and darted inside. What he had been nailing on the door was a horseshoe. Magrat tied the horse firmly to a tree and slid off its back. There was no reply to her knocking. Who was it who lived here? Carter the weaver, wasn’t it, or Weaver the baker? “Open up, man! It’s me, Magrat Garlick!” There was something white beside the doorstep. It turned out to be a bowl of cream. Again, Magrat thought of the cat Greebo. Smelly, unreliable, cruel, and vindictive—but who purred nicely, and had a bowl of milk every night. “Come on! Open up!” After a while the bolts slid back, and an eye was applied to a very narrow crack. “Yes?” “You’re Carter the baker, aren’t you?” “I’m Weaver the thatcher. ” “And you know who I am?” “Miss Garlick?” “Come on, let me in!” “Are you alone, miss?” “Yes. ” The crack widened to a Magrat width. There was one candle alight in the room. Weaver backed away from Magrat until he was leaning awkwardly over the table. Magrat peered around him. The rest of the Weaver family were hiding under the table. Four pairs of frightened eyes peered up at Magrat. “What’s going on?” she said. “Er…” said Weaver. “Didn’t recognize you in your flying hat, miss…” “I thought you were doing the Entertainment? What’s happened? Where is everyone? Where is my going-to-be-husband? ” “Er…” Yes, it was probably the helmet. That’s what Magrat decided afterward. There are certain items, such as swords and wizards’ hats and crowns and rings, which pick up something of the nature of their owners. Queen Ynci had probably never sewn a tapestry in her life and undoubtedly had a temper shorter than a wet cowpat. * It was better to think that something of her had rubbed off on the helmet and was being transmitted to Magrat like some kind of royal scalp disease. It was better to let Ynci take over. She grabbed Weaver by his collar. “If you say ‘Er’ one more time,” she said, “I’ll chop your ears off. ” “Er…aargh…I mean, miss…it’s the Lords and Ladies, miss!” “It really is the elves?” “Miss!” said Weaver, his eyes full of pleading. “Don’t say it! We heard ’em go down the street. Dozens of ’em. And they’ve stolen old Thatcher’s cow and Skindle’s goat and they broke down the door of—” “Why’d you put a bowl of milk out?” Magrat demanded. Weaver’s mouth opened and shut a few times. Then he managed: “You see, my Eva said her granny always put a bowl of milk out for them, to keep them hap—” “I see,” said Magrat, icily. “And the king?” “The king, miss?” said Weaver, buying time. “The king,” said Magrat. “Short man, runny eyes, ears that stick out a bit, unlike other ears in this vicinity very shortly. ” Weaver’s fingers wove around one another like tormented snakes. |
“Well…well…well…” He caught the look on Magrat’s face, and sagged. “We done the play,” he said. “I told ’em, let’s do the Stick and Bucket Dance instead, but they were set on this play. And it all started all right and then, and then, and then…suddenly They were there, hundreds of ’em, and everyone was runnin’, and someone bashed into me, and I rolled into the stream, and then there was all this noise, and I saw Jason Ogg hitting four elves with the first thing he could get hold of—” “Another elf?” “Right, and then I found Eva and the kids, and then lots of people were running like hell for home, and there were these—Gentry on horseback, and I could hear ’em laughing, and we got home and Eva said to put a horseshoe on the door and—” “What about the king?” “Dunno, miss. Last I remember, he was laughin’ at Thatcher in his straw wig. ” “And Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax? What happened to them?” “Dunno, miss. Don’t remember seein’ ’em, but there was people runnin’ everywhere—” “And where was all this?” “Miss?” “Where did it happen?” said Magrat, trying to speak slowly and distinctly. “Up at the Dancers, miss. You know. Them old stones. ” Magrat let him go. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Don’t tell Magrat, Magrat’s not to know about this sort of thing. The Dancers? Right. ” “It wasn’t us, miss! It was only make-believe!” “Hah!” She unbolted the door again. “Where’re you going, miss?” said Weaver, who was not a competitor in the All-Lancre Uptake Stakes. “Where d’you think?” “But, miss, you can’t take iron—” Magrat slammed the door. Then she kicked the bowl of milk so hard that it sprayed across the street. Jason Ogg crawled cautiously through the dripping bracken. There was a figure a few feet away. He hefted the stone in his hand— “Jason?” “Is that you, Weaver?” “No, it’s me—Tailor. ” “Where’s everyone else?” “Tinker’n Baker found Carpenter just now. Have you seen Weaver?” “No, but I saw Carter and Thatcher. ” Mist curled up as the rain drummed into the warm earth. The seven surviving Morris Men crawled under a dripping bush. “There’s going to be hell to pay in the morning!” moaned Carter. “When she finds us we’re done for!” “We’ll be all right if we can find some iron,” said Jason. “Iron don’t have no effect on her! She’ll tan our hides for us!” Carter clutched his knees to his chest in terror. “Who?” “Mistress Weatherwax!” Thatcher jabbed him in the ribs. Water cascaded off the leaves above them and funneled down every neck. “Don’t be so daft! You saw them things! What’re you worrying about that old baggage for?” “She’ll tan our hides for us, right enough! ’Twas all our fault, she’ll say!” “I just hopes she gets a chance,” muttered Tinker. “We are,” said Thatcher, “between a rock and a hard place. ” “No we ain’t,” sobbed Carter. “I been there. That’s that gorge just above Bad Ass. We ain’t there! I wish we was there! We’re under this bush! And they’ll be looking for us! And so shall she!” “What happened when we was doing the Ent—” Carpenter began. “I ain’t asking that question right now,” said Jason. “The question I’m asking right now is, how do we get home tonight?” “She’ll be waiting for us!” Carter wailed. There was a tinkle in the darkness. “What’ve you got there?” said Jason. “It’s the props sack,” said Carter. “You said as how it was my job to look after the props sack!” “You dragged that all the way down here?” “I ain’t about to get into more trouble ’cos of losing the props sack!” Carter started to shiver. “If we gets back home,” said Jason, “I’m going to talk to our mam about getting you some of these new dried frog pills. ” He pulled the sack toward him and undid the top. “There’s our bells in here,” he said, “and the sticks. And who told you to pack the accordion?” “I thought we might want to do the Stick and—” “ No one’s ever to do the Stick and—” There was a laugh, away on the rain-soaked hill, and a crackling in the bracken. Jason suddenly felt the focus of attention. “They’re out there!” said Carter. “And we ain’t got any weapons,” said Tinker. A set of heavy brass bells hit him in the chest. “Shut up,” said Jason, “and put your bells on. Carter?” “They’re waiting for us!” “I’ll say this just once,” said Jason. “ After tonight no one’s ever to talk about the Stick and Bucket dance ever again. All right?” The Lancre Morris Men faced one another, rain plastering their clothes to their bodies. Carter, tears of terror mingling with makeup and the rain, squeezed the accordion. There was the long-drawn-out chord that by law must precede all folk music to give bystanders time to get away. Jason held up his hand and counted his fingers. “One, two…” His forehead wrinkled. “One, two, three…” “…four…” hissed Tinker. “…four,” said Jason. “Dance, lads!” Six heavy ash sticks clashed in mid-air. “…one, two, forward, one, back, spin …” Slowly, as the leaky strains of Mrs. Widgery’s Lodger wound around the mist, the dancers leapt and squelched their way slowly through the night… “…two, back, jump …” The sticks clashed again. “They’re watching us!” panted Tailor, as he bounced past Jason, “I can see ’em!” “…one…two…they won’t do nothing ’til the music stops!…back, two, spin …they loves music!…forward, hop, turn …one and six, beetle crushers!…hop, back, spin …” “They’re coming out of the bracken!” shouted Carpenter, as the sticks met again. “I see ’em…two, three, forward, turn…Carter…back, spin…you do a double…two, back…wandering angus down the middle…” “I’m losing it, Jason!” “Play!…two, three, spin …” “They’re all round us!” “ Dance! ” “They’re watching us! They’re closing in!” “… spin , back…jump…we’re nearly at the road…” “Jason!” “Remember when…three, turn…we won the cup against Ohulan Casuals?… spin …” The sticks met, with a thump of wood against wood. Clods of earth were kicked into the night. “Jason, you don’t mean—” “…back, two… do it …” “Carter’s getting…one, two…out of wind…” “…two, spin…” “The accordion’s melting, Jason,” sobbed Carter. “…one, two, forward…bean setting!” The accordion wheezed. The elves pressed in. Out of the corner of his eye Jason saw a dozen grinning, fascinated faces. “Jason!” “…one, two…Carter into the middle…one, two, spin…” Seven pairs of boots thudded down… “Jason!” “…one, two…spin…ready…one, two…back…back…one, two…turn… KILL …and back, one, two…” The inn was a wreck. The elves had stripped it of everything edible and rolled out every barrel, although a couple of rogue cheeses in the cellar had put up quite a fight. The table had collapsed. Lobster claws and candlesticks lay among the ruined meal. Nothing moved. Then someone sneezed, and some soot fell into the empty grate, followed by Nanny Ogg and, eventually, by the small, black, and irate figure of Casanunda. “Yuk,” said Nanny, looking around at the debris. “This really is the pips. ” “You should have let me fight them!” “There were too many of them, my lad. ” Casanunda threw his sword on the floor in disgust. “We were just getting to know one another properly and fifty elves burst into the place! Damn! This kind of thing happens to me all the time!” “That’s the best thing about black, it doesn’t show the soot,” said Nanny Ogg vaguely, dusting herself off. “They managed it, then. Esme was right. Wonder where she is? Oh, well. Come on. ” “Where’re we going?” said the dwarf. “Down to my cottage. ” “Ah!” “To get my broomstick,” said Nanny Ogg firmly. “I ain’t having the Queen of the Fairies ruling my children. So we’d better get some help. This has gone too far. ” “We could go up into the mountains,” said Casanunda, as they crept down the stairs. “There’s thousands of dwarfs up there. ” “No,” said Nanny Ogg. “Esme won’t thank me for this, but I’m the one who has to wave the bag o’ sweets when she overreaches herself…and I’m thinking about someone who really hates the Queen. ” “You won’t find anyone who hates her worse than dwarfs do,” said Casanunda. “Oh, you will,” said Nanny Ogg, “if you knows where to look. ” The elves had been into Nanny Ogg’s cottage, too. There weren’t two pieces of furniture left whole. “What they don’t take they smash,” said Nanny Ogg. |
She stirred the debris with her foot. Glass tinkled. “That vase was a present from Esme,” she said, to the unfeeling world in general. “Never liked it much. ” “Why’d they do it?” said Casanunda, looking around. “Oh, they’d smash the world if they thought it’d make a pretty noise,” said Nanny. She stepped outside again and felt around under the eaves of the low thatched roof, and pulled out her broomstick with a small grunt of triumph. “I always shove it up there,” she said, “otherwise the kids nick it and go joy-riding. You ride behind me, and I say this against my better judgement. ” Casanunda shuddered. Dwarfs are generally scared of heights, since they don’t often have the opportunity to get used to them. Nanny scratched her chin, making a sandpapery sound. “And we’ll need a crowbar,” she said. “There’ll be one in Jason’s forge. Hop on, my lad. ” “I really wasn’t expecting this,” said Casanunda, feeling his way on to the broomstick with his eyes shut. “I was looking forward to a convivial evening, just me and you. ” “It is just me and you. ” “Yes, but I hadn’t assumed there’d be a broomstick involved. ” The stick left the ground slowly. Casanunda clung miserably to the bristles. “Where’re we going?” he said weakly. “Place I know, up in the hills,” said Nanny. “Ages since I’ve been there. Esme won’t go near it, and Magrat’s too young to be tole. I used to go there a lot, though. When I was a girl. Girls used to go up there if they wanted to get—oh, bugger…” “What?” “Thought I saw something fly across the moon, and I’m damn sure it wasn’t Esme. ” Casanunda tried to look around while keeping his eyes shut. “Elves can’t fly,” he muttered. “That’s all you know,” said Nanny. “They ride yarrow stalks. ” “Yarrow stalks?” “Yep. Tried it meself, once. You can get some lift out of ’em, but it plays merry hell with the gussets. Give me a nice bundle of bristles every time. Anyway,” she nudged Casanunda, “you should be right at home on one of these. Magrat says a broomstick is one of them sexual metaphor things. ” * Casanunda had opened one eye just long enough to see a rooftop drift silently below him. He felt sick. “The difference being,” said Nanny Ogg, “that a broomstick stays up longer. And you can use it to keep the house clean, which is more than you can say for—are you all right?” “I really don’t like this at all, Mrs. Ogg. ” “Just trying to cheer you up, Mr. Casanunda. ” “‘Cheer’ I like, Mrs. Ogg,” said the dwarf, “but can we avoid the ‘up’?” “Soon be down. ” “ That I like. ” Nanny Ogg’s boots scraped along the hard-packed mud of the smithy’s yard. “I’ll leave the magic running, won’t be a mo,” she said. Ignoring the dwarf’s bleat for help, she hopped off the stick and disappeared through the back door. The elves hadn’t been there, at least. Too much iron. She pulled a crowbar from the toolbench and hurried out again. “You can hold this,” she said to Casanunda. She hesitated. “Can’t have too much luck, can we?” she said, and scurried back into the forge. This time she was out again much faster, slipping something into her pocket. “Ready?” she said. “No. ” “Then let’s go. And keep a look out. With your eyes open. ” “I’m looking for elves?” said Casanunda, as the stick rose into the moonlight. “Could be. It wasn’t Esme, and the only other one ever flying around here is Mr. Ixolite the banshee, and he’s very good about slipping us a note under the door when he’s going to be about. For air traffic control, see?” Most of the town was dark. The moonlight made a black and silver checkerboard across the country. After a while, Casanunda began to feel better about things. The motion of the broomstick was actually quite soothing. “Carried lots of passengers, have you?” he said. “On and off, yes,” said Nanny. Casanunda appeared to be thinking about things. And then he said, in a voice dripping with scientific inquiry, “Tell me, has anyone ever tried to mak—” “No,” said Nanny Ogg firmly. “You’d fall off. ” “You don’t know what I was going to ask. ” “Bet you half a dollar?” They flew in silence for a couple of minutes, and then Casanunda tapped Nanny Ogg on the shoulder. “Elves at three o’clock!” “That’s all right, then. That’s hours away. ” “I mean they’re over there!” Nanny squinted at the stars. Something ragged moved across the night. “Oh, blast. ” “Can’t you outfly them?” “Nope. They can put a girdle round the world in forty minutes. ” “Why? It’s not that fat,” said Casanunda, who was feeling in the mood for a handful of dried frog pills. “I mean they’re fast. We can’t outrun ’em, even if we lost some weight. ” “I think I’m losing a tiny bit,” said Casanunda, as the broomstick dived toward the trees. Leaves scraped on Nanny Ogg’s boots. Moonlight glinted briefly off ash-blond hair, away to her left. “Bugger, bugger, bugger. ” Three elves were keeping station with the broomstick. That was the thing about elves. They chased you till you dropped, until your blood was curdling with dread; if a dwarf wanted you dead, on the other hand, they’d simply cut you in half with an axe first chance they got. But that was because dwarfs were a lot nicer than elves. “They’re gaining on us!” said Casanunda. “Got the crowbar?” “Yes!” “Right…” The broomstick zigzagged over the silent forest. One of the elves drew its sword and swung down. Knock them down into the trees, leave them alive as long as possible… The broomstick went into reverse. Nanny Ogg’s head and legs went forward, so that partly she was sitting on her hands but mainly she was sitting on nothing. The elf swooped toward her, laughing— Casanunda stuck out the crowbar. There was a sound very like doioinng. The broomstick jerked ahead again, dumping Nanny Ogg in Casanunda’s lap. “Sorry. ” “Don’t mention it. In fact, do it again if you like. ” “Get him, did you?” “Took his breath away. ” “Good. Where’re the others?” “Can’t see them. ” Casanunda grinned madly. “We showed them, eh?” Something went zip and stuck into Nanny Ogg’s hat. “They know we’ve got iron,” she said. “They won’t come close again. They don’t need to,” she added bitterly. The broomstick swerved around a tree and plowed through some bracken. Then it swung out on to an overgrown path. “They aren’t following us anymore,” said Casanunda, after a while. “We’ve frightened them off, yes?” “Not us. They’re nervy of going close to the Long Man. It’s not their turf. Huh, look at the state of this path. There’s trees growing in it now. When I was a girl, you wouldn’t find a blade of grass growing on the path. ” She smiled at a distant memory. “Very popular place on a summer night, the Long Man was. ” There was a change in the texture of the forest now. It was old even by the standards of Lancre forestry. Beards of moss hung from gnarled low branches. Ancient leaves crackled underfoot as the witch and the dwarf flew between the trees. Something heard them and crashed away through the thick undergrowth. By the sound of it, it was something with horns. Nanny let the broomstick glide to a halt. “There,” she said, pushing aside a bracken frond, ‘the Long Man. ’” Casanunda peered under her elbow. “Is that all? It’s just an old burial mound. ” “Three old burial mounds,” said Nanny. Casanunda took in the overgrown landscape. “Yes, I see them,” he said. “Two round ones and a long one. Well?” “The first time I saw ’em from the air,” said Nanny, “I nearly fell off the bloody broomstick for laughin’. ” There was one of those pauses known as the delayed drop while the dwarf worked out the topography of the situation. Then: “Blimey,” said Casanunda. “I thought the people who built burial mounds and earthworks and things were serious druids and people like that, not…not people who drew on privy walls with 200,000 tons of earth, in a manner of speaking. ” “Doesn’t sound like you to be shocked by that sort of thing. ” She could have sworn the dwarf was blushing under his wig. “Well, there’s such a thing as style ,” said Casanunda. “There’s such a thing as subtlety. You don’t just shout: I’ve got a great big tonker. |
” “It’s a bit more complicated than that,” said Nanny, pushing through the bushes. “Here it’s the landscape saying: I’ve got a great big tonker. That’s a dwarf word, is it?” “Yes. ” “It’s a good word. ” Casanunda tried to untangle himself from a briar. “Esme doesn’t ever come up here,” said Nanny, from somewhere up ahead. “She says it’s bad enough about folksongs and maypoles and suchlike, without the whole scenery getting suggestive. ’Course,” she went on, “this was never intended as a women’s place. My great-gran said in the real old days the men used to come up for strange rites what no women ever saw. ” “Except your great-grandmother, who hid in the bushes,” said Casanunda. Nanny stopped dead. “How did you know that ?” “Let’s just say I’m developing a bit of an insight into Ogg womanhood as well, Mrs. Ogg,” said the dwarf. A thorn bush had ripped his coat. “She said they just used to build sweat lodges and smell like a blacksmith’s armpit and drink scumble and dance around the fire with horns on and piss in the trees any old how,” said Nanny. “She said it was a bit sissy, to be honest. But I always reckon a man’s got to be a man, even if it is sissy. What happened to your wig?” “I think it’s on that tree back there. ” “Still got the crowbar?” “Yes, Mrs. Ogg. ” “Here we are, then. ” They had arrived at the foot of the long mound. There were three large irregular stones there, forming a low cave. Nanny Ogg ducked under the lintel into the fusty and somewhat ammonia-scented darkness. “About here’d do,” she said. “Got a match?” The sulfurous glow revealed a flat rock with a crude drawing scratched on it. Ochre had been rubbed into the lines. They showed a figure of an owl-eyed man wearing an animal skin and horns. In the flickering light he seemed to dance. There was a runic inscription underneath. “Anyone ever worked out what that says?” said Casanunda. Nanny Ogg nodded. “It’s a variant of Oggham,” she said. “Basically, it means ‘I’ve Got a Great Big Tonker. ’” “Oggham?” said the dwarf. “My family has been in these, how shall I put it, in these parts for a very long time,” said Nanny. “Knowing you is a real education, Mrs. Ogg,” said Casanunda. “Everyone says that. Just shove the crowbar down the side of the stone, will you? I’ve always wanted an excuse to go down there. ” “What is down there?” “Well, it leads into Lancre Caves. They run everywhere, I’ve heard. Even up to Copperhead. There’s supposed to be an entrance in the castle, but I’ve never found it. But mainly they lead to the world of the elves. ” “I thought the Dancers led to the world of the elves?” “This is the other world of the elves. ” “I thought they only had one. ” “They don’t talk about this one. ” “And you want to go into it?” “Yes. ” “You want to find elves?” “That’s right. Now, are you going to stand here all night, or are you going to crowbar that stone?” She gave him a nudge. “There’s gold down there, you know. ” “Oh, yes, thanks very much,” said Casanunda sarcastically. “That’s speciesist, that is. Just because I am…vertically disadvantaged, you’re trying to get round me with gold, yes? Dwarfs are just a lot of appetites on legs, that’s what you think. Hah!” Nanny sighed. “Oh, all right,” she said. “Tell you what…when we get back home, I’ll bake you some proper dwarf bread, how about that?” Casanunda’s face split into a disbelieving grin. “Real dwarf bread?” “Yes. I reckon I’ve still got the recipe, and anyway it’s been weeks since I emptied out the cat box. ” * “Well, all right—. ” Casanunda rammed one end of the crowbar under the stone and pulled on it with dwarfish strength. After a moment’s resistance the stone swung up. There were steps below, thick with earth and old roots. Nanny started down them without a look back, and then realized that the dwarf wasn’t following. “What’s the matter?” “Never liked dark and enclosed spaces much. ” “What? You’re a dwarf. ” “ Born a dwarf, born a dwarf. But I even get nervous when I’m hiding in wardrobes. That’s a bit of a drawback in my line of work. ” “Don’t be daft. I’m not scared. ” “You’re not me. ” “Tell you what—I’ll bake ’em with extra gravel. ” “Ooh…you’re a temptress, Mrs. Ogg. ” “And bring the torches. ” The caves were dry, and warm. Casanunda trotted along after Nanny, anxious to stay in the torchlight. “You haven’t been down here before?” “No, but I know the way. ” After a while Casanunda began to feel better. The caves were better than wardrobes. For one thing, you weren’t tripping over shoes all the time, and there probably wasn’t much chance of a sword-wielding husband opening the door. In fact, he began to feel happy. The words rose unbidden into his head, from somewhere in the back pocket of his genes. “Hiho, hiho—” Nanny Ogg grinned in the darkness. The tunnel opened into a cavern. The torchlight picked up the suggestion of distant walls. “This it?” said Casanunda, gripping the crowbar. “No. This is something else. We…know about this place. It’s mythical. ” “It’s not real?” “Oh, it’s real. And mythical. ” The torch flared. There were hundreds of dustcovered slabs ranged around the cavern in a spiral; at the center of the spiral was a huge bell, suspended from a rope that disappeared into the darkness of the ceiling. Just under the hanging bell was one pile of silver coins and one pile of gold coins. “Don’t touch the money,” said Nanny. “’Ere, watch this, my dad told me about this, it’s a good trick. ” She reached out and tapped the bell very gently, causing a faint ting. Dust cascaded off the nearest slab. What Casanunda had thought was just a carving sat up, in a creaky way. It was an armed warrior. Since he’d sat up he almost certainly was alive, but he looked as though he’d gone from life to rigor mortis without passing through death on the way. He focused deepset eyes on Nanny Ogg. “What bloody tyme d’you call thys, then?” “Not time yet,” said Nanny. “What did you goe and bang the bell for? I don’t know, I haven’t had a wynke of sleep for two hundred years, some sodde alwayes bangs the bell. Go awaye. ” The warrior lay back. “It’s some old king and his warriors,” whispered Nanny, as they hurried away. “Some kind of magical sleep, I’m told. Some old wizard did it. They’re supposed to wake up for some final battle when a wolf eats the sun. ” “Those wizards, always smoking something, ” said Casanunda. “Could be. Go right here. Always go right. ” “We’re walking in a circle?” “A spiral. We’re right under the Long Man now. ” “No, that can’t be right,” said Casanunda. “We climbed down a hole under the Long Man…hold on…you mean we’re in the place where we started and it’s a different place?” “You’re getting the hang of this, I can see that. ” They followed the spiral. Which, at length, brought them to a door, of sorts. The air was hotter here. Red light glowed from side passages. Two massive stones had been set up against a rock wall, with a third stone across them. Animal skins hung across the crude entrance thus formed; wisps of steam curled around them. “They got put up at the same time as the Dancers,” said Nanny, conversationally. “Only the hole here’s vertical, so they only needed three. Might as well leave your crowbar here and take your boots off if they’ve got nails in ’em. ” “These boots were stitched by the finest shoemaker in Ankh-Morpork,” said Casanunda, “and one day I shall pay him. ” Nanny pulled aside the skins. Steam billowed out. There was darkness inside, thick and hot as treacle and smelling of a fox’s locker room. As Casanunda followed Nanny Ogg he sensed unseen figures in the reeking air, and heard the silence of murmured conversations suddenly curtailed. At one point he thought he saw a bowl of red hot stones, and then a shadowy hand moved across them and upturned a ladle, hiding them in steam. This can’t be inside the Long Man, he told himself. That’s an earthworks, this is a long tent of skins. They can’t both be the same thing. He realized he was dripping with sweat. Two torches became visible as the steam swirled, their light hardly more than a red tint to the darkness. |
But they were enough to show a huge sprawled figure lying by another bowl of hot stones. It looked up. Antlers moved in the damp, clinging heat. “Ah. Mrs. Ogg. ” The voice was like chocolate. “Y’lordship,” said Nanny. “I suppose it is too much to expect you to kneel?” “Yes indeed, y’honor,” said Nanny, grinning. “You know, Mrs. Ogg, you have a way of showing respect to your god that would make the average atheist green with envy,” said the dark figure. It yawned. “Thank you, y’grace. ” “No one even dances for me now. Is that too much to ask?” “Just as you say, y’lordship. ” “You witches don’t believe in me anymore. ” “Right again, your hornishness. ” “Ah, little Mrs. Ogg—and how, having got in here, do you possibly think you are going to get out?” said the slumped one. “Because I have iron,” said Nanny, her voice suddenly sharp. “Of course you have not, little Mrs. Ogg. No iron can enter this realm. ” “I have the iron that goes everywhere,” said Nanny. She took her hand out of her apron pocket, and held up a horseshoe. Casanunda heard scuffles around him, as the hidden elves fought to get out of the way. More steam hissed up as a brazier of hot stones was overturned. “Take it away!” “I’ll take it away when I go,” said Nanny. “Now you listen to me. She’s making trouble again. You’ve got to put a stop to it. Fair’s fair. We’re not having all the Old Trouble again. ” “Why should I do that?” “You want her to be powerful, then?” There was a snort. “You can’t ever rule again, back in the world,” said Nanny. “There’s too much music. There’s too much iron. ” “Iron rusts. ” “Not the iron in the head. ” The King snorted. “Nevertheless…even that…one day…” “One day. ” Nanny nodded. “Yes. I’ll drink to that. One day. Who knows? One day. Everyone needs ‘one day. ’ But it ain’t today. D’you see? So you come on out and balance things up. Otherwise, this is what I’ll do. I’ll get ’em to dig into the Long Man with iron shovels, y’see, and they’ll say, why, it’s just an old earthworks, and pensioned-off wizards and priests with nothin’ better to do will pick over the heaps and write dull old books about burial traditions and suchlike, and that’ll be another iron nail in your coffin. And I’d be a little bit sorry about that, ’cos you know I’ve always had a soft spot for you. But I’ve got kiddies, y’see, and they don’t hide under the stairs because they’re frit of the thunder, and they don’t put milk out for the elves, and they don’t hurry home because of the night, and before we go back to them dark old ways I’ll see you nailed. ” The words sliced through the air. The horned man stood up. And further up. His antlers touched the roof. Casanunda’s mouth dropped open. “So you see,” said Nanny, subsiding, “not today. One day, maybe. You just stay down here and sweat it out ’til One Day. But not today. ” “I…will decide. ” “Very good. You decide. And I’ll be getting along. ” The horned man looked down at Casanunda. “What are you staring at, dwarf?” Nanny Ogg nudged Casanunda. “Go on, answer the nice gentleman. ” Casanunda swallowed. “Blimey,” he said, “you don’t half look like your picture. ” In a narrow little valley a few miles away a party of elves had found a nest of young rabbits which, in conjunction with a nearby antheap, kept them amused for a while. Even the meek and blind and voiceless have gods. Herne the Hunted, god of the chased, crept through the bushes and wished fervently that gods had gods. The elves had their backs to him as they hunkered down to watch closely. Herne the Hunted crawled under a clump of bramble, tensed, and sprang. He sank his teeth in an elf’s calf until they met, and was flung away as it screamed and turned. He dropped and ran. That was the problem. He wasn’t built to fight, there was not an ounce of predator in him. Attack and run, that was the only option. And elves could run faster. He bounced over logs and skidded through drifts of leaves, aware even as his vision fogged that elves were overtaking him on either side, pacing him, waiting for him to… The leaves exploded. The little god was briefly aware of a fanged shape, all arms and vengeance. Then there were a couple of disheveled humans, one of them waving an iron bar around its head. Herne didn’t wait to see what happened next. He dived through the apparition’s legs and ran on, but a distant warcry echoed in his long, floppy ears: “Why, certainly, I’ll have your whelk! How do we do it? Volume!” Nanny Ogg and Casanunda walked in silence back to the cave entrance and the flight of steps. Finally, as they stepped out into the night air, the dwarf said, “Wow. ” “It leaks out even up here,” said Nanny. “Very mackko place, this. ” “But I mean, good grief—” “He’s brighter than she is. Or more lazy,” said Nanny. “He’s going to wait it out. ” “But he was—” “They can look like whatever they want, to us,” said Nanny. “We see the shape we’ve given ’em. ” She let the rock drop back, and dusted off her hands. “But why should he want to stop her?” “Well, he’s her husband, after all. He can’t stand her. It’s what you might call an open marriage. ” “Wait what out?” said Casanunda, looking around to see if there were anymore elves. “Oh, you know,” said Nanny, waving a hand. “All this iron and books and clockwork and universities and reading and suchlike. He reckons it’ll all pass, see. And one day it’ll all be over, and people’ll look up at the skyline at sunset and there he’ll be. ” Casanunda found himself turning to look at the sunset beyond the mound, half-imagining the huge figure outlined against the afterglow. “One day he’ll be back,” said Nanny softly. “When even the iron in the head is rusty. ” Casanunda put his head on one side. You don’t move around among a different species for most of your life without learning to read a lot of their body language, especially since it’s in such large print. “You won’t entirely be sorry, eh?” he said. “Me? I don’t want ’em back! They’re untrustworthy and cruel and arrogant parasites and we don’t need ’em one bit. ” “Bet you half a dollar?” Nanny was suddenly flustered. “Don’t you look at me like that! Esme’s right. Of course she’s right. We don’t want elves anymore. Stands to reason. ” “Esme’s the short one, is she?” “Hah, no, Esme’s the tall one with the nose. You know her. ” “Right, yes. ” “The short one is Magrat. She’s a kind-hearted soul and a bit soft. Wears flowers in her hair and believes in songs. I reckon she’d be off dancing with the elves quick as a wink, her. ” More doubts were entering Magrat’s life. They concerned crossbows, for one thing. A crossbow is a very useful and usable weapon designed for speed and convenience and deadliness in the hands of the inexperienced, like a faster version of an out-of-code TV dinner. But it is designed to be used once, by someone who has somewhere safe to duck while they reload. Otherwise it is just so much metal and wood with a piece of string on it. Then there was the sword. Despite Shawn’s misgivings, Magrat did in theory know what you did with a sword. You tried to stick it into the enemy by a vigorous arm motion, and the enemy tried to stop you. She was a little uncertain about what happened next. She hoped you were allowed another go. She was also having doubts about her armor. The helmet and the breastplate were OK, but the rest of it was chain-mail. And, as Shawn Ogg knew, chain-mail from the point of view of an arrow can be thought of as a series of loosely connected holes. The rage was still there, the pure fury still gripped her at the core. But there was no getting away from the fact that the heart it gripped was surrounded by the rest of Magrat Garlick, spinster of this parish and likely to remain so. There were no elves visible in the town, but she could see where they had been. Doors hung off their hinges. The place looked as though it had been visited by Genghiz Cohen. * Now she was on the track that led to the stones. It was wider than it had been; the horses and carriages had churned it on the way up, and the fleeing people had turned it into a mire on the way down. |
She knew she was being watched, and it almost came as a relief when three elves stepped out from under the trees before she’d even lost sight of the castle. The middle one grinned. “Good evening, girl,” it said. “My name is Lord Lankin, and you will curtsy when you talk to me. ” The tone suggested that there was absolutely no possibility that she would disobey. She felt her muscles strain to comply. Queen Ynci wouldn’t have obeyed… “I happen to be practically the queen,” she said. It was the first time she’d looked an elf in the face when she was in any condition to notice details. This one was currently wearing high cheekbones and hair tied in a ponytail; it wore odds and ends of rags and lace and fur, confident in the knowledge that anything would look good on an elf. It wrinkled its perfect nose at her. “There is only one Queen in Lancre,” it said. “And you are, most definitely, not her. ” Magrat tried to concentrate. “Where is she, then?” she said. The other two raised their bows. “You are looking for the Queen? Then we will take you to her,” Lankin stated. “And, lady, should you be inclined to make use of that nasty iron bow there are more archers hidden in the trees. ” There was indeed a rustling in the trees on one side of the track, but it was followed by a thump. The elves looked disconcerted. “Get out of my way,” said Magrat. “I think you have a very wrong idea,” said the elf. Its smile widened, but vanished when there was another sylvan crash from the other side of the track. “We felt you coming all the way up the track,” said the elf. “The brave girl off to rescue her lover! Oh, the romance! Take her. ” A shadow rose up behind the two armed elves, took a head in either hand, and banged them together. The shadow stepped forward over their bodies and, as Lankin turned, caught it with one roundarm punch that picked it up and slammed it into a tree. Magrat drew her sword. Whatever this was, it looked worse than elves. It was muddy and hairy and almost troll-like in its build, and it reached out for the bridle with an arm that seemed to extend forever. She raised the sword— “Oook?” “Put the sword down, please , miss!” The voice came from somewhere behind her, but it sounded human and worried. Elves never sounded worried. “Who are you?” she said, without turning around. The monster in front of her gave her a big, yellow-toothed grin. “Um, I’m Ponder Stibbons. A wizard. And he’s a wizard, too. ” “He’s got no clothes on!” “I could get him to have a bath, if you like,” said Ponder, slightly hysterically. “He always puts on an old green dressing gown when he’s had a bath. ” Magrat relaxed a bit. No one who sounded like that could be much of a threat, except to themselves. “Whose side are you on, Mr. Wizard?” “How many are there?” “Oook?” “When I get off this horse,” said Magrat, “it’ll bolt. So can you ask your…friend to let go of the bridle? He’ll be hurt. ” “Oook?” “Um. Probably not. ” Magrat slid off. The horse, relieved of the presence of iron, bolted. For about two yards. “Oook. ” The horse was struggling to get back on its feet. Magrat blinked. “Um, he’s just a bit annoyed at the moment,” said Ponder. “One of the…elves…shot him with an arrow. ” “But they do that to control people!” “Um. He’s not a person. ” “Oook!” “Genetically, I mean. ” Magrat had met wizards before. Occasionally one visited Lancre, although they didn’t stay very long. There was something about the presence of Granny Weatherwax that made them move on. They didn’t look like Ponder Stibbons. He’d lost most of his robe and, of his hat, only the brim remained. Most of his face was covered in mud, and there was a multicolored bruise over one eye. “Did they do that to you?” “Well, the mud and the torn clothes is just from, you know, the forest. And we’ve run into—” “Ook. ” “— over elves a few times. But this is when the Librarian hit me. ” “Oook. ” “Thank goodness,” Ponder added. “Knocked me cold. Otherwise I’d be like the others. ” A foreboding of a conversation to come swept over Magrat. “What others?” she snapped. “Are you alone?” “What others?” “Have you any idea what’s been happening?” Magrat thought about the castle, and the town. “I might be able to hazard a guess,” she said. Ponder shook his head. “It’s worse than that,” he said. “What others?” said Magrat. “I think there’s definitely been a cross-continuum breakthrough, and I’m sure there’s a difference in energy levels. ” “But what others ?” Magrat insisted. Ponder Stibbons glanced nervously at the surrounding forest. “Let’s get off the path. There’s a lot more elves back there. ” Ponder disappeared into the undergrowth. Magrat followed him, and found a second wizard propped against a tree like a ladder. He had a huge smile creasing his face. “The Bursar,” said Ponder. “I think we may have overdone the dried frog pills a bit. ” He raised his voice. “How…are…you…doing…sir?” “Why, I’ll have a little of the roast weasel, if you would be so good,” said the Bursar, beaming happily at nothing. “Why’s he gone so stiff?” said Magrat. “We think it’s some kind of side effect,” said Ponder. “Can’t you do anything about it?” “What, and have nothing to cross streams on?” “Call again tomorrow, baker, and we’ll have a crusty one!” said the Bursar. “Besides, he seems quite happy,” said Ponder. “Are you a warrior, miss?” “What?” said Magrat. “Well, I mean, the armor and everything…” Magrat looked down. She was still holding the sword. The helmet kept falling over her eyes, but she’d padded it a bit with a scrap of wedding dress. “I…er…yes. Yes, that’s right. That’s what I am,” she said. “Absolutely. Yes. ” “Here for the wedding, I expect. Like us. ” “That’s right. Definitely here for the wedding. That’s true. ” She changed her grip on the sword. “Now tell me what happened,” she said. “Paying particular attention to what happened to the others. ” “Well…” Ponder absentmindedly picked up a corner of his torn robe and began to screw it up in his fingers. “We all went to see this Entertainment, you see. A play. You know. Acting? And, and it was very funny. There were all these yokels in their big boots and everything, straw wigs and everything, clumping around pretending to be lords and ladies and everything, and getting it all wrong. It was very funny. The Bursar laughed at them a lot. Mind you, he’s been laughing at trees and rocks, too. But everyone was having fun. And then…and then…” “I want to know everything,” said Magrat. “Well…well…then there was this bit I can’t really remember. It was something to do with the acting, I think. I mean, suddenly…suddenly it all seemed real. Do you know what I mean?” “No. ” “There was this chap with a red nose and bandy legs and he was playing the Queen of the Fairies or something and suddenly he was still him but…everything felt…everything round me just vanished, there was just the actors…and there was this hill…I mean, they must have been good, because I really believed…I think at some point I remember someone asking us to clap our hands…and everyone was looking very strange and there was this singing and it was wonderful and…and…” “Oook. ” “Then the Librarian hit me,” said Ponder simply. “Why?” “Best if he tells it in his own words,” said Ponder. “Oook ook eek. Ook! Ook!” “Cough, Julia! Over the bender!” said the Bursar. “I didn’t understand what the Librarian said,” said Magrat. “Um. We were all present at an interdimensional rip,” said Ponder. “Caused by belief. The play was the last little thing that opened it up. There must have been a very delicate area of instability very close. It’s hard to describe, but if you had a rubber sheet and some lead weights I could demonstrate—” “You’re trying to tell me those… things exist because people believe in them?” “Oh, no. I imagine they exist anyway. They’re here because people believe in them here. ” “Ook. ” “He ran off with us. They shot an arrow at him. ” “Eeek. ” “But it just made him itch. ” “Ook. ” “Normally he’s as gentle as a lamb. Really he is. ” “Ook. ” “But he can’t abide elves. They smell wrong to him. |
” The Librarian flared his nostrils. Magrat didn’t know much about jungles, but she thought about apes in trees, smelling the rank of the tiger. Apes never admired the sleek of the fur and the burn of the eye, because they were too well aware of the teeth of the mouth. “Yes,” she said, “I expect they would. Dwarfs and trolls hate them, too. But I think they don’t hate them as much as I do. ” “You can’t fight them all,” said Ponder. “They’re swarming like bees up there. There’s flying ones, too. The Librarian says they made people get fallen trees and things and push those, you know, those stones down? There were some stones on the hill. They attacked them. Don’t know why. ” “Did you see any witches at the Entertainment?” said Magrat. “Witches, witches…” muttered Ponder. “You couldn’t have missed them,” said Magrat. “There’d be a thin one glaring at everyone and a small fat one cracking nuts and laughing a lot. And they’d be talking to each other very loudly. And they’d both have tall pointy hats. ” “Can’t say I noticed them,” said Ponder. “Then they couldn’t have been there,” said Magrat. “Being noticed is what being a witch is all about. ” She was about to add that she’d never been good at it, but didn’t. Instead she said: “I’m going on up there. ” “You’ll need an army, miss. I mean, you’d have been in trouble just now if the Librarian hadn’t been up in the trees. ” “But I haven’t got an army. So I’m going to have to try by myself, aren’t I?” This time Magrat managed to spur the horse into a gallop. Ponder watched her go. “You know, folksongs have got a lot to answer for,” he said to the night air. “Oook. ” “She’s going to get utterly killed. ” “Oook. ” “Hello, Mr. Flowerpot, two pints of eels if you would be so good. ” “Of course, it could be her destiny, or one of those sort of things. ” “Oook. ” “Millennium hand and shrimp. ” Ponder Stibbons looked embarrassed. “Anyone want to follow her?” “Oook. ” “Whoops, there he goes with his big clock. ” “Was that a ‘yes’?” “Oook. ” “Not yours, his. ” “Flobby wobbly, here comes our jelly. ” “I think that probably counts as a ‘yes’,” said Ponder, reluctantly. “Oook?” “I’ve got a lovely new vest. ” “But look,” said Ponder, “the graveyards are full of people who rushed in bravely but unwisely. ” “Ook. ” “What’d he say?” said the Bursar, passing briefly through reality on his way somewhere else. “I think he said, ‘Sooner or later the graveyards are full of everybody ,’” said Ponder. “Oh, blast. Come on. ” “Yes indeedy,” said the Bursar, “hands up the mittens, Mr. Bosun!” “Oh, shut up. ” Magrat dismounted and let the horse go. She knew she was near the Dancers now. Colored light flickered in the sky. She wished she could go home. The air was colder here, far too cold for a midsummer night. As she plodded onward, flakes of snow swirled in the breeze and turned to rain. Ridcully materialized inside the castle, and then clung on to a pillar for support until he got his breath back. Transmigration always made blue spots appear in front of his eyes. No one noticed him. The castle was in turmoil. Not everyone had run home. Armies had marched across Lancre many times over the last few thousand years, and the recollection of the castle’s thick safe walls had been practically engraved in the folk memory. Run to the castle. And now it held most of the little country’s population. Ridcully blinked. People were milling around and being harangued by a small young man in loose-fitting chain-mail and one arm in a sling, who seemed to be the only person with any grip on things. When he was certain he could walk straight, Ridcully headed toward him. “What’s going on, young—” he began, and then stopped. Shawn Ogg looked around. “The scheming minx!” said Ridcully, to the air in general. “‘Oh, go back and get it then,’ she said, and I fell right for it! Even if I could cut the mustard again I don’t know where we were!” “Sir?” said Shawn. Ridcully shook himself. “What’s happening?” he said. “I don’t know!” said Shawn, who was almost in tears. “I think we’re being attacked by elves! Nothing anyone’s telling me’s making any sense! Somehow they arrived during the Entertainment! Or something!” Ridcully looked around at the frightened, bewildered people. “And Miss Magrat’s gone out to fight them alone !” Ridcully looked perplexed. “Who’s Miss Magrat?” “She’s going to be queen! The bride! You know? Magrat Garlick?” Ridcully’s mind could digest one fact at a time. “What’s she gone out for?” “They captured the king!” “Did you know they’ve got Esme Weatherwax as well?” “What, Granny Weatherwax?” “I came back to rescue her,” said Ridcully, and then realized that this sounded either nonsense or cowardly. Shawn was too upset to notice. “I just hope they’re not collecting witches,” he said. “They’ll need our mum to get the complete set. ” “They ain’t got me, then,” said Nanny Ogg, behind him. “Mum? How did you get in?” “Broomstick. You’d better get some people with bows up on the roof. I came down that way. So can others. ” “What’re we going to do , Mum?” “There’s bands of elves all over the place,” said Nanny, “and there’s a big glow over the Dancers—” “We must attack them!” shouted Casanunda. “Give ’em a taste of cold steel!” “Good man, that dwarf!” said Ridcully. “That’s right! I’ll get my crossbow!” “There’s too many of them,” said Nanny flatly. “Granny and Miss Magrat are out there, Mum,” said Shawn. “Miss Magrat came over all strange and put on armor and went out to fight all of them!” “But the hills are crawling with elves,” said Nanny. “It’s a double helping of hell with extra devils. Certain death. ” “It’s certain death anyway,” said Ridcully. “That’s the thing about Death, certainty. ” “We’d have no chance at all,” said Nanny. “Actually, we’d have one chance,” said Ridcully. “I don’t understand all this continuinuinuum stuff, but from what young Stibbons says it means that everything has to happen somewhere, d’y’see, so that means it could happen here. Even if it’s a million to one chance, ma’am. ” “That’s all very well,” said Nanny, “but what you’re saying is, for every Mr. Ridcully that survives tonight’s work, 999,999 are going to get killed?” “Yes, but I’m not bothered about those other buggers,” said Ridcully. “They can look after themselves. Serve ’em right for not inviting me to their weddings. ” “What?” “Nothing. ” Shawn was hopping from one foot to the other. “We ought to be fighting ’em, Mum!” “Look at everyone!” said Nanny. “They’re dog tired and wet and confused! That’s not an army!” “Mum, Mum, Mum!” “What?” “I’ll pussike ’em up, Mum! That’s what you have to do before troops go into battle, Mum! I read about that in books! You can take a rabble of thingy and make the right kind of speech and pussike them up and turn ’em into a terrible fighting force, Mum!” “They look terrible anyway!” “I mean terrible like fierce, Mum!” Nanny Ogg looked at the hundred or so Lancre subjects. The thought of them managing to fight anyone at all took some getting used to. “You been studyin’ this, Shawn?” she inquired. “I’ve got five years’ worth of Bows and Ammo , Mum,” said Shawn reproachfully. “Give it a try, then. If you think it’ll work. ” Trembling with excitement, Shawn climbed on to a table, drew his sword with his good hand, and banged it on the planks until people were silent. He made a speech. He pointed out that their king had been captured and their prospective queen had gone out to save him. He pointed out their responsibility as loyal subjects. He pointed out that other people currently not here but at home hiding under the bed would, after the glorious victory, wish they’d been there too instead of under the aforesaid bed which they were hiding under, you know, the bed he’d just mentioned. In fact it was better that there were so few here to face the enemy, because that meant that there would be a higher percentage of honor per surviving head. He used the word “glory” three times. |
He said that in times to come people would look back on this day, whatever the date was, and proudly show their scars, at least those who’d survived would show their scars, and be very proud and probably have drinks bought for them. He advised people to imitate the action of the Lancre Reciprocating Fox and stiffen some sinews while leaving them flexible enough so’s they could move their arms and legs, in fact, probably it’d be better to relax them a bit now and stiffen them properly when the time came. He suggested that Lancre expected everyone to do their duty. And um. And uh. Please? The silence that followed was broken by Nanny Ogg, who said, “They’re probably considering it a bit, Shawn. Why don’t you take Mr. Wizard here up to his room and help him with his crossbow?” She nodded meaningfully in the direction of the stairs. Shawn wavered, but not for long. He’d seen the glint in his mother’s eye. When he’d gone, Nanny climbed up on the same table. “Well,” she said, “it’s like this. If you go out there you may have to face elves. But if you stops here, you definitely have to face me. Now, elves is worse than me, I’ll admit. But I’m persistent. ” Weaver put up a tentative hand. “Please, Mrs. Ogg?” “Yes, Weaver?” “What exactly is the action of the Reciprocating Fox?” Nanny scratched her ear. “As I recall,” she said, “its back legs go like this but its front legs go like this. ” “No, no, no,” said Quarney the storekeeper. “It’s its tail that goes like that. Its legs go like this. ” “That’s not reciprocating, that’s just oscillating,” said someone. “You’re thinking of the Ring-tailed Ocelot. ” Nanny nodded. “That’s settled, then,” she said. “Hold on, I’m not sure—” “ Yes , Mr. Quarney?” “Oh…well…” “Good, good,” said Nanny, as Shawn reappeared. “They was just saying, our Shawn, how they was swayed by your speech. Really pussiked up. ” “Cor!” “They’re ready to follow you into the jaws of hell itself, I expect,” said Nanny. Someone put up their hand. “Are you coming too, Mrs. Ogg?” “I’ll just stroll along behind,” said Nanny. “Oh. Well. Maybe as far as the jaws of hell, then. ” “Amazing,” said Casanunda to Nanny, as the crowd filed reluctantly toward the armory. “You just got to know how to deal with people. ” “They’ll follow where an Ogg leads?” “Not exactly,” said Nanny, “but if they know what’s good for ’em they’ll go where an Ogg follows. ” Magrat stepped out from under the trees, and the moorland lay ahead of her. A whirlpool of cloud swirled over the Dancers, or at least, over the place where the Dancers had been. She could make out one or two stones by the flickering light, lying on their side or rolled down the slope of the hill. The hill itself glowed. Something was wrong with the landscape. It curved where it shouldn’t curve. Distances weren’t right. Magrat remembered a woodcut shoved in as a place marker in one of her old books. It showed the face of an old crone but, if you stared at it, you saw it was also the head of a young woman; a nose became a neck, an eyebrow became a necklace. The images seesawed back and forth. And like everyone else, she’d squinted herself silly trying to see them both at the same time. The landscape was doing pretty much the same thing. What was a hill was also at the same time a vast snowbound panorama. Lancre and the land of the elves were trying to occupy the same space. The intrusive country wasn’t having it all its own way. Lancre was fighting back. There was a circle of tents just on the cusp of the warring landscapes, like a beachhead on an alien shore. They were brightly colored. Everything about the elves was beautiful, until the image tilted, and you saw it from the other side… Something was happening. Several elves were on horseback, and more horses were being led between the tents. It looked as though they were breaking camp. The Queen sat on a makeshift throne in her tent. She sat with her elbow resting on one arm of the throne and her fingers curling pensively around her mouth. There were other elves seated in a semicircle, except that “seated” was a barely satisfactory word. They lounged; elves could make themselves at home on a wire. And here there was more lace and velvet and fewer feathers, although it was hard to know if it meant that these were aristocrats—elves seemed to wear whatever they felt like wearing, confident of looking absolutely stunning. * Every one of them watched the Queen, and was a mirror of her moods. When she smiled, they smiled. When she said something she thought was amusing, they laughed. Currently the object of her attention was Granny Weatherwax. “What is happening, old woman?” she said. “It ain’t easy, is it?” said Granny. “Thought it would be easy, didn’t you?” “You’ve done some magic, haven’t you? Something is fighting us. ” “No magic,” said Granny. “No magic at all. It’s just that you’ve been away too long. Things change. The land belongs to humans now. ” “That can’t be the case,” said the Queen. “Humans take. They plough with iron. They ravage the land. ” “Some do, I’ll grant you that. Others put back more’n they take. They put back love. They’ve got soil in their bones. They tell the land what it is. That’s what humans are for. Without humans, Lancre’d just be a bit of ground with green bits on it. They wouldn’t even know they’re trees. We’re all down here together, madam—us and the land. It’s not just land anymore, it’s a country. It’s like a horse that’s been broken and shod or a dog that’s been tamed. Every time people put a plough in the soil or planted a seed they took the land further away from you,” said Granny. “Things change. ” Verence sat beside the Queen. His pupils were tiny pinpoints; he smiled faintly, permanently, in a way very reminiscent of the Bursar. “Ah. But when we are married ,” said the Queen, “the land must accept me. By your own rules. I know how it works. There’s more to being a king than wearing a crown. The king and the land are one. The king and the queen are one. And I shall be queen. ” She smiled at Granny. There was an elf on either side of her and, Granny knew, at least one behind her. Elves were not given to introspection; if she moved without permission, she’d die. “What you shall be is something I have yet to decide,” said the Queen. She held up an exquisitely thin hand and curled the thumb and forefinger into a ring, which she held up to her eye. “And now someone comes,” she said, “with armor that doesn’t fit and a sword she cannot use and an axe she can hardly even lift, because it is so romantic , is it not? What is her name?” “Magrat Garlick,” said Granny. “She is a mighty enchantress, is she?” “She’s good with herbs. ” The Queen laughed. “I could kill her from here. ” “Yes,” said Granny, “but that wouldn’t be much fun, would it? Humiliation is the key. ” The Queen nodded. “You know, you think very much like an elf. ” “I think it will soon be dawn,” said Granny. “A fine day. Clear light. ” “Not soon enough. ” The Queen stood up. She glanced at King Verence for a moment, and changed. Her dress went from red to silver, catching the torchlight like glittering fish scales. Her hair unraveled and reshaped itself, became corn blond. And a subtle ripple of alterations flowed across her face before she said, “What do you think?” She looked like Magrat. Or, at least, like Magrat wished she looked and maybe as Verence always thought of her. Granny nodded. As one expert to another, she recognized accomplished nastiness when she saw it. “And you’re going to face her like that,” she said. “Certainly. Eventually. At the finish. But don’t feel sorry for her. She’s only going to die. Would you like me to show you what you might have been?” “No. ” “I could do it easily. There are other times than this. I could show you grandmother Weatherwax. ” “No. ” “It must be terrible, knowing that you have no friends. That no one will care when you die. That you never touched a heart. ” “Yes. |
” “And I’m sure you think about it…in those long evenings when there’s no company but the ticking of the clock and the coldness of the room and you open the box and look at—” The Queen waved a hand vaguely as Granny tried to break free. “Don’t kill her,” she said. “She is much more fun alive. ” Magrat stuck the sword in the mud and hefted the battleaxe. Woods pressed in on either side. The elves would have to come this way. There looked like hundreds of them and there was only one Magrat Garlick. She knew there was such a thing as heroic odds. Songs and ballads and stories and poems were full of stories about one person single-handedly taking on and defeating a vast number of enemies. Only now was it dawning on her that the trouble was that they were songs and ballads and stories and poems because they dealt with things that were, not to put too fine a point on it, untrue. She couldn’t, now she had time to think about it, ever remember an example from history. In the woods to one side of her an elf raised its bow and took careful aim. A twig snapped behind it. It turned. The Bursar beamed. “Whoopsy daisy, old trouser, my bean’s all runny. ” The elf swung the bow. A pair of prehensile feet dropped out of the greenery, gripped it by the shoulders, and pulled it upward sharply. There was a crack as its head hit the underside of a branch. “Oook. ” “Move right along!” On the other side of the path another elf took aim. And then its world flowed away from it… This is the inside of the mind of an elf: Here are the normal five senses but they are all subordinate to the sixth sense. There is no formal word for it on the Discworld, because the force is so weak that it is only ever encountered by observant blacksmiths, who call it the Love of Iron. Navigators might have discovered it were it not that the Disc’s standing magical field is much more reliable. But bees sense it, because bees sense everything. Pigeons navigate by it. And everywhere in the multiverse elves use it to know exactly where they are. It must be hard for humans, forever floundering through inconvenient geography. Humans are always slightly lost. It’s a basic characteristic. It explains a lot about them. Elves are never lost at all. It’s a basic characteristic. It explains a lot about them. Elves have absolute position. The flow of the silvery force dimly outlines the landscape. Creatures generate small amounts of it themselves, and become perceptible in the flux. Their muscles crackle with it, their minds buzz with it. For those who learn how, even thoughts can be read by the tiny local changes in the flow. For an elf, the world is something to reach out and take. Except for the terrible metal that drinks the force and deforms the flux universe like a heavy weight on a rubber sheet and blinds them and deafens them and leaves them rudderless and more alone than most humans could ever be … The elf toppled forward. Ponder Stibbons lowered the sword. Almost everyone else would not have thought much about it. But Ponder’s wretched fate was to look for patterns in an uncaring world. “But I hardly touched him,” he said, to no one except himself. “‘And I kissed her in the shrubbery where the nightingales’—sing it, you bastards! Two, three!” They didn’t know where they were. They didn’t know where they’d been. They were not fully certain who they were. But the Lancre Morris Men had reached some sort of state now where it was easier to go on than stop. Singing attracted elves, but singing also fascinated them… The dancers whirled and hopped, gyrated and skipped along the paths. They pranced through isolated hamlets, where elves left whoever they were torturing to draw closer in the light of the burning buildings… “‘With a WACK foladiddle-di-do, sing too-rahli-ay!’” Six sticks did their work, right on the beat. “Where’re we goin’, Jason?” “I reckon we’ve gone down Slippery Hollow and’re circling back toward the town,” said Jason, hopping past Baker. “Keep goin’, Carter!” “The rain’s got in the keys, Jason!” “Don’t matter! They don’t know the difference! It’s good enough for folk music!” “I think I broke my stick on that last one, Jason!” “Just you keep dancing, Tinker! Now, lads…how about Gathering Peasecods ? We might as well get some practice in, since we’re here…” “There’s some people up ahead,” said Tailor, as he skipped past, “I can see torches an’ that. ” “Human, two, three, or more elves?” “Dunno!” Jason spun and danced back. “Is that you, our Jason?” Jason cackled as the voice echoed among the dripping trees. “It’s our mam! And our Shawn. And—and lots of people! We’ve made it, lads!” “Jason,” said Carter. “Yes?” “I ain’t sure I can stop!” The Queen examined her face in a mirror attached to the tent pole. “Why?” said Granny. “What is it you see?” “Whatever I want to see,” said the Queen. “You know that. And now…let us ride to the castle. Tie her hands together. But leave her legs free. ” It rained again, gently, although around the stones it turned to sleet. The water dripped off Magrat’s hair and temporarily unraveled the tangles. Mist coiled out from among the trees where summer and winter fought. Magrat watched the elven court mount up. She made out the figure of Verence, moving like a puppet. And Granny Weatherwax, tied behind the Queen’s horse by a long length of rope. The horses splashed through the mud. They had silver bells on their harness, dozens of them. The elves in the castle, the night of ghosts and shadows, all of this was just a hard knot in her memory. But the jingling of the bells was like a nailfile rubbed across her teeth. The Queen halted the procession a few yards away. “Ah, the brave girl,” she said. “Come to save her fiancé, all alone? How sweet. Someone kill her. ” An elf spurred its horse forward, and raised its sword. Magrat gripped the battleaxe. Somewhere behind her a bowstring slammed against wood. The elf jerked. So did one behind it. The arrow kept going, curving a little as it passed over one of the fallen Dancers. Then Shawn Ogg’s ragbag army charged out from under the trees, except for Ridcully, who was feverishly trying to rewind his crossbow. The Queen did not look surprised. “And there’s only about a hundred of them,” she said. “What do you think, Esme Weatherwax? A valiant last stand? It’s so beautiful, isn’t it? I love the way humans think. They think like songs. ” “You get down off that horse!” Magrat shouted. The Queen smiled at her. Shawn felt it. Ridcully felt it. Ponder felt it. The glamour swept over them. Elves feared iron, but they didn’t need to go near it. You couldn’t fight elves, because you were so much more worthless than them. It was right that you should be so worthless. And they were so beautiful. And you weren’t. You were always the one metaphorically picked last for any team, even after the fat kid with one permanently blocked runny nostril; you were always the one who wasn’t told the rules until you’d lost, and then wasn’t told the new rules; you were the one who always knew that everything interesting was happening to other people. All those hot self-consuming feelings were rolled together. You couldn’t fight an elf. Someone as useless as you, as stolid as you, as human as you, could never win; the universe wasn’t built like that— Hunters say that, just sometimes, an animal will step out of the bushes and stand there waiting for the spear… Magrat managed to half-raise the axe, and then her hand slumped to her side. She looked down. The correct attitude of a human before an elf was one of shame. She had shouted so coarsely at something as beautiful as an elf… The Queen dismounted and walked over to her. “Don’t touch her,” said Granny. The Queen nodded. “You can resist,” she said. “But you see, it doesn’t matter. We can take Lancre without a fight. There is nothing you can do about it. Look at the brave little army, standing like sheep. Humans are so enthusiastic. ” Granny looked at her boots. “You can’t rule while I’m alive,” she said. “There’s no trickery here,” said the Queen. “No silly women with bags of sweets. |
” “You noticed that, did you?” said Granny. “Gytha meant well, I expect. Daft old biddy. Mind if I sit down?” “Of course you may,” said the Queen. “You are an old woman now, after all. ” She nodded to the elves. Granny subsided gratefully on to a rock, her hands still tied behind her. “That’s the thing about witchcraft,” she said. “It doesn’t exactly keep you young, but you do stay old for longer. Whereas you, of course, do not age,” she added. “Indeed, we do not. ” “But I suspect you may be capable of being reduced. ” The Queen’s smile didn’t vanish, but it did freeze, as smiles do when their owner is not certain about what has just been said and isn’t sure what to say next. “You meddled in a play,” said Granny. “I believe you don’t realize what you’ve done. Plays and books…you’ve got to keep an eye on the buggers. They’ll turn on you. I mean to see that they do. ” She nodded amicably at an elf covered in woad and badly tanned skins. “Ain’t that so, Fairy Peaseblossom?” The Queen’s brows knotted. “But that is not his name,” she said. Granny Weatherwax gave the Queen a bright smile. “We shall see,” she said. “There’s a lot more humans these days, and lots of them live in cities, and they don’t know much about elves one way or another. And they’ve got iron in their heads. You’re too late. ” “No. Humans always need us,” said the Queen. “They don’t. Sometimes they want you. That’s different. But all you can give ’em is gold that melts away in the morning. ” “There are those who would say that gold for one night is enough. ” “No. ” “Better than iron, you stupid old hag, you stupid child who has grown older and done nothing and been nothing. ” “No. It’s just soft and shiny. Pretty to look at and no damn use at all,” said Granny, her voice still quite calm and level. “But this is a real world, madam. That’s what I had to learn. And real people in it. You got no right to ’em. People’ve got enough to cope with just being people. They don’t need you swanking around with your shiny hair and shiny eyes and shiny gold, going sideways through life, always young, always singing, never learning. ” “You didn’t always think like this. ” “That was a long time ago. And, my lady, old I may be, and hag I may be, but stupid I ain’t. You’re no kind of goddess. I ain’t against gods and goddesses, in their place. But they’ve got to be the ones we make ourselves. Then we can take ’em to bits for the parts when we don’t need ’em anymore, see? And elves far away in fairyland, well, maybe that’s something people need to get ’emselves through the iron times. But I ain’t having elves here. You make us want what we can’t have and what you give us is worth nothing and what you take is everything and all there is left for us is the cold hillside, and emptiness, and the laughter of the elves. ” She took a deep breath. “So bugger off. ” “Make us, old woman. ” “I thought you’d say that. ” “We don’t want the world. Just this little kingdom will do. And we will take it, whether it wants us or not. ” “Over my dead body, madam. ” “If that is a condition. ” The Queen lashed out mentally, like a cat. Granny Weatherwax winced, and leaned backward for a moment. “Madam?” “Yes?” said the Queen. “There aren’t any rules, are there?” “Rules? What are rules?” said the Queen. “I thought so,” said Granny. “Gytha Ogg?” Nanny managed to turn her head. “Yes, Esme?” “My box. You know. The one in the dresser. You’ll know what to do. ” Granny Weatherwax smiled. The Queen swayed sideways, as if she’d been slapped. “You have learned,” she said. “Oh, yes. You know I never entered your circle. I could see where it led. So I had to learn. All my life. The hard way. And the hard way’s pretty hard, but not so hard as the easy way. I learned. From the trolls and the dwarfs and from people. Even from pebbles. ” The Queen lowered her voice. “You will not be killed,” she whispered. “I promise you that. You’ll be left alive, to dribble and gibber and soil yourself and wander from door to door for scraps. And they’ll say: there goes the mad old woman. ” “They say that now,” said Granny Weatherwax. “They think I can’t hear. ” “But inside,” said the Queen, ignoring this, “inside I’ll keep just a part of you which looks out through your eyes and knows what you’ve become. “And there will be none to help,” said the Queen. She was closer now, her eyes pinpoints of hatred. “No charity for the mad old woman. You’ll see what you have to eat to stay alive. And we’ll be with you all the time inside your head, just to remind you. You could have been the great one, there was so much you could have done. And inside you’ll know it, and you’ll plead all the dark night long for the silence of the elves. ” The Queen wasn’t expecting it. Granny Weatherwax’s hand shot out, pieces of rope falling away from it, and slapped her across the face. “You threaten me with that ?” she said. “ Me? Who am becoming old ?” The elf woman’s hand rose slowly to the livid mark across her cheek. The elves raised their bows, waiting for an order. “Go back,” said Granny. “You call yourself some kind of goddess and you know nothing, madam, nothing. What don’t die can’t live. What don’t live can’t change. What don’t change can’t learn. The smallest creature that dies in the grass knows more than you. You’re right. I’m older. You’ve lived longer than me but I’m older than you. And better’n you. And, madam, that ain’t hard. ” The Queen struck wildly. The rebounded force of the mental blow knocked Nanny Ogg to her knees. Granny Weatherwax blinked. “A good one,” she croaked. “But still I stand, and still I’ll not kneel. And still I have strength—” An elf keeled over. This time the Queen swayed. “Oh, and I have no time for this,” she said, and snapped her fingers. There was a pause. The Queen glanced around at her elves. “They can’t fire,” said Granny. “And you wouldn’t want that, would you? So simple an end?” “You can’t be holding them! You have not that much power!” “Do you want to find out how much power I have, madam? Here, on the grass of Lancre?” She stepped forward. Power crackled in the air. The Queen had to step back. “My own turf?” said Granny. She slapped the Queen again, almost gently. “What’s this?” said Granny Weatherwax. “Can’t you resist me? Where’s your power now, madam? Gather your power, madam!” “You foolish old crone !” It was felt by every living creature for a mile around. Small things died. Birds spiraled out of the sky. Elves and humans alike dropped to the ground, clutching their heads. And in Granny Weatherwax’s garden the bees rose out of their hives. They emerged like steam, colliding with one another in their rush to get airborne. The deep gunship hum of the drones underpinned the frantic roars of the workers. But, louder than the drones, was the piccolo piping of the queens. The swarms spiraled up over the clearing, circled once, and then broke and headed away. Others joined them, out of backyard skeps and hollow trees, blackening the sky. After a while, order became apparent in the great circling cloud. The drones flew on the wings, throbbing like bombers. The workers were a cone made up of thousands of tiny bodies. And at its tip, a hundred queens flew. The fields lay silent after the arrow-shaped swarm of swarms had gone. Flowers stood alone and uncourted. Nectar flowed undrunk. Blossoms were left to go fertilize themselves. The bees headed toward the Dancers. Granny Weatherwax dropped to her knees, clutching at her head. “No—” “Oh, but yes,” said the Queen. Esme Weatherwax raised her hands. The fingers were curled tightly with effort and pain. Magrat found she could move her eyes. The rest of her felt weak and useless, even with chain-mail and the breastplates. So this was it. She could feel the ghost of Queen Ynci laughing scornfully from a thousand years ago. She’d not give up. Magrat was just another one of those dozens of simpering stiff women who’d just hung around in long dresses, ensuring the royal succession— Bees poured down out of the sky. Granny Weatherwax turned her face toward Magrat. |
Magrat heard the voice clearly in her head. “You want to be queen?” And she was free. She felt the weariness drop away from her and it also felt as though pure Queen Ynci poured out of the helmet. More bees rained down, covering the slumped figure of the old witch. The Queen turned, and her smile froze as Magrat straightened up, stepped forward and, with hardly a thought in her head, raised the battleaxe and brought it around in one long sweep. The Queen moved faster. Her hand snaked out and gripped Magrat’s wrist. “Oh yes,” she said, grinning into Magrat’s face. “Really? You think so?” She twisted. The axe dropped from Magrat’s fingers. “And you wanted to be a witch ?” Bees were a brown fog, hiding the elves—too small to hit, impervious to glamour, but determined to kill. Magrat felt the bone scrape. “The old witch is finished,” said the Queen, forcing Magrat down. “I won’t say she wasn’t good. But she wasn’t good enough. And you certainly aren’t. ” Slowly and inexorably, Magrat was forced downward. “Why don’t you try some magic?” said the Queen. Magrat kicked. Her foot caught the Queen on the knee, and she heard a crack. As she staggered back Magrat launched herself forward and caught her around the waist, bearing her to the ground. She was amazed at the lightness. Magrat was skinny enough, but the Queen seemed to have no weight at all. “Why,” she said, pulling herself up until the Queen’s face was level with hers, “you’re nothing. It’s all in the mind, isn’t it? Without the glamour, you’re—” —an almost triangular face, a tiny mouth, the nose hardly existing at all, but eyes larger than human eyes and now focused on Magrat in pinpoint terror. “Iron,” whispered the Queen. Her hands gripped Magrat’s arms. There was no strength there. An elf’s strength lay in persuading others they were weak. Magrat could feel her desperately trying to enter her mind, but it wasn’t working. The helmet— —was lying several feet away, in the mud. She just had time to wish she hadn’t noticed that before the Queen attacked again, exploding into her uncertainty like a nova. She was nothing. She was insignificant. She was so worthless and unimportant that even something completely worthless and exhaustively unimportant would consider her beneath contempt. In laying hands upon the Queen she truly deserved an eternity of pain. She had no control of her body. She did not deserve any. She did not deserve a thing. The disdain sleeted over her, tearing the planetary body of Magrat Garlick to pieces. She’d never be any good. She’d never be beautiful, or intelligent, or strong. She’d never be anything at all. Self-confidence? Confidence in what? The eyes of the Queen were all she could see. All she wanted to do was lose herself in them… And the ablation of Magrat Garlick roared on, tearing at the strata of her soul… …exposing the core. She bunched up a fist and hit the Queen between the eyes. There was a moment of terminal perplexity before the Queen screamed, and Magrat hit her again. Only one queen in a hive! Slash! Stab! They rolled over, landing in the mud. Magrat felt something sting her leg, but she ignored it. She took no notice of the noise around her, but she did find the battleaxe under her hand as the two of them landed in a peat puddle. The elf scrabbled at her but this time without strength, and Magrat managed to push herself to her knees and raise the axe— —and then noticed the silence. It flowed over the Queen’s elves and Shawn Ogg’s makeshift army as the glamour faded. There was a figure silhouetted against the setting moon. Its scent carried on the dawn breeze. It smelled of lions’ cages and leaf mold. “ He’s back,” said Nanny Ogg. She glanced sideways and saw Ridcully, his face glowing, raising his crossbow. “Put it down,” she said. “Will you look at the horns on that thing—” “Put it down. ” “But—” “It’d go right through him. Look, you can see that tree through him. He’s not really here. He can’t get past the doorway. But he can send his thoughts. ” “But I can smell —” “If he was really here, we wouldn’t still be standing up. ” The elves parted as the King walked through. His hind legs hadn’t been designed for bipedal walking; the knees were the wrong way round and the hooves were over-large. It ignored them all and strutted slowly to the fallen Queen. Magrat pulled herself to her feet and hefted the axe uncertainly. The Queen uncoiled, leaping up and raising her hands, her mouth framing the first words of some curse— The King held out a hand, and said nothing. Only Magrat heard it. Something about meeting by moonlight, she said later. And they awoke. The sun was well over the Rim. People pulled themselves to their feet, staring at one another. There was not an elf in sight. Nanny Ogg was the first to speak. Witches can generally come to terms with what actually is, instead of insisting on what ought to be. She looked up at the moors. “The first thing we do,” she said, “the first thing, is put back the stones. ” “The second thing,” corrected Magrat. They both looked down at the still body of Granny Weatherwax. A few stray bees were flying disconsolate circles in the grass near her head. Nanny Ogg winked at Magrat. “You did well there, girl. Didn’t think you had it in you to survive an attack like that. It fairly had me widdling myself. ” “I’ve had practice,” said Magrat darkly. Nanny Ogg raised her eyebrows, but made no further comment. Instead she nudged Granny with her boot. “Wake up, Esme,” she said. “Well done. We won. ” “Esme?” Ridcully knelt down stiffly and picked up one of Granny’s arms. “It must have taken it out of her, all that effort,” burbled Nanny. “Freeing Magrat and everything—” Ridcully looked up. “She’s dead,” he said. He thrust both arms underneath the body and got unsteadily to his feet. “Oh, she wouldn’t do a thing like that,” said Nanny, but in the voice of someone whose mouth is running on automatic because their brain has shut down. “She’s not breathing and there’s no pulse,” said the wizard. “She’s probably just resting. ” “Yes. ” Bees circled, high in the blue sky. Ponder and the Librarian helped drag the stones back into position, occasionally using the Bursar as a lever. He was going through the rigid phase again. They were unusual stones, Ponder noticed—quite hard, and with a look about them that suggested that once, long ago, they had been melted and cooled. Jason Ogg found him standing deep in thought by one of them. He was holding a nail on a piece of string. But, instead of hanging from the string, the nail was almost at right angles, and straining as if desperate to reach the stone. The string thrummed. Ponder watched it as though mesmerized. Jason hesitated. He seldom encountered wizards and wasn’t at all sure how you were supposed to treat them. He heard the wizard say: “It sucks. But why does it suck?” Jason kept quiet. He heard Ponder say: “Maybe there’s iron and…and iron that loves iron? Or male iron and female iron? Or common iron and royal iron? Some iron contains something else? Some iron makes a weight in the world and other iron rolls down the rubber sheet?” The Bursar and the Librarian joined him, and watched the swinging nail. “Damn!” said Ponder, and let go of the nail. It hit the stone with a plink. He turned to the others with the agonized expression of a man who has the whole great whirring machinery of the Universe to dismantle and only a bent paper clip to do it with. “What ho, Mr. Sunshine!” said the Bursar, who was feeling almost cheerful with the fresh air and lack of shouting. “Rocks! Why am I messing around with lumps of stone? When did they ever tell anyone anything?” said Ponder. “You know, sir, sometimes I think there’s a great ocean of truth out there and I’m just sitting on the beach playing with…with stones. ” He kicked the stone. “But one day we’ll find a way to sail that ocean,” he said. He sighed. “Come on. I suppose we’d better get down to the castle. ” The Librarian watched them join the procession of tired men who were staggering down the valley. |
Then he pulled at the nail a few times, and watched it fly back to the stone. “Oook. ” He looked up into the eyes of Jason Ogg. Much to Jason’s surprise, the orang-utan winked. Sometimes, if you pay real close attention to the pebbles you find out about the ocean. The clock ticked. In the chilly morning gloom of Granny Weatherwax’s cottage, Nanny Ogg opened the box. Everyone in Lancre knew about Esme Weatherwax’s mysterious box. It was variously rumored to contain books of spells, a small private universe, cures for all ills, the deeds of lost lands and several tons of gold, which was pretty good going for something less than a foot across. Even Nanny Ogg had never been told about the contents, apart from the will. She was a bit disappointed but not at all surprised to find that it contained nothing more than a couple of large envelopes, a bundle of letters, and a miscellaneous assortment of common items in the bottom. Nanny lifted out the paperwork. The first envelope was addressed to her, and bore the legend: To Gytha Ogge, Reade This NOWE. The second envelope was a bit smaller and said: The Will of Esmerelda Weatherwax, Died Midsummer’s Eve. And then there was a bundle of letters with a bit of string round them. They were very old; bits of yellowing paper crackled off them as Magrat picked them up. “They’re all letters to her,” she said. “Nothing odd about that,” said Nanny. “Anyone can get letters. ” “And there’s all this stuff at the bottom,” said Magrat. “It looks like pebbles. ” She held one up. “This one’s got one of those curly fossil things in it,” she said. “And this one…looks like that red rock the Dancers were made of. It’s got a darning needle stuck to it. How strange. ” “She always paid attention to small details, did Esme. Always tried to see inside to the real thing. ” They were both silent for a moment, and the silence wound out around them and filled the kitchen, to be sliced into gentle pieces by the soft ticking of the clock. “I never thought we’d be doing this,” said Magrat, after a while. “I never thought we’d be reading her will. I thought she’d keep on going forever. ” “Well, there it is,” said Nanny. “Tempus fuggit. ” “Nanny?” “Yes, love?” “I don’t understand. She was your friend but you don’t seem…well…upset?” “Well, I’ve buried a few husbands and one or two kiddies. You get the hang of it. Anyway, if she hasn’t gone to a better place she’ll damn well be setting out to improve it. ” “Nanny?” “Yes, love?” “Did you know anything about the letter?” “What letter?” “The letter to Verence. ” “Don’t know anything about any letter to Verence. ” “He must have got it weeks before we got back. She must have sent it even before we got to Ankh-Morpork. ” Nanny Ogg looked, as far as Magrat could tell, genuinely blank. “Oh, hell,” said Magrat. “I mean this letter. ” She fished it out of the breastplate. “See?” Nanny Ogg read: “Dear sire, This is to inform youe that Magrate Garlick will bee retouning to Lancre on or aboute Blind Pig Tuesday. Shee is a Wet Hen but shee is clean and has got Good Teeth. If you wishes to marrie her, then starte arranging matters without delae, because if you just proposes and similar she will lede you a Dance because there is noone like Magrat for getting in the way of her own life. She does not Knoe her own Mind. You aere Kinge and you can doe what you like. You muste present her with a Fate Accompli. PS. I hear there is talk aboute making witches pay tax, no kinges of Lancre has tried this for many a Year, you could profit from their example. Yrs. in good health, at the moment. A FRIEND (MSS). ” The ticking of the clock stitched the blanket of silence. Nanny Ogg turned to look at it. “She arranged it all!” said Magrat. “You know what Verence is like. I mean, she hardly disguised who she was, did she? And I got back and it was all arranged —” “What would you have done if nothing had been arranged?” said Nanny. Magrat looked momentarily taken aback. “Well, I would…I mean, if he had…I’d—” “You’d be getting married today, would you?” said Nanny, but in a distant voice, as if she was thinking about something else. “Well, that depends on—” “You want to, don’t you?” “Well, yes, of course, but—” “That’s nice, then,” said Nanny, in what Magrat thought of as her nursery voice. “Yes, but she pushed me on one side and shut me up in the castle and I got so wound up—” “You were so angry that you actually stood up to the Queen. You actually laid hands on her,” said Nanny. “Well done. The old Magrat wouldn’t have done that, would she? Esme could always see the real thing. Now nip out of the back door and look at the log pile, there’s a love. ” “But I hated her and hated her and now she’s dead!” “Yes, dear. Now go and tell Nanny about the log pile. ” Magrat opened her mouth to frame the words “I happen to be very nearly queen” but decided not to. Instead she graciously went outside and looked at the log pile. “It’s quite high,” she said, coming back and blowing her nose. “Looks like it’s just been stacked. ” “And she wound up the clock yesterday,” said Nanny. “And the tea caddy’s half full, I just looked. ” “Well?” “She wasn’t sure,” said Nanny. “Hmm. ” She opened the envelope addressed to her. It was larger and flatter than the one holding the will, and contained a single piece of card. Nanny read it, and let it drop on to the table. “Come on,” she said. “We ain’t got much time!” “What’s the matter?” “And bring the sugar bowl!” Nanny wrenched open the door and hurried toward her broomstick. “Come on!” Magrat picked up the card. The writing was familiar. She’d seen it several times before, when calling on Granny Weatherwax unexpectedly. It said: I ATE’NT DEAD. “Halt! Who goes there?” “What’re you doing on guard with your arm in a sling, Shawn?” “Duty calls, Mum. ” “Well, let us in right now. ” “Are you Friend or Foe, Mum?” “Shawn, this is almost-Queen Magrat here with me, all right?” “Yes, but you’ve got to—” “Right now!” “Oooaaaww, Mum!” Magrat tried to keep up with Nanny as she scurried through the castle. “The wizard was right. She was dead, you know. I don’t blame you for hoping, but I can tell when people are dead. ” “No, you can’t. I remember a few years ago you came running down to my house in tears and it turned out she was just off Borrowing. That’s when she started using the sign. ” “But—” “She wasn’t sure what was going to happen,” said Nanny. “That’s good enough for me. ” “Nanny—” “You never know until you look,” said Nanny Ogg, expounding her own Uncertainty Principle. Nanny kicked open the doors to the Great Hall. “What’s all this?” Ridcully got up from his chair, looking embarrassed. “Well, it didn’t seem right to leave her all alone—” “Oh dear, oh dear,” said Nanny, gazing at the solemn tableau. “Candles and lilies. I bet you pinched ’em yourself, out of the garden. And then you all shut her away indoors like this. ” “Well—” “And no one even thought to leave a damn window open! Can’t you hear them?” “Hear what?” Nanny looked around hurriedly and picked up a silver candlestick. “No!” Magrat snatched it out of her hand. “This happens to be,” winding her arm back, “very nearly,” taking aim, “ my castle—” The candlestick flew up, turning end over end, and hit a big stained glass window right in the center. Fresh sunlight extruded down to the table, visibly moving in the Disc’s slow magical field. And down it, like marbles down a chute, the bees cascaded. The swarm settled on the witch’s head, giving the impression of a very dangerous wig. “What did you—” Ridcully began. “She’s going to swank about this for weeks ,” said Nanny. “No one’s ever done it with bees. Their mind’s everywhere, see? Not just in one bee. In the whole swarm. ” “What are you—” Granny Weatherwax’s fingers twitched. Her eyes flickered. Very slowly, she sat up. She focused on Magrat and Nanny Ogg with some difficulty, and said: “I wantzzz a bunzzch of flowerszz, a pot of honey, and someone to szzzting. ” “I brung the sugar bowl, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg. |
Granny eyed it hungrily, and then looked at the bees that were taking off from her head like planes from a stricken carrier. “Pour a dzzrop of water on it, then, and tip it out on the table for them. ” She stared triumphantly at their faces as Nanny Ogg bustled off. “I done it with beezzz! No one can do it with beezzz, and I done it! You endzzz up with your mind all flying in different directionzzz! You got to be good to do it with beezzz!” Nanny Ogg sloshed the bowl of makeshift syrup across the table. The swarm descended. “You’re alive?” Ridcully managed. “That’s what a univerzzity education doezz for you,” said Granny, trying to massage some life into her arms. “You’ve only got to be sitting up and talking for five minutzz and they can work out you’re alive. ” Nanny Ogg handed her a glass of water. It hovered in the air for a moment and then crashed to the floor, because Granny had tried to grasp it with her fifth leg. “Zzorry. ” “I knew you wasn’t certain!” said Nanny. “Czertain? Of courze I waz certain! Never in any doubt whatsoever. ” Magrat thought about the will. “You never had a moment’s doubt?” Granny Weatherwax had the grace not to look her in the eye. Instead, she rubbed her hands together. “What’s been happening while I’ve been away?” “Well,” said Nanny, “Magrat stood up to the—” “Oh, I knew she’d do that. Had the wedding, have you?” “Wedding?” The rest of them exchanged glances. “Of course not!” said Magrat. “Brother Perdore of the Nine Day Wonderers was going to do it and he was knocked out cold by an elf, and anyway people are all—” “Don’t let’s have any excuses,” said Granny briskly. “Anyway, a senior wizard can conduct a service at a pinch, ain’t that right?” “I, I, I think so,” said Ridcully, who was falling behind a bit in world events. “Right. A wizard’s only a priest without a god and a damp handshake,” said Granny. “But half the guests have run away!” said Magrat. “We’ll round up some more,” said Granny. “Mrs. Scorbic will never get the wedding feast done in time!” “You’ll have to tell her to,” said Granny. “The bridesmaids aren’t here!” “We’ll make do. ” “I haven’t got a dress!” “What’s that you’ve got on?” Magrat looked down at the stained chain-mail, the mud-encrusted breastplate, and the few damp remnants of white silk that hung over them like a ragged tabard. “Looks good to me,” said Granny. “Nanny’ll do your hair. ” Magrat reached up instinctively, removed the winged helmet, and patted her hair. Bits of twigs and fragments of heather had twisted themselves in it with comb-breaking complexity. It never looked good for five minutes together at the best of times; now it was a bird’s nest. “I think I’ll leave it,” she said. Granny nodded approvingly. “That’s the way of it,” she said. “It’s not what you’ve got that matters, it’s how you’ve got it. Well, we’re just about ready, then. ” Nanny leaned toward her and whispered. “What? Oh, yes. Where’s the groom?” “He’s a bit muzzy. Not sure what happened,” said Magrat. “Perfectly normal,” said Nanny, “after a stag night. ” There were difficulties to overcome: “We need a Best Man. ” “Ook. ” “Well, at least put some clothes on. ” Mrs. Scorbic the cook folded her huge pink arms. “Can’t be done,” she said firmly. “I thought perhaps just some salad and quiche and some light—” Magrat said, imploringly. The cook’s whiskery chin stuck out firmly. “Them elves turned the whole kitchen upside down,” she said. “It’s going to take me days to get it straight. Anyway, everyone knows raw vegetables are bad for you, and I can’t be having with them eggy pies. ” Magrat looked beseechingly at Nanny Ogg; Granny Weatherwax had wandered off into the gardens, where she was getting a tendency to stick her nose in flowers right out of her system. “Nothin’ to do with me,” said Nanny. “It’s not my kitchen, dear. ” “No, it’s mine. I’ve been cook here for years,” said Mrs. Scorbic, “and I knows how things should be done, and I’m not going to be ordered around in my own kitchen by some chit of a girl. ” Magrat sagged. Nanny tapped her on the shoulder. “You might need this at this point,” she said, and handed Magrat the winged helmet. “The king’s been very happy with—” Mrs. Scorbic began. There was a click. She looked down the length of a crossbow and met Magrat’s steady gaze. “Go ahead,” said the Queen of Lancre softly, “bake my quiche. ” Verence sat in his nightshirt with his head in his hands. He could remember hardly anything about the night, except a feeling of coldness. And no one seemed very inclined to tell him. There was a faint creak as the door opened. He looked up. “Glad to see you’re up and about already,” said Granny Weatherwax. “I’ve come to help you dress. ” “I’ve looked in the garderobe,” said Verence. “The…elves, was it?…they ransacked the place. There’s nothing I can wear. ” Granny looked around the room. Then she went to a low chest and opened it. There was a faint tinkling of bells, and a flash of red and yellow. “I thought you never threw them away,” she said. “And you ain’t put on any weight, so they’ll still fit. On with the motley. Magrat’ll appreciate it. ” “Oh, no,” said Verence. “I’m very firm about this. I’m king now. It’d be demeaning for Magrat to marry a Fool. I’ve got a position to maintain, for the sake of the kingdom. Besides, there is such a thing as pride. ” Granny stared at him for so long that he shifted uncomfortably. “Well, there is,” he said. Granny nodded, and walked toward the doorway. “Why’re you leaving?” said Verence nervously. “I ain’t leaving,” said Granny, quietly, “I’m just shutting the door. ” And then there was the incident with the crown. Ceremonies and Protocols of The Kingdom of Lancre was eventually found after a hurried search of Verence’s bedroom. It was very clear about the procedure. The new queen was crowned, by the king, as part of the ceremony. It wasn’t technically difficult for any king who knew which end of a queen was which, which even the most inbred king figured out in two goes. But it seemed to Ponder Stibbons that the ritual wobbled a bit at this point. It seemed, in fact, that just as he was about to lower the crown on the bride’s head he glanced across the hall to where the skinny old witch was standing. And nearly everyone else did too, including the bride. The old witch nodded very slightly. Magrat was crowned. Wack-fol-a-diddle, etc. The bride and groom stood side by side, shaking hands with the long line of guests in that dazed fashion normal at this point in the ceremony. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy—” “Thank you. ” “Ook!” “Thank you. ” “Nail it to the counter, Lord Ferguson, and damn the cheesemongers!” “Thank you. ” “Can I kiss the bride?” It dawned on Verence that he was being addressed by fresh air. He looked down. “I’m sorry,” he said, “you are—?” “My card,” said Casanunda. Verence read it. His eyebrows rose. “Ah,” he said. “Uh. Um. Well, well, well. Number two, eh?” “I try harder,” said Casanunda. Verence looked around guiltily, and then bent down until his mouth was level with the dwarf’s ear. “Could I have a word with you in a minute or two?” The Lancre Morris Men got together again for the first time at the reception. They found it hard to talk to one another. Several of them jigged up and down absentmindedly as they talked. “All right,” said Jason, “anyone remember? Really remember?” “I remember the start,” said Tailor the other weaver. “Definitely remember the start. And the dancing in the woods. But the Entertainment—” “There was elves in it,” said Tinker the tinker. “That’s why it all got buggered up,” said Thatcher the carter. “There was a lot of shouting, too. ” “There was someone with horns on,” said Carter, “and a great big—” “It was all,” said Jason, “a bit of a dream. ” “Hey, look over there, Carter,” said Weaver, winking at the others, “there’s that monkey. You’ve got something to ask it, ain’t you?” Carter blinked. “Coo, yes,” he said. “Shouldn’t waste a golden opportunity if I was you,” said Weaver, with the happy malice often shown by the clever to the simple. |
The Librarian was chatting to Ponder and the Bursar. He looked around as Carter prodded him. “You’ve been over to Slice, then, have you?” he said, in his cheery open way. The Librarian gave him a look of polite incomprehension. “Oook?” Carter looked perplexed. “That’s where you put your nut, ain’t it?” The Librarian gave him another odd look, and shook his head. “Oook. ” “Weaver!” Carter shouted, “the monkey says he didn’t put his nut where the sun don’t shine! You said he did! You didn’t, did you? He said you did. ” He turned to the Librarian. “He didn’t, Weaver. See, I knew you’d got it wrong. You’re daft. There’s no monkeys in Slice. ” Silence flowed outward from the two of them. Ponder Stibbons held his breath. “This is a lovely party,” said the Bursar to a chair, “I wish I was here. ” The Librarian picked up a large bottle from the table. He tapped Carter on the shoulder. Then he poured him a large drink and patted him on the head. Ponder relaxed and turned back to what he was doing. He’d tied a knife to a bit of string and was gloomily watching it spin round and round… On his way home that night Weaver was picked up by a mysterious assailant and dropped into the Lancre. No one ever found out why. Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, especially simian ones. They’re not all that subtle. Others went home that night. “She’ll be getting ideas above her station in life,” said Granny Weatherwax, as the two witches strolled through the scented air. “She’s a queen. That’s pretty high,” said Nanny Ogg. “Almost as high as witches. ” “Yes…well…but you ain’t got to give yourself airs,” said Granny Weatherwax. “We’re advantaged , yes, but we act with modesty and we don’t Put Ourselves Forward. No one could say I haven’t been decently modest all my life. ” “You’ve always been a bit of a shy violet, I’ve always said,” said Nanny Ogg. “I’m always telling people, when it comes to humility you won’t find anyone more humile than Esme Weatherwax. ” “Always keep myself to myself and minded my own business—” “Barely known you were there half the time,” said Nanny Ogg. “I was talking, Gytha. ” “Sorry. ” They walked along in silence for a while. It was a warm dry evening. Birds sang in the trees. Nanny said, “Funny to think of our Magrat being married and everything?” “What do you mean, everything?” “Well, you know— married, ” said Nanny. “I gave her a few tips. Always wear something in bed. Keeps a man interested. ” “You always wore your hat. ” “Right. ” Nanny waved a sausage on a stick. She always believed in stocking up on any free food that was available. “I thought the wedding feast was very good, didn’t you? And Magrat looked radiant, I thought. ” “ I thought she looked hot and flustered. ” “That is radiant, with brides. ” “You’re right, though,” said Granny Weatherwax, who was walking a little way ahead. “It was a good dinner. I never had this Vegetarian Option stuff before. ” “When I married Mr. Ogg, we had three dozen oysters at our wedding feast. Mind you, they didn’t all work. ” “And I like the way they give us all a bit o’ the wedding cake in a little bag,” said Granny. “Right. You know, they says, if you puts a bit under your pillow, you dream of your future husb…” Nanny Ogg’s tongue tripped over itself. She stopped, embarrassed, which was unusual in an Ogg. “It’s all right,” said Granny. “I don’t mind. ” “Sorry, Esme. ” “Everything happens somewhere. I know. I know. Everything happens somewhere. So it’s all the same in the end. ” “That’s very continuinuinuum thinking, Esme. ” “Cake’s nice,” said Granny, “but…right now…don’t know why…what I could really do with, Gytha, right now…is a sweet. ” The last word hung in the evening air like the echo of a gunshot. Nanny stopped. Her hand flew to her pocket, where the usual bag of fluff-encrusted boiled sweets resided. She stared at the back of Esme Weatherwax’s head, at the tight bun of gray hair under the brim of the pointy hat. “Sweet?” she said. “I expect you’ve got another bag now,” said Granny, without looking around. “Esme—” “You got anything to say, Gytha? About bags of sweets?” Granny Weatherwax still hadn’t turned around. Nanny looked at her boots. “No, Esme,” she said meekly. “I knew you’d go up to the Long Man, you know. How’d you get in?” “Used one of the special horseshoes. ” Granny nodded. “You didn’t ought to have brung him into it, Gytha. ” “Yes, Esme. ” “He’s as tricky as she is. ” “Yes, Esme. ” “You’re trying preemptive meekness on me. ” “Yes, Esme. ” They walked a little further. “What was that dance your Jason and his men did when they’d got drunk?” said Granny. “It’s the Lancre Stick and Bucket Dance, Esme. ” “It’s legal, is it?” “Technically they shouldn’t do it when there’s women present,” said Nanny. “Otherwise it’s sexual morrisment. ” “And I thought Magrat was very surprised when you recited that poem at the reception. ” “Poem?” “The one where you did the gestures. ” “Oh, that poem. ” “I saw Verence making notes on his napkin. ” Nanny reached again into the shapeless recesses of her clothing and produced an entire bottle of champagne you could have sworn there was no room for. “Mind you, I thought she looked happy,” she said. “Standing there wearing about half of a torn muddy dress and chain-mail underneath. Hey, d’you know what she told me?” “What?” “You know that ole painting of Queen Ynci? You know, the one with the iron bodice? Her with all the spikes and knives on her chariot? Well, she said she was sure the…the spirit of Ynci was helping her. She said she wore the armor and she did things she’d never dare do. ” “My word,” said Granny, noncommittally. “Funny ole world,” agreed Nanny. They walked in silence for a while. “So you didn’t tell her that Queen Ynci never existed, then?” “No point. ” “Old King Lully invented her entirely ’cos he thought we needed a bit of romantic history. He was a bit mad about that. He even had the armor made. ” “I know. My great-grandma’s husband hammered it out of a tin bath and a couple of saucepans. ” “But you didn’t think you ought to tell her that?” “No. ” Granny nodded. “Funny thing,” she said, “even when Magrat’s completely different, she’s just the same. ” Nanny Ogg produced a wooden spoon from somewhere in her apron. Then she raised her hat and carefully lifted down a bowl of cream, custard, and jelly which she had secreted there. * “Huh. I really don’t know why you pinches food the whole time,” said Granny. “Verence’d give you a bathful of the stuff if you asked. You know he don’t touch custard himself. ” “More fun this way,” said Nanny. “I deserve a bit of fun. ” There was a rustling in the thick bushes and the unicorn burst through. It was mad. It was angry. It was in a world where it did not belong. And it was being driven. It pawed the ground a hundred yards away, and lowered its horn. “Whoops,” said Nanny, dropping her just desserts. “Come on. There’s a tree here, come on. ” Granny Weatherwax shook her head. “No. I ain’t runnin’ this time. She couldn’t get me before and she’s tryin’ through an animal , eh?” “Will you look at the size of the horn on that thing?” “I can see clear enough,” said Granny calmly. The unicorn lowered its head and charged. Nanny Ogg reached the nearest tree with low branches and leapt upward… Granny Weatherwax folded her arms. “Come on , Esme!” “No. I ain’t been thinking clear enough, but I am now. There’s some things I don’t have to run from. ” The white shape bulleted down the avenue of trees, a thousand pounds of muscle behind twelve inches of glistening horn. Steam swirled behind it. “Esme!” Circle time was ending. Besides, she knew now why her mind had felt so unravelled, and that was a help. She couldn’t hear the ghostly thoughts of all the other Esme Weatherwaxes anymore. Perhaps some lived in a world ruled by elves. Or had died long ago. Or were living what they thought were happy lives. Granny Weatherwax seldom wished for anything, because wishing was soppy, but she felt a tiny regret that she’d never be able to meet them. Perhaps some were going to die, now, here on this path. |
Everything you did meant that a million copies of you did something else. Some were going to die. She’d sensed their future deaths…the deaths of Esme Weatherwax. And couldn’t save them, because chance did not work like that. On a million hillsides the girl ran, on a million bridges the girl chose, on a million paths the woman stood … All different, all one. All she could do for all of them was be herself, here and now, as hard as she could. She stuck out a hand. A few yards away the unicorn hit an invisible wall. Its legs flailed as it tried to stop, its body contorted in pain, and it slid the rest of the way to Granny’s feet on its back. “Gytha,” said Granny, as the beast tried to get upright, “you’ll take off your stockings and knot ’em into a halter and pass it to me carefully. ” “Esme…” “What?” “Ain’t got no stockings on, Esme. ” “What about the lovely red and white pair I gave you on Hogswatchnight? I knitted ’em myself. You know how I hates knitting. ” “Well, it’s a warm night. I likes to, you know, let the air circulate. ” “I had the devil of a time with the heels. ” “Sorry, Esme. ” “At least you’ll be so good as to run up to my place and bring everything that’s in the bottom of the dresser. ” “Yes, Esme. ” “But before that you’ll call in at your Jason’s and tell him to get the forge good and hot. ” Nanny Ogg stared down at the struggling unicorn. It seemed to be stuck, terrified of Granny but at the same time quite unable to escape. “Oh, Esme, you’re never going to ask our Jason to—” “I won’t ask him to do anything. And I ain’t asking you, neither. ” Granny Weatherwax removed her hat, skimming it into the bushes. Then, her eyes never leaving the animal, she reached up to the iron-gray bun of her hair and removed a few crucial pins. The bun uncoiled a waking snake of fine hair, which unwound down to her waist when she shook her head a couple of times. Nanny watched in paralyzed fascination as she reached up again and broke a single hair at its root. Granny Weatherwax’s hands made a complicated motion in the air as she made a noose out of something almost too thin to see. She ignored the thrashing horn and dropped it over the unicorn’s neck. Then she pulled. Struggling, its unshod hooves kicking up great clods of mud, the unicorn struggled to its feet. “That’ll never hold it,” said Nanny, sidling around the tree. “I could hold it with a cobweb, Gytha Ogg. With a cobweb. Now go about your business. ” “Yes, Esme. ” The unicorn threw back its head and screamed. Half the town was waiting as Granny led the beast into Lancre, hooves skidding on the cobbles, because when you tell Nanny Ogg you tell everyone. It danced at the end of the impossibly thin tether, kicking out at the terminally unwary, but never quite managing to pull free. Jason Ogg, still in his best clothes, was standing nervously at the open doorway to the forge. Superheated air vibrated over the chimney. “Mister Blacksmith,” said Granny Weatherwax, “I have a job for you. ” “Er,” said Jason, “that’s a unicorn, is that. ” “Correct. ” The unicorn screamed again, and rolled mad red eyes at Jason. “No one’s ever put shoes on a unicorn,” said Jason. “Think of this,” said Granny Weatherwax, “as your big moment. ” The crowd clustered round, trying to see and hear while keeping out of the way of the hooves. Jason rubbed his chin with his hammer. “I don’t know—” “Listen to me, Jason Ogg,” said Granny, hauling on the hair as the creature skittered around in a circle, “you can shoe anything anyone brings you. And there’s a price for that, ain’t there?” Jason gave Nanny Ogg a panic-stricken look. She had the grace to look embarrassed. “She never told me about it,” said Granny, with her usual ability to read Nanny’s expression through the back of her own head. She leaned closer to Jason, almost hanging from the plunging beast. “The price for being able to shoe anything, anything that anyone brings you…is having to shoe anything anyone brings you. The price for being the best is always…having to be the best. And you pays it, same as me. ” The unicorn kicked several inches of timber out of the door frame. “But iron—” said Jason. “And nails—” “Yes?” “Iron’ll kill it,” said Jason. “If I nail iron to ’n, I’ll kill ’n. Killing’s not part of it. I’ve never killed anything. I was up all night with that ant, it never felt a thing. I won’t hurt a living thing that never done me no harm. ” “Did you get that stuff from my dresser, Gytha?” “Yes, Esme. ” “Bring it in here, then. And you, Jason, you just get that forge hot. ” “But if I nail iron to it I’ll—” “Did I say anything about iron?” The horn took a stone out of the wall a foot from Jason’s head. He gave in. “You’ll have to come in to keep it calm, then,” he said. “I’ve never shod a stallion like this’n without two men and a boy a-hanging on to it. ” “It’ll do what it’s told,” Granny promised. “It can’t cross me. ” “It murdered old Scrope,” said Nanny Ogg. “I wouldn’t mind him killing it. ” “Then shame on you, woman,” said Granny. “It’s an animal. Animals can’t murder. Only us superior races can murder. That’s one of the things that sets us apart from animals. Give me that sack. ” She towed the fighting animal through the big double doors and a couple of the villagers hurriedly swung them shut. A moment later a hoof kicked a hole in the planking. Ridcully arrived at a run, his huge crossbow slung over his shoulder. “They told me the unicorn had turned up again!” Another board splintered. “In there?” Nanny nodded. “She dragged it all the way down from the woods,” she said. “But the damn thing’s savage!” Nanny Ogg rubbed her nose. “Yes, well…but she’s qualified, ain’t she? When it comes to unicorn taming. Nothing to do with witchcraft. ” “What d’you mean?” “I thought there was some things everyone knew about trapping unicorns,” said Nanny archly. “Who could trap ’em, is what I am delicately hintin’ at. She always could run faster’n you, could Esme. She could outdistance any man. ” Ridcully stood there with his mouth open. “Now, me ,” said Nanny, “I’d always trip over first ole tree root I came to. Took me ages to find one, sometimes. ” “You mean after I went she never—” “Don’t get soft ideas. It’s all one at our time o’life anyway,” said Nanny. “It’d never have crossed her mind if you hadn’t turned up. ” An associated thought seemed to strike her. “You haven’t seen Casanunda, have you?” “’Ello, my little rosebud,” said a cheerful, hopeful voice. Nanny didn’t even turn around. “You do turn up where people aren’t looking,” she said. “Famed for it, Mrs. Ogg. ” There was silence from inside the forge. Then they could make out the tap-tap-tap of Jason’s hammer. “What they doing in there?” said Ridcully. “It’s stopping it kicking, whatever it is,” said Nanny. “What was in the sack, Mrs. Ogg?” said Casanunda. “What she told me to get,” said Nanny. “Her old silver tea set. Family heirloom. I’ve only ever seen it but twice, and once was just now when I put it in the sack. I don’t think she’s ever used it. It’s got a cream jug shaped like a humorous cow. ” More people had arrived outside the forge. The crowd stretched all the way across the square. The hammering stopped. Jason’s voice, quite close, said: “We’re coming out now. ” “They’re coming out now,” said Nanny. “What’d she say?” “She said they’re coming out now. ” “They’re coming out now!” The crowd pulled back. The doors swung open. Granny emerged, leading the unicorn. It walked sedately, muscles moving under its white coat like frogs in oil. And its hooves clattered on the cobbles. Ridcully couldn’t help noticing how they shone. It walked politely alongside the witch until she reached the center of the square. Then she turned it loose, and gave it a light slap on the rump. It whinnied softly, turned, and galloped down the street, toward the forest… Nanny Ogg appeared silently behind Granny Weatherwax as she watched it go. “Silver shoes?” she said quietly. “They’ll last no time at all. ” “And silver nails. They’ll last for long enough,” said Granny, speaking to the world in general. |
“And she’ll never get it back, though she calls it for a thousand years. ” “Shoeing the unicorn,” said Nanny, shaking her head. “Only you’d think of shoeing a unicorn, Esme. ” “I’ve been doing it all my life,” said Granny. Now the unicorn was a speck on the moorland. As they watched, it disappeared into the evening gloom. Nanny Ogg sighed, and broke whatever spell there was. “So that’s it, then. ” “Yes. ” “Are you going to the dance up at the castle?” “Are you?” “Well…Mr. Casanunda did ask if I could show him the Long Man. You know. Properly. I suppose it’s him being a dwarf. They’re very interested in earthworks. ” “Can’t get enough of them,” said Casanunda. Granny rolled her eyes. “Act your age, Gytha. ” “Act? Don’t have to act, can do it automatic,” said Nanny. “Acting half my age…now that’s the difficult trick. Anyway, you didn’t answer me. ” To the surprise of Nanny, and of Ridcully, and possibly even of Granny Weatherwax herself, she slipped her arm around Ridcully’s arm. “Mr. Ridcully and I are going to have a stroll down to the bridge. ” “We are?” said Ridcully. “Oh, that’s nice. ” “Gytha Ogg, if you keep on looking at me like that I shall give you a right ding around the ear. ” “Sorry, Esme,” said Nanny. “Good. ” “I expect you want to talk about old times,” Nanny volunteered. “Maybe old times. Maybe other times. ” The unicorn reached the forest, and galloped onward. The waters of the Lancre gushed below. No one crossed the same water twice, even on a bridge. Ridcully dropped a pebble. It went plunk. “It all works out,” said Granny Weatherwax, “somewhere. Your young wizard knows that, he just puts daft words around it. He’d be quite bright, if only he’d look at what’s in front of him. ” “He wants to stay here for a while,” said Ridcully gloomily. He flicked another pebble into the depths. “Seems fascinated by the stones. I can’t say no, can I? The king’s all for it. He says other kings have always had fools, so he’ll try having a wise man around, just in case that works better. ” Granny laughed. “And there’s young Diamanda going to be up and about any day now,” she said. “What do you mean?” “Oh, nothing. That’s the thing about the future. It could turn out to be anything. And everything. ” She picked up a pebble. It hit the water at the same time as one of Ridcully’s own, making a double plunk. “Do you think,” said Ridcully, “that…somewhere…it all went right?” “Yes. Here!” Granny softened at the sight of his sagging shoulders. “But there, too,” she said. “What?” “I mean that somewhere Mustrum Ridcully married Esmerelda Weatherwax and they lived—” Granny gritted her teeth “—lived happily ever after. More or less. As much as anyone does. ” “How d’you know?” “I’ve been picking up bits of her memories. She seemed happy enough. And I ain’t easily pleased. ” “How can you do that?” “I try to be good at everything I do. ” “Did she say anything about—” “She didn’t say nothing! She don’t know we exist! Don’t ask questions! It’s enough to know that everything happens somewhere, isn’t it?” Ridcully tried to grin. “Is that the best you can tell me?” he said. “It’s the best there is. Or the next best thing. ” Where does it end? * On a summer night, with couples going their own ways, and silky purple twilight growing between the trees. From the castle, long after the celebrations had ended, faint laughter and the ringing of little silver bells. And from the empty hillside, only the silence of the elves. Author’s Note B y and large, most Discworld books have stood by themselves, as complete books. It helps to have read them in some kind of order, but it’s not essential. This one is different. I can’t ignore the history of what has gone before. Granny Weatherwax first turned up in Equal Rites. In Wyrd Sisters she became the unofficial head of a tiny coven consisting of the easy-going, much-married Nanny Ogg and young Magrat, she of the red nose and unkempt hair and tendency to be soppy about raindrops and roses and whiskers on kittens. And what took place was a plot not unadjacent to that of a famous play about a Scottish king, which ended with Verence II becoming king of the little hilly, forested country of Lancre. Technically this shouldn’t have happened, since strictly speaking he was not the heir, but to the witches he looked like being the best man for the job and, as they say, all’s well that ends well. It also ended with Magrat reaching a very tentative Understanding with Verence…very tentative indeed, since both of them were so shy they immediately forgot whatever it was they were going to say to one another whenever they met, and whenever either of them did manage to say anything the other one misunderstood it and took offense, and both of them spent a lot of time wondering what the other one was thinking. This might be love, or the next best thing. In Witches Abroad the three witches had to travel halfway across the continent to face down the Godmother (who had made Destiny an offer it couldn’t refuse). This is the story of what happened when they came home. NOW READ ON… About the Author Terry Pratchett is one of the most popular living authors in the world. His first story was published when he was thirteen, and his first full-length book when he was twenty. He worked as a journalist to support the writing habit, but gave up the day job when the success of his books meant that it was costing him money to go to work. Pratchett’s acclaimed novels are bestsellers in the U. S. and the United Kingdom and have sold more than twenty-seven million copies worldwide. He lives in England, where he writes all the time. (It’s his hobby, as well. ) Visit www. AuthorTracker. com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author. PRAISE THE WORLD LOVES TERRY PRATCHETT! “Superb popular entertainment. ” Washington Post Book World “Humorously entertaining…subtly thought-provoking. ” Chicago Tribune “Unadulterated fun…witty, frequently hilarious… Pratchett parodies everything in sight. ” San Francisco Chronicle “Acclaimed British author Pratchett continues to distinguish himself from his colleagues with clever plot lines and genuinely likable characters. ” Publishers Weekly (*Starred Review*) “If I were making my list of Best Books of the Twentieth Century, Terry Pratchett’s would be most of them. ” Elizabeth Peters “Discworld takes the classic fantasy universe through its logical, and comic, evolution. ” Cleveland Plain Dealer Also by Terry Pratchett The Carpet People • The Dark Side of the Sun • Strata Truckers • Diggers • Wings • Only You Can Save Mankind Johnny and the Dead • Johnny and the Bomb The Unadulterated Cat (with Gray Jollife) Good Omens (with Neil Gaiman) The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents* The Discworld Series The Color of Magic* • The Light Fantastic* Equal Rites* • Mort* • Sourcery* • Wyrd Sisters* Pyramids* • Guards! Guards!* • Eric (with Josh Kirby)* Moving Pictures* • Reaper Man* • Witches Abroad* Small Gods* • Lords and Ladies* • Men at Arms* Soul Music* • Interesting Times* Maskerade* • Feet of Clay* • Hogfather* • Jingo* The Last Continent* • Carpe Jugulum* The Fifth Elephant* • The Truth* Thief of Time* • The Last Hero* Mort: A Discworld Big Comic (with Graham Higgins) The Streets of Ankh-Morpork (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Companion (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Mapp (with Stephen Briggs) And in Hardcover Night Watch* *Published by HarperCollins Copyright This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. LORDS AND LADIES. Copyright © 1992 by Terry and Lyn Pratchett. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 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Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand http://www. harpercollinsebooks. co. nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www. uk. harpercollinsebooks. com United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www. harpercollinsebooks. com * Probably at the first pawn. * Three times outright, once after eleven hours extra time, and twice when the other finalists ran away. * Who was also general poacher, cess-pit cleaner, and approximate carpenter. ** ** “With a couple of nails it’ll stay up all right. ” † The thing about iron is that you generally don’t have to think fast in dealing with it. * Well, it’s like this…The Carter parents were a quiet and respectable Lancre family who got into a bit of a mix-up when it came to naming their children. First, they had four daughters, who were christened Hope, Chastity, Prudence, and Charity, because naming girls after virtues is an ancient and unremarkable tradition. Then their first son was born and out of some misplaced idea about how this naming business was done he was called Anger Carter, followed later by Jealousy Carter, Bestiality Carter, and Covetousness Carter. Life being what it is, Hope turned out to be a depressive, Chastity was enjoying life as a lady of negotiable affection in Ankh-Morpork, Prudence had thirteen children, and Charity expected to get a dollar’s change out of seventy-five pence—whereas the boys had grown into amiable, well-tempered men, and Bestiality Carter was, for example, very kind to animals. * Ponder was one hundred percent wrong about this. * Verence and Magrat had a lot in common, really. * If it wasn’t a big stick. * It was here that the thaum, hitherto believed to be the smallest possible particle of magic, was successfully demonstrated to be made up of resons ** or reality fragments. Currently research indicates that each reson is itself made up of a combination of at least five “flavors,” known as “up,” “down,” “sideways,” “sex appeal,” and “peppermint. ” ** Lit: “Thing-ies. ” ** Gods like a joke as much as anyone else. * Except for Nanny Ogg, who did it all the time, although not on purpose. * As has been pointed out earlier in the Discworld chronicles, entire agricultural economies have been based on the lifting power of little old ladies in black dresses. * i. e. , having a lot of bosk. * Really true. That’s why people stand aside when kings go past. * The Lancratians did not consider geography to be a very original science. * Troll, a lifeform on silicon rather than carbon, can’t in fact digest people. But there’s always someone ready to give it a try. * Insert the usual “red-hot curried marbles” description here, if you like. * In the case of the a -Ω Street Mappe of Ankh-Morpork, this would be The Sunshine Home for Sick Dragons in Morphic Street, Please Leave Donations of Coal by Side Door. Remember, A Dragon is For Life, Not Just for Hogswatchnight. * Shawn Ogg. ** ** Except when he was lying down. * Which is another country. * But not huge, by wig standards. There have, in the course of decadent history, been many large wigs, often with built-in gewgaws to stop people having to look at boring hair all the time. There had been ones big enough to contain pet mice or clockwork ornaments. Mme. Cupidor, mistress of Mad King Soup II, had one with a bird cage in it, but on special state occasions wore one containing a perpetual calendar, a floral clock, and a take-away linguini shop. * i. e. , far enough so’s not to look like you’re intruding on the conversation, but close enough to get a pretty good idea of what is going on. * Carrots so you can see in the dark, she’d explain, and oysters so’s you’ve got something to look at. * The Librarian, an ape of simple but firmly held tastes, considered an episode with custard pies, buckets of whitewash, and especially that bit when someone takes someone else’s hat off, fills it with something oozy, and replaces it on the deadpan head while the orchestra plays “WHAH…Whah…whah…whaaa…” to be an absolutely essential part of any theatrical performance. Since a roasted peanut is a dangerous and painful item when hurled with pinpoint accuracy, directors in Ankh-Morpork had long ago taken the hint. This made some of the grand guignol melodramas a little unusual, but it was considered that plays like “The Blood-Soaked Tragedy of the Mad Monk of Quirm (with Custard-Pie scene)” were far better than being deaf in one ear for five days. * Made it up. ** ** Had read a lot of stuff that other people had made up, too. * “He’s just an old soppy really”—from the Nanny Ogg Book of Cat Sayings. * He knew this because the previous month’s issue of Popular Armor had run a feature entitled “We Test The Top Twenty Sub-$50 Helmets. ” It had also run a second feature called “Battleaxes: We Put The Ten Best Through Their Paces” and had advertised for half a dozen new testers. * The shortest unit of time in the multiverse is the New York Second, defined as the period of time between the traffic lights turning green and the cab behind you honking. * Although this is a phallusy. * Which, no matter how carefully coiled, will always uncoil overnight and tie the lawnmower to the bicycles. * There are many recipes for the flat round loaves of Lancre dwarf bread, but the common aim of all of them is to make a field ration that is long-lasting, easily packed, and can disembowel the enemy if skimmed through the air hard enough. Edibility is a kind of optional extra. Most recipes are a closely guarded secret, apart from the gravel. * Hence the term “wholesale destruction. ” * The Monks of Cool, whose tiny and exclusive monastery is hidden in a really cool and laid-back valley in the lower Ramtops, have a passing-out test for a novice. He is taken into a room full of all types of clothing and asked: Yo, ** my son, which of these is the most stylish thing to wear? And the correct answer is: Hey, whatever I select. ** Cool, but not necessarily up to date. * Nanny Ogg was also a great picker-up of unconsidered trifles. * When Hwel the playwright turned up with the rest of the troupe next day they told him all about it, and he wrote it down. But he left out all the bits that wouldn’t fit on a stage, or were too expensive, or which he didn’t believe. In any case, he called it The Taming of the Vole , because no one would be interested in a play called Things that Happened on A Midsummer Night. * This happens all the time, everywhere in the multiverse, even on cold planets awash with liquid methane. No one knows why it is, but in any group of employed individuals the only naturally early riser is always the office manager, who will always leave reproachful little notes (or, as it might be, engraved helium crystals) on the desks of their subordinates. In fact the only place this does not happen very often is the world Zyrix, and this is only because Zyrix has eighteen suns and it is only possible to be an early riser there once every 1,789. 6 years, but even then, once every 1,789. 6 years, resonating to some strange universal signal, smallminded employers slither down to the office with a tentacle full of small reproachful etched frimpt shells at the ready. * He lived on his nerves. |
* The study of invisible writings was a new discipline made available by the discovery of the bi-directional nature of Library-Space. The thaumic mathematics are complex, but boil down to the fact that all books, everywhere, affect all other books. This is obvious: books inspire other books written in the future, and cite books written in the past. But the General Theory ** of L-Space suggests that, in that case, the contents of books as yet unwritten can be deduced from books now in existence. ** There’s a Special Theory as well, but no one bothers with it much because it’s self-evidently a load of marsh gas. * It was largely dark. Table of Contents Cover Title Page Contents Begin Reading Author’s Note About the Author Praise Other Books by Terry Pratchett Copyright About the Publisher Terry Pratchett Maskerade A Novel of Discworld ® My thanks to the people who showed me that opera was stranger than I could imagine. I can best repay their kindness by not mentioning their names here. Contents Begin Reading About the Author Praise Other Books by Terry Pratchett Copyright About the Publisher Begin Reading T he wind howled. The storm crackled on the mountains. Lightning prodded the crags like an old man trying to get an elusive blackberry pip out of his false teeth. Among the hissing furze bushes a fire blazed, the flames driven this way and that by the gusts. An eldritch voice shrieked: “When shall we…two…meet again?” Thunder rolled. A rather more ordinary voice said: “What’d you go and shout that for? You made me drop my toast in the fire. ” Nanny Ogg sat down again. “Sorry, Esme. I was just doing it for…you know…old time’s sake…Doesn’t roll off the tongue, though. ” “I’d just got it nice and brown, too. ” “Sorry. ” “Anyway, you didn’t have to shout. ” “Sorry. ” “I mean, I ain’t deaf. You could’ve just asked me in a normal voice. And I’d have said, ‘Next Wednesday. ’” “Sorry, Esme. ” “Just you cut me another slice. ” Nanny Ogg nodded, and turned her head. “Magrat, cut Granny ano…oh. Mind wandering there for a minute. I’ll do it myself, shall I?” “Hah!” said Granny Weatherwax, staring into the fire. There was no sound for a while but the roar of the wind and the sound of Nanny Ogg cutting bread, which she did with about as much efficiency as a man trying to chainsaw a mattress. “I thought it’d cheer you up, coming up here,” she said after a while. “Really. ” It wasn’t a question. “Take you out of yourself, sort of thing…” Nanny went on, watching her friend carefully. “Mm?” said Granny, still staring moodily at the fire. Oh dear, thought Nanny. I shouldn’t’ve said that. The point was…well, the point was that Nanny Ogg was worried. Very worried. She wasn’t at all sure that her friend wasn’t…well…going…well, sort of…in a manner of speaking…well…black… She knew it happened, with the really powerful ones. And Granny Weatherwax was pretty damn powerful. She was probably an even more accomplished witch now than the infamous Black Aliss, and everyone knew what had happened to her at the finish. Pushed into her own stove by a couple of kids, and everyone said it was a damn good thing, even if it took a whole week to clean the oven. But Aliss, up until that terrible day, had terrorized the Ramtops. She’d become so good at magic that there wasn’t room in her head for anything else. They said weapons couldn’t pierce her. Swords bounced off her skin. They said you could hear her mad laughter a mile off, and of course, while mad laughter was always part of a witch’s stock-in-trade in necessary circumstances, this was insane mad laughter, the worst kind. And she turned people into gingerbread and had a house made of frogs. It had been very nasty, toward the end. It always was, when a witch went bad. Sometimes, of course, they didn’t go bad. They just went…somewhere. Granny’s intellect needed something to do. She did not take kindly to boredom. She’d take to her bed instead and send her mind out Borrowing, inside the head of some forest creature, listening with its ears, seeing with its eyes. That was all very well for general purposes, but she was too good at it. She could stay away longer than anyone Nanny Ogg had ever heard of. One day, almost certainly, she wouldn’t bother to come back…and this was the worst time of the year, with the geese honking and rushing across the sky every night, and the autumn air crisp and inviting. There was something terribly tempting about that. Nanny Ogg reckoned she knew what the cause of the problem was. She coughed. “Saw Magrat the other day,” she ventured, looking sidelong at Granny. There was no reaction. “She’s looking well. Queening suits her. ” “Hmm?” Nanny groaned inwardly. If Granny couldn’t even be bothered to make a nasty remark, then she was really missing Magrat. Nanny Ogg had never believed it at the start, but Magrat Garlick, wet as a sponge though she was half the time, had been dead right about one thing. Three was a natural number for witches. And they’d lost one. Well, not lost, exactly. Magrat was queen now, and queens were hard to mislay. But…that meant that there were only two of them instead of three. When you had three, you had one to run around getting people to make up when there’d been a row. Magrat had been good for that. Without Magrat, Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax got on one another’s nerves. With her, all three had been able to get on the nerves of absolutely everyone else in the whole world, which had been a lot more fun. And there was no having Magrat back…at least, to be precise about it, there was no having Magrat back yet. Because, while three was a good number for witches…it had to be the right sort of three. The right sort of… types. Nanny Ogg found herself embarrassed even to think about this, and this was unusual because embarrassment normally came as naturally to Nanny as altruism comes to a cat. As a witch, she naturally didn’t believe in any occult nonsense of any sort. But there were one or two truths down below the bedrock of the soul which had to be faced, and right in among them was this business of, well, of the maiden, the mother and the…other one. There. She’d put words around it. Of course, it was nothing but an old superstition and belonged to the unenlightened days when “maiden” or “mother” or…the other one…encompassed every woman over the age of twelve or so, except maybe for nine months of her life. These days, any girl bright enough to count and sensible enough to take Nanny’s advice could put off being at least one of them for quite some time. Even so…it was an old superstition—older than books, older than writing—and beliefs like that were heavy weights on the rubber sheet of human experience, tending to pull people into their orbit. And Magrat had been married for three months. That ought to mean she was out of the first category. At least—Nanny twitched her train of thought on to a branch line—she probably was. Oh, surely. Young Verence had sent off for a helpful manual. It had pictures in it, and numbered parts. Nanny knew this because she had sneaked into the royal bedroom while visiting one day, and had spent an instructive ten minutes drawing mustaches and spectacles on some of the figures. Surely even Magrat and Verence could hardly fail to…No, they must have worked it out, even though Nanny had heard that Verence had been seen inquiring of people where he might buy a couple of false mustaches. It’d not be long before Magrat was eligible for the second category, even if they were both slow readers. Of course, Granny Weatherwax made a great play of her independence and self-reliance. But the point about that kind of stuff was that you needed someone around to be proudly independent and self-reliant at. People who didn’t need people needed people around to know that they were the kind of people who didn’t need people. It was like hermits. There was no point freezing your nadgers off on top of some mountain while communing with the Infinite unless you could rely on a lot of impressionable young women to come along occasionally and say “Gosh. |
” They needed to be three again. Things got exciting, when there were three of you. There were rows, and adventures, and things for Granny to get angry about, and she was only happy when she was angry. In fact, it seemed to Nanny, she was only Granny Weatherwax when she was angry. Yes. They needed to be three. Or else…it was going to be gray wings in the night, or the clang of the oven door… The manuscript fell apart as soon as Mr. Goatberger picked it up. It wasn’t even on proper paper. It had been written on old sugar bags, and the backs of envelopes, and bits of out-of-date calendar. He grunted, and grabbed a handful of the musty pages to throw them on the fire. A word caught his eye. He read it, and his eye was dragged to the end of the sentence. Then he read to the end of the page, doubling back a few times because he hadn’t quite believed what he’d just read. He turned the page. And then he turned back. And then he read on. At one point he took a ruler out of his drawer and looked at it thoughtfully. He opened his drinks cabinet. The bottle tinkled cheerfully on the edge of the glass as he tried to pour himself a drink. Then he stared out of the window at the Opera House on the other side of the road. A small figure was brushing the steps. And then he said, “Oh, my. ” Finally he went to the door and said, “Could you come in here, Mr. Cropper?” His chief printer entered, clutching a sheaf of proofs. “We’re going to have to get Mr. Cripslock to engrave page II again,” he said mournfully. “He’s spelled ‘famine’ with seven letters—” “Read this,” said Goatberger. “I was just off to lunch—” “Read this. ” “Guild agreement says—” “Read this and see if you still have an appetite. ” Mr. Cropper sat down with bad grace and glanced at the first page. Then he turned to the second page. After a while he opened the desk drawer and pulled out a ruler, which he looked at thoughtfully. “You’ve just read about Bananana Soup Surprise?” said Goatberger. “Yes!” “You wait till you get to Spotted Dick. ” “Well, my old granny used to make Spotted Dick—” “Not to this recipe,” said Goatberger, with absolute certainty. Cropper fumbled through the pages. “Blimey! Do you think any of this stuff works?” “Who cares? Go down to the Guild right now and hire all the engravers that’re free. Preferably elderly ones. ” “But I’ve still got the Grune, June, August and Spune predictions for next year’s Almanac to—” “Forget them. Use some old ones. ” “People’ll notice. ” “They’ve never noticed before,” said Mr. Goatberger. “You know the drill. Astounding Rains of Curry in Klatch, Amazing Death of the Seriph of Ee, Plague of Wasps in Howondaland. This is a lot more important. ” He stared unseeing out of the window again. “ Considerably more important. ” And he dreamed the dream of all those who publish books, which was to have so much gold in your pockets that you would have to employ two people just to hold your trousers up. The huge, be-columned, gargoyle-haunted face of Ankh-Morpork’s Opera House was there, in front of Agnes Nitt. She stopped. At least, most of Agnes stopped. There was a lot of Agnes. It took some time for outlying regions to come to rest. Well, this was it. At last. She could go in, or she could go away. It was what they called a life choice. She’d never had one of those before. Finally, after standing still for long enough for a pigeon to consider the perching possibilities of her huge and rather sad black floppy hat, she climbed the steps. A man was theoretically sweeping them. What he was in fact doing was moving the dirt around with a broom, to give it a change of scenery and a chance to make new friends. He was dressed in a long coat that was slightly too small for him, and had a black beret perched incongruously on spiky black hair. “Excuse me,” said Agnes. The effect was electric. He turned around, tangled one foot with the other, and collapsed onto his broom. Agnes’s hand flew to her mouth, and then she reached down. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” The hand had that clammy feel that makes a holder think longingly of soap. He pulled it away quickly, pushed his greasy hair out of his eyes and gave her a terrified smile; he had what Nanny Ogg called an underdone face, its features rubbery and pale. “No trouble miss!” “Are you all right?” He scrambled up, got the broom somehow tangled between his knees, and sat down again sharply. “Er…shall I hold the broom?” said Agnes helpfully. She pulled it out of the tangle. He got up again, after a couple of false starts. “Do you work for the Opera House?” said Agnes. “Yes miss!” “Er, can you tell me where I have to go for the auditions?” He looked around wildly. “Stage door!” he said. “I’ll show you!” The words came out in a rush, as if he had to line them up and fire them all in one go before they had time to wander off. He snatched the broom out of her hands and set off down the steps and toward the corner of the building. He had a unique stride: it looked as though his body were being dragged forward and his legs had to flail around underneath it, landing wherever they could find room. It wasn’t so much a walk as a collapse, indefinitely postponed. His erratic footsteps led toward a door in the side wall. Agnes followed them in. Just inside was a sort of shed, with one open wall and a counter positioned so that someone standing there could watch the door. The person behind it must have been a human being because walruses don’t wear coats. The strange man had disappeared somewhere in the gloom beyond. Agnes looked around desperately. “Yes, miss?” said the walrus man. It really was an impressive mustache, which had sapped all the growth from the rest of its owner. “Er…I’m here for the…the auditions,” said Agnes. “I saw a notice that said you were auditioning—” She gave a helpless little smile. The doorkeeper’s face proclaimed that it had seen and been unimpressed by more desperate smiles than even Agnes could have eaten hot dinners. He produced a clipboard and a stub of pencil. “You got to sign here,” he said. “Who was that…person who came in with me?” The mustache moved, suggesting a smile was buried somewhere below. “Everyone knows our Walter Plinge. ” This seemed to be all the information that was likely to be imparted. Agnes gripped the pencil. The most important question was: what should she call herself? Her name had many sterling qualities, no doubt, but it didn’t exactly roll off the tongue. It snapped off the palate and clicked between the teeth, but it didn’t roll off the tongue. The trouble was, she couldn’t think of one with great rotational capabilities. Catherine, possibly. Or…Perdita. She could go back to trying Perdita. She’d been embarrassed out of using that name in Lancre. It was a mysterious name, hinting of darkness and intrigue and, incidentally, of someone who was quite thin. She’d even given herself a middle initial—X—which stood for “someone who has a cool and exciting middle initial. ” It hadn’t worked. Lancre people were depressingly resistant to cool. She had just been known as “that Agnes who calls herself Perditax. ” She’d never dared tell anyone that she’d like her full name to be Perdita X Dream. They just wouldn’t understand. They’d say things like: if you think that’s the right name for you, why have you still got two shelves full of soft toys? Well, here she could start afresh. She was good. She knew she was good. Probably no hope for the Dream, though. She was probably stuck with the Nitt. Nanny Ogg usually went to bed early. After all, she was an old lady. Sometimes she went to bed as early as six A. M. Her breath puffed in the air as she walked through the woods. Her boots crunched on the leaves. The wind had died away, leaving the sky wide and clear and open for the first frost of the season, a petal-nipping, fruit-withering little scorcher that showed you why they called Nature a mother… A third witch, she thought. Three witches could sort of…spread the load. Maiden, mother and…crone. There. The trouble was that Granny Weatherwax combined all three in one. |
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