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She was a maiden, as far as Nanny knew, and she was at least in the right age-bracket for a crone; and, as for the third, well…cross Granny Weatherwax on a bad day and you’d be like a blossom in the frost. There was bound to be a candidate for the vacancy, though. There were several young girls in Lancre who were just about the right age. Trouble was, the young men of Lancre knew it too. Nanny wandered the summer hayfields regularly, and had a sharp if compassionate eye and damn good over-the-horizon hearing. Violet Frottidge was walking out with young Deviousness Carter, or at least doing something within ninety degrees of walking out. Bonnie Quarney had been gathering nuts in May with William Simple, and it was only because she’d thought ahead and taken a little advice from Nanny that she wouldn’t be bearing fruit in February. And pretty soon now young Mildred Tinker’s mother would have a quiet word with Mildred Tinker’s father, and he’d have a word with his friend Thatcher and he’d have a word with his son Hob, and then there’d be a wedding, all done in a properly civilized way except for maybe a black eye or two. * No doubt about it, thought Nanny with a misty-eyed smile: innocence, in a hot Lancre summer, was that state in which innocence is lost. And then a name rose out of the throng. Oh, yes. Her. Why hadn’t she thought of her ? But you didn’t, of course. Whenever you thought about the young girls of Lancre, you didn’t remember her. And then you said, “Oh, yes, her too, of course. O’ course, she’s got a wonderful personality. And good hair, of course. ” She was bright, and talented. In many ways. Her voice, for one thing. That was her power, finding its way out. And of course she also had a wonderful personality, so there’d be not much chance of her being…disqualified… Well, that was settled, then. Another witch to bully and impress would set Granny up a treat, and Agnes would be bound to thank her eventually. Nanny Ogg was relieved. You needed at least three witches for a coven. Two witches was just an argument. She opened the door of her cottage and climbed the stairs to bed. Her cat, the tom Greebo, was spread out on the eiderdown like a puddle of gray fur. He didn’t even awake as Nanny lifted him up bodily so that, nightdress-clad, she could slide between the sheets. Just to keep bad dreams at bay, she took a swig out of a bottle that smelled of apples and happy brain-death. Then she pummeled her pillow, thought “Her…yes,” and drifted off to sleep. Presently Greebo awoke, stretched, yawned and hopped silently to the floor. Then the most vicious and cunning a pile of fur that ever had the intelligence to sit on a bird table with its mouth open and a piece of toast balanced on its nose vanished through the open window. A few minutes later, the cockerel in the garden next door stuck up his head to greet the bright new day and died instantly in mid- “doodle-doo. ” There was a huge darkness in front of Agnes while, at the same time, she was half-blinded by the light. Just below the edge of the stage, giant flat candles floated in a long trough of water, producing a strong yellow glare quite unlike the oil lamps of home. Beyond the light, the auditorium waited like the mouth of a very big and extremely hungry animal. From somewhere on the far side of the lights a voice said, “When you’re ready, miss. ” It wasn’t a particularly unfriendly voice. It just wanted her to get on with it, sing her piece, and go. “I’ve, er, got this song, it’s a—” “You’ve given your music to Miss Proudlet?” “Er, there isn’t an accompaniment actually, it—” “Oh, it’s a folk song, is it?” There was a whispering in the darkness, and someone laughed quietly. “Off you go then…Perdita, right?” Agnes launched into the Hedgehog Song, and knew by about word seven that it had been the wrong choice. You needed a tavern, with people leering and thumping their mugs on the table. This big brilliant emptiness just sucked at it and made her voice hesitant and shrill. She stopped at the end of verse three. She could feel the blush starting somewhere around her knees. It’d take some time to get to her face, because it had a lot of skin to cover, but by then it’d be strawberry pink. She could hear whispering. Words like “timbre” emerged from the susurration and then, she wasn’t surprised to hear, came “impressive build. ” She did, she knew, have an impressive build. So did the Opera House. She didn’t have to feel good about it. The voice spoke up. “You haven’t had much training, have you, dear?” “No. ” Which was true. Lancre’s only other singer of note was Nanny Ogg, whose attitude to songs was purely ballistic. You just pointed your voice at the end of the verse and went for it. Whisper, whisper. “Sing us a few scales, dear. ” The blush was at chest-height now, thundering across the rolling acres… “Scales?” Whisper. Muffled laugh. “Do-Re-Mi? You know, dear? Starting low? La-la-lah?” “Oh. Yes. ” As the armies of embarrassment stormed her neckline, Agnes pitched her voice as low as she could and went for it. She concentrated on the notes, working her way stolidly upward from sea-level to mountaintop, and took no notice at the start when a chair vibrated across the stage or, at the end, when a glass broke somewhere and several bats fell out of the roof. There was silence from the big emptiness, except for the thud of another bat and, far above, a gentle tinkle of glass. “Is…is that your full range, lass?” People were clustering in the wings and staring at her. “No. ” “No?” “If I go any higher people faint,” said Agnes. “And if I go lower everyone says it makes them feel uncomfortable. ” Whisper, whisper. Whisper, whisper , whisper. “And, er, any other—?” “I can sing with myself in thirds. Nanny Ogg says not everyone can do that. ” “Sorry?” “Like…Do-Mi. At the same time. ” Whisper, whisper. “Show us, lass. ” “ Laaaaaa ” The people at the side of the stage were talking excitedly. Whisper, whisper. The voice from the darkness said: “Now, your voice projection—” “Oh, I can do that ,” snapped Agnes. She was getting rather fed up. “Where would you like it projected?” “I’m sorry? We’re talking about—” Agnes ground her teeth. She was good. And she’d show them… “To here?” “Or there?” “Or here?” It wasn’t that much of a trick, she thought. It could be very impressive if you put the words in the mouth of a nearby dummy, like some of the traveling showmen did, but you couldn’t pitch it far away and still manage to fool a whole audience. Now that she was accustomed to the gloom she could just make out people turning around in their seats, bewildered. “What’s your name again, dear?” The voice, which had at one point shown traces of condescension, had a distinct beaten-up sound. “Ag—Per…Perdita,” said Agnes. “Perdita Nitt. Perdita X…Nitt. ” “We may have to do something about the Nitt, dear. ” Granny Weatherwax’s door opened by itself. Jarge Weaver hesitated. Of course, she were a witch. People’d told him this sort of thing happened. He didn’t like it. But he didn’t like his back, either, especially when his back didn’t like him. It came to something when your vertebrae ganged up on you. He eased himself forward, grimacing, balancing himself on two sticks. The witch was sitting in a rocking chair, facing away from the door. Jarge hesitated. “Come on in, Jarge Weaver,” said Granny Weatherwax, “and let me give you something for that back of yours. ” The shock made him try to stand upright, and this made something white-hot explode somewhere in the region of his belt. Granny Weatherwax rolled her eyes, and sighed. “Can you sit down?” she said. “No, miss. I can fall over on a chair, though. ” Granny produced a small black bottle from an apron pocket and shook it vigorously. Jarge’s eyes widened. “You got that all ready for me?” he said. “Yes,” said Granny truthfully. She’d long ago been resigned to the fact that people expected a bottle of something funny-colored and sticky. It wasn’t the medicine that did the trick, though. It was, in a way, the spoon.
“This is a mixture of rare herbs and suchlike,” she said. “Including sucrose and akwa. ” “My word,” said Jarge, impressed. “Take a swig now. ” He obeyed. It tasted faintly of licorice. “You got to take another swig last thing at night,” Granny went on. “An’ then walk three times round a chestnut tree. ” “…three times round a chestnut tree…” “An’…an’ put a pine board under your mattress. Got to be pine from a twenty-year-old tree, mind. ” “…twenty-year-old tree…” said Jarge. He felt he should make a contribution. “So’s the knots in me back end up in the pine?” he hazarded. Granny was impressed. It was an outrageously ingenious bit of folk hokum worth remembering for another occasion. “You got it exactly right,” she said. “And that’s it?” “You wanted more?” “I…thought there were dancin’ and chantin’ and stuff. ” “Did that before you got here,” said Granny. “My word. Yes. Er…about payin’…” “Oh, I don’t want payin’,” said Granny. “’S bad luck, taking money. ” “Oh. Right. ” Jarge brightened up. “But maybe…if your wife’s got any old clothes, p’raps, I’m a size twelve, black for preference, or bakes the odd cake, no plums, they gives me wind, or got a bit of old mead put by, could be, or p’raps you’ll be killing a hog about now, best back’s my favorite, maybe some ham, a few pig knuckles…anything you can spare, really. No obligation. I wouldn’t go around puttin’ anyone under obligation, just ’cos I’m a witch. Everyone all right in your house, are they? Blessed with good health, I hope?” She watched this sink in. “And now let me help you out of the door,” she added. Weaver was never quite certain about what happened next. Granny, usually so sure on her feet, seemed to trip over one of his sticks as she went through the door, and fell backward, holding his shoulders, and somehow her knee came up and hit a spot on his backbone as she twisted sideways, and there was a click — “Aargh!” “Sorry!” “Me back! Me back !” Still, Jarge reasoned later, she was an old woman. And she might be getting clumsy and she’d always been daft, but she made good potions. They worked damn fast, too. He was carrying his sticks by the time he got home. Granny watched him go, shaking her head. People were so blind , she reflected. They preferred to believe in gibberish rather than chiropracty. Of course, it was just as well this was so. She’d much rather they went “oo” when she seemed to know who was approaching her cottage than work out that it conveniently overlooked a bend in the track, and as for the door latch and the trick with the length of black thread… * But what had she done? She’d just tricked a rather dim old man. She’d faced wizards, monsters and elves…and now she was feeling pleased with herself because she’d fooled Jarge Weaver, a man who’d twice failed to become Village Idiot through being over-qualified. It was the slippery slope. Next thing it’d be cackling and gibbering and luring children into the oven. And it wasn’t as if she even liked children. For years Granny Weatherwax had been contented enough with the challenge that village witchcraft could offer. And then she’d been forced to go traveling, and she’d seen a bit of the world, and it had made her itchy—especially at this time of the year, when the geese were flying overhead and the first frost had mugged innocent leaves in the deeper valleys. She looked around at the kitchen. It needed sweeping. The washing-up needed doing. The walls had grown grubby. There seemed to be so much to do that she couldn’t bring herself to do any of it. There was a honking far above, and a ragged V of geese sped over the clearing. They were heading for warmer weather in places Granny Weatherwax had only heard about. It was tempting. The selection committee sat around the table in the office of Mr. Seldom Bucket, the Opera House’s new owner. He’d been joined by Salzella, the musical director, and Dr. Undershaft, the chorus master. “And so,” said Mr. Bucket, “we come to…let’s see…yes, Christine…Marvelous stage presence, eh? Good figure, too. ” He winked at Dr. Undershaft. “Yes. Very pretty,” said Dr. Undershaft flatly. “Can’t sing, though. ” “What you artistic types don’t realize is this is the Century of the Fruitbat,” said Bucket. “Opera is a production, not just a lot of songs. ” “So you say. But…” “The idea that a soprano should be fifteen acres of bosom in a horned helmet belongs to the past, like. ” Salzella and Undershaft exchanged glances. So he was going to be that kind of owner… “Unfortunately,” said Salzella sourly, “the idea that a soprano should have a reasonable singing voice does not belong to the past. She has a good figure, yes. She certainly has a…sparkle. But she can’t sing. ” “You can train her, can’t you?” said Bucket. “A few years in the chorus…” “Yes, maybe after a few years, if I persevere, she will be merely very bad,” said Undershaft. “Er, gentlemen,” said Mr. Bucket. “Ahem. All right. Cards on the table, eh? I’m a simple man, me. No beating about the bush, speak as you find, call a spade a spade—” “Do give us your forthright views,” said Salzella. Definitely that kind of owner, he thought. Self-made man proud of his handiwork. Confuses bluffness and honesty with merely being rude. I wouldn’t mind betting a dollar that he thinks he can tell a man’s character by testing the firmness of his handshake and looking deeply into his eyes. “I’ve been through the mill, I have,” Bucket began, “and I made myself what I am today—” Self-raising flour? thought Salzella. “—but I have to, er, declare a bit of a financial interest. Her dad did, er, in fact, er, lend me a fair whack of money to help me buy this place, and he made a heartfelt fatherly request in regard to his daughter. If I bring it to mind correctly, his exact words, er, were: ‘Don’t make me have to break your legs. ’ I don’t expect you artistes to understand. It’s a business thing. The gods help those who help themselves, that’s my motto. ” Salzella stuck his hands in his waistcoat pockets, leaned back and started to whistle softly. “I see ,” said Undershaft. “Well, it’s not the first time it’s happened. Normally it’s a ballerina, of course. ” “Oh, it’s nothing like that ,” said Bucket hurriedly. “It’s just that with the money comes this girl Christine. And you have to admit, she does look good. ” “Oh, very well,” said Salzella. “It’s your Opera House, I’m sure. And now…Perdita…?” They smiled at one another. “Perdita!” said Bucket, relieved to get the Christine business over so that he could go back to being bluff and honest again. “Perdita X,” Salzella corrected him. “What will these girls think of next?” “I think she will prove an asset,” said Undershaft. “Yes, if we ever do that opera with the elephants. ” “But the range…what a range she’s got…” “Quite. I saw you staring. ” “I meant her voice , Salzella. She will add body to the chorus. ” “She is a chorus. We could sack everyone else. Ye gods, she can even sing in harmony with herself. But can you see her in a major role?” “Good grief, no. We’d be a laughingstock. ” “Quite so. She seems quite…amenable, though. ” “Wonderful personality, I thought. And good hair, of course. ” She’d never expected it to be this easy… Agnes listened in a kind of trance while people talked at her about wages (very little), the need for training (a lot), and accommodation (members of the chorus lived in the Opera House itself, up near the roof). And then, more or less, she was forgotten about. She stood and watched at the side of the stage while a group of ballet hopefuls were put through their delicate paces. “You do have an amazing voice,” said someone behind her. She turned. As Nanny Ogg had once remarked, it was an education seeing Agnes turn around. She was light enough on her feet but the inertia of outlying parts meant that bits of Agnes were still trying to work out which way to face for some time afterward. The girl who had spoken to her was slightly built, even by ordinary standards, and had gone to some pains to make herself look even thinner.
She had long blond hair and the happy smile of someone who is aware that she is thin and has long blond hair. “My name’s Christine!” she said. “Isn’t this exciting?!” And she had the type of voice that can exclaim a question. It seemed to have an excited little squeak permanently screwed to it. “Er, yes,” said Agnes. “I’ve been waiting for this day for years !” Agnes had been waiting for it for about twenty-four hours, ever since she’d seen the notice outside the Opera House. But she’d be danged if she’d say that. “Where did you train?!” said Christine. “I spent three years with Mme. Venturi at the Quirm Conservatory!” “Um. I was…” Agnes hesitated, trying out the upcoming sentence in her head. “…I trained with…Dame Ogg. But she hasn’t got a conservatory, because it’s hard to get the glass up the mountain. ” Christine didn’t appear to want to question this. Anything she found too difficult to understand, she ignored. “The money in the chorus isn’t very good, is it?!” she said. “No. ” It was less than you’d get for scrubbing floors. The reason was that, when you advertised a dirty floor, hundreds of hopefuls didn’t turn up. “But it’s what I’ve always wanted to do! Besides, there’s the status!” “Yes, I expect there is. ” “I’ve been to look at the rooms we get! They’re very poky! What room have you been given?!” Agnes looked down blankly at the key she had been handed, along with many sharp instructions about no men and an unpleasant not-that-you-need-telling expression on the chorus mistress’s face. “Oh…17. ” Christine clapped her hands. “Oh, goody!!” “Pardon?” “I’m so glad!! You’re next to me!!” Agnes was taken aback. She’d always been resigned to being the last to be picked in the great team game of Life. “Well…yes, I suppose so…” she said. “You’re so lucky!! You’ve got such a majestic figure for opera!! And such marvelous hair, the way you pile it up like that!! Black suits you, by the way!!” Majestic, thought Agnes. It was a word that would never, ever have occurred to her. And she’d always steered away from white because in white she looked like a washing-line on a windy day. She followed Christine. It occurred to Agnes, as she trudged after the girl en route to her new lodgings, that if you spent much time in the same room as Christine you’d need to open a window to stop from drowning in punctuation. From somewhere at the back of the stage, quite unheeded, someone watched them go. People were generally glad to see Nanny Ogg. She was good at making them feel at home in their own home. But she was a witch, and therefore also expert at arriving just after cakes were baked or sausages were made. Nanny Ogg generally traveled with a string bag stuffed up one knee-length knicker leg—in case, as she put it, someone wants to give me something. “So, Mrs. Nitt,” she observed, around about the third cake and fourth cup of tea, “how’s that daughter of yours? Agnes it is to whom I refer. ” “Oh, didn’t you hear, Mrs. Ogg? She’s gone off to Ankh-Morpork to be a singer. ” Nanny Ogg’s heart sank. “That’s nice,” she said. “She has a good singing voice, I remember. Of course, I gave her a few tips. I used to hear her singing in the woods. ” “It’s the air here,” said Mrs. Nitt. “She’s always had such a good chest. ” “Yes, indeed. Noted for it. So…er…she’s not here, then?” “You know our Agnes. She never says much. I think she thought it was a bit dull. ” “Dull? Lancre?” said Nanny Ogg. “That’s what I said,” said Mrs. Nitt. “I said we get some lovely sunsets up here. And there’s the fair every Soul Cake Tuesday, regular. ” Nanny Ogg thought about Agnes. You needed quite large thoughts to fit all of Agnes in. Lancre had always bred strong, capable women. A Lancre farmer needed a wife who’d think nothing of beating a wolf to death with her apron when she went out to get some firewood. And, while kissing initially seemed to have more charms than cookery, a stolid Lancre lad looking for a bride would bear in mind his father’s advice that kisses eventually lost their fire but cookery tended to get even better over the years, and direct his courting to those families that clearly showed a tradition of enjoying their food. Agnes was, Nanny considered, quite good-looking in an expansive kind of way; she was a fine figure of typical young Lancre womanhood. This meant she was approximately two womanhoods from anywhere else. Nanny also recalled her as being rather thoughtful and shy, as if trying to reduce the amount of world she took up. But she had shown signs of craft ability. That was only to be expected. There was nothing like that not fitting in feeling to stimulate the old magical nerves; that was why Esme was so good at it. In Agnes’s case this had manifested itself in a tendency to wear soppy black lace gloves and pale makeup and call herself Perdita plus an initial from the arse of the alphabet, but Nanny had assumed that would soon burn off when she got some serious witchcraft under her rather strained belt. She should have paid more attention to the thing about music. Power found its way out by all sorts of routes… Music and magic had a lot in common. They were only two letters apart, for one thing. And you couldn’t do both. Damn. Nanny had rather been counting on the girl. “She used to send off to Ankh-Morpork for music,” said Mrs. Nitt. “See?” She handed Nanny several piles of papers. Nanny leafed through them. Song sheets were common enough in the Ramtops, and a singsong in the parlor was considered the third best thing to do on long dark evenings. But Nanny could see this wasn’t ordinary music. It was far too crowded for that. “ Cosi fan Hita ,” she read. “ Die Meistersinger von Scrote. ” “That’s foreign,” said Mrs. Nitt proudly. “It certainly is,” said Nanny. Mrs. Nitt was looking expectantly at her. “What?” said Nanny, and then, “Oh. ” Mrs. Nitt’s eyes flickered to her emptied teacup and back again. Nanny Ogg sighed and laid the music aside. Occasionally she saw Granny Weatherwax’s point. Sometimes people expected too little of witches. “Yes, indeedy,” she said, trying to smile. “Let us see what destiny in the form of these dried-up bits of leaf has in store for us, eh?” She set her features in a suitable occult expression and looked down into the cup. Which, a second later, smashed into fragments when it hit the floor. It was a small room. In fact it was half a small room, since a thin wall had been built across it. Junior members of the chorus ranked rather lower in the opera than apprentice scene shifters. There was room for a bed, a wardrobe, a dressingtable and, quite out of place, a huge mirror, as big as the door. “Impressive, isn’t it?!” said Christine. “They tried to take it out but it’s built into the wall, apparently!! I’m sure it will be very useful!!” Agnes said nothing. Her own half-room, the other half of this one, didn’t have a mirror. She was glad of that. She did not regard mirrors as naturally friendly. It wasn’t just the images they showed her. There was something… worrying… about mirrors. She’d always felt that. They seemed to be looking at her. Agnes hated being looked at. Christine stepped into the small space in the middle of the floor and twirled. There was something very enjoyable about watching her. It was the sparkle, Agnes thought. Something about Christine suggested sequins. “Isn’t this nice?!” she said. Not liking Christine would be like not liking small fluffy animals. And Christine was just like a small fluffy animal. A rabbit, perhaps. It was certainly impossible for her to get a whole idea into her head in one go. She had to nibble it into manageable bits. Agnes glanced at the mirror again. Her reflection stared at her. She could have done with some time to herself right now. Everything had happened so quickly. And this place made her uneasy. Everything would feel a lot better if she could just have some time to herself. Christine stopped twirling. “Are you all right?!” Agnes nodded. “Do tell me about yourself!!” “Er…well…” Agnes was gratified, despite herself.
“I’m from somewhere up in the mountains you’ve probably never heard of…” She stopped. A light had gone off in Christine’s head, and Agnes realized that the question had been asked not because Christine in any way wanted to know the answer but for something to say. She went on: “…and my father is the Emperor of Klatch and my mother is a small tray of raspberry puddings. ” “That’s interesting!” said Christine, who was looking at the mirror. “Do you think my hair looks right?!” What Agnes would have said, if Christine had been capable of listening to anything for more than a couple of seconds, was: She’d woken up one morning with the horrible realization that she’d been saddled with a lovely personality. It was as simple as that. Oh, and very good hair. It wasn’t so much the personality, it was the “but” that people always added when they talked about it. But she’s got a lovely personality , they said. It was the lack of choice that rankled. No one had asked her, before she was born, whether she wanted a lovely personality or whether she’d prefer, say, a miserable personality but a body that could take size nine in dresses. Instead, people would take pains to tell her that beauty was only skin-deep, as if a man ever fell for an attractive pair of kidneys. She could feel a future trying to land on her. She’d caught herself saying “poot!” and “dang!” when she wanted to swear, and using pink writing paper. She’d got a reputation for being calm and capable in a crisis. Next thing she knew she’d be making shortbread and apple pies as good as her mother’s, and then there’d be no hope for her. So she’d introduced Perdita. She’d heard somewhere that inside every fat woman was a thin woman trying to get out, * so she’d named her Perdita. She was a good repository for all those thoughts that Agnes couldn’t think on account of her wonderful personality. Perdita would use black writing paper if she could get away with it, and would be beautifully pale instead of embarrassingly flushed. Perdita wanted to be an interestingly lost soul in plum-colored lipstick. Just occasionally, though, Agnes thought Perdita was as dumb as she was. Was the only alternative the witches? She’d felt their interest in her, in a way she couldn’t exactly identify. It was of a piece with knowing when someone was watching you, although she had, in fact, occasionally seen Nanny Ogg watching her in a critical kind of fashion, like someone inspecting a second-hand horse. She knew she did have some talent. Sometimes she knew things that were going to happen, although always in a sufficiently confused way that the knowledge was totally useless until afterward. And there was her voice. She was aware it wasn’t quite natural. She’d always enjoyed singing and, somehow, her voice had just done everything she’d wanted it to do. But she’d seen the ways the witches lived. Oh, Nanny Ogg was all right—quite a nice old baggage really. But the others were weird, lying crosswise on the world instead of nicely parallel to it like everyone else…old Mother Dismass who could see into the past and the future but was totally blind in the present, and Millie Hopwood over in Slice, who stuttered and had runny ears, and as for Granny Weatherwax… Oh, yes. Finest job in the world? Being a sour old woman with no friends? They were always looking for weird people like themselves. Well, they could look in vain for Agnes Nitt. Fed up with living in Lancre, and fed up with the witches, and above all fed up with being Agnes Nitt, she’d…escaped. Nanny Ogg didn’t look built for running, but she covered the ground deceptively fast, her great heavy boots kicking up shoals of leaves. There was a trumpeting overhead. Another skein of geese passed across the sky, so fast in pursuit of the summer that their wings were hardly moving in the ballistic rush. Granny Weatherwax’s cottage looked deserted. It had, Nanny felt, a particularly empty feel. She scurried around to the back door and burst through, pounded up the stairs, saw the gaunt figure on the bed, reached an instant conclusion, grabbed the pitcher of water from its place on the marble washstand, ran forward… A hand shot up and grabbed her wrist. “I was having a nap ,” said Granny, opening her eyes. “Gytha, I swear I could feel you comin’ half a mile away—” “We got to make a cup of tea quick!” gasped Nanny, almost sagging with relief. Granny Weatherwax was more than bright enough not to ask questions. But you couldn’t hurry a good cup of tea. Nanny Ogg jiggled from one foot to the other while the fire was pumped up, the small frogs fished out of the water bucket, the water boiled, the dried leaves allowed to seep. “I ain’t saying nothing,” said Nanny, sitting down at last. “Just pour a cup, that’s all. ” On the whole, witches despised fortune-telling from tea-leaves. Tea leaves are not uniquely fortunate in knowing what the future holds. They are really just something for the eyes to rest on while the mind does the work. Practically anything would do. The scum on a puddle, the skin on a custard…anything. Nanny Ogg could see the future in the froth on a beer mug. It invariably showed that she was going to enjoy a refreshing drink which she almost certainly was not going to pay for. “You recall young Agnes Nitt?” said Nanny as Granny Weatherwax tried to find the milk. Granny hesitated. “Agnes who calls herself Perditax?” “Perdita X,” said Nanny. She at least respected anyone’s right to recreate themselves. Granny shrugged. “Fat girl. Big hair. Walks with her feet turned out. Sings to herself in the woods. Good voice. Reads books. Says ‘poot!’ instead of swearing. Blushes when anyone looks at her. Wears black lace gloves with the fingers cut out. ” “You remember we once talked about maybe how possibly she might be…suitable. ” “Oh, there’s a twist in the soul there, you’re right,” said Granny. “But…it’s an unfortunate name. ” “Her father’s name was Terminal,” said Nanny Ogg reflectively. “There were three sons: Primal, Medial and Terminal. I’m afraid the family’s always had a problem with education. ” “I meant Agnes,” said Granny. “Always puts me in mind of carpet fluff, that name. ” “Prob’ly that’s why she called herself Perdita,” said Nanny. “Worse. ” “Got her fixed in your mind?” said Nanny. “Yes, I suppose so. ” “Good. Now look at them tea leaves. ” Granny looked down. There was no particular drama, perhaps because of the way Nanny had built up expectations. But Granny did hiss between her teeth. “Well, now. There’s a thing,” she said. “See it? See it?” “Yep. ” “Like…a skull?” “Yep. ” “And them eyes? I nearly pi—I was pretty damn surprised by them eyes, I can tell you. ” Granny carefully replaced the cup. “Her mam showed me her letters home,” said Nanny. “I brung ’em with me. It’s worrying, Esme. She could be facing something bad. She’s a Lancre girl. One of ours. Nothing’s too much trouble when it’s one of your own, I always say. ” “Tea leaves can’t tell the future,” said Granny quietly. “Everyone knows that. ” “Tea leaves don’t know. ” “Well, who’d be so daft as to tell anything to a bunch of dried leaves?” Nanny Ogg looked down at Agnes’s letters home. They were written in the careful rounded script of someone who’d been taught to write as a child by copying letters on a slate, and had never written enough as an adult to change their style. The person writing them had also very conscientiously drawn faint pencil lines on the paper before writing. Dear Mam, I hope this finds you as it leaves me. Here I am in Ankh-Morpork and everything is all right, I have not been ravished yet!!I am staying at 4 Treacle Mine Road, it is alright and… Granny tried another. Dear Mum, I hope you are well. Everything is fine but, the money runs away like water here. I am doing some singing in taverns but I am not making much so I went to see the Guild of Seamstresses about getting a sewing job and I took along some stitching to show them and you’d be amazed , that’s all I can say… And another… Dear Mother, Some good news at last.
Next week they’re holding auditions at the Opera House… “What’s opera?” said Granny Weatherwax. “It’s like theater, with singing,” said Nanny Ogg. “Hah! Theater ,” said Granny darkly. “Our Nev told me about it. It’s all singing in foreign languages, he said. He couldn’t understand any of it. ” Granny put down the letters. “Yes, but your Nev can’t understand a lot of things. What was he doing at this opera theater, anyway?” “Nicking the lead off the roof. ” Nanny said this quite happily. It wasn’t theft if an Ogg was doing it. “Can’t tell much from the letters, except that she’s picking up an education,” said Granny. “But it’s a long way to—” There was a hesitant knock on the door. It was Shawn Ogg, Nanny’s youngest son and Lancre’s entire civil and public service. Currently he had his postman’s badge on; the Lancre postal service consisted of taking the mailbag off the nail where the coach left it and delivering it to the outlying homesteads when he had a moment, although many citizens were in the habit of going down to the sack and rummaging until they found some mail they liked. He touched his helmet respectfully at Granny Weatherwax. “Got a lot of letters, mum,” he said to Nanny Ogg. “Er. They’re all addressed to, er, well…er…you’d better have a look, mum. ” Nanny Ogg took the proffered bundle. “‘The Lancre Witch,’” she said aloud. “That’d be me, then,” said Granny Weatherwax firmly, and took the letters. “Ah. Well, I’d better be going…” said Nanny, backing toward the door. “Can’t imagine why people’d be writing to me,” said Granny, slitting an envelope. “Still, I suppose news gets around. ” She focused on the words. “‘Dear Witch,’” she read, “‘I would just like to say how much I appreciated the Famous Carrot and Oyster Pie recipe. My husband—’” Nanny Ogg made it halfway down the path before her boots became, suddenly, too heavy to lift. “ Gytha Ogg, you come back here right now! ” Agnes tried again. She didn’t really know anyone in Ankh-Morpork and she did need someone to talk to, even if they didn’t listen. “I suppose mainly I came because of the witches,” she said. Christine turned, her eyes wide with fascination. So was her mouth. It was like looking at a rather pretty bowling ball. “Witches?!” she breathed. “Oh, yes,” said Agnes wearily. Yes. People were always fascinated by the idea of witches. They should try living around them, she thought. “Do they do spells and ride around on broomsticks?!” “Oh, yes. ” “No wonder you ran away!” “What? Oh…no…it’s not like that. I mean, they’re not bad. It’s much…worse than that. ” “Worse than bad?!” “They think they know what’s best for everybody. ” Christine’s forehead wrinkled, as it tended to when she was contemplating a problem more complex than “What is your name?” “That doesn’t sound very ba—” “They…mess people around. They think that just because they’re right that’s the same as good! It’s not even as though they do any real magic. It’s all fooling people and being clever! They think they can do what they like!” The force of the words knocked even Christine back. “Oh, dear!! Did they want you to do something?!” “They want me to be something. But I’m not going to!” Christine stared at her. And then, automatically, forgot everything she’d just heard. “Come on,” she said, “let’s have a look around!!” Nanny Ogg balanced on a chair and took down an oblong wrapped in paper. Granny watched sternly with her arms folded. “Thing is,” Nanny babbled, under the laser glare, “my late husband, I remember him once sayin’ to me, after dinner, he said, ‘You know, mother, it’d be a real shame if all the stuff you know just passed away when you did. Why don’t you write some of it down?’ So I scribbled the odd one, when I had a moment, and then I thought it’d be nice to have it all properly done so I sent it off to the Almanac people in Ankh-Morpork and they hardly charged me anything and a little while ago they sent me this, I think it’s a very good job, it’s amazing how they get all the letters so neat—” “You done a book ,” said Granny. “Only cookery,” said Nanny Ogg meekly, as one might plead a first offense. “What do you know about it? You hardly ever do any cooking,” said Granny. “I do specialities,” said Nanny. Granny looked at the offending volume. “ The Joye of Snacks ,” she read out loud. “‘Bye A Lancre Witch. ’ Hah! Why dint you put your own name on it, eh? Books’ve got to have a name on ’em so’s everyone knows who’s guilty. ” “It’s my gnome de plum ,” said Nanny. “Mr. Goatberger the Almanac man said it’d make it sound more mysterious. ” Granny cast her gimlet gaze to the bottom of the crowded cover, where it said, in very small lettering, “CXXviith Printyng. More Than Twenty Thoufand Solde! One half dollar. ” “You sent them some money to get it all printed?” she said. “Only a couple of dollars,” said Nanny. “Damn good job they made of it, too. And then they sent the money back afterward, only they got it wrong and sent three dollars extra. ” Granny Weatherwax was grudgingly literate but keenly numerate. She assumed that anything written down was probably a lie, and that applied to numbers, too. Numbers were used only by people who wanted to put one over on you. Her lips moved silently as she thought about numbers. “Oh,” she said, quietly. “And that was it, was it? You never wrote to him again?” “Not on your life. Three dollars, mind. I dint want him saying he wanted ’em back. ” “I can see that,” said Granny, still dwelling in the world of numbers. She wondered how much it cost to do a book. It couldn’t be a lot: they had sort of printing mills to do the actual work. “After all, there’s a lot you can do with three dollars,” said Nanny. “Right enough,” said Granny. “You ain’t got a pencil about you, have you? You being a literary type and all?” “I got a slate,” said Nanny. “Pass it over, then. ” “I bin keeping it by me in case I wake up in the night and I get an idea for a recipe, see,” said Nanny. “Good,” said Granny vaguely. The slate pencil squeaked across the gray tablet. The paper must cost something. And you’d probably have to tip someone a couple of pennies to sell it… Angular figures danced from column to column. “I’ll make another cup of tea, shall I?” said Nanny, relieved that the conversation appeared to be coming to a peaceful end. “Hmm?” said Granny. She stared at the result and drew two lines under it. “But you enjoyed it, did you?” she called out. “The writin’?” Nanny Ogg poked her head around the scullery door. “Oh, yes. The money dint matter,” she said. “You’ve never been very good at numbers, have you?” said Granny. Now she drew a circle around the final figure. “Oh, you know me, Esme,” said Nanny cheerfully. “I couldn’t subtract a fart from a plate of beans. ” “That’s good, ’cos I reckon this Master Goatberger owes you a bit more than you got, if there’s any justice in the world,” said Granny. “Money ain’t everything, Esme. What I say is, if you’ve got your health—” “I reckon, if there’s any justice, it’s about four or five thousand dollars,” said Granny quietly. There was a crash from the scullery. “So it’s a good job the money don’t matter,” Granny Weatherwax went on. “It’d be a terrible thing otherwise. All that money, matterin’. ” Nanny Ogg’s white face appeared around the edge of the door. “He never!” “Could be a bit more,” said Granny. “It never!” “You just adds up and divides and that. ” Nanny Ogg stared in horrified fascination at her own fingers. “But that’s a—” She stopped. The only word she could think of was “fortune” and that wasn’t adequate. Witches didn’t operate in a cash economy. The whole of the Ramtops, by and large, got by without the complications of capital. Fifty dollars was a fortune. A hundred dollars was a, was a, was…well, it was two fortunes, that was what it was. “It’s a lot of money,” she said weakly. “What couldn’t I do with money like that?” “Dunno,” said Granny Weatherwax. “What did you do with the three dollars?” “Got it in a tin up the chimney,” said Nanny Ogg. Granny nodded approvingly. This was the kind of good fiscal practice she liked to see.
“Beats me why people’d fall over themselves to read a cookery book, though,” she added. “I mean, it’s not the sort of thing that—” The room fell silent. Nanny Ogg shuffled her boots. Granny said, in a voice laden with a suspicion that was all the worse because it wasn’t yet quite sure what it was suspicious of: “It is a cookery book, isn’t it?” “Oh, yes,” said Nanny hurriedly, avoiding Granny’s gaze. “Yes. Recipes and that. Yes. ” Granny glared at her. “ Just recipes?” “Yes. Oh, yes. Yes. And some…cookery anecdotes, yes. ” Granny went on glaring. Nanny gave in. “Er…look under Famous Carrot and Oyster Pie,” she said. “Page 25. ” Granny turned the pages. Her lips moved silently. Then: “I see. Anything else?” “Er…Cinnamon and Marshmallow Fingers…page 17…” Granny looked it up. “And?” “Er…Celery Astonishment…page 10. ” Granny looked that up, too. “Can’t say it astonished me ,” she said. “And…?” “Er…well, more or less all of Humorous Puddings and Cake Decoration. That’s all of Chapter Six. I done illustrations for that. ” Granny turned to Chapter Six. She had to turn the book around a couple of times. “What one you looking at?” said Nanny Ogg, because an author is always keen to get feedback. “Strawberry Wobbler,” said Granny. “Ah. That one always gets a laugh. ” It did not appear to be obtaining one from Granny. She carefully closed the book. “Gytha,” she said, “this is me askin’ you this. Is there any page in this book, is there any single recipe, which does not in some way relate to…goings-on?” Nanny Ogg, her face red as her apples, seemed to give this some lengthy consideration. “Porridge,” she said, eventually. “Really?” “Yes. Er. No, I tell a lie, it’s got my special honey mixture in it. ” Granny turned a page. “What about this one? Maids of Honor?” “ Weeelll , they starts out as Maids of Honor,” said Nanny, fidgeting with her feet, “but they ends up Tarts. ” Granny looked at the front cover again. The Joye of Snacks. “An’ you actually set out to—” “It just sort of turned out that way, really. ” Granny Weatherwax was not a jouster in the lists of love but, as an intelligent onlooker, she knew how the game was played. No wonder the book had sold like hot cakes. Half the recipes told you how to make them. It was surprising the pages hadn’t singed. And it was by “A Lancre Witch. ” The world was, Granny Weatherwax modestly admitted, well aware of who the witch of Lancre was; viz , it was her. “Gytha Ogg,” she said. “Yes, Esme?” “Gytha Ogg, you look me in the eye. ” “Sorry, Esme. ” “‘A Lancre Witch,’ it says here. ” “I never thought, Esme. ” “So you’ll go and see Mr. Goatberger and have this stopped, right? I don’t want people lookin’ at me and thinkin’ about the Bananana Soup Surprise. I don’t even believe the Bananana Soup Surprise. And I ain’t relishin’ going down the street and hearin’ people makin’ cracks about bananas. ” “Yes, Esme. ” “And I’ll come with you to make sure you do. ” “Yes, Esme. ” “And we’ll talk to the man about your money. ” “Yes, Esme. ” “And we might just drop in on young Agnes to make sure she’s all right. ” “Yes, Esme. ” “But we’ll do it diplomatic like. We don’t want people thinkin’ we’re pokin’ our noses in. ” “Yes, Esme. ” “No one could say I interfere where I’m not wanted. You won’t find anyone callin’ me a busybody. ” “Yes, Esme. ” “That was, ‘Yes, Esme, you won’t find anyone callin’ you a busybody,’ was it?” “Oh, yes, Esme. ” “You sure about that?” “Yes, Esme. ” “Good. ” Granny looked out at the dull gray sky and the dying leaves and felt, amazingly enough, her sap rising. A day ago the future had looked aching and desolate, and now it looked full of surprises and terror and bad things happening to people… If she had anything to do with it, anyway. In the scullery, Nanny Ogg grinned to herself. Agnes had known a little bit about the theater. A traveling company came to Lancre sometimes. Their stage was about twice the size of a door, and “backstage” consisted of a bit of sacking behind which was usually a man trying to change trousers and wigs at the same time and another man, dressed as a king, having a surreptitious smoke. The Opera House was almost as big as the Patrician’s palace, and far more palatial. It covered three acres. There was stabling for twenty horses and two elephants in the cellar; Agnes spent some time there, because the elephants were reassuringly larger than her. There were rooms behind the stage so big that entire sets were stored there. There was a whole ballet school somewhere in the building. Some of the girls were on stage now, ugly in woolly jumpers, going through a routine. The inside of the Opera House—at least, the backstage inside—put Agnes strongly in mind of the clock her brother had taken apart to find the tick. It was hardly a building. It was more like a machine. Sets and curtains and ropes hung in the darkness like dreadful things in a forgotten cellar. The stage was only a small part of the place, a little rectangle of light in a huge, complicated darkness full of significant machinery… A piece of dust floated down from the blackness high above. She brushed it off. “I thought I heard someone up there,” she said. “It’s probably the Ghost!!” said Christine. “We’ve got one, you know! Oh, I said we !! Isn’t this exciting?!” “A man with his face covered by a white mask,” said Agnes. “Oh?! You’ve heard about him, then?!” “What? Who?” “The Ghost!!” Blast, thought Agnes. It was always ready to catch her out. Just when she thought she’d put all that behind her. She’d know things without quite knowing why. It upset people. It certainly upset her. “Oh, I…suppose someone must have told me…” she mumbled. “He moves around the Opera House invisibly, they say!! One moment he’ll be in the Gods, next moment he’ll be backstage somewhere!! No one knows how he does it!!” “Really?” “They say he watches every performance!! That’s why they never sell tickets for Box Eight, didn’t you know?!” “Box Eight?” said Agnes. “What’s a Box?” “Boxes! You know? That’s where you get the best people?! Look, I shall show you!” Christine marched to the front of the stage and waved a hand grandly at the empty auditorium. “The Boxes!” she said. “Over there! And right up there, the Gods!” Her voice bounced back from the distant wall. “Aren’t the best people in the Gods? It sounds—” “Oh, no! The best people will be in Boxes! Or possibly in the Stalls!” Agnes pointed. “Who’s down there? They must get a good view—” “Don’t be silly!! That’s the Pit!! That’s for the musicians!!” “Well, that makes sense, anyway. Er. Which one’s Box Eight?” “I don’t know! But they say if ever they sell seats in Box Eight there’ll be a dreadful tragedy!! Isn’t that romantic?!” For some reason Agnes’s practical eye was drawn to the huge chandelier that hung over the auditorium like a fantastic sea monster. Its thick rope disappeared into the darkness near the ceiling. The glass chimes tinkled. Another flare of that certain power which Agnes did her best to suppress at every turn flashed a treacherous image across her mind. “That looks like an accident waiting to happen if ever I saw one,” she mumbled. “I’m sure it’s perfectly safe!!” trilled Christine. “I’m sure they wouldn’t allow—” A chord rolled out, shaking the stage. The chandelier tinkled, and more dust came down. “What was that?” said Agnes. “It was the organ!! It’s so big it’s behind the stage!! Come on, let’s go and see!!” Other members of the staff were hurrying toward the organ. There was an overturned bucket nearby, and a spreading pool of green paint. A carpenter reached past Agnes and picked up an envelope that was lying on the organ seat. “It’s for the boss,” he said. “When it’s my mail, the postman usually just knocks,” said a ballerina, and giggled. Agnes looked up. Ropes swung lazily in the musty darkness. For a moment she thought she saw a flash of white, and then it was gone. There was a shape, just visible, tangled in the ropes. Something wet and sticky dripped down and splashed on the keyboard.
People were already screaming when Agnes reached past, dipped her finger in the growing puddle, and sniffed. “It’s blood!” said the carpenter. “It’s blood, isn’t it?” said a musician. “Blood!!” screamed Christine. “Blood!!” It was Agnes’s terrible fate to keep her head in a crisis. She sniffed her finger again. “It’s turpentine,” said Agnes. “Er. Sorry. Is that wrong?” Up in the tangle of ropes, the figure moaned. “Shouldn’t we get him down?” she added. Cando Cutoff was a humble woodcutter. He wasn’t humble because he was a woodcutter. He would still have been quite humble if he’d owned five logging mills. He was just naturally humble. And he was unpretentiously stacking some logs at the point where the Lancre road met the main mountain road when he saw a farm cart rumble to a halt and unload two elderly ladies in black. Both carried a broomstick in one hand and a sack in the other. They were arguing. It was not a raised-voice argument, but a chronic wrangle that had clearly been going on for some time and was set in for the rest of the decade. “It’s all very well for you, but it’s my three dollars so I don’t see why I can’t say how we go. ” “I likes flying. ” “And I’m telling you it’s too draughty on broomsticks this time of year, Esme. The breeze gets into places I wouldn’t dream of talking about. ” “Really? Can’t imagine where those’d be, then. ” “Oh, Esme!” “Don’t ‘Oh, Esme’ me. It weren’t me that come up with the Amusing Wedding Trifle with the Special Sponge Fingers. ” “Anyway, Greebo don’t like it on the broomstick. He’s got a delicate stomach. ” Cutoff noticed that one of the sacks was moving in a lazy way. “Gytha, I’ve seen him eat half a skunk, so don’t tell me about his delicate stomach,” said Granny, who disliked cats on principle. “Anyway…he’s been doing It again. ” Nanny Ogg waved her hands airily. “Oh, he only does It sometimes, when he’s really in a corner,” she said. “He did It in ole Mrs. Grope’s henhouse last week. She went in to see what all the ruckus was, and he did It right in front of her. She had to have a lie-down. ” “He was probably more frightened than she was,” said Nanny defensively. “That’s what comes of getting strange ideas in foreign parts,” said Granny. “Now you’ve got a cat who—Yes, what is it?” Cutoff had meekly approached them and was hovering in the kind of half-crouch of someone trying to be noticed while also not wanting to intrude. “Are you ladies waiting for the stagecoach?” “Yes,” said the taller of the ladies. “Um, I’m afraid the next coach doesn’t stop here. It doesn’t stop until Creel Springs. ” They gave him a couple of polite stares. “Thank you,” said the tall one. She turned to her companion. “It gave her a nasty shock, anyway. I dread to think what he’ll learn this time. ” “He pines when I’m gone. He won’t take food from anyone else. ” “Only ’cos they try to poison him, and no wonder. ” Cutoff shook his head sadly and wandered back to his log pile. The coach turned up five minutes later, coming around the corner at speed. It drew level with the women— —and stopped. That is, the horses tried to stand still and the wheels locked. It wasn’t so much a skid as a spin, and the whole thing gradually came to rest about fifty yards down the road, with the driver in a tree. The women strolled toward it, still arguing. One of them poked the driver with her broomstick. “Two tickets to Ankh-Morpork, please. ” He landed in the road. “What do you mean, two tickets to Ankh-Morpork? The coach doesn’t stop here!” “Looks stopped to me. ” “Did you do something?” “What, us?” “Listen, lady, even if I was stopping here the tickets are forty damn dollars each!” “Oh. ” “Why’ve you got broomsticks?” shouted the driver. “Are you witches?” “Yes. Have you got any special low terms for witches?” “Yeah, how about ‘meddling, interfering old baggages’?” Cutoff felt that he must have missed part of the conversation, because the next exchange went like this: “What was that again, young man?” “Two complimentary tickets to Ankh-Morpork, ma’am. No problem. ” “Inside seats, mind. No traveling on the top. ” “Certainly, ma’am. Excuse me while I just kneel in the dirt so’s you can step up, ma’am. ” Cutoff nodded happily to himself as the coach pulled away again. It was nice to see that good manners and courtesy were still alive. With great difficulty and much shouting and untangling of ropes far above, the figure was lowered to the stage. He was soaked in paint and turpentine. The swelling audience of off-duty staff and rehearsal truants crowded in around him. Agnes knelt down, loosened his collar and tried to unwind the rope that had caught around arm and neck. “Does anyone know him?” she said. “It’s Tommy Cripps,” said a musician. “He paints scenery. ” Tommy moaned, and opened his eyes. “I saw him!” he muttered. “It was horrible!” “Saw what?” said Agnes. And then she had a sudden feeling that she’d intruded on some private conversation. Around her there was a babble of voices. “Giselle said she saw him last week!” “He’s here!” “It’s happening again!” “Are we all doomed ?!” squeaked Christine. Tommy Cripps gripped Agnes’s arm. “He’s got a face like death!” “Who?” “The Ghost!” “What gho—?” “It’s white bone! He has no nose!” A couple of ballet dancers fainted, but carefully, so as not to get their clothes dirty. “Then how does he—” Agnes began. “ I saw him too! ” On cue, the company turned. An elderly man advanced across the stage. He wore an ancient opera hat and carried a sack over one shoulder, while his spare hand made the needlessly expansive gestures of someone who has got hold of some direful information and can’t wait to freeze all nearby spines. The sack must have contained something alive, because it was bouncing around. “I saw him! Ooooooh yes! Wi’ his great black cloak and his white face with no eyes but only two holes where eyes should be! Ooohhhh! And—” “He had a mask on?” said Agnes. The old man paused and shot her the dark look reserved for all those who insist on injecting a note of sanity when things are getting interestingly ghastly. “And he had no nose!” he went on, ignoring her. “I just said that,” muttered Tommy Cripps, in a rather annoyed voice. “I told them that. They already know that. ” “If he had no nose, how did he sme—” Agnes began, but no one was listening to her. “Did you mention about the eyes?” said the old man. “I was just getting round to the eyes,” snapped Tommy. “Yes, he had eyes like—” “ Are we talking about some kind of mask here?” said Agnes. Now everyone was giving her that kind of look UFOlogists get when they suddenly say, “Hey, if you shade your eyes you can see it is just a flock of geese after all. ” The man with the sack coughed and regrouped. “Like great holes, they were—” he began, but it was clear that it had all been spoiled for him. “Great holes,” he said sourly. “That’s what I saw. And no nose, I might add, thank you so very much. ” “It’s the Ghost again!” said a scene-shifter. “He jumped out from behind the organ,” said Tommy Cripps. “Next thing I knew, there was a rope around my neck and I was upside-down!” The company looked at the man with the sack, in case he could trump this. “Great big black holes,” he managed, sticking to what he knew. “All right, everyone, what’s going on here?” An imposing figure strode out of the wings. He had flowing black hair, carefully brushed to give it a carefree alfresco look, but the face underneath was the face of an organizer. He nodded at the old man with the sack. “What are you staring at, Mr. Pounder?” he said. The old man looked down. “I knows what I saw, Mr. Salzella,” he said. “I see lots o’ things, I do. ” “As much as is visible through the bottom of a bottle, I have no doubt, you old reprobate. What happened to Tommy?” “It was the Ghost!” said Tommy, delighted to have center-stage again. “He swooped out at me, Mr. Salzella! I think my leg is broken,” he added quickly, in the voice of one who is suddenly aware of the time-off opportunities of the situation. Agnes expected the newcomer to say something like “Ghosts? There’s no such thing.
” He had the kind of face that said that. Instead, he said, “Back again, is he? Where did he go?” “Didn’t see, Mr. Salzella. He just swooped off again!” “Some of you help Tommy down to the canteen,” said Salzella. “And someone else fetch a doctor—” “His leg isn’t broken,” said Agnes. “But that’s a nasty rope burn on his neck and he’s filled his own ear with paint. ” “What do you know about it, miss?” said Tommy. A paint-filled ear didn’t sound as though it had the possibilities of a broken leg. “I’ve…er…had some training,” said Agnes, and then added quickly, “It’s a nasty burn, though, and of course there may be some delayed shock. ” “Brandy is very good for that, isn’t it?” said Tommy. “Perhaps you could try forcing some between my lips?” “Thank you, Perdita. The rest of you, go back to what you were doing,” said Salzella. “Big dark holes,” said Mr. Pounder. “Big ones. ” “Yes, thank you, Mr. Pounder. Help Ron with Mr. Cripps, will you? Perdita, you come here. And you, Christine. ” The two girls stood before the director of music. “Did you see anything?” said Salzella. “I saw a great creature with great flapping wings and great big holes where his eyes should be!!” said Christine. “I’m afraid I just saw something white up in the ceiling,” said Agnes. “Sorry. ” She blushed, aware of how useless that sounded. Perdita would have seen a mysterious cloaked figure or something…something interesting… Salzella smiled at her. “You mean you just see things that are really there?” he said. “I can see you haven’t been with the opera for long, dear. But I may say I’m pleased to have a level-headed person around here for once—” “Oh, no !” screamed someone. “It’s the Ghost!!” shrieked Christine, automatically. “Er. It’s the young man behind the organ,” said Agnes. “Sorry. ” “Observant as well as level-headed,” said Salzella. “Whereas I can see that you, Christine, will fit right in here. What’s the matter, André?” A fair-haired young man peered around the organ pipes. “Someone’s been smashing things, Mr. Salzella,” he said mournfully. “The pallet springs and the backfalls and everything. Completely ruined. I’m sure I won’t be able to get a tune out of it. And it’s priceless. ” Salzella sighed. “All right. I’ll tell Mister Bucket,” he said. “Thank you, everyone. ” He gave Agnes a gloomy nod, and strode off. “You shouldn’t ort to do that to people,” said Nanny Ogg in a vague sort of way, as the coach began to get up speed. She looked around with a wide, friendly grin at the now rather disheveled occupants of the coach. “Morning,” she said, delving into the sack. “I’m Gytha Ogg, I’ve got fifteen children, this is my friend Esme Weatherwax, we’re going to Ankh-Morpork, would anyone like an egg sandwich? I’ve brung plenty. The cat’s been sleepin’ on them but they’re fine, look, they bend back all right. No? Please yourself, I’m sure. Let’s see what else we’ve got…ah, has anybody got an opener for a bottle of beer?” A man in the corner indicated that he might have such a thing. “Fine,” said Nanny Ogg. “Anyone got something to drink a bottle of beer out of?” Another man nodded hopefully. “Good,” said Nanny Ogg. “Now, has anybody got a bottle of beer?” Granny, for once not the center of attention as all horrified eyes were on Nanny and her sack, surveyed the other occupants of the coach. The express stage went right over the Ramtops and all the way through the patchwork of little countries beyond. If it cost forty dollars just from Lancre, then it must have cost these people a lot more. What sort of folk spent the best part of two months’ wages just to travel fast and uncomfortably? The thin man who sat clutching his bag was probably a spy, she decided. The fat man who’d volunteered the glass looked as if he sold things; he had the unpleasant complexion of someone who’d hit too many bottles but missed too many meals. They were huddled together on their seat because the rest of it was occupied by a man of almost wizardly proportions. He didn’t appear to have woken up when the coach stopped. There was a handkerchief over his face. He was snoring with the regularity of a geyser, and looked as though the only worries he might have in the world were a tendency for small objects to gravitate toward him, and the occasional tide. Nanny Ogg continued to rummage around in her bag and, as was the case when she was preoccupied, her mouth had wired itself to her eyeballs without her brain intervening. She was used to traveling by broomstick. Long-distance ground travel was a novelty to her, so she’d prepared with some care. “…lessee now…book of puzzles for long journeys…cushion…foot powder…mosquito trap…phrase book…bag to be sick into…oh dear…” The audience, which against all probability had managed to squeeze itself farther away from Nanny during the litany, waited with horrified interest. “What?” said Granny. “How often d’you reckon this coach stops?” “What’s the matter?” “I should’ve gone before we left. Sorry. It’s the jolting. Anyone know if there’s a privy on this thing?” she added brightly. “Er,” said the probable spy, “we generally wait until the next stop, or—” He stopped. He had been about to add “there’s always the window,” which was a manly option on the bumpier rural stretches, but he stopped himself in the horrible apprehension that this ghastly old woman might seriously consider the possibility. “There’s Ohulan just a bit further on the road,” said Granny, who was trying to doze. “You just wait. ” “This coach doesn’t stop at Ohulan,” said the spy helpfully. Granny Weatherwax raised her head. “Up until now, that is,” said the spy. Mr. Bucket was sitting in his office trying to make sense of the Opera House’s books. They didn’t make any kind of sense. He reckoned he was as good as the next man at reading a balance sheet, but these were to bookkeeping what grit was to clockwork. Seldom Bucket had always enjoyed opera. He didn’t understand it and never had, but he didn’t understand the ocean either and he enjoyed that, too. He’d looked upon the purchase as, well, something to do, a sort of working retirement. The offer had been too good to pass up. Things had been getting pretty tough in the wholesale cheese-and-milk-derivatives business, and he’d been looking forward to the quieter climes of the world of art. The previous owners had put on some good operas. It was only a shame that their genius hadn’t run to bookkeeping as well. Money seemed to have been taken out of the accounts when anyone needed it. The financial-record system largely consisted of notes on torn bits of paper saying: “I’ve taken $30 to pay Q. See you Monday. R. ” Who was R? Who was Q? What was the money for? You wouldn’t get away with this sort of thing in the world of cheese. He looked up as the door opened. “Ah, Salzella,” he said. “Thank you for coming. You don’t know who Q is, by any chance?” “No, Mr. Bucket. ” “Or R?” “I’m afraid not. ” Salzella pulled up a chair. “It’s taken me all morning, but I’ve worked out we pay more than fifteen hundred dollars a year for ballet shoes,” said Bucket, waving a piece of paper in the air. Salzella nodded. “Yes, they do rather go through them at the toes. ” “I mean, it’s ridiculous! I’ve still got a pair of boots belonging to my father!” “But ballet shoes, sir, are rather more like foot gloves,” Salzella explained. “You’re telling me! They cost seven dollars a pair and they last hardly any time at all! A few performances! There must be some way we can make a saving…?” Salzella gave his new employer a long, cool stare. “Possibly we could ask the girls to spend more time in the air?” he said. “A few extra grands jetés ?” Bucket looked puzzled. “Would that work?” he said suspiciously. “Well, their feet wouldn’t be on the ground for so long, would they?” said Salzella, in the tones of one who knows for a fact that he’s much more intelligent than anyone else in the room. “Good point. Good point. Have a word with the ballet mistress, will you?” “Of course. I am sure she will welcome the suggestion. You may well have halved costs at a stroke. ” Bucket beamed.
“Which is perhaps just as well,” said Salzella. “There is, in fact, another matter that I’ve come to see you about…” “Yes?” “It is to do with the organ we had. ” “Had? What do you mean, had ?” said Bucket, adding, “You’re going to tell me something expensive, are you? What have we got now?” “A lot of pipes and some keyboards,” said Salzella. “Everything else has been smashed. ” “Smashed? Who by?” Salzella leaned back. He was not a man to whom amusement came easily, but he realized that he was rather enjoying this. “Tell me,” he said, “when Mr. Pnigeus and Mr. Cavaille sold you this Opera House, did they mention anything…supernatural?” Bucket scratched his head. “Well…yes. After I’d signed and paid. It was a bit of a joke. They said: ‘Oh, and by the way, people say there’s some man in evening dress who haunts the place, haha, ridiculous, isn’t it, these theatrical people, like children really, haha, but you may find it keeps them happy if you always keep Box Eight free on first nights, haha. ’ I remember that quite well. Handing over thirty thousand dollars concentrates the memory a bit. And then they rode off. Quite a fast carriage, now I come to think about it. ” “Ah,” said Salzella, and he almost smiled. “Well, now that the ink is dry, I wonder if I might fill you in on the fine detail…” Birds sang. The wind rattled the dried seed heads of moorland flowers. Granny Weatherwax poked in the ditches to see if there were any interesting herbs hereabouts. High over the hills, a buzzard screamed and wheeled. The coach stood by the side of the road, despite the fact that it should have been speeding along at least twenty miles away. At last Granny grew bored, and sidled toward a clump of gorse bushes. “How’re you doing, Gytha?” “Fine, fine,” said a muffled voice. “Only I reckon the coach driver is getting a bit impatient. ” “You can’t hurry Nature,” said Nanny Ogg. “Well, don’t blame me. You was the one who said it was too draughty on the broomsticks. ” “You make yourself useful, Esme Weatherwax,” said the voice from the bushes, “by obligin’ me and findin’ any dock or burdock plants that might happen to be around out there, thank you very much. ” “Herbs? What’re you plannin’ with them?” “I’m plannin’ to say, ‘Thank goodness, big leaves, just what I need. ’” Some distance from the bushes where Nanny Ogg was communing with Nature there was, placid under the autumn sky, a lake. In the reeds, a swan was dying. Or was due to die. There was, however, an unforeseen snag. Death sat down on the bank. N OW LOOK , he said, I KNOW HOW IT IS SUPPOSED TO GO. S WANS SING JUST ONCE, BEAUTIFULLY, BEFORE THEY DIE. T HAT’S WHERE THE WORD “SWANSONG” ORIGINATES. I T IS VERY MOVING. N OW, LET US TRY THIS AGAIN … He produced a tuning fork from the shadowy recesses of his robe and twanged it on the side of his scythe. T HERE’S YOUR NOTE … “Uh-uh,” said the swan, shaking its head. W HY MAKE IT DIFFICULT ? “I like it here,” said the swan. T HAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. “Did you know I can break a man’s arm with a blow of my wing?” H OW ABOUT IF I GET YOU STARTED ? D O YOU KNOW “M OONLIGHT B AY ”? “That’s no more than a barbershop ditty! I happen to be a swan!” “L ITTLE B ROWN J UG ”? Death cleared his throat. H A HA HA , H EE HEE HEE , L ITTLE — “That’s a song?” The swan hissed angrily and swayed from one crabbed foot to the other. “I don’t know who you are, sirrah, but where I come from we’ve got better taste in music. ” R EALLY ? W OULD YOU CARE TO SHOW ME AN EXAMPLE ? “Uh-uh!” D AMN. “Thought you’d got me there, didn’t you,” said the swan. “Thought you’d tricked me, eh? Thought I might unthinkingly give you a couple of bars of the Pedlar’s Song from L OHEN-SHAAK , eh?” I DON’T KNOW THAT ONE. The swan took a deep, labored breath. “That’s the one that goes ‘S CHNEIDE MEINEN EIGENEN H ALS —’” T HANK YOU , said Death. The scythe moved. “Bugger!” A moment later the swan stepped out of its body and ruffled fresh but slightly transparent wings. “Now what?” it said. T HAT’S UP TO YOU. I T’S ALWAYS UP TO YOU. Mr. Bucket leaned back in his creaky leather chair with his eyes shut until his director of music had finished. “So,” Bucket said. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. There’s this Ghost. Every time anyone loses a hammer in this place, it’s been stolen by the Ghost. Every time someone cracks a note, it’s because of the Ghost. But also , every time someone finds a lost object, it’s because of the Ghost. Every time someone has a very good scene, it must be because of the Ghost. He sort of comes with the building, like the rats. Every so often someone sees him, but not for long because he comes and goes like a…well, a Ghost. Apparently we let him use Box Eight for free on every first-night performance. And you say people like him?” “‘Like’ isn’t quite the right word,” said Salzella. “It would be more correct to say that…well, it’s pure superstition, of course, but they think he’s lucky. Thought he was, anyway. ” And you wouldn’t understand a thing about that, would you, you coarse little cheesemonger , he added to himself. Cheese is cheese. Milk goes rotten naturally. You don’t have to make it happen by having several hundred people wound up until their nerves go twang… “Lucky,” said Bucket flatly. “Luck is very important,” said Salzella, in a voice in which pained patience floated like ice cubes. “I imagine that temperament is not an important factor in the cheese business?” “We rely on rennet,” said Bucket. Salzella sighed. “Anyway, the company feel that the Ghost is…lucky. He used to send people little notes of encouragement. After a really good performance, sopranos would find a box of chocolates in their dressing room, that sort of thing. And dead flowers, for some reason. ” “ Dead flowers?” “Well, not flowers at all, as such. Just a bouquet of dead rose-stems with no roses on them. It’s something of a trademark of his. It’s considered lucky. ” “Dead flowers are lucky?” “Possibly. Live flowers, certainly, are terribly bad luck on stage. Some singers won’t even have them in their dressing room. So…dead flowers are safe, you might say. Odd, but safe. And it didn’t worry people because everyone thought the Ghost was on their side. At least, they did. Until about six months ago. ” Mr. Bucket shut his eyes again. “Tell me,” he said. “There have been…accidents. ” “What kind of accidents?” “The kind of accidents that you prefer to call…accidents. ” Mr. Bucket’s eyes stayed closed. “Like…the time when Reg Plenty and Fred Chiswell were working late one night up on the curdling vats and it turned out Reg had been seeing Fred’s wife and somehow”—Bucket swallowed—“somehow he must have tripped, Fred said, and fallen—” “I am not familiar with the gentlemen concerned but… that kind of accident. Yes. ” Bucket sighed. “That was some of the finest Farmhouse Nutty we ever made. ” “Do you want me to tell you about our accidents?” “I’m sure you’re going to. ” “A seamstress stitched herself to the wall. A deputy stage manager was found stabbed with a prop sword. Oh, and you wouldn’t like me to tell you what happened to the man who worked the trapdoor. And all the lead mysteriously disappeared from the roof, although personally I don’t think that was the work of the Ghost. ” “And everyone…calls these…accidents?” “Well, you wanted to sell your cheese, didn’t you? I can’t imagine anything that would depress the house like news that dead bodies are dropping like flies out of the flies. ” He took an envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the table. “The Ghost likes to leave little messages,” he said. “There was one by the organ. A scenery painter spotted him and…nearly had an accident. ” Bucket sniffed the envelope. It reeked of turpentine. The letter inside was on a sheet of the Opera House’s own note paper.
In neat, copperplate writing, it said: Ahahahahaha! Ahahahaha! Aahahaha! BEWARE!!!!! Yrs sincerely The Opera Ghost “What sort of person,” said Salzella patiently, “sits down and writes a maniacal laugh? And all those exclamation marks, you notice? Five? A sure sign of someone who wears his underpants on his head. Opera can do that to a man. Look, at least let’s search the building. The cellars go on forever. I’ll need a boat—” “A boat ? In the cellar ?” “Oh. Didn’t they tell you about the sub-basement?” Bucket smiled the bright, crazed smile of a man who was nearing double exclamation marks himself. “No,” he said. “They didn’t tell me about the sub-basement. They were too busy not telling me that someone goes around killing the company. I don’t recall anyone saying ‘Oh, by the way, people are dying a lot, and incidentally there’s a touch of rising damp—’” “They’re flooded. ” “Oh, good!” said Bucket. “What with? Buckets of blood?” “Didn’t you have a look?” “They said the cellars were fine!” “And you believed them?” “Well, there was rather a lot of champagne…” Salzella sighed. Bucket took offense at the sigh. “I happen to pride myself that I am a good judge of character,” he said. “Look a man deeply in the eye and give him a firm handshake and you know everything about him. ” “Yes, indeed,” said Salzella. “Oh, blast…Señor Enrico Basilica will be here the day after tomorrow. Do you think something might happen to him?” “Oh, not much. Cut throat, perhaps. ” “What? You think so?” “How should I know?” “What do you want me to do? Close the place? As far as I can see it doesn’t make any money as it is! Why hasn’t anyone told the Watch?” “That would be worse ,” said Salzella. “Big trolls in rusty chain mail tramping everywhere, getting in everyone’s way and asking stupid questions. They’d close us down. ” Bucket swallowed. “Oh, we can’t have that,” he said. “Can’t have them…putting everyone on edge. ” Salzella sat back. He seemed to relax a little. “On edge? Mr. Bucket,” he said, “this is opera. Everyone is always on edge. Have you ever heard of a catastrophe curve, Mr. Bucket?” Seldom Bucket did his best. “Well, I know there’s a dreadful bend in the road up by—” “A catastrophe curve, Mr. Bucket, is what opera runs along. Opera happens because a large number of things amazingly fail to go wrong, Mr. Bucket. It works because of hatred and love and nerves. All the time. This isn’t cheese. This is opera. If you wanted a quiet retirement, Mr. Bucket, you shouldn’t have bought the Opera House. You should have done something peaceful, like alligator dentistry. ” Nanny Ogg was easily bored. But, on the other hand, she was also easy to amuse. “Certainly an interestin’ way to travel,” she said. “You do get to see places. ” “Yes,” said Granny. “Every five miles, it seems to me. ” “Can’t think what’s got into me. ” “I shouldn’t think the horses have managed to get faster’n a walk all morning. ” They were, by now, alone except for the huge snoring man. The other two had got out and joined the travelers on top. The main cause of this was Greebo. With a cat’s unerring instinct for people who dislike cats he’d leapt heavily into their laps and given them the “young masser back on de ole plantation” treatment. And he’d treadled them into submission and then settled down and gone to sleep, claws gripping not sufficiently to draw blood but definitely to suggest that this was an option should the person move or breathe. And then, when he was sure they were resigned to the situation, he’d started to smell. No one knew where it came from. It was not associated with any known orifice. It was just that, after five minutes’ doze, the air above Greebo had a penetrating smell of fermented carpets. He was now trying it out on the very large man. It wasn’t working. At last Greebo had found a stomach too big for him. Also, the continuing going up and down was beginning to make him feel ill. The snores reverberated around the coach. “Wouldn’t like to come between him and his pudding,” said Nanny Ogg. Granny was staring out of the window. At least, her face was turned that way, but her eyes were focused on infinity. “Gytha?” “Yes, Esme?” “Mind if I ask you a question?” “You don’t normally ask if I mind,” said Nanny. “Doesn’t it ever get you down, the way people don’t think properly?” Oh-oh, thought Nanny. I reckon I got her out just in time. Thank goodness for literature. “How d’you mean?” she said. “I means the way they distracts themselves. ” “Can’t say I ever really thought about it, Esme. ” “Like…s’pose I was to say to you, Gytha Ogg, your house is on fire, what’s the first thing you’d try to take out?” Nanny bit her lip. “This is one of them personality questions, ain’t it?” she said. “That’s right. ” “Like, you try to guess what I’m like by what I say…” “Gytha Ogg, I’ve known you all my life, I knows what you’re like. I don’t need to guess. But answer me, all the same. ” “I reckon I’d take Greebo. ” Granny nodded. “’Cos that shows I’ve got a warm and considerate nature,” Nanny went on. “No, it shows you’re the kind of person who tries to work out what the right answer’s supposed to be,” said Granny. “Untrustworthy. That was a witch’s answer if ever I heard one. Devious. ” Nanny looked proud. The snores changed to a blurt-blurt noise and the handkerchief quivered. “…treacle pudding, with lots of custard…” “Hey, he just said something,” said Nanny. “He talks in his sleep,” said Granny Weatherwax. “He’s been doing it on and off. ” “I never heard him!” “You were out of the coach. ” “Oh. ” “At the last stop he was going on about pancakes with lemon,” said Granny. “And mashed potatoes with butter. ” “Makes me feel hungry just listening to that,” said Nanny. “I’ve got a pork pie in the bag somewhere—” The snoring stopped abruptly. A hand came up and moved the handkerchief aside. The face beyond was friendly, bearded and small. It gave the witches a shy smile which turned inexorably toward the pork pie. “Want a slice, mister?” said Nanny. “I’ve got some mustard here, too. ” “Oo, would you, dear lady?” said the man, in a squeaky voice. “Don’t know when I last had a pork pie—oh, dear…” He grimaced as if he’d just said something wrong, and then relaxed. “Got a bottle of beer if you want a drop, too,” said Nanny. She was one of those women who enjoy seeing people eat almost as much as eating itself. “Beer?” said the man. “Beer? You know, they don’t let me drink beer. Hah, it’s supposed to be the wrong ambience. I’d give anything for a pint of beer—” “Just a ‘thank you’ would do,” said Nanny, passing it over. “Who’s this ‘they’ to whom you refers?” said Granny. “’S my fault really,” said the man, through a faint spray of pork crumbs. “Got caught up, I suppose…” There was a change in the sounds from outside. The lights of a town were going past and the coach was slowing down. The man forced the last of the pie into his mouth and washed it down with the dregs of the beer. “Oo, lovely,” he said. Then he leaned back and put the handkerchief over his face. He raised a corner. “Don’t tell anyone I spoke to you,” he said, “but you’ve made a friend of Henry Slugg. ” “And what do you do, Henry Slugg?” said Granny, carefully. “I’m…I’m on the stage. ” “Yes. We can see,” said Nanny Ogg. “No, I meant—” The coach stopped. Gravel crunched as people climbed down. The door was pulled open. Granny saw a crowd of people peering excitedly through the doorway, and reached up automatically to straighten her hat. But several hands reached out for Henry Slugg, who sat up, smiled nervously, and let himself be helped out. Several people also shouted out a name, but it wasn’t the name of Henry Slugg. “Who’s Enrico Basilica?” said Nanny Ogg. “Don’t know,” said Granny. “Maybe he’s the person Mr. Slugg’s afraid of. ” The coaching inn was a run-down shack, with only two bedrooms for guests. As helpless old ladies traveling alone, the witches got one, simply because all hell would have been let loose if they hadn’t. Mr. Bucket looked pained.
“I may just be a big man in cheese to you,” he said, “you may think I’m just some hard-headed businessman who wouldn’t know culture if he found it floating in his tea, but I have been a patron of the opera here and elsewhere for many years. I can hum nearly the whole of—” “I am sure you’ve seen a lot of opera,” said Salzella. “But…how much do you know about production?” “I’ve been behind the scenes in lots of theaters—” “Oh, theater ,” said Salzella. “Theater doesn’t even approach it. Opera isn’t theater with singing and dancing. Opera’s opera. You might think a production like Lohenshaak is full of passion, but it’s a sandpit of toddlers compared to what goes on behind the scenes. The singers all loathe the sight of one another, the chorus despises the singers, they both hate the orchestra, and everyone fears the conductor; the staff on one prompt side won’t talk to the staff on the opposite prompt side, the dancers are all crazed from hunger in any case, and that’s only the start of it, because what is really—” There was a series of knocks at the door. They were painfully irregular, as if the knocker were having to concentrate quite hard. “Come in, Walter,” said Salzella. Walter Plinge shuffled in, a pail dangling at the end of each arm. “Come to fill your coal scuttle Mr. Bucket!” Bucket waved a hand vaguely, and turned back to the director of music. “You were saying?” Salzella stared at Walter as the man carefully piled lumps of coal in the scuttle, one at a time. “Salzella?” “What? Oh. I’m sorry…what was I saying?” “Something about it being only the start?” “What? Oh. Yes. Yes…you see, it’s fine for actors. There’s plenty of parts for old men. Acting’s something you can do all your life. You get better at it. But when your talent is singing or dancing…Time creeps up behind you, all the…” He fumbled for a word, and settled lamely for “Time. Time is the poison. You watch backstage one night and you’ll see the dancers checking all the time in any mirror they can find for that first little imperfection. You watch the singers. Everyone’s on edge, everyone knows that this might be their last perfect night, that tomorrow might be the beginning of the end. That’s why everyone worries about luck, you see? All the stuff about live flowers being unlucky, you remember? Well, so’s green. And real jewelry worn onstage. And real mirrors on stage. And whistling onstage. And peeking at the audience through the main curtains. And using new makeup on a first night. And knitting onstage, even at rehearsals. A yellow clarinet in the orchestra is very unlucky, don’t ask me why. And as for stopping a performance before its proper ending, well, that’s worst of all. You might as well sit under a ladder and break mirrors. ” Behind Salzella, Walter carefully placed the last lump of coal on the pile in the scuttle and dusted it carefully. “Good grief,” said Bucket, at last. “I thought it was tough in cheese. ” He waved a hand at the pile of papers and what passed for the accounts. “I paid thirty thousand for this place,” he said. “It’s in the center of the city! Prime site! I thought it was hard bargaining!” “They’d have probably accepted twenty-five. ” “And tell me again about Box Eight. You let this Ghost have it?” “The Ghost considers it is his for every first night, yes. ” “How does he get in?” “No one knows. We’ve searched and searched for secret entrances…” “He really doesn’t pay?” “No. ” “It’s worth fifty dollars a night!” “There will be trouble if you sell it,” said Salzella. “Good grief, Salzella, you’re an educated man! How can you sit there so calmly and accept this sort of madness? Some creature in a mask has the run of the place, gets a prime Box all to himself, kills people, and you sit there saying there will be trouble?” “I told you: the show must go on. ” “ Why? We never said ‘the cheese must go on’! What’s so special about the show going on?” Salzella smiled. “As far as I understand it,” he said, “the…power behind the show, the soul of the show, all the effort that’s gone into it, call it what you will…it leaks out and spills everywhere. That’s why they burble about ‘the show must go on. ’ It must go on. But most of the company wouldn’t even understand why anyone should ask the question. ” Bucket glared at the pile of what passed for the Opera House’s financial records. “They certainly don’t understand bookkeeping! Who does the accounts?” “All of us, really,” said Salzella. “ All of you?” “Money gets put in, money gets taken out…” said Salzella vaguely. “Is it important?” Bucket’s jaw dropped. “Is it important ?” “Because,” Salzella went on, smoothly, “opera doesn’t make money. Opera never makes money. ” “Good grief, man! Important ? What’d I ever have achieved in the cheese business, I’d like to know, if I’d said that money wasn’t important?” Salzella smiled humorlessly. “There are people out on the stage right now, sir,” he said, “who’d say that you would probably have made better cheeses. ” He sighed, and leaned over the desk. “You see,” he said, “cheese does make money. And opera doesn’t. Opera’s what you spend money on. ” “But…what do you get out of it?” “You get opera. You put money in, you see, and opera comes out,” said Salzella wearily. “There’s no profit ?” “Profit…profit,” murmured the director of music, scratching his forehead. “No, I don’t believe I’ve come across the word. ” “Then how do we manage?” “We seem to rub along. ” Bucket put his head in his hands. “I mean,” he muttered, half to himself, “I knew the place wasn’t making much, but I thought that was just because it was run badly. We have big audiences! We charge a mint for tickets! Now I’m told that a Ghost runs around killing people and we don’t even make any money!” Salzella beamed. “Ah, opera ,” he said. Greebo stalked over the inn’s rooftops. Most cats are nervous and ill at ease when taken out of their territory, which is why cat books go on about putting butter on their paws and so on, presumably because constantly skidding into the walls will take the animal’s mind off where the walls actually are. But Greebo traveled well, purely because he took it for granted that the whole world was his dirt box. He dropped heavily onto an outhouse roof and padded toward a small open window. Greebo also had a cat’s approach to possessions, which was simply that nothing edible had a right to belong to other people. From the window came a variety of smells which included pork pies and cream. He squeezed through and dropped onto the pantry shelf. Of course, sometimes he got caught. At least, sometimes he got discovered… There was cream. He settled down. He was halfway down the bowl when the door opened. Greebo’s ears flattened. His one good eye sought desperately for an escape route. The window was too high, the person opening the door was wearing a long dress that militated against the old “through the legs” routine and…and…and… there was no escape… His claws scrabbled on the floor… Oh no… here it came… Something flipped in his body’s morphogenic field. Here was a problem a cat shape couldn’t deal with. Oh, well, we know another one. Sometimes Greebo could be almost…human. Crockery crashed around him. Shelves erupted as his head rose. A bag of flour exploded outward to make room for his broadening shoulders. The cook stared up at him. Then she looked down. And then up. And then, her gaze dragged as though it were on a winch, down again. She screamed. Greebo screamed. He grabbed desperately at a bowl to cover that part which, as a cat, he never had to worry about exposing. He screamed again, this time because he’d just poured lukewarm pork dripping all over himself. His groping fingers found a large copper jelly mold. Clasping it to his groinal areas, he barreled forward and fled out of the pantry and out of the kitchen and out of the dining room and out of the inn and into the night. The spy, who was dining with the traveling salesman, put down his knife. “That’s something you don’t often see,” he said. “What?” said the salesman, who’d had his back to the excitement.
“One of those old copper jelly molds. They’re worth quite a lot now. My aunt had a very good one. ” The hysterical cook was given a big drink and several members of staff went out into the darkness to investigate. All they found was a jelly mold, lying forlornly in the yard. At home Granny Weatherwax slept with open windows and an unlocked door, secure in the knowledge that the Ramtops’ various creatures of the night would rather eat their own ears than break in. In dangerously civilized lands, however, she took a different view. “I really don’t think we need to shove the bed in front of the door, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg, heaving on her end. “You can’t be too careful,” said Granny. “Supposing some man started rattlin’ the knob in the middle of the night?” “Not at our time of life,” said Nanny sadly. “Gytha Ogg, you are the most—” Granny was interrupted by a watery sound. It came from behind the wall and went on for some time. It stopped, and then started again—a steady splashing that gradually became a trickle. Nanny started to grin. “Someone fillin’ a bath?” said Granny. “…or I suppose it could be someone fillin’ a bath,” Nanny conceded. There was the sound of a third jug being emptied. Footsteps left the room. A few seconds later a door opened and there was a rather heavier tread, followed after a brief interval by a few splashes and a grunt. “Yes, a man gettin’ into a bath,” said Granny. “What’re you doin’, Gytha?” “Seein’ if there’s a knothole in this wood somewhere,” said Nanny. “Ah, here’s one—” “Come back here!” “Sorry, Esme. ” And then the singing started. It was a very pleasant tenor voice, given added timbre by the bath itself. “Show me the way to go home, I’m tired and I want to go to bed—” “Someone’s enjoyin’ themselves, anyway,” said Nanny. “—wherever I may roam—” There was a knock at the distant bathroom door, upon which the singer slipped smoothly into another language: “ —per via di terra, mare o schiuma— ” The witches looked at one another. A muffled voice said, “I’ve brought you your hot-water bottle, sir. ” “Thank you verr’ mucha,” said the bather, his voice dripping with accent. Footsteps went away in the distance. “— Indicame la strada… to go home. ” Splash, splash. “Good eeeeevening, frieeeends…” “Well, well, well,” said Granny, more or less to herself. “It seems once again that our Mr. Slugg is a secret polyglot. ” “Fancy! And you haven’t even looked through the knothole,” said Nanny. “Gytha, is there anything in the whole world you can’t make sound grubby?” “Not found it yet, Esme,” said Nanny brightly. “I meant that when he mutters in his sleep and sings in his bath he talks just like us, but when he thinks people are listening he comes over all foreign. ” “That’s probably to throw that Basilica person off the scent,” Nanny said. “Oh, I reckon Mr. Basilica is very close to Henry Slugg,” said Granny. “In fact, I reckon that they’re one and—” There was a gentle knock at the door. “Who’s there?” Granny demanded. “It’s me, ma’am. Mr. Slot. This is my tavern. ” The witches pushed the bed aside and Granny opened the door a fraction. “Yes?” she said suspiciously. “Er…the coachman said you were…witches?” “Yes?” “Maybe you could…help us?” “What’s wrong?” “It’s my boy…” Granny opened the door farther and saw the woman standing behind Mr. Slot. One look at her face was enough. There was a bundle in her arms. Granny stepped back. “Bring him in and let me have a look at him. ” She took the baby from the woman, sat down on the room’s one chair, and pulled back the blanket. Nanny Ogg peered over her shoulder. “Hmm,” said Granny, after a while. She glanced at Nanny, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “There’s a curse on this house, that’s what it is,” said Slot. “My best cow’s been taken mortally sick, too. ” “Oh? You have a cowshed?” said Granny. “Very good place for a sickroom, a cowshed. It’s the warmth. You better show me where it is. ” “You want to take the boy down there?” “Right now. ” The man looked at his wife, and shrugged. “Well, I’m sure you know your business best,” he said. “It’s this way. ” He led the witches down some back stairs and across a yard and into the fetid sweet air of the byre. A cow was stretched out on the straw. It rolled an eye madly as they entered, and tried to moo. Granny took in the scene and stood looking thoughtful for a moment. Then she said, “This will do. ” “What do you need?” said Slot. “Just peace and quiet. ” The man scratched his head. “I thought you did a chant or made up some potion or something,” he said. “Sometimes. ” “I mean, I know where there’s a toad…” “All I shall require is a candle,” said Granny. “A new one, for preference. ” “That’s all?” “Yes. ” Mr. Slot looked a little put out. Despite his distraction, something about his manner suggested that Granny Weatherwax was possibly not that much of a witch if she didn’t want a toad. “And some matches,” said Granny, noting this. “A pack of cards might be useful, too. ” “And I’ll need three cold lamb chops and exactly two pints of beer,” said Nanny Ogg. The man nodded. This didn’t sound too toadlike, but it was better than nothing. “What’d you ask for that for?” hissed Granny, as the man bustled off. “Can’t imagine what good those’d do! Anyway, you already had a big dinner. ” “Well, I’m always prepared to go that extra meal. You won’t want me around and I’ll get bored,” said Nanny. “Did I say I didn’t want you around?” “Well…even I can see that boy is in a coma, and the cow has the Red Bugge if I’m any judge. That’s bad, too. So I reckon you’re planning some…direct action. ” Granny shrugged. “Time like that, a witch needs to be alone,” said Nanny. “But you just mind what you’re doing, Esme Weatherwax. ” The child was brought down in a blanket and made as comfortable as possible. The man followed behind his wife with a tray. “Mrs. Ogg will do her necessary procedures with the tray in her room,” said Granny haughtily. “You just leave me in here tonight. And no one is to come in, right? No matter what. ” The mother gave a worried curtsy. “But I thought I might look in about midn—” “No one. Now, off you go. ” When they’d been gently but firmly ushered out, Nanny Ogg stuck her head around the door. “What exactly are you planning, Esme?” “You’ve sat up with the dyin’ often enough, Gytha. ” “Oh, yes, it’s…” Nanny’s face fell. “Oh, Esme…you’re not going to…” “Enjoy your supper, Gytha. ” Granny closed the door. She spent some time arranging boxes and barrels so that she had a crude table and something to sit on. The air was warm and smelled of bovine flatulence. Periodically she checked the health of both patients, although there was little enough to check. In the distance the sounds of the inn gradually subsided. The last one was the clink of the innkeeper’s keys as he locked the doors. Granny heard him walk across to the cowshed door and hesitate. Then he went away, and began to climb the stairs. She waited a little longer and then lit the candle. Its cheery flame gave the place a warm and comforting glow. On the plank table she laid out the cards and attempted to play Patience, a game she’d never been able to master. The candle burned down. She pushed the cards away, and sat watching the flame. After some immeasurable piece of time the flame flickered. It would have passed unnoticed by anyone who hadn’t been concentrating on it for some while. She took a deep breath and— “Good morning,” said Granny Weatherwax. G OOD MORNING , said a voice by her ear. Nanny Ogg had long ago polished off the chops and the beer, but she hadn’t got into bed. She lay on it, fully clothed, with her arms behind her head, staring at the dark ceiling. After a while there was a scratching on the shutters. She got up and opened them. A huge figure leapt into the room. For a moment the moonlight lit a glistening torso and a mane of black hair. Then the creature dived under the bed. “Oh, deary deary me,” said Nanny. She waited for a while, and then fished a chop bone off her tray. There was still a bit of meat on it. She lowered it toward the floor.
A hand shot out and grabbed it. Nanny sat back. “Poor little man,” she said. It was only on the subject of Greebo that Nanny’s otherwise keen sense of reality found itself all twisted. To Nanny Ogg he was merely a larger version of the little fluffy kitten he had once been. To everyone else he was a scarred ball of inventive malignancy. But now he had to deal with a problem seldom encountered by cats. The witches had, a year ago, turned him into a human, for reasons that had seemed quite necessary at the time. It had taken a lot of effort, and his morphogenic field had reasserted itself after a few hours, much to everyone’s relief. But magic is never as simple as people think. It has to obey certain universal laws. And one is that, no matter how hard a thing is to do, once it has been done it’ll become a whole lot easier and will therefore be done a lot. A huge mountain might be scaled by strong men only after many centuries of failed attempts, but a few decades later grandmothers will be strolling up it for tea and then wandering back afterward to see where they left their glasses. In accordance with this law, Greebo’s soul had noted that there was one extra option for use in a tight corner (in addition to the usual cat assortment of run, fight, crap or all three together) and that was: Become Human. It tended to wear off after a short time, most of which he spent searching desperately for a pair of pants. There were snores from under the bed. Gradually, to Nanny’s relief, they turned into a purr. Then she sat bolt upright. She was some way from the cowshed but… “ He’s here,” she said. Granny breathed out, slowly. “Come and sit where I can see you. That’s good manners. And let me tell you right now that I ain’t at all afraid of you. ” The tall, black-robed figure walked across the floor and sat down on a handy barrel, leaning its scythe against the wall. Then it pushed back its hood. Granny folded her arms and stared calmly at the visitor, meeting his gaze eye-to-socket. I AM IMPRESSED. “I have faith. ” R EALLY ? I N WHAT PARTICULAR DEITY ? “Oh, none of them. ” T HEN FAITH IN WHAT ? “Just faith, you know. In general. ” Death leaned forward. The candlelight raised new shadows on his skull. C OURAGE IS EASY BY CANDLELIGHT. Y OUR FAITH , I SUSPECT, IS IN THE FLAME. Death grinned. Granny leaned forward, and blew out the candle. Then she folded her arms again and stared fiercely ahead of her. After some length of time a voice said, A LL RIGHT, YOU’VE MADE YOUR POINT. Granny lit a match. Its flare illuminated the skull opposite, which hadn’t moved. “Fair enough,” she said, as she relit the candle. “We don’t want to be sitting here all night, do we? How many have you come for?” O NE. “The cow?” Death shook his head. “It could be the cow. ” N O. T HAT WOULD BE CHANGING HISTORY. “History is about things changing. ” No. Granny sat back. “Then I challenge you to a game. That’s traditional. That’s allowed. ” Death was silent for a moment. T HIS IS TRUE. “Good. ” C HALLENGING ME BY MEANS OF A GAME IS ALLOWABLE. “Yes. ” H OWEVER…YOU UNDERSTAND THAT TO WIN ALL YOU MUST GAMBLE ALL ? “Double or quits? Yes, I know. ” B UT NOT CHESS. “Can’t abide chess. ” O R C RIPPLE M R. O NION. I’ VE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO UNDERSTAND THE RULES. “Very well. How about one hand of poker? Five cards each, no draws? Sudden death, as they say. ” Death thought about this, too. Y OU KNOW THIS FAMILY ? “No. ” T HEN WHY ? “Are we talking or are we playing?” O H, VERY WELL. Granny picked up the pack of cards and shuffled it, not looking at her hands, and smiling at Death all the time. She dealt five cards each, and reached down… A bony hand grasped hers. B UT FIRST , M ISTRESS W EATHERWAX—WE WILL EXCHANGE CARDS. He picked up the two piles and transposed them, and then nodded at Granny. M ADAM ? Granny looked at her cards, and threw them down. F OUR Q UEENS. H MM. T HAT IS VERY HIGH. Death looked down at his cards, and then up into Granny’s steady, blue-eyed gaze. Neither moved for some time. Then Death laid the hand on the table. I LOSE , he said. A LL I HAVE IS FOUR O NES. He looked back into Granny’s eyes for a moment. There was a blue glow in the depth of his eye-sockets. Maybe, for the merest fraction of a second, barely noticeable even to the closest observation, one winked off. Granny nodded, and extended a hand. She prided herself on the ability to judge people by their gaze and their handshake, which in this case was a rather chilly one. “Take the cow,” she said. I T IS A VALUABLE CREATURE. “Who knows what the child will become?” Death stood up, and reached for his scythe. He said, Ow. “Ah, yes. I couldn’t help noticing,” said Granny Weatherwax, as the tension drained out of the atmosphere, “that you seem to be sparing that arm. ” O H, YOU KNOW HOW IT IS. R EPETITIVE ACTIONS AND SO ON … “It could get serious if you left it. ” H OW SERIOUS ? “Want me to have a look?” W OULD YOU MIND ? I T CERTAINLY ACHES ON COLD NIGHTS. Granny stood up and reached out, but her hands went straight through. “Look, you’re going to have to make yourself a bit more solid if I’m to do anything—” P OSSIBLY A BOTTLE OF SUCKROSE AND AKWA ? “Sugar and water? I expect you know that’s only for the hard of thinking. Come on, roll up that sleeve. Don’t be a big baby. What’s the worst I can do to you?” Granny’s hands touched smooth bone. She’d felt worse. At least these had never had flesh on them. She felt, thought, gripped, twisted… There was a click. Ow. “Now try it above the shoulder. ” E R. H MM. Y ES. I T DOES SEEM CONSIDERABLY MORE FREE. Y ES, INDEED. M Y WORD, YES. T HANK YOU VERY MUCH. “If it gives you trouble again, you know where I live. ” T HANK YOU. T HANK YOU VERY MUCH. “You know where everyone lives. Tuesday mornings is a good time. I’m generally in. ” I SHALL REMEMBER. T HANK YOU. “By appointment, in your case. No offense meant. ” T HANK YOU. Death walked away. A moment later there was a faint gasp from the cow. That and a slight sagging of the skin were all that apparently marked the transition from living animal to cooling meat. Granny picked up the baby and laid a hand on its forehead. “Fever’s gone,” she said. M ISTRESS W EATHERWAX ? said Death from the doorway. “Yes, sir?” I HAVE TO KNOW. W HAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF I HAD NOT…LOST ? “At the cards, you mean?” Y ES. W HAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE ? Granny laid the baby down carefully on the straw, and smiled. “Well,” she said, “for a start…I’d have broken your bloody arm. ” Agnes stayed up late, simply because of the novelty. Most people in Lancre, as the saying goes, went to bed with the chickens and got up with the cows. * But she watched the evening’s performance, and watched the set being struck afterwards, and watched the actors leave or, in the case of younger chorus members, head off for their lodgings in odd corners of the building. And then there was no one else, except Walter Plinge and his mother sweeping up. She headed for the staircase. There didn’t seem to be a candle anywhere back here, but the few left burning in the auditorium were just enough to give the darkness a few shades. The stairs went up the wall at the rear of the stage, with nothing but a rickety handrail between them and the drop. Besides leading to the attics and storeroom on the upper floors, they were also one route to the fly loft and the other secret platforms where men in flat hats and gray overalls worked the magic of the theater, usually by means of pulleys— There was a figure on one of the gantries over the stage. Agnes saw it only because it moved slightly. It was kneeling down, looking at something. In the darkness. She stepped back. The stair creaked. The figure jerked around. A square of yellow light opened in the darkness, its beam pinning her against the brickwork. “Who’s there?” she said, raising a hand to shade her eyes. “Who’s that ?” said a voice. And then, after a moment, “Oh. It’s…Perdita, isn’t it?” The square of light swung toward her as the figure made its way over the stage. “André?” she said.
She felt inclined to back away, if only the brickwork would let her. And suddenly he was on the stairs, quite an ordinary person, no shadow at all, holding a very large lantern. “What are you doing here?” said the organist. “I…was just going to bed. ” “Oh, yes. ” He relaxed a little. “Some of you girls have got rooms here. The management thought it was safer than having you going home alone late at night. ” “What are you doing up here?” said Agnes, suddenly aware that there was just the two of them. “I was…looking at the place where the Ghost tried to strangle Mr. Cripps,” said André. “Why?” “I wanted to make certain everything was safe now, of course. ” “Didn’t the stagehands do that?” “Oh, you know them. I just thought I’d better make certain. ” Agnes looked down at the lantern. “I’ve never seen one like that before. How did you make it light up so quickly?” “Er. It’s a dark lantern. There’s this flap, you see,” he demonstrated, “so you can shut it right down and open it up again…” “That must be very useful when you’re looking for the black notes. ” “Don’t be sarcastic. I just don’t want there to be any more trouble. You’ll find that you start looking around when—” “ Goodnight , André. ” “Goodnight, then. ” She hurried up the rest of the flights and ducked into her bedroom. No one followed her. When she’d calmed down, which took some time, she undressed in the voluminous tent of her red flannel nightdress and got into bed, resisting any temptation to pull the covers over her head. She stared at the dark ceiling. “That’s stupid,” she thought, eventually. “He was on the stage this morning. No one could move that fast…” She never knew whether she actually got some sleep or whether it happened just as she was dozing off, but there was a very faint knock at the door. “Perdita!?” Only one person she knew could exclaim a whisper. Agnes got up and padded over to the door. She opened the door a fraction, just to check, and Christine half-fell into the room. “What’s the matter?” “I’m frightened!!” “What of?” “The mirror!! It’s talking to me!! Can I sleep in your room?!” Agnes looked around. It was crowded enough with the two of them standing up in it. “The mirror’s talking ?” “Yes!!” “Are you sure?” Christine dived into Agnes’s bed and pulled the covers over her. “Yes!!” she said, indistinctly. Agnes stood alone in the darkness. People always tended to assume that she could cope, as if capability went with mass, like gravity. And merely saying briskly, “Nonsense, mirrors don’t talk,” would probably not be any help, especially with one half of the dialogue buried beneath the bedclothes. She felt her way into the next room, stubbing her foot on the bed in the darkness. There must be a candle in here, somewhere. She felt for the tiny bedside table, hoping to start the reassuring rattle of a matchbox. A faint glimmer from the midnight city filtered through the window. The mirror seemed to glow. She sat down on the bed, which creaked ominously under her. Oh well…one bed was as good as another… She was about to lie back when something in the darkness went:… ting. It was a tuning fork. And a voice said: “Christine…please attend. ” She sat upright, staring at the darkness. And then realization dawned. No men, they’d said. They’d been very strict about that, as if opera were some kind of religion. It was not a problem in Agnes’s case, at least in the way they meant, but for someone like Christine…They said love always found a way and, of course, so did a number of associated activities. Oh, good grief. She felt the blush start. In darkness! What kind of a reaction was that? Agnes’s life unrolled in front of her. It didn’t look as though it were going to have many high points. But it did hold years and years of being capable and having a lovely personality. It almost certainly held chocolate rather than sex and, while Agnes was not in a position to make a direct comparison, and regardless of the fact that a bar of chocolate could be made to last all day, it did not seem a very fair exchange. She felt the same feeling she’d felt back home. Sometimes life reaches that desperate point where the wrong thing to do has to be the right thing to do. It doesn’t matter what direction you go. Sometimes you just have to go. She gripped the bedclothes and replayed in her mind the way her friend spoke. You had to have that little gulp, that breathless tinkle in the tone that people got whose minds played with the fairies half the time. She tried it out in her head, and then delivered it to her vocal cords. “Yes?! Who’s there?!” “A friend. ” Agnes pulled the bedclothes up higher. “In the middle of the night ?!” “Night is nothing to me. I belong to the night. And I can help you. ” It was a pleasant voice. It seemed to be coming from the mirror. “Help me to do what?!” “Don’t you want to be the best singer in the opera?” “Oh, Perdita is a lot better than me!!” There was silence for a moment, and then the voice said: “But while I cannot teach her to look and move like you, I can teach you to sing like her. ” Agnes stared into the darkness, shock and humiliation rising from her like steam. “Tomorrow you will sing the part of Iodine. But I will teach you how to sing it perfectly… ” Next morning the witches had the interior of the coach almost to themselves. News like Greebo gets around. But Henry Slugg was there, if that was indeed his name, sitting next to a very welldressed, thin little man. “Well, here we are again, then,” said Nanny Ogg. Henry smiled nervously. “That was some good singing last night,” Nanny went on. Henry’s face set in a good-natured grimace. In his eyes, terror waved a white flag. “I am afraid Señor Basilica doesn’t speak Morporkian, ma’am,” said the thin man. “But I will translate for you, if you like. ” “What?” said Nanny. “Then how come— Ow !” “Sorry,” said Granny Weatherwax. “My elbow must have slipped. ” Nanny Ogg rubbed her side. “I was saying ,” she said, “that he was— Ow !” “Dear me, I seem to have done it again,” said Granny. “This gentleman was telling us that his friend doesn’t speak our language , Gytha. ” “Eh? But—What? Oh. But—Ah. Really? Oh. All right,” said Nanny. “Oh, yes. Eats our pies, though, when— Ow !” “Excuse my friend, it’s her time of life. She gets confused,” said Granny. “We did enjoy his singing. Heard him through the wall. ” “You were very fortunate,” said the thin man primly. “Sometimes people have to wait years to hear Señor Basilica—” “—probably waiting for him to finish his dinner—” a voice muttered. “—in fact, at La Scalda in Genua last month his singing made ten thousand people shed tears. ” “—hah, I can do that , I don’t see there’s anything special about that —” Granny’s eyes hadn’t left Henry “Señor Basilica” Slugg’s face. He had the expression of a man whose profound relief was horribly tempered by a dread that it wouldn’t last very long. “Señor Basilica’s fame has spread far and wide,” said the manager primly. “—just like Senior Basilica,” muttered Nanny. “On other people’s pies, I expect. Oh, yes, too posh for us now, just because he’s the only man you could find on an atlas— Ow !” “Well, well,” said Granny, smiling in a way that everyone except Nanny Ogg would think of as innocent. “It’s nice and warm in Genua. I expect Señor Basilica really misses his home. And what do you do, young sir?” “I am his manager and translator. Er. You have the advantage of me, ma’am. ” “Yes, indeed. ” Granny nodded. “We have some good singers where we come from, too,” said Nanny Ogg, rebelliously. “Really?” said the manager. “And where do you ladies come from?” “Lancre. ” The man politely endeavored to position Lancre on his mental map of great centers of music. “Do you have a conservatory there?” “Yes, indeed,” said Nanny Ogg stoutly, and then, just to make sure, she added, “You should see the size of my tomatoes. ” Granny rolled her eyes. “Gytha, you haven’t got a conservatory. It’s just a big windowsill. ” “Yes, but it catches the sun nearly all day— Ow… ” “I expect Señor Basilica is going to Ankh-Morpork?” said Granny.
“We,” said the manager, primly, “have allowed the Opera House to engage us for the rest of the season—” His voice faltered. He’d looked up at the luggage rack. “What’s that ?” Granny glanced up. “Oh, that’s Greebo,” she said. “And Mister Basilica’s not to eat him,” said Nanny. “What is it?” “He’s a cat. ” “It’s grinning at me. ” The manager shifted uneasily. “And I can smell something,” he said. “’S funny,” said Nanny. “I can’t smell a thing. ” There was a change in the sound of the hooves outside, and the coach lurched as it slowed. “Ah,” said the manager awkwardly, “I…er…I see we’re stopping to change horses. It’s a, a nice day. I think I may just, er, see if there’s room on the seats outside. ” He left when the coach stopped. When it started again, a few minutes later, he hadn’t come back. “Well, well,” said Granny, as they lurched away again, “it seems there’s just you and me, Gytha. And Señor Basilica, who doesn’t speak our language. Does he, Mr. Henry Slugg?” Henry Slugg took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Ladies! Dear ladies! I beg you, for pity’s sake…” “Have you done anything bad, Mr. Slugg?” said Nanny. “Took advantage of women who dint want to be took advantage of? Stole? (Apart from lead on roofs and other stuff people wouldn’t miss. ) Done any murders of anyone who dint deserve it?” “No!” “He tellin’ the truth, Esme?” Henry writhed under Granny Weatherwax’s stare. “Yes. ” “Oh, well, that’s all right, then,” said Nanny. “I understand. I don’t have to pay taxes myself, but I know all about people not wantin’ to. ” “Oh, it’s not that, I assure you,” said Henry. “I have people to pay my taxes for me…” “That’s a good trick,” said Nanny. “Mr. Slugg’s got a different trick,” said Granny. “I reckon I know the trick. It’s like sugar and water. ” Henry waved his hands uncertainly. “It’s just that if they knew…” he began. “Everything’s better if it comes from a long way away. That’s the secret,” said Granny. “It’s…yes, that’s part of it,” said Henry. “I mean, no one wants to listen to a Slugg. ” “Where’re you from, Henry?” said Nanny. “ Really from,” said Granny. “I grew up in Rookery Yard in the Shades. They’re in Ankh-Morpork,” said Henry. “It was a terrible rough place. There were only three ways out. You could sing your way out or you could fight your way out. ” “What was the third way?” said Nanny. “Oh, you could go down that little alleyway into Shamlegger Street and then cut down into Treacle Mine Road,” said Henry. “But no one ever amounted to anything who went that way. ” He sighed. “I made a few coppers singing in taverns and such like,” he said, “but when I tried for anything better they said ‘What is your name?’ and I said ‘Henry Slugg’ and they’d laugh. I thought of changing my name, but everyone in Ankh-Morpork knew who I was. And no one wanted to listen to anyone called plain Henry Slugg. ” Nanny nodded. “It’s like with conjurers,” she said. “They’re never called Fred Wossname. It’s always something like The Great Astoundo, Fresh From the Court of the King of Klatch, and Gladys. ” “And everyone takes notice,” said Granny, “and are always careful not to ask themselves: if he’s come from the King of Klatch, why’s he doing card tricks here in Slice, population seven. ” “The trick is to make sure that everywhere you go, you are from somewhere else,” said Henry. “And then I was famous, but…” “You’d got stuck as Enrico,” said Granny. He nodded. “I was only going to do it to make some money. I was going to come back and marry my little Angeline—” “Who was she?” said Granny. “Oh, a girl I grew up with,” said Henry, vaguely. “Sharing the same gutter in the back streets of Ankh-Morpork, kind of thing?” said Nanny, in an understanding voice. “Gutter? In those days you had to put your name down and wait five years for a gutter,” said Henry. “We thought people in gutters were nobs. We shared a drain. With two other families. And a man who juggled eels. ” He sighed. “But I moved on, and then there was always somewhere else to go, and they liked me in Brindisi…and…and…” He blew his nose on the handkerchief, carefully folded it up, and produced another one from his pocket. “I don’t mind the pasta and the squid,” he said. “Well, not much…But you can’t get a decent pint for love nor money and they put olive oil on everything and tomatoes give me a rash and there isn’t what I’d call a good hard cheese in the whole country. ” He dabbed at his face with the handkerchief. “And people are so kind,” he said. “I thought I’d get a few beefsteaks when I traveled but, wherever I go, they do pasta especially for me. In tomato sauce! Sometimes they fry it! And what they do to the squid…” He shuddered. “Then they all grin and watch me eat it. They think I enjoy it! What I’d give for a plate of nice roast mutton with clootie dumplings…” “Why don’t you say?” said Nanny. He shrugged. “Enrico Basilica eats pasta,” he said. “There’s not much I can do about it now. ” He sat back. “You’re interested in music, Mrs. Ogg?” Nanny nodded proudly. “I can get a tune out of just about anything if you give me five minutes to study it,” she said. “And our Jason can play the violin and our Kev can blow the trombone and all my kids can sing and our Shawn can fart any melody you care to name. ” “A very talented family, indeed,” said Enrico. He fumbled in a waistcoat pocket and took out two oblongs of cardboard. “So please, ladies, accept these as a small token of gratitude from someone who eats other people’s pies. Our little secret, eh?” He winked desperately at Nanny. “They’re open tickets for the opera. ” “Well, that’s amazin’,” said Nanny, “because we’re going to— Ow! ” “Why, thank you very much,” said Granny Weatherwax, taking the tickets. “How very gracious of you. We shall be sure to go. ” “And if you’ll excuse me,” said Enrico, “I must catch up on my sleep. ” “Don’t worry, I shouldn’t think it’s had time to get far away,” said Nanny. The singer leaned back, pulled the handkerchief over his face and, after a few minutes, began to snore the happy snore of someone who had done his duty and now with any luck wouldn’t have to meet these rather disconcerting old women ever again. “He’s well away,” said Nanny, after a while. She glanced at the tickets in Granny’s hand. “You want to visit the opera?” she said. Granny stared into space. “I said , do you want to visit the opera?” Granny looked at the tickets. “What I want don’t signify, I suspect,” she said. Nanny Ogg nodded. Granny Weatherwax was firmly against fiction. Life was hard enough without lies floating around and changing the way people thought. And because the theater was fiction made flesh, she hated the theater most of all. But that was it— hate was exactly the right word. Hate is a force of attraction. Hate is just love with its back turned. She didn’t loathe the theater, because, had she done so, she would have avoided it completely. Granny now took every opportunity to visit the traveling theater that came to Lancre, and sat bolt upright in the front row of every performance, staring fiercely. Even honest Punch and Judy men found her sitting among the children, snapping things like “’Tain’t so!” and “Is that any way to behave?” As a result, Lancre was becoming known throughout the Sto Plains as a really tough gig. But what she wanted wasn’t important. Like it or not, witches are drawn to the edge of things, where two states collide. They feel the pull of doors, circumferences, boundaries, gates, mirrors, masks… …and stages. Breakfast was served in the Opera House’s refectory at half-past nine. Actors were not known for their habit of early rising. Agnes started to fall forward into her eggs and bacon, and stopped herself just in time. “Good morning!!” Christine sat down with a tray on which was, Agnes was not surprised to see, a plate holding one stick of celery, one raisin and about a spoonful of milk. She leaned toward Agnes and her face very briefly expressed some concern. “Are you all right?! You look a little peaky!!” Agnes caught herself in mid-snore. “I’m fine,” she said.
“Just a bit tired…” “Oh, good!!” This exchange having exhausted her higher mental processes, Christine went back to operating on automatic. “Do you like my new dress?!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it fetching ?!” Agnes looked at it. “Yes,” she said. “Very…white. Very lacy. Very figure-hugging. ” “And do you know what?!” “No. What?” “I already have a secret admirer!! Isn’t that thrilling ?! All the great singers have them, you know!!” “A secret admirer…” “Yes!! This dress!! It arrived at the stage door just now!! Isn’t that exciting?!” “Amazing,” said Agnes, glumly. “And it’s not as if you’ve even sung. Er. Who’s it from?” “He didn’t say, of course!! It has to be a secret admirer!! He’ll probably want to send me flowers and drink champagne out of my shoe!!” “Really?” Agnes made a face. “Do people do that?” “It’s traditional!!” Christine, boiling over with cheerfulness, had some to share… “You do look very tired!” she said. Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh!! We swapped rooms, didn’t we!! I was so silly!! And, d’you know,” she added with that look of half-empty cunning that was the nearest she came to guile, “I could have sworn I heard singing in the night…someone trying scales and things?!” Agnes had been brought up to tell the truth. She knew she should say: “I’m sorry, I appear to have got your life by mistake. There seems to have been a bit of a confusion…” But, she decided, she’d also been brought up to do what she was told, not to put herself first, to be respectful to her elders and to use no swearword stronger than “poot. ” She could borrow a more interesting future. Just for a night or two. She could give it up any time she liked. “You know, that’s funny,” she said, “because I’m right next door to you and I didn’t. ” “Oh?! Well, that’s all right, then!!” Agnes stared at the tiny meal on Christine’s tray. “Is that all you’re having for breakfast?” “Oh, yes! I can just blow up like a balloon, dear!! It’s lucky for you, you can eat anything!! Don’t forget it’s practice in half an hour!” And she skipped off. She’s got a head full of air, Agnes thought. I’m sure she doesn’t mean to say anything hurtful. But, deep inside her, Perdita X Dream thought a rude word. Mrs. Plinge took her broom out of the cleaning cupboard, and turned. “Walter!” Her voice echoed around the empty stage. “ Walter? ” She tapped the broom-handle warily. Walter had a routine. It had taken her years to train him into it. It wasn’t like him not to be in the right place at the right time. She shook her head, and started work. She could see it’d be a mop job later. It would probably be ages before they got rid of the smell of turpentine. Someone came walking across the stage. They were whistling. Mrs. Plinge was shocked. “Mr. Pounder!” The Opera House’s professional rat catcher stopped, and lowered his struggling sack. Mr. Pounder wore an old opera hat to show that he was a cut above your normal rodent operative, and its brim was thick with wax and the old candle ends he used to light his way through the darker cellars. He’d worked among the rats so long that there was something ratlike about him now. His face seemed to be merely a rearward extension of his nose. His mustache was bristly. His front teeth were prominent. People found themselves looking for his tail. “What’s that, Mrs. Plinge?” “You know you mustn’t whistle onstage! That’s terrible bad luck!” “Ah, well, it’s ’cos of good luck, Mrs. Plinge. Oh, yes! If you did know what I d’know, you’d be a happy man, too. O’ course, in your case you’d be a happy woman, on account of you being a woman. Ah! Some of the things I’ve seen, Mrs. Plinge!” “Found gold down there, Mr. Pounder?” Mrs. Plinge knelt down carefully to scrape away a spot of paint. Mr. Pounder picked up his sack and continued on his way. “Could be gold, Mrs. Plinge. Ah. Could very well be gold—” It took a moment for Mrs. Plinge to coax her arthritic knees into letting her stand up and shuffle around. “Pardon, Mr. Pounder?” she said. Somewhere in the distance, there was a soft thump as a bundle of sandbags landed gently on the boards. The stage was big and bare and empty, except for a sack which was scuttling determinedly for freedom. Mrs. Plinge looked both ways very carefully. “Mr. Pounder? Are you there?” It suddenly seemed to her that the stage was even bigger and even more distinctly empty than before. “Mr. Pounder? Cooo-eee?” She craned around. “Hello? Mr. Pounder?” Something floated down from above and landed beside her. It was a grubby black hat, with candle ends around the brim. She looked up. “Mr. Pounder?” she said. Mr. Pounder was used to darkness. It held no fears for him. And he’d always prided himself on his night vision. If there was any light at all, any speck, any glimmer of phosphorescent rot, he could make use of it. His candled hat was as much for show as anything else. His candled hat…he’d thought he’d lost it but, it was strange, here it was, still on his head. Yes, indeed. He rubbed his throat thoughtfully. There was something important he couldn’t quite remember… It was very dark. S QUEAK ? He looked up. Standing in the air, at eye-level, was a robed figure about six inches high. A bony nose, with bent gray whiskers, protruded from the hood. Tiny skeletal fingers gripped a very small scythe. Mr. Pounder nodded thoughtfully to himself. You didn’t rise to membership of the Inner Circle of the Guild of Rat Catchers without hearing a few whispered rumors. Rats had their own Death, they said, as well as their own kings, parliaments and nations. No human had ever seen it, though. Up until now. He felt honored. He’d won the Golden Mallet for most rats caught every year for the past five years, but he respected them, as a soldier might respect a cunning and valiant enemy. “Er…I’m dead, aren’t I…?” S QUEAK. Mr. Pounder felt that many eyes were watching him. Many small, shining eyes. “And…what happens now?” S QUEAK. The soul of Mr. Pounder looked at his hands. They seemed to be elongating, and getting hairier. He could feel his ears growing, and a certain rather embarrassing elongation happening at the base of his spine. He’d spent most of his life in a single-minded activity in dark places, yet even so… “But I don’t believe in reincarnation!” he protested. S QUEAK. And this, Mr. Pounder understood with absolute rodent clarity, meant: reincarnation believes in you. Mr. Bucket went through his mail very carefully, and finally breathed out when the pile failed to disgorge another letter with the Opera House crest. He sat back and pulled open his desk drawer for a pen. There was an envelope there. He stared at it, and then slowly picked up his paper knife. Sliiiiit… …rustle… I will be obliged if Christine sings the role of Iodine in “La Triviata” tonight. The weather continues fine. I trust you are well. Yrs The Opera Ghost “Mr. Salzella! Mr. Salzella! ” Bucket pushed back his chair and hurried to the door, opening it just in time to confront a ballerina, who screamed at him. Since his nerves were already strained, he responded by screaming back at her. This seemed to have the effect that usually a wet flannel or a slap was necessary to achieve. She stopped and gave him an affronted look. “He’s struck again, hasn’t he!” moaned Bucket. “He’s here! It’s the Ghost!” said the girl, determined to get the line out even though it was not required. “Yes, yes, I think I know ,” muttered Bucket. “I just hope it wasn’t anybody expensive. ” He stopped halfway along the corridor and then spun around. The girl cringed away from his wavering finger. “At least stand on tiptoe!” he shouted. “You probably cost me a dollar just running up here!” There was a crowd in a huddle on the stage. In the center was that new girl, the fat one, kneeling down and comforting an old woman. Bucket vaguely recognized the latter. She was one of the staff that had come with the Opera House, as much part of the whole thing as the rats or the gargoyles that infested the rooftops. She was holding something in front of her. “It just fell out of the flies,” she said.
“His poor hat!” Bucket looked up. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he made out a shape up among the battens, spinning slowly… “Oh, dear ,” he said. “And I thought he’d written such a polite letter…” “Really? Then now read this one,” said Salzella, coming up behind him. “Must I?” “It’s addressed to you. ” Bucket unfolded the piece of paper. Hahahaha! Ahahahaha! Yrs The Opera Ghost PS: Ahahahaha!!!!! He gave Salzella an agonized look. “Who’s the poor fellow up there?” “Mr. Pounder, the rat catcher. Rope dropped around his neck, other end attached to some sandbags. They went down. He went…up. ” “I don’t understand! Is this man mad ?” Salzella put an arm around his shoulders and led him away from the crowd. “Well, now,” he said, as kindly as he could. “A man who wears evening dress all the time, lurks in the shadows and occasionally kills people. Then he sends little notes, writing maniacal laughter. Five exclamation marks again, I notice. We have to ask ourselves: is this the career of a sane man?” “But why is he doing it?” wailed Bucket. “That is only a relevant question if he is sane,” said Salzella calmly. “He may be doing it because the little yellow pixies tell him to. ” “Sane? How can he be sane?” said Bucket. “You were right, you know. The atmosphere in this place’d drive anyone crazy. I very well may be the only one here with both feet on the ground!” He turned. His eyes narrowed when he saw a group of chorus girls whispering nervously. “You girls! Don’t just stand there! Let’s see you jump up and down!” he rasped. “On one leg!” He turned back to Salzella. “What was I saying?” “You were saying,” said Salzella, “that you have both feet on the ground. Unlike the corps de ballet. And the corpse de Mr. Pounder. ” “I think that comment was in rather poor taste,” said Bucket coldly. “My view,” said the director of music, “is that we should shut down, get all the able-bodied men together, issue them with torches, go through this place from top to bottom, flush him out, chase him through the city, catch him and beat him to a pulp, and then throw what’s left into the river. It’s the only way to be sure. ” “You know we can’t afford to shut down,” Bucket said. “We seem to make thousands a week but we seem to spend thousands a week, too. I’m sure I don’t know where it goes—I thought running this place was just a matter of getting bums on seats, but every time I look up there’s a bum spinning gently in the air—What’s he going to do next, I ask myself—” They looked at one another and then, as if pulled by some kind of animal magnetism, their gazes turned and flew out over the auditorium until they found the huge, glittering bulk of the chandelier. “Oh, no…” moaned Bucket. “He wouldn’t, would he? That would shut us down. ” Salzella sighed. “Look, it weighs more than a ton,” he said. “The supporting rope is thicker than your arm. The winch is padlocked when it’s not in use. It’s safe. ” They looked at one another. “I’ll have a man guard it every minute there’s a performance,” said Salzella. “I’ll do it personally, if you like. ” “And he wants Christine to sing Iodine tonight! She’s got a voice like a whistle!” Salzella raised his eyebrows. “That at least is not a problem, is it?” he said. “Isn’t it? It’s a key role!” Salzella put his arm around the owner’s shoulders. “I think perhaps it is time for you to explore a few more little-known corners of the wonderful world that is opera,” he said. The stagecoach rolled to a halt in Sator Square, Ankh-Morpork. The coach agent was waiting impatiently. “You’re fifteen hours late, Mr. Reever!” he shouted. The coach driver nodded impassively. He laid the reins down, jumped off the box, and inspected the horses. There was a certain woodenness about his movements. Passengers were grabbing their baggage and hurrying away. “Well?” said the agent. “We had a picnic,” said the coach driver. His face was gray. “You stopped for a picnic ?” “And a bit of a singsong,” said the driver, pulling the horses’ feed bags from under the seat. “You are telling me that you stopped the mail coach for a picnic and a singsong?” “Oh, and the cat got stuck up a tree. ” He sucked his hand, and the agent noticed that a handkerchief was tied around it. A hazy look of recollection clouded the driver’s eyes. “And then there were the stories,” he said. “What stories?” “The little fat one said everyone had to tell a story to help pass the time. ” “Yes? Well? I don’t see how that could slow you down!” “You should’ve heard her story. The one about the very tall man and the piano? I was so embarrassed I fell off the coach. I wouldn’t use words like that even to my own dear grandmother!” “And of course,” said the agent, who prided himself on his ironic approach, “the word timetable never crossed your mind while all this was going on?” The driver turned to look directly at him for the first time. The agent took a step back. Here was a man who had hang-glided over Hell. “ You tell them,” said the driver, and walked away. The agent stared after him, and then walked around to the door. A small man with a hunted look climbed out, dragging a huge fat man behind him and gabbling urgently in a language the agent didn’t understand. And then the agent was left alone with a coach and horses and an expanding circle of hurrying passengers. He opened the door and peered inside. “Good morning, mister,” said Nanny Ogg. He looked, in some puzzlement, from her to Granny Weatherwax. “Is everything all right, ladies?” “Very nice journey,” said Nanny Ogg, taking his arm. “We shall def’nitly patronize you another time. ” “The driver seemed to think there was a problem…” “Problem?” said Granny. “I didn’t notice any problems. Did you, Gytha?” “He could’ve been a bit quicker fetching the ladder,” said Nanny, climbing down. “And I’m sure he muttered something under his breath that time we stopped to admire the view. But I’m prepared to be gracious about it. ” “You stopped to admire the view ?” said the agent. “When?” “Oh, several times,” said Nanny. “No sense in rushing around the whole time, is there? More haste less speed, etcetera. Could you point us in the direction of Elm Street? Only we’ve lodgings at Mrs. Palm’s. Our Nev speaks highly of the place, he says no one ever looked for him there…” The agent stepped back, as people generally did in the face of Nanny’s pump-action chatter. “Elm Street?” he stuttered. “But… respectable ladies shouldn’t go there…” Nanny patted him on the shoulder. “That’s good,” she said. “That way we won’t run into anyone we know. ” As Granny walked past the horses they tried to hide behind the coach. Bucket smiled brightly. There were little beads of sweat around the edges of his face. “Ah, Perdita,” he said. “Do sit down, lass. Er. You are enjoying your time with us so far?” “Yes, thank you, Mr. Bucket,” said Agnes dutifully. “Good. That’s good. Isn’t that good, Mr. Salzella? Don’t you think that’s good, Dr. Undershaft?” Agnes looked at the three worried faces. “We’re all very pleased,” said Mr. Bucket. “And, er, well, we have an amazing offer for you which I’m sure will help you to enjoy it even more. ” Agnes watched the assembled faces. “Yes?” she said guardedly. “I know you, er, have only been with us hardly any time but we have decided to, er”—Bucket swallowed, and glanced at the other two for moral support—“let you sing the part of Iodine in tonight’s production of La Triviata. ” “Yes?” “Um. It isn’t the major role but of course it does include the famous ‘Departure’ aria…” “Oh. Yes?” “Er…there is, er…that is, er…” Bucket gave up and looked helplessly at his director of music. “Mr. Salzella?” Salzella leaned forward. “What in fact we would like you to do…Perdita…is sing the role, indeed, but not, in fact… play the role. ” Agnes listened while they explained. She’d stand in the chorus, just behind Christine. Christine would be told to sing very softly. It had been done dozens of times before, Salzella explained.
It was done far more often than the audiences ever realized—when singers had a sore throat, or had completely dried, or had turned up so drunk they could barely stand, or, in one notorious instance many years previously, had died in the interval and subsequently sung their famous aria by means of a broom handle stuck up their back and their jaw operated with a piece of string. It wasn’t immoral. The show had to go on. The ring of desperately grinning faces watched her. I could just walk away, she thought. Walk away from these grinning faces and the mysterious Ghost. They couldn’t stop me. But there’s nowhere to walk to except back. “Yes, er, yes,” she said. “I’m very…er…but why do it like this? Couldn’t I simply take her place and sing the part?” The men looked at one another, and then all started talking at once. “Yes, but you see, Christine is…has…more stage experience—” “—technical grasp—” “—stage presence—” “—apparent lyrical ability—” “—fits the costume—” Agnes looked down at her big hands. She could feel the blush advancing like a barbarian horde, burning everything as it came. “We would like you, as it were,” said Bucket, “to ghost the part…” “Ghost?” said Agnes. “It’s a stage term,” said Salzella. “Oh, I see,” said Agnes. “Yes. Well, of course. I shall certainly do my best. ” “ Jolly good,” said Bucket. “We won’t forget this. And I’m certain a very suitable part for you will come along very soon. See Dr. Undershaft this afternoon and he will take you through the role. ” “Er. I know it quite well, I think,” said Agnes, uncertainly. “Really? How?” “I’ve been…taking lessons. ” “That is good, lass,” said Mr. Bucket. “Shows keenness. We’re very impressed. But see Dr. Undershaft in any case…” Agnes got up and, still looking down, trooped out. Undershaft sighed and shook his head. “Poor child,” he said. “Born too late. Opera used to be just about voices. You know, I remember the days of the great sopranos. Dame Violetta Gigli, Dame Clarissa Extendo…whatever became of them, I sometimes wonder. ” “Didn’t the climate change?” said Salzella nastily. “There goes a figure that should prompt a revival of The Ring of the Nibelungingung ,” Undershaft went on. “Now that was an opera. ” “Three days of gods shouting at one another and twenty minutes of memorable tunes?” said Salzella. “No, thank you very much. ” “But can’t you hear her singing Hildabrun, leader of the Valkyries?” “Yes. Oh, yes. But unfortunately I can also hear her singing Nobbo the dwarf and Io, Chief of the Gods. ” “Those were the days,” said Undershaft sadly, shaking his head. “We had proper opera then. I recall when Dame Veritasi stuffed a musician into his own tuba for yawning—” “Yes, yes, but this is the Century of the Fruitbat,” said Salzella, standing up. He glanced at the door again, and shook his head. “Amazing,” he said. “Do you think she knows how fat she is?” The door of Mrs. Palm’s discreet establishment opened at Granny’s knock. The person on the other side was a young woman. Very obviously a young woman. There was no possible way that she could have been mistaken for a young man in any language, especially Braille. Nanny peered around the young lady’s powdered shoulder at the red plush and gilt interior beyond, and then up at Granny Weatherwax’s impassive face, and then back at the young lady. “I’ll tan our Nev’s hide when I get home,” she muttered. “Come away, Esme, you don’t want to go in there. It’d take too long to explain—” “Why, Granny Weatherwax!” said the girl happily. “And who’s this?” Nanny looked up at Granny, whose expression hadn’t changed. “Nanny Ogg,” Nanny said eventually. “Yes, I’m Nanny Ogg. Nev’s mum,” she added darkly. “Yes, indeed. Yes. On account of me bein’ a”—the words “respectable widow woman” tried to range themselves in her vocal cords, and shriveled at the sheer enormity of the falsehood, forcing her to settle for “mother to him. Nev. Yes. Nev’s mum. ” “Hello, Colette,” said Granny. “What fascinatin’ earrings you are wearing. Is Mrs. Palm at home?” “She’s always at home to important visitors,” said Colette. “Do come in, everyone will be so pleased to see you again!” There were cries of welcome as Granny stepped into the scarlet gloom. “What? You’ve been here before?” said Nanny, eying the pink flesh and white lace that made up much of the scenery. “Oh, yes. Mrs. Palm is an old friend. Practic’ly a witch. ” “You…you do know what kind of place this is, do you, Esme?” said Nanny Ogg. She felt curiously annoyed. She’d happily give way to Granny’s expertise in the worlds of mind and magic, but she felt very strongly that there were some more specialized areas that were definitely Ogg territory, and Granny Weatherwax had no business even to know what they were. “Oh, yes,” said Granny, calmly. Nanny’s patience gave out. “It’s a house of ill repute, is what it is!” “On the contrary,” said Granny. “I believe people speak very highly of it. ” “You knew ? And you never told me ?” Granny raised an ironic eyebrow. “The lady who invented the Strawberry Wobbler?” “Well, yes, but—” “We all live life the best way we can, Gytha. And there’s a lot of people who think witches are bad. ” “Yes, but—” “Before you criticize someone, Gytha, walk a mile in their shoes,” said Granny, with a faint smile. “In those shoes she was wearin’, I’d twist my ankle,” said Nanny, gritting her teeth. “I’d need a ladder just to get in ’em. ” It was infuriating, the way Granny tricked you into reading her half of the dialogue. And opened your mind to yourself in unexpected ways. “And it’s a welcoming place and the beds are soft,” said Granny. “Warm, too, I expect,” said Nanny Ogg, giving in. “And there’s always a friendly light in the window. ” “Dear me, Gytha Ogg. I always thought you were unshockable. ” “Shockable, no,” said Nanny. “Easily surprised, yes. ” Dr. Undershaft the chorus master peered at Agnes over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “The, um, ‘Departure’ aria, as it is known,” he said, “is quite a little masterpiece. Not one of the great operatic highlights, but very memorable nevertheless. ” His eyes misted over. “‘ Questa maledetta ’ sings Iodine, as she tells Peccadillo how hard it is for her to leave him…‘ Questa maledetta porta si blocccccca, Si blocca comunque diavolo lo faccccc-cio…! ’” He stopped and made great play of cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief. “When Gigli sang it, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house,” he mumbled. “I was there. It was then that I decided that I would…oh, great days, indeed. ” He put his glasses on and blew his nose. “I’ll run through it once,” he said, “just so that you can understand how it is supposed to go. Very well, André. ” The young man who had been drafted to play the piano in the rehearsal room nodded, and winked surreptitiously at Agnes. She pretended not to have seen him, and listened with an expression of acute studiousness as the old man worked his way through the score. “And now,” he said, “let us see how you manage. ” He handed her the score and nodded at the pianist. Agnes sang the aria, or at least a few bars of it. André stopped playing and leaned his head against the piano, trying to stifle a laugh. “Ahem,” said Undershaft. “Was I doing something wrong?” “You were singing tenor,” said Undershaft, looking sternly at André. “She was singing in your voice, sir!” “Perhaps you can sing it like, er, Christine would sing it?” They started again. “Kwesta!? Maledetta!!…” Undershaft held up both hands. André’s shoulders were shaking with the effort of not laughing. “Yes, yes. Accurately observed. I dare say you’re right. But could we start again and, er, perhaps you would sing it how you think it should be sung?” Agnes nodded. They started again… …and finished. Undershaft had sat down, half-turned away. He wouldn’t look round to face her. Agnes stood watching him uncertainly. “Er. Was that all right?” she said. André the pianist got up slowly and took her hand. “I think we’d better leave him,” he said softly, pulling her toward the door. “Was it that bad?” “Not…exactly.
” Undershaft raised his head, but didn’t turn it toward her. “More practice on those R s, madam, and strive for greater security above the stave,” he said hoarsely. “Yes. Yes, I will. ” André led her out into the corridor, shut the door, and then turned to her. “That was astounding,” he said. “Did you ever hear the great Gigli sing?” “I don’t even know who Gigli is. What was I singing?” “You didn’t know that either?” “I don’t know what it means , no. ” André looked down at the score in his hand. “Well, I’m not much good at the language, but I suppose the opening could be sung something like this: This damn door sticks This damn door sticks It sticks no matter what the hell I do It’s marked “Pull” and indeed I am pulling Perhaps it should be marked “Push”? Agnes blinked. “That’s it ?” “Yes. ” “But I thought it was supposed to be very moving and romantic!” “It is ,” said André. “It was. This isn’t real life, this is opera. It doesn’t matter what the words mean. It’s the feeling that matters. Hasn’t anyone told—? Look, I’m in rehearsals for the rest of the afternoon, but perhaps we could meet tomorrow? Perhaps after breakfast?” Oh, no, thought Agnes. Here it comes. The blush was moving inexorably upward. She wondered if one day it might reach her face and carry on going, so that it ended up as a big pink cloud over her head. “Er, yes,” she said. “Yes. That would be…very helpful. ” “Now I’ve got to go. ” He gave her a weak little smile, and patted her hand. “And…I’m really sorry it’s happening this way. Because…that was astounding. ” He went to walk away, and then stopped. “Uh…sorry if I frightened you last night,” he said. “What?” “On the stairs. ” “Oh, that. I wasn’t frightened. ” “You…er…didn’t mention it to anyone, did you? I’d hate people to think I was worrying over nothing. ” “Hadn’t given it another thought, to tell you the truth. I know you can’t be the Ghost, if that’s what you’re worried about. Eh?” “Me? The Ghost. Haha!” “Haha,” said Agnes. “So, er…see you tomorrow, then…” “Fine. ” Agnes headed back to her room, deep in thought. Christine was there, looking critically at herself in the mirror. She spun around as Agnes entered; she even moved with exclamation marks. “Oh, Perdita!! Have you heard?! I’m to sing the part of Iodine tonight!! Isn’t that wonderful ?!” She dashed across the room and endeavored to pick Agnes up and hug her, settling eventually for just hugging her. “And I heard they’re already letting you in the chorus!?” “Yes, indeed. ” “Isn’t that nice?! I’ve been practicing all morning with Mr. Salzella. Kesta!? Mallydetta!! Porter see bloker!!” She twirled happily. Invisible sequins filled the air with their shine. “When I am very famous,” she said, “you won’t regret having a friend in me!! I shall do my very best to help you!! I am sure you bring me luck!!” “Yes, indeed,” said Agnes, hopelessly. “Because my dear father told me that one day a dear little pixie would arrive to help me achieve my great ambition, and, do you know, I think that little pixie is you !!” Agnes smiled unhappily. After you’d known Christine for any length of time, you found yourself fighting a desire to look into her ear to see if you could spot daylight coming the other way. “Er. I thought we had swapped rooms?” “Oh, that !!” said Christine, smiling. “Wasn’t I silly ?! Anyway, I shall need the big mirror now that I am to be a prima donna! You don’t mind, do you!?” “What? Oh. No. No, of course not. Er. If you’re sure…” Agnes looked at the mirror, and then at the bed. And then at Christine. “No,” she said, shocked at the enormity of the idea that had just presented itself, delivered from the Perdita of her soul. “I’m sure that will be fine. ” Dr. Undershaft blew his nose and tried to tidy himself up. Well, he didn’t have to stand for it. Perhaps the child was somewhat on the heavy side, but Gigli, for example, had once crushed a tenor to death and no one had thought any worse of her for it. He’d protest to Mr. Bucket. Dr. Undershaft was a single-minded man. He believed in voices. It didn’t matter what anyone looked like. He never watched opera with his eyes open. It was the music that mattered, not the acting and certainly not the shape of the singers. What did it matter what shape she was? Dame Tessitura had a beard you could strike a match on and a nose flattened half across her face, but she was still one of the best basses who ever opened beer bottles with her thumb. Of course Salzella said that, while everyone accepted that large women of fifty could play thin girls of seventeen, people wouldn’t accept that a fat girl of seventeen could do it. He said they’d cheerfully swallow a big lie and choke on a little fib. Salzella said that sort of thing. Something was going wrong these days. The whole place seemed…sick, if a building could be sick. The crowds were still coming, but the money just didn’t seem to be there anymore; everything seemed to be so expensive…And now they were owned by a cheese monger , for heaven’s sake, some grubby counter jumper who’d probably want to bring in fancy ideas. What they needed was a businessman, some clerk who could add up columns of figures properly and not interfere. That was the trouble with all the owners he had experienced—they started off thinking of themselves as businessmen, and then suddenly began to think they could make an artistic contribution. Still, possibly cheese mongers had to add up cheeses. Just so long as this one stayed in his office with the books, and didn’t go around acting as though he owned the place just because he happened to own the place… Undershaft blinked. He’d gone the wrong way again. No matter how long you’d been here, this place was a maze. He was behind the stage, in the orchestra’s room. Instruments and folding chairs had been stacked everywhere. His foot toppled a beer bottle. The twang of a string made him look around. Broken instruments littered the floor. There were half a dozen smashed violins. Several oboes had been broken. The trom had been pulled right out of a trombone. He looked up into someone’s face. “But…why are you— ” The half-moon spectacles tumbled over and over, and smashed on the boards. Then the attacker lowered his mask, as smooth and white as the skull of an angel, and stepped forward purposefully… Dr. Undershaft blinked. There was darkness. A cloaked figure raised its head and looked at him through bony white sockets. Dr. Undershaft’s recent memories were a little confused, but one fact stood out. “Aha,” he said. “Got you! You’re the Ghost!” Y OU KNOW, YOU’RE RATHER AMUSINGLY WRONG. Dr. Undershaft watched another masked figure pick up the body of…Dr. Undershaft, and drag it into the shadows. “Oh, I see. I’m dead. ” Death nodded. S UCH WOULD APPEAR TO BE THE CASE. “That was murder! Does anyone know?” T HE MURDERER. A ND YOU, OF COURSE. “But him ? How can—?” Undershaft began. W E MUST GO , said Death. “But he just killed me! Strangled me with his bare hands!” Y ES. C HALK IT UP TO EXPERIENCE. “You mean I can’t do anything about it?” L EAVE IT TO THE LIVING. G ENERALLY SPEAKING, THEY GET UNEASY WHEN THE DECEASED TAKES A CONSTRUCTIVE ROLE IN A MURDER INVESTIGATION. T HEY TEND TO LOSE CONCENTRATION. “You know, you do have a very good bass voice. ” T HANK YOU. “Are there going to be…choirs and things?” W OULD YOU LIKE SOME ? Agnes slipped out through the stage door and into the streets of Ankh-Morpork. She blinked in the light. The air felt slightly prickly, and sharp, and too cold. What she was about to do was wrong. Very wrong. And all her life she’d done things that were right. Go on, said Perdita. In fact, she probably wouldn’t even do it. But there was no harm in just asking where there was an herbal shop, so she asked. And there was no harm in going in, so she went in. And it certainly wasn’t against any kind of law to buy the ingredients she bought. After all, she might get a headache later on, or be unable to sleep. And it would mean nothing at all to take them back to her room and tuck them under the mattress. That’s right, said Perdita.
In fact, if you averaged out the moral difficulty of what she was proposing over all the little activities she had to undergo in order to do it, it probably wasn’t that bad at all, really— These comforting thoughts were arranging themselves in her mind as she headed back. She turned a corner and nearly walked into Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax. She flung herself against the wall and stopped breathing. They hadn’t seen her, although Nanny’s foul cat leered at her over its owner’s shoulder. They’d take her back! She just knew they would! The fact that she was a free agent and her own mistress and quite at liberty to go off to Ankh-Morpork had nothing to do with it. They’d interfere. They always did. She scurried back along the alley and ran as fast as she could to the rear of the Opera House. The stage-doorkeeper took no notice of her. Granny and Nanny strolled through the city toward the area known as the Isle of Gods. It wasn’t exactly Ankh and it wasn’t exactly Morpork, being situated where the river bent so much it almost formed an island. It was where the city kept all those things it occasionally needed but was uneasy about, like the Watch-house, the theaters, the prison and the publishers. It was the place for all those things which might go off bang in unexpected ways. Greebo ambled along behind them. The air was full of new smells, and he was looking forward to seeing if any of them belonged to anything he could eat, fight or ravish. Nanny Ogg found herself getting increasingly worried. “This isn’t really us , Esme,” she said. “Who is it, then?” “I mean the book was just a bit of fun. No sense in making ourselves unpopular, is there?” “Can’t have witches being done down, Gytha. ” “I don’t feel done down. I felt fine until you told me I was done down,” said Nanny, putting her finger on a major sociological point. “You’ve been exploited,” said Granny firmly. “No I ain’t. ” “Yes you have. You’re a downtrodden mass. ” “No I ain’t. ” “You’ve been swindled out of your life savings,” said Granny. “Two dollars?” “Well, it’s all you’d actually saved ,” said Granny, accurately. “Only ’cos I spent everything else,” said Nanny. Other people salted away money for their old age, but Nanny preferred to accumulate memories. “Well, there you are, then. ” “I was putting that by for some new piping for my still up at Copperhead,” said Nanny. * “You know how that scumble eats away at the metal—” “You were putting a little something by for some security and peace of mind in your old age,” Granny translated. “You don’t get peace of mind with my scumble,” said Nanny happily. “Pieces, yes, but not peace. It’s made from the finest apples, you know,” she added. “Well, mainly apples. ” Granny stopped outside an ornate doorway, and peered at the brass plate affixed thereon. “This is the place,” she said. They looked at the door. “I’ve never been one for front doors,” said Nanny, shifting from one foot to the other. Granny nodded. Witches had a thing about front doors. A brief search located an alleyway which led around the back of the building. Here was a pair of much larger doors, wide open. Several dwarfs were loading bundles of books onto a cart. A rhythmic thumping came from somewhere beyond the doorway. No one took any notice of the witches as they wandered inside. Movable type was known in Ankh-Morpork, but if wizards heard about it they moved it where no one could find it. They generally didn’t interfere with the running of the city, but when it came to movable type the pointy foot was put down hard. They had never explained why, and people didn’t press the issue because you didn’t press the issue with wizards, not if you liked yourself the shape you were. They simply worked around the problem, and engraved everything. This took a long time and meant that Ankh-Morpork was, for example, denied the benefit of newspapers, leaving the population to fool themselves as best they could. A press was thumping gently at one end of the warehouse. Beside it, at long tables, a number of dwarfs and humans were stitching pages together and gluing on the covers. Nanny took a book off a pile. It was The Joye of Snacks. “Can I help you, ladies?” said a voice. Its tone suggested very clearly that it wasn’t anticipating offering any kind of help whatsoever, except out into the street at speed. “We’ve come about this book,” said Granny. “I’m Mrs. Ogg,” said Nanny Ogg. The man looked her up and down. “Oh yes? Can you identify yourself?” “Certainly. I’d know me anywhere. ” “Hah! Well, I happen to know what Gytha Ogg looks like, madam, and she does not look like you. ” Nanny Ogg opened her mouth to reply, and then said, in the voice of one who has stepped happily into the road and only now remembers about the onrushing coach: “…Oh. ” “And how do you know what Mrs. Ogg looks like?” said Granny. “Oh, is that the time? We’d better be going—” said Nanny. “Because, as a matter of fact, she sent me a picture,” said Goatberger, taking out his wallet. “I’m sure we’re not at all interested,” said Nanny hurriedly, pulling on Granny’s arm. “I’m extremely interested,” said Granny. She snatched a folded piece of paper out of Goatberger’s hands, and peered at it. “Hah! Yes…that’s Gytha Ogg all right,” she said. “Yes, indeed. I remember when that young artist came to Lancre for the summer. ” “I wore my hair longer in those days,” muttered Nanny. “Just as well, considering,” said Granny. “I didn’t know you had copies , though. ” “Oh, you know how it is when you’re young,” said Nanny dreamily. “It was doodle, doodle, doodle all summer long. ” She awoke from her reverie. “And I still weigh the same now as I did then,” she added. “Except that it’s shifted,” said Granny, nastily. She handed the sketch back to Goatberger. “That’s her all right,” she said. “But it’s out by about sixty years and several layers of clothing. This is Gytha Ogg, right here. ” “You’re telling me this came up with Bananana Soup Surprise?” “Did you try it?” said Nanny. “Mr. Cropper the head printer did, yes. ” “Was he surprised?” “Not half as surprised as Mrs. Cropper. ” “It can take people like that,” said Nanny. “I think perhaps I overdo the nutmeg. ” Goatberger stared at her. Doubt was beginning to assail him. You only had to look at Nanny Ogg grinning back at you to believe she could write something like The Joye of Snacks. “Did you really write this?” he said. “From memory,” said Nanny, proudly. “And now she’d like some money,” said Granny. Mr. Goatberger’s face twisted up as though he’d just eaten a lemon and washed it down with vinegar. “But we gave her the money back ,” he said. “See?” said Nanny, her face falling. “I told you, Esme—” “She wants some more,” said Granny. “No, I don’t—” “No, she doesn’t!” Goatberger agreed. “She does,” said Granny. “She wants a little bit of money for every book you’ve sold. ” “I don’t expect to be treated like royalty,” said Nanny. * “You shut up,” said Granny. “I know what you want. We want some money, Mr. Goatberger. ” “And what if I won’t give it to you?” Granny glared at him. “Then we shall go away and think about what to do next,” she said. “That’s no idle threat,” said Nanny. “There’s a lot of people’ve regretted Esme thinking about what to do next. ” “Come back when you’ve thought, then!” snapped Goatberger. He stormed off. “I don’t know, authors wanting to be paid, good grief—” He disappeared among the stacks of books. “Er…do you think that could have gone better?” said Nanny. Granny glanced at the table beside them. It was stacked with long sheets of paper. She nudged a dwarf, who had been watching the argument with some amusement. “What’re these?” she said. “They’re proofs for the Almanack. ” He saw her blank expression. “They’re sort of a trial run for the book so’s we can check that all the spelling mistakes have been left in. ” Granny picked it up. “Come, Gytha,” she said. “I don’t want trouble, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg as she hurried after her. “It’s only money. ” “It ain’t money any more,” said Granny. “It’s a way of keepin’ score. ” Mr. Bucket picked up a violin.
It was in two pieces, held together by the strings. One of them broke. “Who’d do something like this?” he said. “Honestly, Salzella…what is the difference between opera and madness?” “Is this a trick question?” “No!” “Then I’d say: better scenery. Ah…I thought so…” Salzella rooted among the destruction, and stood up with a letter in his hand. “Would you like me to open it?” he said. “It’s addressed to you. ” Bucket shut his eyes. “Go on,” he said. “Don’t bother about the details. Just tell me, how many exclamation marks?” “Five. ” “Oh. ” Salzella passed the paper over. Bucket read: Dear Bucket Whoops! Ahahahahahahahaha!!!!! Yrs The Opera Ghost “What can we do?” he said. “One moment he writes polite little notes, the next he goes mad on paper!” “Herr Trubelmacher has got everyone out hunting for new instruments,” said Salzella. “Are violins more expensive than ballet shoes?” “There are few things in the world more expensive than ballet shoes. Violins happen to be among them,” said Salzella. “Further expense!” “It seems so, yes. ” “But I thought the Ghost liked music! Herr Trubelmacher tells me the organ is beyond repair!!!” He stopped. He was aware that he had exclaimed a little less rationally than a sane man should. “Oh, well,” Bucket continued wearily. “The show must go on, I suppose. ” “Yes, indeed,” said Salzella. Bucket shook his head. “How’s it all going for tonight?” “I think it will work, if that’s what you mean. Perdita seems to have a very good grasp of the part. ” “And Christine?” “She has an astonishingly good grasp of wearing a dress. Between them, they make one prima donna. ” The proud owner of the Opera House got slowly to his feet. “It all seemed so simple,” he moaned. “I thought: opera, how hard can it be? Songs. Pretty girls dancing. Nice scenery. Lots of people handing over cash. Got to be better than the cut-throat world of yogurt, I thought. Now everywhere I go there’s—” Something crunched under his shoe. He picked up the remains of a pair of half-moon spectacles. “These are Dr. Undershaft’s, aren’t they?” he said. “What’re they doing here?” His eyes met Salzella’s steady gaze. “Oh, no ,” he groaned. Salzella turned slightly, and stared hard at a big double-bass case leaning against the wall. He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, no ,” said Bucket, again. “Go on. Open it. My hands have gone all sweaty…” Salzella padded across to the case and grasped the lid. “Ready?” Bucket nodded, wearily. The case was flung open. “Oh, no!” Salzella craned round to see. “Ah, yes,” he said. “A broken neck, and the body has been kicked in considerably. That’ll cost a dollar or two to repair, and no mistake. ” “And all the strings are busted! Are double basses more expensive to rebuild than violins?” “I am afraid that all musical instruments are incredibly expensive to repair, with the possible exception of the triangle,” said Salzella. “However, it could have been worse, hmm?” “What?” “Well, it could have been Dr. Undershaft in there, yes?” Bucket gaped at him, and then shut his mouth. “Oh, Yes. Of course. Oh, yes. That would have been worse. Yes. Bit of luck there, I suppose. Yes. Um. ” “So that’s an opera house, is it?” said Granny. “Looks like someone built a great big box and glued the architecture on afterward. ” She coughed, and appeared to be waiting for something. “Can we have a look around?” said Nanny dutifully, aware that Granny’s curiosity was equaled only by her desire not to show it. “It can’t do any harm, I suppose,” said Granny, as if granting a big favor. “Seein’ as we’ve nothing else to do right this minute. ” The Opera House was, indeed, that most efficiently multifunctional of building designs. It was a cube. But, as Granny had pointed out, the architect had suddenly realized late in the day that there ought to be some sort of decoration, and had shoved it on hurriedly, in a riot of friezes, pillars, corybants, and curly bits. Gargoyles had colonized the higher reaches. The effect, seen from the front, was of a huge wall of tortured stone. Round the back, of course, there was the usual drab mess of windows, pipes and damp stone walls. One of the rules of a certain type of public architecture is that it only happens at the front. Granny paused under a window. “Someone’s singing,” she said. “Listen. ” “La-la-la-la-la-LAH,” trilled someone. “Do-Re-Mi-Fah-So-La-Ti-Do…” “That’s opera, right enough,” said Granny. “Sounds foreign to me. ” Nanny had an unexpected gift for languages; she could be comprehensibly incompetent in a new one within an hour or two. What she spoke was one step away from gibberish but it was authentically foreign gibberish. And she knew that Granny Weatherwax, whatever her other qualities, had an even bigger tin ear for languages than she did for music. “Er. Could be,” she said. “There’s always a lot going on, I know that. Our Nev said they sometimes do different operations every night. ” “How did he find that out?” said Granny. “Well, there was a lot of lead. That takes some shifting. He said he liked the noisy ones. He could hum along and also no one heard the hammering. ” The witches strolled onward. “Did you notice young Agnes nearly bump into us back there?” said Granny. “Yes. It was all I could do not to turn around,” said Nanny. “She wasn’t very pleased to see us, was she? I practically heard her gasp. ” “That’s very suspicious, if you ask me,” said Nanny. “I mean, she sees two friendly faces from back home, you’d expect her to come runnin’ up…” “We’re old friends, after all. Old friends of her grandma and her mum, anyway, and that’s practic’ly the same. ” “Remember those eyes in the teacup?” said Nanny. “She could be under the gaze of some strange occult force! We got to be careful. People can be very tricky when they’re in the grip of a strange occult force. Remember Mr. Scruple over in Slice?” “That wasn’t a strange occult force. That was acid stomach. ” “Well, it certainly seemed strangely occult for a while. Especially if the windows were shut. ” Their perambulation had taken them to the Opera House’s stage door. Granny looked up at a line of posters. “La Triviata,” she read aloud. “ The Ring of the Nibelungingung… ?” “Well, basically there are two sorts of opera,” said Nanny, who also had the true witch’s ability to be confidently expert on the basis of no experience whatsoever. “There’s your heavy opera, where basically people sing foreign and it goes like ‘Oh, oh, oh, I am dyin’, oh, I am dyin’, oh, oh, oh, that’s what I’m doin’,” and there’s your light opera, where they sing in foreign and it basically goes ‘Beer! Beer! Beer! Beer! I like to drink lots of beer!’, although sometimes they drink champagne instead. That’s basically all of opera, reely. ” “What? Either dyin’ or drinkin’ beer?” “Basically, yes,” said Nanny, contriving to suggest that this was the whole gamut of human experience. “And that’s opera?” “We-ll…there might be some other stuff. But mostly it’s stout or stabbin’. ” Granny was aware of a presence. She turned. A figure had emerged from the stage door, carrying a poster, a bucket of glue and a brush. It was a strange figure, a sort of neat scarecrow in clothes slightly too small for it, although, to be truthful, there were probably no clothes that would have fit that body. The ankles and wrists seemed infinitely extensible and independently guided. It encountered the two witches standing at the poster board, and stopped politely. They could see the sentence marshaling itself behind the unfocused eyes. “Excuse me ladies! The show must go on!” The words were all there and they made sense, but each sentence was fired out into the world as a unit. Granny pulled Nanny to one side. “Thank you!” They watched in silence as the man, with great and meticulous care, applied paste to a neat rectangle and then affixed the poster, smoothing every crease methodically. “What’s your name, young man?” said Granny. “Walter!” “That’s a nice beret you have there. ” “My mum bought it for me!” Walter chased the last air bubble to the edge of the paper and stood back.
Then, completely ignoring the witches in his preoccupation with his task, he picked up the paste pot and went back inside. The witches stared at the new poster in silence. “Y’know, I wouldn’t mind seein’ an operation,” said Nanny, after a while. “Senior Basilica did give us the tickets. ” “Oh, you know me,” said Granny. “Can’t be having with that sort of thing at all. ” Nanny looked sideways at her, and grinned to herself. This was a familiar Weatherwax opening line. It meant: Of course I want to, but you’ve got to persuade me. “You’re right, o’ course,” she said. “It’s for them folks in all their fine carriages. It’s not for the likes of us. ” Granny looked hesitant for a moment. “I expect it’s having ideas above our station,” Nanny went on. “I expect if we went in they’d say: Be off, you nasty ole crones…” “Oh, they would, would they?” “I don’t expect they want common folk like what we are comin’ in with all those smart nobby people,” said Nanny. “Is that a fact? Is that a fact, madam? You just come with me!” Granny stalked round to the front of the building, where people were already alighting from coaches. She pushed her way up the steps and shouldered through the crowd to the ticket office. She leaned forward. The man behind the grille leaned back. “Nasty old crones, eh?” she snapped. “I beg your pardon—?” “Not before time! See here, we’ve got tickets for—” She looked down at the pieces of cardboard, and pulled Nanny Ogg over. “It says here Stalls. The cheek of it! Stalls? Us?” She turned back to the ticket man. “See here, Stalls aren’t good enough, we want seats in”—she looked up at the board by the ticket window—“the Gods. Yes, that sounds about right. ” “I’m sorry? You’ve got tickets for Stalls seats and you want to exchange them for seats in the Gods?” “Yes, and don’t you go expecting us to pay any more money!” “I wasn’t going to ask you for—” “Just as well!” said Granny, smiling triumphantly. She looked approvingly at the new tickets. “Come, Gytha. ” “Er, excuse me,” said the man as Nanny Ogg turned away, “but what is that on your shoulders?” “It’s…a fur collar,” said Nanny. “Excuse me , but I just saw it flick its tail. ” “Yes. I happen to believe in beauty without cruelty. ” Agnes was aware of something happening backstage. Little groups of men were forming, and then breaking up as various individuals hurried away about their mysterious tasks. Out in front the orchestra was already tuning up. The chorus was filing on to be A Busy Marketplace, in which various jugglers, gypsies, sword swallowers and gaily dressed yokels would be entirely unsurprised at an apparently drunken baritone strolling on to sing an enormous amount of plot at a passing tenor. She saw Mr. Bucket and Mr. Salzella deep in argument with the stage manager. “How can we search the entire building? This place is a maze!” “He might have just wandered off somewhere…?” “He’s as blind as a bat without those glasses. ” “But we can’t be certain something’s happened to him. ” “Oh, yes? You didn’t say that when we opened the double-bass case. You were certain he was going to be inside. Admit it. ” “I…wasn’t expecting just to find a smashed double bass, yes. But I was feeling a bit mithered at that point. ” A sword swallower nudged Agnes. “What?” “Curtain up in one minute, dear,” he said, smearing mustard on his sword. “Has something happened to Dr. Undershaft?” “Couldn’t say, dear. You wouldn’t have any salt, would you?” “’Scuse me. ’Scuse me. Sorry. ’Scuse me. Was that your foot? ’Scuse me…” Leaving a trail of annoyed and pained patrons in their wake, the witches trod their way to their seats. Granny elbowed herself comfortable and then, having in some matters the boredom threshold of a four-year-old, said: “What’s happenin’ now?” Nanny’s skimpy knowledge of opera didn’t come to her aid. So she turned to the lady beside her. “’Scuse me, could I borrow your program? Thank you. ’Scuse me, could I borrow your spectacles? So kind. ” She spent a few moments in careful study. “This is the overture,” she said. “It’s kind of a free sample of what’s going to happen. ’S got a summary of the story, too. La Triviata. ” Her lips moved as she read. Occasionally her brow wrinkled. “Well, it’s quite simple reely,” she said, at last. “A lot of people are in love with one another, there’s considerable dressing up as other people and general confusion, there’s a cheeky servant, no one really knows who anyone is, a couple of ole dukes go mad, chorus of gypsies, etc. Your basic opera. Someone’s prob’ly going to turn out to be someone else’s long-lost son or daughter or wife or something. ” “Shh!” said a voice behind them. “Wish we’d brought something to eat,” muttered Granny. “I think I’ve got some peppermints in my knicker leg. ” “Shh!” “I would like my spectacles back, please. ” “Here you are, ma’am. They’re not very good, are they?” Someone tapped Nanny Ogg on the shoulder. “Madam, your fur stole is eating my chocolates!” And someone tapped Granny Weatherwax on her shoulder. “Madam, kindly remove your hat. ” Nanny Ogg choked on her peppermint. Granny Weatherwax turned to the red-faced gentleman behind her. “You do know what a woman in a pointy hat is, don’t you?” she said. “ Yes , madam. A woman in a pointy hat is sitting in front of me. ” Granny gave him a stare. And then, to Nanny’s surprise, she removed her hat. “I do beg your pardon,” she said. “I can see I was inadvertently bad-mannered. Pray excuse me. ” She turned back to the stage. Nanny Ogg started breathing again. “You feeling all right, Esme?” “Never better. ” Granny Weatherwax surveyed the auditorium, oblivious to the sounds around her. “ I assure you, madam, your fur is eating my chocolates. It’s started on the second layer! ” “ Oh, dear. Show him the little map inside the lid, will you? He’s only after the truffles, and you can soon rub the dribble off the others. ” “ Do you mind being quiet? ” “ I don’t mind, it’s this man and his chocolates that’s making the noise— ” A big room, Granny thought. A great big room without windows… There was a tingling in her thumbs. She looked at the chandelier. The rope disappeared into an alcove in the ceiling. Her gaze passed along the rows of Boxes. They were all quite crowded. On one, though, the curtains were almost closed, as if someone inside wanted to see out without being seen. Then Granny looked among the Stalls. The audience was mainly human. Here and there was the hulking shape of a troll, although the troll equivalent of operas usually went on for a couple of years. A few dwarf helmets gleamed, although dwarfs normally weren’t interested in anything without dwarfs in. There seemed to be a lot of feathers down there, and here and there the glint of jewelry. Shoulders were being worn bare this season. A lot of attention had been paid to appearances. The people were here to look, not to see. She closed her eyes. This was when you started being a witch. It wasn’t when you did headology on daft old men, or mixed up medicines, or stuck up for yourself, or knew one herb from another. It was when you opened your mind to the world and carefully examined everything it picked up. She ignored her ears until the sounds of the audience became just a distant buzz. Or, at least, a distant buzz broken by the voice of Nanny Ogg. “Says here that Dame Timpani, who sings the part of Quizella, is a diva,” said Nanny. “So I reckon this is like a part-time job, then. Prob’ly quite a good idea, on account of you have to be able to hold your breath. Good trainin’ for the singin’. ” Granny nodded without opening her eyes. She kept them closed as the opera started. Nanny, who knew when to leave her friend to her own devices, tried to keep quiet but felt impelled to give out a running commentary. Then she said, “There’s Agnes! Hey, that’s Agnes!” “Stop wavin’ and sit down,” murmured Granny, trying to hold on to her waking dream. Nanny leaned over the balcony. “She’s dressed up as a gypsy,” she said.
“And now there’s a girl come forward to sing”—she peered at the stolen program—“the famous ‘Departure’ aria, it says here. Now that’s what I call a good voice—” “That’s Agnes singin’,” said Granny. “No, it’s this girl Christine. ” “Shut your eyes, you daft old woman, and tell me if that isn’t Agnes singin’,” said Granny. Nanny Ogg obediently shut her eyes for a moment, and then opened them again. “It’s Agnes singing!” “Yes. ” “But there’s that girl with the big smile right out there in front moving her lips and everything!” “Yes. ” Nanny scratched her head. “Something a bit wrong here, Esme. Can’t have people stealing our Agnes’s voice. ” Granny’s eyes were still shut. “Tell me if the curtains on that Box down there on the right have moved,” she said. “I just saw them twitch, Esme. ” “Ah. ” Granny let herself relax again. She sank into the seat as the aria washed over her, and opened her mind once more… Edges, walls, doors… Once a space was enclosed it became a universe of its own. Some things remained trapped in it. The music passed through one side of her head and out the other, but with it came other things, strands of things, echoes of old screams… She drifted down further, down below the conscious, into the darkness beyond the circle of firelight. There was fear here. It stalked the place like a great dark animal. It lurked in every corner. It was in the stones. Old terror crouched in the shadows. It was one of the most ancient terrors, the one that meant that no sooner had mankind learned to walk on two legs than it dropped to its knees. It was the terror of impermanence, the knowledge that all this would pass away, that a beautiful voice or a wonderful figure was something whose arrival you couldn’t control and whose departure you couldn’t delay. It wasn’t what she had been looking for, but it was perhaps the sea in which it swam. She went deeper. And there it was, roaring through the nighttime of the soul of the place like a deep cold current. As she drew closer she saw that it was not one thing but two, twisted around one another. She reached out… Trickery. Lies. Deceit. Murder. “No!” She blinked. Everyone had turned to look at her. Nanny tugged at her dress. “Sit down, Esme!” Granny stared. The chandelier hung peacefully over the crowded seats. “They beat him to death!” “What’s that, Esme?” “And they throw him into the river!” “Esme!” “ Sh! ” “ Madam, will you sit down at once! ” “… and now it’s started on the Nougat Whirls! ” Granny snatched at her hat and did a crabwise run along the row, crushing some of the finest footwear in Ankh-Morpork under her thick Lancre soles. Nanny hung back reluctantly. She’d quite enjoyed the song, and she wanted to applaud. But her pair of hands wasn’t necessary. The audience had exploded as soon as the last note had died away. Nanny Ogg looked at the stage, and took note of something, and smiled. “Like that, eh?” “Gytha!” She sighed. “Coming, Esme. ’Scuse me. ’Scuse me. Sorry. ’Scuse me…” Granny Weatherwax was out in the red plush corridor, leaning with her forehead against the wall. “This is a bad one, Gytha,” she muttered. “It’s all twisted up. I ain’t at all sure I can make it happen right. The poor soul…” She straightened up. “Look at me, Gytha, will you?” Gytha obediently opened her eyes wide. She winced a little as a fragment of Granny Weatherwax’s consciousness crept behind her eyes. Granny put her hat on, tucking in the occasional errant wisp of gray hair and then taking, one by one, the eight hat pins and ramming them home with the same frowning deliberation with which a mercenary might check his weapons. “All right,” she said at last. Nanny Ogg relaxed. “It’s not that I mind, Esme,” she said, “but I wish you’d use a mirror. ” “Waste of money,” said Granny. Now fully armored, she strode off along the corridor. “Glad to see you didn’t lose your temper with the man who went on about your hat,” said Nanny, running along behind. “No point. He’s going to be dead tomorrow. ” “Oh, dear. What of?” “Run over by a cart, I think. ” “Why didn’t you tell him?” “I could be wrong. ” Granny reached the stairs and thundered down them. “Where’re we going?” “I want to see who’s behind those curtains. ” The applause, distant but still thunderous, filled the stairwell. “They certainly like Agnes’s voice,” said Nanny. “Yes. I hopes we’re in time. ” “Oh, bugger!” “What?” “I left Greebo up there!” “Well, he likes meeting new people. Good grief, this place is a maze. ” Granny stepped out into a curved corridor, rather plusher than the one they had left. There was a series of doors along it. “Ah. Now, then…” She walked along the row, counting, and then tried a handle. “Can I help you, ladies?” They turned. A little old woman had come up softly behind them, carrying a tray of drinks. Granny smiled at her. Nanny Ogg smiled at the tray. “We were just wondering,” said Granny, “which person in these Boxes likes to sit with the curtains nearly shut?” The tray began to shake. “Here, shall I hold that for you?” said Nanny. “You’ll spill something if you’re not careful. ” “What do you know about Box Eight?” said the old lady. “Ah. Box Eight,” said Granny. “That’d be the one, yes. That’s this one over here, isn’t it…?” “No, please…” Granny strode forward and grasped the handle. The door was locked. The tray was thrust into Nanny’s welcoming hands. “Well, thank you, I don’t mind if I do…” she said. The woman pulled at Granny’s arm. “Don’t! It’ll bring terrible bad luck!” Granny thrust out her hand. “The key, madam!” Behind her, Nanny inspected a glass of champagne. “Don’t make him angry! It’s bad enough as it is!” The woman was clearly terrified. “Iron,” said Granny, rattling the handle. “Can’t magic iron…” “Here,” said Nanny, stepping forward a little unsteadily. “Give me one of your hat pins. Our Nev’s taught me all kindsa tricks…” Granny’s hand rose to her hat, and then she looked at Mrs. Plinge’s lined face. She lowered her hand. “No,” she said. “No, I reckon we’ll leave it for now…” “I don’t know what’s happening…” sobbed Mrs. Plinge. “It never used to be like this…” “Have a good blow,” said Nanny, handing her a grubby handkerchief and patting her kindly on the back. “…there was none of this killing people…he just wanted somewhere to watch the opera…it made him feel better…” “Who’s this we’re talking about?” said Granny. Nanny Ogg gave her a warning look over the top of the old woman’s head. There were some things best left to Nanny. “…he’d unlock it for an hour every Friday for me to tidy up and there was always his little note saying thank you or apologizing for the chocolates down the seat…and where was the harm in it, that’s what I’d like to know…” “Have another good blow,” said Nanny. “…and now there’s people dropping like flies out of the flies…they say it’s him, but I know he never meant any harm…” “’Course not,” said Nanny, soothingly. “…many’s the time I’ve seen ’em look up at the Box. They always felt the better for it if they saw him…and then poor Mr. Pounder was strangulated. I looked around and there was his hat, just like that…” “It’s terrible when that happens,” said Nanny Ogg. “What’s your name, dear?” “Mrs. Plinge,” sniffed Mrs. Plinge. “It came right down in front of me. I’d have recognized it anywhere…” “I think it would be a good idea if we took you home, Mrs. Plinge,” said Granny. “Oh, dear! I’ve got all these ladies and gentlemen to see to! And anyway it’s dangerous going home this time of night…Walter walks me home but he’s got to stay late tonight…oh dear…” “Have another good blow,” said Nanny. “Find a bit that isn’t too soggy. ” There was a series of sharp pops. Granny Weatherwax had interlocked her fingers and extended her hands at arm’s length, so that her knuckles cracked. “Dangerous, eh?” she said. “Well, we can’t see you all upset like this. I’ll walk you home and Mrs. Ogg will see to things here. ” “…only I’ve got to attend to the Boxes…I’ve got all these drinks to serve…could’ve sworn I had them a moment ago…” “Mrs. Ogg knows all about drinks,” said Granny, glaring at her friend.
“There’s nothing I don’t know about drinks,” agreed Nanny, shamelessly emptying the last glass. “Especially these. ” “…and what about our Walter? He’ll worry himself silly…” “Walter’s your son?” said Granny. “Wears a beret?” The old woman nodded. “Only I always comes back for him if he’s working late…” she began. “You come back for him…but he sees you home?” said Granny. “It’s…he’s…he’s…” Mrs. Plinge rallied. “He’s a good boy,” she said defiantly. “I’m sure he is, Mrs. Plinge,” said Granny. She carefully lifted the little white bonnet off Mrs. Plinge’s head and handed it to Nanny, who put it on, and also took the little white apron. That was the good thing about black. You could be nearly anything, wearing black. Mother Superior or Madam, it was really just a matter of the style. It just depended on the details. There was a click. Box Eight had bolted itself. And then there was the very faint scrape of a chair being wedged under the door handle. Granny smiled, and took Mrs. Plinge’s arm. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said. Nanny nodded, and watched them go. There was a little cupboard at the end of the corridor. It contained a stool, Mrs. Plinge’s knitting, and a small but very well stocked bar. There were also, on a polished mahogany plank, a number of bells on big coiled springs. Several of them were bouncing up and down angrily. Nanny poured herself a gin and gin with a dash of gin and inspected the rows of bottles with considerable interest. Another bell started to ring. There was a huge jar of stuffed olives. Nanny helped herself to a handful and blew the dust off a bottle of port. A bell fell off its spring. Somewhere out in the corridor a door opened and a young man’s voice bellowed, “Where are those drinks, woman!” Nanny tried the port. Nanny Ogg was used to the idea of domestic service. As a girl, she’d been a maid at Lancre Castle, where the king was inclined to press his intentions and anything else he could get hold of. Young Gytha Ogg had already lost her innocence * but she had some clear ideas about unwelcome intentions, and when he jumped out at her in the scullery she had technically committed treason with a large leg of lamb swung in both hands. That had ended her life below stairs and put a lengthy crimp in the king’s activities above them. The brief experience had given her certain views which weren’t anything so definite as political but were very firmly Oggish. And Mrs. Plinge had looked as if she didn’t get very much to eat and not a lot of time to sleep, either. Her hands had been thin and red. Nanny had a lot of time for the Plinges of the world. Did port go with sherry? Oh, well, no harm in trying… All the bells were ringing now. It must be coming up to the interval. She methodically unscrewed the top off a jar of cocktail onions, and thoughtfully crunched a couple. Then, as other people started to poke their heads around the doors and make angry demands, she went to the champagne shelf and took down a couple of magnums. She gave them a damn good shake, tucked one under each arm with a thumb on the corks, and stepped out into the corridor. Nanny’s philosophy of life was to do what seemed like a good idea at the time, and do it as hard as possible. It had never let her down. The curtains closed. The audience was still on its feet, applauding. “What happens now?” whispered Agnes to the next gypsy. He pulled off his bandanna. “Well, dear, we generally nip out to—Oh, no, they’re going for a curtain call!” The curtains opened again. The light caught Christine, who curtsied and waved and sparkled. Her fellow gypsy nudged Agnes. “Look at Dame Timpani,” he said. “There’s a nose in a sling if ever I saw one. ” Agnes stared at the prima donna. “She’s smiling,” she said. “So does a tiger, dear. ” The curtains shut once more, with a finality that said the stage manager was going to strike the set and would scream at someone if they dared to touch those ropes again… Agnes ran off with the others. There wasn’t too much to do in the next act. She’d tried to memorize the plot earlier—although other members of the chorus had done their best to dissuade her, on the basis that you could either sing them or understand them, but not both. Nevertheless, Agnes was conscientious. “…so Peccadillo (ten. ), the son of Duke Tagliatella (bass), has secretly disguised himself as a swineherd to woo Quizella, not knowing that Doctor Bufola (bar. ) has sold the elixir to Ludi the servant, without realizing he is really the maid Iodine (sop. ) dressed up as a boy because Count Artaud (bar. ) claims that…” A deputy stage manager pulled her out of the way and waved at someone in the wings. “Lose the countryside, Ron. ” There was a series of whistles from offstage, answered by another from above. The backcloth rose. From the gloom above, the sandbag counterweights began to descend. “…then Artaud reveals, er, that Zibeline must marry Fideli, I mean Fiabe, not knowing, er, that the family fortunes…” The sandbags came down. On one side of the stage, at least. On the other side, Agnes was interrupted in her impossible task by the screaming, and looked around into the upside-down and not at all well features of the late Dr. Undershaft. Nanny skipped through a handy door, shut it behind her, and leaned on it. After a few moments the sound of running feet clattered past. Well, that had been fun. She removed the lace bonnet and apron and, because there was a basic honesty in Nanny, she tucked them in a pocket to give back to Mrs. Plinge later. Then she pulled out a flat, round black shape and banged it against her arm. The point shot out. After a few adjustments her official hat was almost as good as new. She looked around. A certain absence of light and carpeting, together with a very presence of dust, suggested that this was a part of the place the public weren’t supposed to see. Oh, damn. She supposed she had better find another door. Of course, that’d mean she’d have to leave Greebo, wherever he was, but he’d turn up. He always did when he wanted feeding. There was a flight of steps leading down. She followed them to a corridor which was slightly better lit and ambled along it for quite a way. And then all she had to do was follow the screams. She emerged among the flats and jumbled props backstage. No one bothered about her. The appearance of a small, amiable old lady was not about to cause comment at this point. People were running backward and forward, shouting. More impressionable people were just standing in one place and screaming. A large lady was sprawled over two chairs having hysterics, while some distracted stagehands tried to fan her with a script. Nanny Ogg was not certain whether something important had happened or whether this was just a continuation of opera by other means. “I should loosen her corsets, if I was you,” she said as she ambled past. “Good heavens, madam, there’s enough panic in here as it is!” Nanny moved on to an interesting crowd of gypsies, noblemen and stagehands. Witches are curious by definition and inquisitive by nature. She moved in. “Let me through. I’m a nosy person,” she said, employing both elbows. It worked, as this sort of approach generally does. There was a dead person lying on the floor. Nanny had seen death in a wide variety of guises, and certainly knew strangulation when it presented itself. It wasn’t the nicest end, although it could be quite colorful. “Oh dear,” she said. “Poor man. What happened to him?” “Mr. Bucket says he must have got caught up in the—” someone began. “He didn’t get caught in anything! This is the Ghost’s work!” said someone else. “He could still be up there!” All eyes turned upward. “Mr. Salzella’s sent some stagehands to flush him out. ” “Have they got flaming torches?” said Nanny. Several of them looked at her as if wondering, for the first time, who she was. “What?” “Got to have flaming torches when you’re tracking down evil monsters,” said Nanny. “Well-known fact. ” There was a moment while this sunk in, and then: “That’s true. ” “She’s right, you know.
” “Well-known fact, dear. ” “Did they have flaming torches?” “Don’t think so. Just ordinary lanterns. ” “Oh, they’re no good,” said Nanny. “That’s for smugglers, lanterns. For evil monsters you need flaming—” “Excuse me, boys and girls!” The stage manager had stood on a box. “Now,” he said, a little pale around the face, “I know you’re all familiar with the phrase ‘the show must go on’…” There was a chorus of groans from the chorus. “It’s very hard to sing a jolly song about eating hedgehogs when you’re waiting for an accident to happen to you,” shouted a gypsy king. “Funny thing, if we’re talking about songs about hedgehogs, I myself—” Nanny began, but no one was paying her any attention. “Now, we don’t actually know what happened—” “Really? Shall we guess?” said a gypsy. “—but we have men up in the fly loft now—” “Oh? In case of more accidents ?” “—and Mr. Bucket has authorized me to say that there will be an additional two dollars’ bonus tonight in recognition of your bravely agreeing to continue with the show —” “Money? After a shock like this? Money? He thinks he can offer us a couple of dollars and we’ll agree to stay on this cursed stage?” “Shame!” “Heartless!” “Unthinkable!” “Should be at least four!” “Right! Right!” “For shame, my friends! To talk about a few dollars when there is a dead man lying there…Have you no respect for his memory?” “Exactly! A few dollars is disrespectful. Five dollars or nothing!” Nanny Ogg nodded to herself, and wandered off and found a sufficiently big piece of cloth to cover the late Dr. Undershaft. Nanny rather liked the theatrical world. It was its own kind of magic. That was why Esme disliked it, she reckoned. It was the magic of illusions and misdirection and foolery, and that was fine by Nanny Ogg, because you couldn’t be married three times without a little fooling. But it was just close enough to Granny’s own kind of magic to make Granny uneasy. Which meant she couldn’t leave it alone. It was like scratching an itch. People didn’t take any notice of little old ladies who looked as though they fitted in, and Nanny Ogg could fit in faster than a dead chicken in a maggot factory. Besides, Nanny had one additional little talent, which was a mind like a buzz saw behind a face like an elderly apple. Someone was crying. A strange figure was kneeling beside the late chorus master. It looked like a puppet with the strings cut. “Can you give me a hand with this sheet, mister?” said Nanny quietly. The face looked up. Two watery eyes, running with tears, blinked at Nanny. “He won’t wake up!” Nanny mentally changed gear. “That’s right, luv,” she said. “You’re Walter, ain’t you?” “He was always very good to me and our mum! He never gave me a kick!” It was obvious to Nanny that there was no help here. She knelt down and began to do her best with the departed. “Miss they say it were the Ghost miss! It weren’t the Ghost miss! He’d never do a thing like that! He was always good to me and our mum!” Nanny changed gear again. You had to slow down a bit for Walter Plinge. “My mum’d know what to do!” “Yes, well…she’s gone home early, Walter. ” Walter’s waxy face started to contort into an expression of terminal horror. “She mustn’t walk home without Walter to look after her!” he shouted. “I bet she always says that,” said Nanny. “I bet she always makes sure her Walter’s with her when she goes home. But I expect that right now she’d want her Walter to just get on with things so’s she can be proud of him. Show’s not half over yet. ” “’S dangerous for our mum!” Nanny patted his hand and absentmindedly wiped her own hand on her dress. “That’s a good boy,” she said. “Now, I’ve got to go off—” “The Ghost wouldn’t harm no one!” “Yes, Walter, only I’ve got to go but I’ll find someone to help you and you must put poor Dr. Undershaft somewhere safe until after the show. Understand? And I’m Mrs. Ogg. ” Walter gawped at her, and then nodded sharply. “Good boy. ” Nanny left him still looking at the body and headed farther backstage. A young man hurrying past found that he’d suddenly acquired an Ogg. “’Scuse me, young man,” said Nanny, still holding his arm, “but d’you know anyone around here called Agnes? Agnes Nitt?” “Can’t say I do, ma’am. What does she do?” He made to hurry on as politely as possible, but Nanny’s grip was steel. “She sings a bit. Big girl. Voice with double joints in it. Wears black. ” “You don’t mean Perdita?” “Perdita? Oh, yes. That’d be her all right. ” “I think she’s seeing to Christine. They’re in Mr. Salzella’s office. ” “Would Christine be the thin girl in white?” “Yes, ma’am. ” “And I expect you’re going to show me where this Mr. Salzella’s office is?” “Er, am I—Er, yes. It’s just along the stage there, first door on the right. ” “What a good boy to help an old lady,” said Nanny. Her grip increased to a few ounces short of cutting off circulation. “And wouldn’t it be a good idea if you helped young Walter back there do something respectful for the poor dead man?” “Back where?” Nanny turned around. The late Dr. Undershaft had gone nowhere, but Walter had vanished. “Poor chap was a bit upset, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Nanny. “Only to be expected. So…how about if you got another strapping young lad to help you out instead?” “Er…yes. ” “What a good boy,” Nanny repeated. It was mid-evening. Granny and Mrs. Plinge pushed their way through the crowds toward the Shades, a part of the city that was as thronged as a rookery, fragrant as a cesspit, and vice versa. “So,” said Granny, as they entered the network of fetid alleys, “your boy Walter usually sees you home, does he?” “He’s a good boy, Mistress Weatherwax,” said Mrs. Plinge defensively. “I’m sure you’re grateful for a strong lad to lean on,” said Granny. Mrs. Plinge looked up. Looking into Granny’s eyes was like looking into a mirror. What you saw looking back at you was yourself, and there was no hiding place. “They torment him so,” she mumbled. “They poke at him and hide his broom. They’re not bad boys round here, but they will torment him. ” “He brings his broom home, does he?” “He looks after his things,” said Mrs. Plinge. “I’ve always brought him up to look after his things and not be a trouble. But they will poke the poor soul and call him such names…” The alleyway opened into a yard, like a well between the high buildings. Washing lines crisscrossed the rectangle of moonlit sky. “I’m just in here,” said Mrs. Plinge. “Much obliged to you. ” “How does Walter get home without you?” said Granny. “Oh, there’s plenty of places to sleep in the Opera House. He knows that if I don’t come for him he’s to stop there for the night. He does what he’s told, Mistress Weatherwax. He’s never any trouble. ” “I never said he was. ” Mrs. Plinge fumbled in her purse, as much to escape Granny’s stare as to look for the key. “I expect your Walter sees most of what goes on in the Opera House,” said Granny, taking one of Mrs. Plinge’s wrists in her hand. “I wonder what your Walter…saw?” The pulse jumped at the same time as the thieves did. Shadows unfolded themselves. There was the scrape of metal. A low voice said, “There’s two of you, ladies, and there’s six of us. There’s no use in screaming. ” “Oh, deary deary me,” said Granny. Mrs. Plinge dropped to her knees. “Oh, please don’t hurt us, kind sirs, we are harmless old ladies! Haven’t you got mothers?” Granny rolled her eyes. Damn, damn and blast. She was a good witch. That was her role in life. That was the burden she had to bear. Good and Evil were quite superfluous when you’d grown up with a highly developed sense of Right and Wrong. She hoped, oh she hoped, that young though these were, they were dyed-in-the-wool criminals… “I ’ad a mother once,” said the nearest thief. “Only I think I must of et ’er…” Ah. Top marks. Granny raised both hands to her hat to draw out two long hat pins… A tile slid off the roof, and splashed into a puddle. They looked up. A caped figure was visible for a moment against the moonlight. It thrust out a sword at arm’s length. Then it dropped, landing lightly in front of one astonished man.
The sword whirled. The first thief spun and thrust at the shadowy shape in front of him, which turned out to be another thief, whose arm jerked up and dragged its own knife along the rib cage of the thief beside him. The masked figure danced among the gang, his sword almost leaving trails in the air. It occurred to Granny later that it never actually made contact, but then, it never needed to—when six are against one in a mêlée in the shadows, and especially if those six aren’t used to a target that is harder to hit than a wasp, and even more so if they got all their ideas of knife fighting from other amateurs, then there’s six chances in seven that they’ll stab a crony and about one chance in twelve that they’ll nick their own earlobe. The two that remained uninjured after ten seconds looked at one another, turned, and ran. And then it was over. The surviving vertical figure bowed low in front of Granny Weatherwax. “Ah. Bella Donna!” There was a swirl of black cloak and red silk, and it too was gone. For a moment soft footsteps could be heard skimming over the cobbles. Granny’s hand was still halfway to her hat. “Well I never!” she said. She looked down. Various bodies were groaning or making soft bubbling noises. “Deary deary me,” she said. Then she pulled herself together. “I reckon we’re going to need some nice hot water and some bits of bandage, and a good sharp needle for the stitching, Mrs. Plinge,” she said. “We can’t let these poor men bleed to death now, can we, even if they do try to rob old ladies…” Mrs. Plinge looked horrified. “We’ve got to be charitable, Mrs. Plinge,” Granny insisted. “I’ll pump up the fire and tear up a sheet,” said Mrs. Plinge. “Don’t know if I can find a needle…” “Oh, I ’spect I’ve got a needle,” said Granny, extracting one from the brim of her hat. She knelt down by a fallen thief. “It’s rather rusty and blunt,” she added, “but we shall have to do the best we can. ” The needle gleamed in the moonlight. His round, frightened eyes focused on it, and then on Granny’s face. He whimpered. His shoulder blades tried to dig him into the cobbles. It was perhaps as well that no one else could see Granny’s face in the shadows. “Let’s do some good,” she said. Salzella threw his hands in the air. “Supposing he’d come down in the middle of the act?” he said. “All right, all right ,” said Bucket, who was sitting behind his desk as a man might hide behind a bunker. “I agree. After the show we call in the Watch. No two ways about it. We shall just have to ask them to be discreet. ” “Discreet? Have you ever met a Watchman?” said Salzella. “Not that they’ll find anything. He’ll have been over the rooftops and away, you may depend upon it. Whoever he is. Poor Dr. Undershaft. He was always so highly strung. ” “Never more so than tonight,” said Salzella. “That was tasteless!” Salzella leaned over the desk. “Tasteless or not, the company are theater people. Superstitious. One little thing like someone being murdered onstage and they go all to pieces. ” “He wasn’t murdered onstage, he was murdered offstage. And we can’t be sure it was murder! He’d been very…depressed, lately. ” Agnes had been shocked, but it hadn’t been shock at Dr. Undershaft’s death. She’d been astonished at her own reaction. It had been startling and unpleasant to see the man, but even worse to see herself actually being interested in what was happening—in the way people reacted, in the way they moved, in the things they said. It had been as if she’d stood outside herself, watching the whole thing. Christine, on the other hand, had just folded up. So had Dame Timpani. Far more people had fussed over Christine than around the prima donna, despite the fact that Dame Timpani had come around and fainted again quite pointedly several times and had eventually been forced to go for hysterics. No one had assumed for a minute that Agnes couldn’t cope. Christine had been carried into Salzella’s backstage office and put on a couch. Agnes had to fetch a bowl of water and a cloth and was wiping her forehead, for there are some people who are destined to be carried to comfortable couches and some people whose only fate is fetching a bowl of cold water. “Curtain goes up again in two minutes,” said Salzella. “I’d better go and round up the orchestra. They’ll all be in the Stab In The Back over the road. The swine can get through half a pint before the applause has died away. ” “Are they capable of playing?” “They never have been, so I don’t see why they should start now,” said Salzella. “They’re musicians , Bucket. The only way a dead body would upset them is if it fell in their beer, and even then they’d play if you offered them Dead Body Money. ” Bucket walked over to the recumbent Christine. “How is she?” “She keeps mumbling a bit—” Agnes began. “Cup of tea? Tea? Cup of tea, anyone? Nothing nicer than a cup of tea, well, I tell a lie, but I see the couch is occupied, just my little joke, no offense meant, anyone for a nice cup of tea?” Agnes looked around in horror. “Well, I could certainly do with one,” said Bucket, with false joviality. “How about you, miss?” Nanny winked at Agnes. “Er…no, thank you…do you work here?” said Agnes. “I’m just helping out for Mrs. Plinge, who has been taken poorly,” said Nanny, giving her another wink. “I’m Mrs. Ogg. Don’t mind me. ” This seemed to satisfy Bucket, if only because random tea distributors represented the most minor of threats at this point. “It’s more like Grand Guignol than opera out there tonight,” said Nanny. She nudged Bucket. “’S foreign for ‘blood all over the stage,’” she said helpfully. “Really. ” “Yep. It means…Big Gignol. ” Music started in the distance. “That’s the overture to Act Two,” said Bucket. “Well, if Christine is still unwell, then…” He looked desperately at Agnes. Well, at a time like this people would understand. Agnes’s chest swelled further with pride. “Yes, Mr. Bucket?” “Perhaps we could find you a white—” Christine, her eyes still shut, raised her wrist to her forehead and groaned. “Oh, dear, what happened?” Bucket knelt down instantly. “Are you all right? You had a nasty shock! Do you think you could go on for the sake of your art and people not asking for their money back?” She gave him a brave smile. Unnecessarily brave, it seemed to Agnes. “I can’t disappoint the dear public!” she said. “ Jolly good!” said Bucket. “I should hurry on out there, then. Perdita will help you—won’t you, Perdita?” “Yes. Of course. ” “And you’ll be in the chorus for the duet,” said Bucket. “ Nearby in the chorus. ” Agnes sighed. “Yes, I know. Come on, Christine. ” “Dear Perdita…” said Christine. Nanny watched them go. Then she said, “I’ll have that cup if you’ve finished with it. ” “Oh. Yes. Yes, it was very nice,” said Bucket. “Er…I had a bit of an accident up at the Boxes,” said Nanny. Bucket clutched at his chest. “How many died?” “Oh, no one died, no one died. They got a bit damp because I spilled some champagne. ” Bucket sagged with relief. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said. “When I say spilled…I mean, it went on happening…” He waved her away. “It cleans up well off the carpet,” he said. “Does it stain ceilings?” “Mrs…. ?” “Ogg. ” “Please just go away. ” Nanny nodded, gathered up the teacups and wandered out of the office. If no one questioned an old lady with a tray of tea, they certainly weren’t bothered about one behind a pile of washing-up. Washing-up is a badge of membership anywhere. As far as Nanny Ogg was concerned, washing-up was also something that happened to other people, but she felt that it might be a good idea to stay in character. She found an alcove with a pump and a sink in it, rolled up her sleeves, and set to work. Someone tapped her on the shoulder. “You shouldn’t do that, you know,” said a voice. “That’s very unlucky. ” She glanced around at a stagehand. “What, washing-up causes seven years’ bad luck?” she said. “You were whistling. ” “Well? I always whistle when I’m thinkin’. ” “You shouldn’t whistle onstage, I meant. ” “It’s unlucky?” “I suppose you could say that.
We use whistle codes when we’re shifting the scenery. Having a sack of sandbags land on you could be unlucky, I suppose. ” Nanny glanced up. His gaze followed hers. Just here the ceiling was about two feet away. “It’s just safest not to whistle,” the boy mumbled. “I’ll remember that,” said Nanny. “No whistlin’. Interestin’. We do live and learn, don’t we?” The curtain went up on Act Two. Nanny watched from the wings. The interesting thing was the way in which people contrived to keep one hand higher than their necks in case of accidents. There seemed to be far more salutes and waves and dramatic gestures than were strictly called for in the opera. She watched the duet between Iodine and Bufola, possibly the first in the history of the opera where both singers kept their eyes turned resolutely upward. Nanny enjoyed music, as well. If music were the food of love, she was game for a sonata and chips at any time. But it was clear that the sparkle had gone out of things tonight. She shook her head. A figure moved through the shadows behind her, and reached out. She turned, and looked at a fearsome face. “Oh, hello, Esme. How did you get in?” “You’ve still got the tickets so I had to talk to the man on the door. But he’ll be right as rain in a minute or two. What’s been happening?” “Well…the Duke’s sung a long song to say that he must be going, and the Count has sung a song saying how nice it is in the springtime, and a dead body’s fallen out of the ceiling. ” “That goes on a lot in opera, does it?” “Shouldn’t think so. ” “Ah. In the theater, I’ve noticed, if you watch dead bodies long enough you can see them move. ” “Doubt if this one’ll move. Strangled. Someone’s murdering opera people. I bin chatting to the ballet girls. ” “Indeed?” “It’s this Ghost they’re all talking about. ” “Hmm. Wears one of those black opera suits and a white mask?” “How did you know that?” Granny looked smug. “I mean, I can’t imagine who’d want to murder opera people…” Nanny thought of the expression on Dame Timpani’s face. “Except p’raps other opera people. And p’raps the musicians. And some of the audience, p’raps. ” “I don’t believe in ghosts,” said Granny firmly. “Oh, Esme! You know I’ve got a dozen of ’em in my house!” “Oh, I believe in ghosts ,” said Granny. “Sad things hangin’ around goin’ woogy woogy woogy…but I don’t believe they kill people or use swords. ” She walked away a little. “There’s too many ghosts here already. ” Nanny kept quiet. It was best to do so when Granny was listening without using her ears. “Gytha?” “Yes, Esme?” “What does ‘Bella Donna’ mean?” “It’s the nobby name for Deadly Nightshade, Esme. ” “I thought so. Huh! The cheek of it!” “Only, in opera, it means Beautiful Woman. ” “Really? Oh. ” Granny’s hand reached up and patted the iron-hard bun of her hair. “Foolishness!” …he’d moved like music, like someone dancing to a rhythm inside his head. And his face for a moment in the moonlight was the skull of an angel… The duet got another standing ovation. Agnes faded gently back into the chorus. She had to do little else during the remainder of the act except dance, or at least move as rhythmically as she could, with the rest of the chorus during the Gypsy Fair, and listen to the Duke singing a song about how lovely the countryside was in summer. With an arm extended dramatically above his head. She kept peering into the wings. If Nanny Ogg was here then the other one would be around somewhere. She wished she’d never written those wretched letters home. Well…they wouldn’t drag her back, no matter what they tried… The remainder of the opera passed without anyone dying, except where the score required them to do so at some length. There was a minor upset when a member of the chorus was almost brained by a sandbag dislodged from a gantry by the stagehands stationed there to prevent accidents. There was more applause at the end. Christine got most of it. And then the curtains closed. And opened and closed a few times as Christine took her bows. Agnes considered she took one more bow than the applause really justified. Perdita, looking out through her eyes, said: Of course she did. And then they closed the curtains for the last time. The audience went home. From the wings, and up in the flies, the stagehands whistled their commands. Parts of the world vanished into the aerial darkness. Someone went around and put out most of the lights. Rising like a birthday cake, the chandelier was winched into its loft so that the candles could be snuffed. Then there were the footsteps of the men leaving the loft… Within twenty minutes of the last hand clap of applause the auditorium was empty and dark, except for just a few lights. There was the clank of a bucket. Walter Plinge walked onto the stage, if such a word could be employed for his mode of progress. He moved like a puppet on elastic strings, so that it seemed only coincidentally that his feet touched the ground. Very slowly, and very conscientiously, he began to mop the stage. After a few minutes a shadow detached itself from the curtains and walked over to him. Walter looked down. “Hello Mister Pussy Cat,” he said. Greebo rubbed against his legs. Cats have an instinct for anyone daft enough to give them food, and Walter certainly was well qualified. “I shall go and find you some milk shall I Mister Cat?” Greebo purred like a thunderstorm. Walking his strange walk, advancing only by averages, Walter disappeared into the wings. There were two dark figures sitting in the balcony. “Sad,” said Nanny. “He’s got a good job in the warm and his mother keeps an eye on him,” said Granny. “A lot of people fare worse. ” “Not a big future for him, though,” said Nanny. “Not when you think about it. ” “There was a couple of cold potatoes and half a herring for their supper,” said Granny. “Hardly a stick of furniture, too. ” “Shame. ” “Mind you, she’s a little bit richer now,” Granny conceded. “Especially if she sells all those knives and boots,” she added to herself. “It’s a cruel world for old ladies,” said Nanny, matriarch of a vast extended tribe and undisputed tyrant of half the Ramtops. “Especially one as terrified as Mrs. Plinge,” said Granny. “Well, I’d be frightened, too, if I was old and had Walter to think about. ” “I ain’t talking about that, Gytha. I know about fear. ” “That’s true,” said Nanny. “Most of the people you meet are full of fear. ” “Mrs. Plinge is living in fear,” said Granny, appearing not to hear this. “Her mind is flat with it. She can’t hardly think for the terror. I could feel it coming off of her like mist. ” “Why? Because of the Ghost?” “I don’t know yet. Not all of it, anyway. But I will find out. ” Nanny fished in the recesses of her clothing. “Fancy a drink?” she said. There was a muffled clink from somewhere in her petticoats. “I got champagne, brandy and port. Also some nibbles and biscuits. ” “Gytha Ogg, I believe you are a thief,” said Granny. “I ain’t!” said Nanny, and added, with that grasp of advanced morality that comes naturally to a witch: “Just because I occasionally technic’ly steal something, that doesn’t make me a thief. I don’t think thief. ” “Let’s get back to Mrs. Palm’s. ” “All right,” said Nanny. “But can we get something to eat first? I don’t mind the cooking, but the grub there is a bit of an all-day breakfast, if you know what I mean…” There was a sound from the stage as they stood up. Walter had returned, followed by a slightly fatter Greebo. Oblivious to the watchers, he continued to mop the stage. “First thing tomorrow,” said Granny, “we’ll go and see Mr. Goatberger the Almanack man again. I’ve had time to think about what to do next. And then we’re going to sort this out. ” She glared at the innocent figure washing the stage and said, under her breath: “What is it you know, Walter Plinge? What is it you’ve seen?” “Wasn’t it amazing ?!” said Christine, sitting up in bed. Her nightdress, Agnes had noted, was white. And extremely lacy. “Yes, indeed,” said Agnes. “Five curtain calls!! Mr.
Bucket says that’s more than anyone’s ever had since Dame Gigli!! I’m sure I won’t be able to sleep for the excitement!!” “So you just drink up that lovely hot milk drink I’ve done for us,” said Agnes. “It took me ages to carry the saucepan up those stairs. ” “And the flowers!!” said Christine, ignoring the mug Agnes had placed beside her. “They started arriving right after the performance, Mr. Bucket said!! He said—” There was a soft knock at the door. Christine adjusted her dress. “Come!!” The door opened and Walter Plinge shuffled in, hidden under the bouquets of flowers. After a few steps he stumbled on his own feet, plunged forward, and dropped them. Then he stared at the two girls in mute embarrassment, turned suddenly, and walked into the door. Christine giggled. “Sorry mu-miss,” said Walter. “Thank you, Walter,” said Agnes. The door closed. “Isn’t he strange?! Have you seen the way he stares at me?! Do you think you could find some water for these, Perdita?!” “Certainly, Christine. It’s only seven flights of stairs. ” “And as a reward I shall drink this lovely drink you have made for me!! Has it got spices in it?” “Oh. yes. Spices,” said Agnes. “It’s not like one of those potions your witches cook up, is it?!” “Er, no,” said Agnes. After all, everyone in Lancre used fresh herbs. “Er…there’s not going to be anything like enough vases for them all, even if I use the guzunder…” “The what?!” “The…you know. It’s goes-under…the bed. Guzunder. ” “You’re so funny !!” “There won’t be, anyway,” said Agnes, blushing hotly. Behind her eyes, Perdita committed murder. “Then put in all the ones from the earls and knights and I shall see to the others tomorrow!” said Christine, picking up the drink. Agnes picked up the kettle and started toward the door. “Perdita, dear?” said Christine, the mug halfway to her lips. Agnes turned. “It did seem to me you were singing the teensiest bit loud, dear! I’m sure it must have been a little difficult for everyone to hear me. ” “Sorry, Christine,” said Agnes. She walked down in darkness. Tonight there was a candle burning in a niche on every second landing. Without them the stairs would have been merely dark; with them, shadows crept and leapt at every corner. She reached the pump in the little alcove by the stage manager’s office, and filled the kettle. Out on the stage, someone began to sing. It was Peccadillo’s part of a duet of three hours earlier, but sung without music and in a tenor voice of such tone and purity that the kettle dropped out of Agnes’s hand and spilled cold water over her feet. She listened for a while, and then realized that she was singing the soprano part under her breath. The song came to an end. She could hear, far off, the hollow sound of footsteps retreating in the distance. She ran to the door to the stage, paused a moment, and then opened it and went forward and out onto the huge dim emptiness. The candles left burning were as much illumination as stars on a clear night. There was no one there. She walked into the center of the stage, and stopped, and caught her breath at the shock. She could feel the auditorium in front of her, the huge empty space making the sound that velvet would make if it could snore. It wasn’t silence. A stage is never silent. It was the noise produced by a million other sounds that have never quite died away—the thunder of applause, the overtures, the arias. They poured down…fragments of tunes, lost chords, snatches of song. She stepped back, and trod on someone’s foot. Agnes spun around. “André, there’s no—” Someone crouched back. “Sorry miss!” Agnes breathed out. “Walter?” “Sorry miss!” “It’s all right! You just startled me. ” “Didn’t see you miss!” Walter was holding something. To Agnes’s amazement, the darker shape in the darkness was a cat, flopped over Walter’s arms like an old rug and purring happily. It was like seeing someone poking their arm into a mincing machine to find out what was jamming it. “That’s Greebo , isn’t it?” “He’s a happy cat! He’s full of milk!” “Walter, why’re you in the middle of the stage in the dark when everyone’s gone home?” “What were you doing miss?” It was the first time she’d heard Walter ask a question. And he’s sort of a janitor, after all, she told herself. He’s allowed to go anywhere. “I…got lost,” she said, ashamed at the lie. “I…I’ll be going up to my room now. Er. Did you hear someone singing?” “All the time miss!” “I meant just now. ” “Just now I’m talking to you miss!” “Oh…” “G’night miss!” She walked through the soft warm gloom to the backstage door, resisting at every step the urge to look round. She collected the kettle and hurried up the stairs. Behind her, on the stage, Walter carefully lowered Greebo to the floor, took off his beret, and removed something white and papery from inside it. “What shall we listen to, Mister Cat? I know, we shall listen to the overture to Die Flederleiv by J. Q. Bubbla, cond. Vochua Doinov. ” Greebo gave him the fat-cheeked look of a cat prepared to put up with practically anything for food. And Walter sat down beside him and listened to the music coming out of the walls. When Agnes got back to the room Christine was already fast asleep, snoring the snore of those in herbal heaven. The mug lay by the bed. It wasn’t a bad thing to do, Agnes reassured herself. Christine probably needed a good night’s sleep. It was practically a kindly act. She turned her attention to the flowers. There were quite a lot of roses and orchids. Most of them had cards attached. Many aristocratic men apparently appreciated good singing or, at least, good singing that appeared to come from a face like Christine’s. Agnes arranged the flowers Lancre fashion, which was to hold the pot with one hand and the bouquet in the other and forcibly bring the two into conjunction. The last bunch was the smallest, and wrapped in red paper. There was no card. In fact, there were no flowers. Someone had merely wrapped up half a dozen blackened and spindly rose stems and then, for some reason, sprayed them with scent. It was musky and rather pleasant, but a bad joke all the same. She threw them in the bin with the rubbish, blew out the candle, and sat down to wait. She wasn’t certain for whom. Or what. After a minute or two she was aware that there was a glow coming from the waste bin. It was the barest fluorescence, like a sick glowworm, but it was there. She crawled across the floor and peered in. There were rosebuds on the dead sticks, transparent as glass, visible only by the glimmer on the edge of each petal. They flickered like marsh lights. Agnes lifted them out carefully and fumbled in the darkness for the empty mug. It wasn’t the best of vases, but it would have to do. Then she sat and watched the ghostly flowers until… …someone coughed. She jerked her head up, aware that she’d fallen asleep. ” “Madam?” “Sir?!” The voice was melodious. It suggested that, at any minute, it might break into song. “Attend. Tomorrow you must sing the part of Laura in Il Truccatore. We have much to do. One night is barely enough. The aria in Act One will occupy much of our time. ” There was a brief passage of violin music. “Your performance tonight was…good. But there are areas that we must build upon. Attend. ” “Did you send the roses?!” “You like the roses? They bloom only in darkness. ” “Who are you?! Was it you I heard singing just now!?” There was silence for a moment. “Yes. ” Then: “Let us examine the role of Laura in Il Truccatore— ‘The Master of Disguise’, also sometimes vulgarly known as ‘The Man with a Thousand Faces’…” When the witches arrived at Goatberger’s offices next morning they found a very large troll sitting on the stairs. It had a club across its knees and held up a shovel-sized hand to prevent them going any farther. “No one’s allowed in,” it said. “Mr. Goatberger is in a meetin’. ” “How long is this meetin’ going to be?” said Granny. “Mr. Goatberger is a very elongated meeter. ” Granny gave the troll an appraising stare. “You been in publishin’ long?” she said. “Since dis mornin’,” said the troll proudly. “Mr.
Goatberger gave you the job?” “Yup. Come up Quarry Lane and picked me special for…”—the troll’s brow creased as it tried to remember the unfamiliar words—“…the fast track inna fast-movin’ worlda publishin’. ” “And what exactly is your job?” “’Ead ’itter. ” “’Scuse me,” said Nanny, pushing forward. “I’d know that strata anywhere. You’re from Copperhead in Lancre, ain’t you?” “So what?” “We’re from Lancre, too. ” “Yeah?” “This is Granny Weatherwax, you know. ” The troll gave her a disbelieving grin, and then its brow corrugated again, and then it looked at Granny. She nodded. “The one you boys call Aaoograha hoa , you know?” said Nanny. “‘She Who Must Be Avoided’?” The troll looked at its club as if seriously considering the possibility of beating itself to death. Granny patted it on the lichen-encrusted shoulder. “What’s your name, lad?” “Carborundum, miss,” it mumbled. One of its legs began to tremble. “Well, I’m sure you’re going to make a good life for yourself here in the big city,” said Granny. “Yes, why don’t you go and start now?” said Nanny. The troll gave her a grateful look and fled, without even bothering to open the door. “Do they really call me that?” said Granny. “Er. Yes,” said Nanny, kicking herself. “It’s a mark of respect, of course. ” “Oh. ” “Er…” “I’ve always done my best to get along with trolls, you know that. ” “Oh, yes. ” “How about the dwarfs?” said Granny, as someone might who had found a hitherto unsuspected boil and couldn’t resist poking it. “Have they got a name for me, too?” “Let’s go and see Mr. Goatberger, shall we?” said Nanny brightly. “ Gytha! ” “Er…well…I think it’s K’ez’rek d’b’duz ,” said Nanny. “What does that mean?” “Er…‘Go Around the Other Side of the Mountain’,” said Nanny. “Oh. ” Granny was uncharacteristically silent as they made their way up the stairs. Nanny didn’t bother to knock. She opened the door and said, “Coo-ee, Mr. Goatberger! It’s us again, just like you said. Oh, I shouldn’t try to get out of the window like that—you’re three flights up and that bag of money is a bit dangerous if you’re climbing around. ” The man edged around the room so that his desk was between him and the witches. “Wasn’t there a troll downstairs?” he said. “It’s decided to break out of publishing,” said Nanny. She sat down and gave him a big smile. “I ’spect you’ve got some money for us. ” Mr. Goatberger realized that he was trapped. His face contorted into a series of twisted expressions as he experimented with some replies. Then he smiled as widely as Nanny and sat down opposite her. “Of course, things are very difficult at the moment,” he said. “In fact I can’t recall a worse time,” he added, with considerable honesty. He looked at Granny’s face. His grin stayed where it was but the rest of his face began to edge away. “People just don’t seem to be buying books,” he said. “And the cost of the etchings, well, it’s wicked. ” “Everyone I knows buys the Almanack,” said Granny. “I reckon everyone in Lancre buys your Almanack. Everyone in the whole Ramtops buys the Almanack, even the dwarfs. That’s a lot of half dollars. And Gytha’s book seems to be doing very well. ” “Well, of course, I’m glad it’s so popular, but what with distribution, paying the peddlers, the wear and tear on—” “Your Almanack will last a household all winter, with care,” said Granny. “Providing no one’s ill and the paper’s nice and thin. ” “My son Jason buys two copies,” said Nanny. “Of course, he’s got a big family. The privy door never stops swinging—” “Yes but, you see, the point is…I don’t actually have to pay you anything ,” said Mr. Goatberger, trying to ignore this. His smile had the face all to itself now. “You paid me to print it, and I gave you your money back. In fact I think our accounts department made a slight error in your favor, but I won’t—” His voice trailed away. Granny Weatherwax was unfolding a sheet of paper. “These predictions for next year…” she said. “Where’d you get that?” “I borrowed it. You can have it back if you like—” “Well, what about them?” “They’re wrong. ” “What do you mean, they’re wrong? They’re predictions! ” “I don’t see there being a rain of curry in Klatch next May. You don’t get curry that early. ” “You know about the predictions business?” said Goatberger. “You? I’ve been printing predictions for years. ” “I don’t do clever stuff for years ahead, like you do,” Granny admitted. “But I’m pretty accurate if you want a thirty-second one. ” “Indeed? What’s going to happen in thirty seconds?” Granny told him. Goatberger roared with laughter. “Oh, yes, that’s a good one, you should be writing them for us!” he said. “Oh, my word. Nothing like being ambitious, eh? That’s better than the spontaneous combustion of the Bishop of Quirm, and that didn’t even happen! In thirty seconds, eh?” “No. ” “No?” “Twenty-one seconds now,” said Granny. Mr. Bucket had arrived at the Opera House early to see if anyone had died so far today. He made it as far as his office without a single body dropping out of the shadows. He really hadn’t expected it to be like this. He’d liked opera. It had all seemed so artistic. He’d watched hundreds of operas and practically no one had died, except once during the ballet scene in La Triviata when a ballerina had rather over-enthusiastically been flung into the lap of an elderly gentleman in the front row of the Stalls. She hadn’t been hurt, but the old man had died in one incredibly happy instant. Someone knocked at the door. Mr. Bucket opened it about a quarter of an inch. “Who’s dead?” he said. “N—no one Mr. Bucket! I’ve got your letters!” “Oh, it’s you, Walter. Thank you. ” He took the bundle and shut the door. There were bills. There were always bills. The Opera House practically runs itself, they’d told him. Well, yes, but it practically ran on money. He rummaged through the let— There was an envelope with the Opera House crest on it. He looked at it like a man looks at a very fierce dog on a very thin leash. It did nothing except lie there and look as gummed as an envelope can be. Finally he disembowelled it with the paper knife and then flung it down on the desk again, as if it would bite. When it did not do so he reached out hesitantly and withdrew the folded letter. It read as follows: My dear Bucket I should be most grateful if Christine sings the role of Laura tonight. I assure you she is more than capable. The second violinist is a little slow, I feel, and the second act last night was frankly extremely wooden. This really is not good enough. May I extend my own welcome to Señor Basilica. I congratulate you on his arrival. Wishing you the very best, The Opera Ghost “Mr. Salzella!” Salzella was eventually located. He read the note. “You do not intend to accede to this?” he said. “She does sing superbly, Salzella. ” “You mean the Nitt girl?” “Well…yes…you know what I mean. ” “But this is nothing less than blackmail!” “Is it? He’s not actually threatening anything. ” “You let her…I mean them, of course…you let them sing last night, and much good it did poor Dr. Undershaft. ” “What do you advise, then?” There was another series of disjointed knocks on the door. “Come in, Walter,” said Bucket and Salzella together. Walter jerked in, holding the coal scuttle. “I’ve been to see Commander Vimes of the city Watch,” said Salzella. “He said he’ll have some of his best men here tonight. Undercover. ” “I thought you said they were all incompetent. ” Salzella shrugged. “We’ve got to do this properly. Did you know Dr. Undershaft was strangled before he was hung?” “Hanged,” said Bucket, without thinking. “Men are hanged. It’s dead meat that’s hung. ” “Indeed?” said Salzella. “I appreciate the information. Well, poor old Undershaft was strangled, apparently. And then he was hung. ” “Really, Salzella, you do have a misplaced sense—” “I’ve finished now Mr. Bucket!” “Yes, thank you, Walter. You may go. ” “Yes Mr. Bucket!” Walter closed the door behind him, very conscientiously. “I’m afraid it’s working here,” said Salzella. “If you don’t find some way of dealing with…are you all right, Mr.
Bucket?” “What?” Bucket, who’d been staring at the closed door, shook his head. “Oh. Yes. Er. Walter…” “What about him?” “He’s…all right, is he?” “Oh, he’s got his…funny little ways. He’s harmless enough, if that’s what you mean. Some of the stagehands and musicians are a bit cruel to him…you know, sending him out for a tin of invisible paint or a bag of nail holes and so on. He believes what he’s told. Why?” “Oh…I just wondered. Silly, really. ” “I suppose he is, technically. ” “No, I meant—Oh, it doesn’t matter…” Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg left Goatberger’s office and walked demurely down the street. At least. Granny walked demurely. Nanny leaned somewhat. Every thirty seconds she’d say, “How much was that again?” “Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty-seven pence,” said Granny. She was looking thoughtful. “I thought it was nice of him to look in all the ashtrays for all the odd coppers he could round up,” said Nanny. “Those he could reach, anyway. How much was that again?” “Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty-seven pence. ” “I’ve never had seventy dollars before,” said Nanny. “I didn’t say just seventy dollars, I said—” “Yes, I know. But I’m working my way up to it gradual. I’ll say this about money. It really chafes. ” “I don’t know why you have to keep your purse in your knicker leg,” said Granny. “It’s the last place anybody would look. ” Nanny sighed. “How much did you say it was?” “Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty-seven pence. ” “I’m going to need a bigger tin. ” “You’re going to need a bigger chimney. ” “I could certainly do with a bigger knicker leg. ” She nudged Granny. “You’re going to have to be polite to me now I’m rich,” she said. “Yes, indeed,” said Granny, with a faraway look in her eyes. “Don’t think I’m not considering that. ” She stopped. Nanny walked into her, with a tinkle of lingerie. The frontage of the Opera House loomed over them. “We’ve got to get back in there,” Granny said. “And into Box Eight. ” “Crowbar,” said Nanny, firmly. “A No. 3 claw end should do it. ” “We’re not your Nev,” said Granny. “Anyway, breaking in wouldn’t be the same thing. We’ve got to have a right to be there. ” “Cleaners,” said Nanny. “We could be cleaners, and…no, ’s not right me being a cleaner now, in my position. ” “No, we can’t have that, with you in your position. ” Granny glanced down at Nanny as a coach pulled up outside the Opera House. “O’ course,” she said, artfulness dripping off her voice like toffee, “we could always buy Box Eight. ” “Wouldn’t work,” said Nanny. People were hurrying down the steps with the cuff-adjusting, sticky looks of welcoming committees everywhere. “They’re scared of selling it. ” “Why not?” said Granny. “There’s people dying and the opera goes on. That means someone’s prepared to sell his own grandmother if he’d make enough money. ” “It’d cost a fortune, anyway,” said Nanny. She looked at Granny’s triumphant expression and groaned. “Oh, Esme! I was going to save that money for me old age!” She thought for a moment. “Anyway, it still wouldn’t work. I mean, look at us, we don’t look like the right kind of people…” Enrico Basilica got out of the coach. “But we know the right kind of people,” said Granny. “Oh, Esme!” The shop bell tinkled in a refined tone, as if it were embarrassed to do something as vulgar as ring. It would have much preferred to give a polite cough. This was Ankh-Morpork’s most prestigious dress shop, and one way of telling was the apparent absence of anything so crass as merchandise. The occasional carefully placed piece of expensive material merely hinted at the possibilities available. This was not a shop where things were bought. This was an emporium where you had a cup of coffee and a chat. Possibly, as a result of that muted conversation, four or five yards of exquisite fabric would change ownership in some ethereal way, and yet nothing so crass as trade would have taken place. “Shop!” yelled Nanny. A lady appeared from behind a curtain and observed the visitors, quite possibly with her nose. “Have you come to the right entrance?” she said. Madame Dawning had been brought up to be polite to servants and tradespeople, even when they were as scruffy as these two old crows. “My friend here wants a new dress,” said the dumpier of the two. “One of the nobby ones with a train and a padded bum. ” “In black,” said the thin one. “And we wants all the trimmings,” said the dumpy one. “Little handbag onna string, pair of glasses onna stick, the whole thing. ” “I think perhaps that might be a leetle more than you’re thinking of spending,” said Madame Dawning. “How much is a leetle?” said the dumpy one. “I mean that this is rather a select dress shop. ” “That’s why we’re here. We don’t want rubbish. My name’s Nanny Ogg and this here is…Lady Esmerelda Weatherwax. ” Madame Dawning regarded Lady Esmerelda quizzically. There was no doubt that the woman had a certain bearing. And she stared like a duchess. “From Lancre,” said Nanny Ogg. “And she could have a conservatory if she liked, but she doesn’t want one. ” “Er…” Madame Dawning decided to play along for a while. “What style were you considering?” “Something nobby,” said Nanny Ogg. “I perhaps would like a leetle more guidance than that—” “Perhaps you could show us some things,” said Lady Esmerelda, sitting down. “It’s for the opera. ” “Oh, you patronize the opera?” “Lady Esmerelda patronizes everything ,” said Nanny Ogg stoutly. Madame Dawning had a manner peculiar to her class and upbringing. She’d been raised to see the world in a certain way. When it didn’t act in that certain way she wobbled a bit but, like a gyroscope, eventually recovered and went on spinning just as if it had. If civilization were to collapse totally and the survivors were reduced to eating cockroaches, Madame Dawning would still use a napkin and look down on people who ate their cockroaches the wrong way around. “I will, er, show you some examples,” she said. “Excuse me one moment. ” She scuttled into the long workrooms behind the shop, where there was considerably less gilt, and leaned against the wall and summoned her chief seamstress. “Mildred, there are two very strange—” She stopped. They’d followed her! They were wandering down the aisle between the rows of dressmakers, nodding at people and inspecting some of the dresses on the dummies. She hurried back. “I’m sure you’d prefer—” “How much is this one?” said Lady Esmerelda, fingering a creation intended for the Dowager Duchess of Quirm. “I am afraid that one is not for sale—” “How much would it be if it was for sale?” “Three hundred dollars, I believe,” said Madame Dawning. “Five hundred seems about right,” said Lady Esmerelda. “Does it?” said Nanny Ogg. “Oh, it does, does it?” The dress was black. At least, in theory it was black. It was black in the same way that a starling’s wing is black. It was black silk, with jet beads and sequins. It was black on holiday. “It looks about my size. We’ll take it. Pay the woman, Gytha. ” Madame’s gyroscope precessed rapidly. “Take it? Now? Five hundred dollars? Pay? Pay now ? Cash ?” “See to it, Gytha. ” “Oh, all right. ” Nanny Ogg turned away modestly and raised her skirt. There was a series of rustlings and elasticated twangings, and then she turned around, holding a bag. She counted out fifty rather warm ten-dollar pieces into Madame Dawning’s unprotesting hand. “And now we’ll go back into the shop and have a poke around for the other stuff,” said Lady Esmerelda. “I fancy ostrich feathers myself. And one of those big cloaks the ladies wear. And one of those fans edged with lace. ” “Why don’t we get some great big diamonds while we’re about it?” said Nanny Ogg sharply. “Good idea. ” Madame Dawning could hear them bickering as they ambled away up the aisle. She looked down at the money in her hand.
She knew about old money, which was somehow hallowed by the fact that people had hung on to it for years, and she knew about new money, which seemed to be being made by all these upstarts that were flooding into the city these days. But under her powdered bosom she was an Ankh-Morpork shopkeeper, and knew that the best kind of money was the sort that was in her hand rather than someone else’s. The best kind of money was mine, not yours. Besides, she was also enough of a snob to confuse rudeness with good breeding. In the same way that the really rich can never be mad (they’re eccentric), so they can also never be rude (they’re outspoken and forthright). She hurried after Lady Esmerelda and her rather strange friend. Salt of the earth, she told herself. She was in time to overhear a mysterious conversation. “I’m being punished, ain’t I, Esme?” “Can’t imagine what you’re talking about, Gytha. ” “Just ’cos I had my little moment. ” “I really don’t follow you. Anyway, you said you were at your wits’ end with thinking what you’d do with the money. ” “Yes, but I’d have quite liked to have been at my wits’ end on a big comfy chase longyou somewhere with lots of big strong men buyin’ me chocolates and pressin’ their favors on me. ” “Money don’t buy happiness, Gytha. ” “I only wanted to rent it for a few weeks. ” Agnes rose late, the music still ringing in her ears, and dressed in a dream. But she hung a bed sheet over the mirror first, just in case. There were half a dozen of the chorus dancers in the canteen, sharing a stick of celery and giggling. And there was André. He was eating something absentmindedly while staring at a sheet of music. Occasionally he’d wave his spoon in the air with a faraway look on his face, and then put it down and make a few notes. In mid-beat he caught sight of Agnes, and grinned. “Hello. You look tired. ” “Er…yes. ” “You’ve missed all the excitement. ” “Have I?” “The Watch have been here, talking to everyone and asking lots of questions and writing things down very slowly. ” “What sort of questions?” “Well, knowing the Watch, probably ‘Was it you what did it, then?’ They’re rather slow thinkers. ” “Oh dear. Does that mean tonight’s performance is canceled?” André laughed. He had a rather pleasant laugh. “I don’t think Mr. Bucket could possibly cancel it!” he said. “Even if people are dropping likes flies out of the flies. ” “Why not?” “People have been queuing for tickets!” “Why?” He told her. “That’s disgusting!” said Agnes. “You mean they’re coming because it might be dangerous?” “Human nature, I’m afraid. Of course, some of them want to hear Enrico Basilica. And…well…Christine seems popular…” He gave her a sorrowful look. “I don’t mind, honestly,” lied Agnes. “Um…how long have you worked here, Andre?” “Er…only a few months. I…used to teach music to the Seriph’s children in Klatch. ” “Um…what do you think about the Ghost?” He shrugged. “Just some kind of madman, I suppose. ” “Um…do you know if he sings? I mean, is good at singing?” “I heard that he sends little critiques to the manager. Some of the girls say they’ve heard someone singing in the night, but they’re always saying silly things. ” “Um…are there any secret passages here?” He looked at her with his head on one side. “Who’ve you been talking to?” “Sorry?” “The girls say there are. Of course, they say they see the Ghost all the time. And sometimes in two places at once. ” “Why should they see him more?” “Perhaps he just likes looking at young ladies. They’re always practicing in odd corners. Besides, they’re all half-crazed with hunger anyway. ” “Aren’t you interested in the Ghost? People have been killed!” “Well, people are saying it might have been Dr. Undershaft. ” “But he was killed!” “He might have hanged himself. He’d been very depressed lately. And he’d always been a bit strange. Nervy. It’s going to be a bit difficult without him, though. Here, I’ve brought you a stack of old programs. Some of the notes may help, since you haven’t been in the opera long. ” Agnes stared at them, unseeing. People were disappearing and the first thought that everyone had was that it was going to be inconvenient without them. The show must go on. Everyone said that. People said it all the time. Often they smiled when they said it, but they were serious all the same, under the smile. No one ever said why. But yesterday, when the chorus had been arguing about the money, everyone knew that they weren’t actually going to refuse to sing. It was all a game. The show went on. She’d heard all the stories. She’d heard about shows continuing while fire raged around the city, while a dragon was roosting on the roof, while there was rioting in the streets outside. Scenery collapsed? The show went on. Leading tenor died? Then appeal to the audience for any student of music who knew the part, and give him his big chance while his predecessor’s body cooled gently in the wings. Why? It was only a performance, for heaven’s sake. It wasn’t like something important. But…the show goes on. Everyone took this so much for granted that they didn’t even think about it anymore, as though there were fog in their heads. On the other hand…someone was teaching her to sing at night. A mysterious person sang songs on the stage when everyone had gone home. She tried to think of that voice belonging to someone who killed people. It didn’t work. Maybe she’d caught some of the fog and didn’t want it to work. What sort of person could have that feel for music and kill people? She’d been idly turning the pages of an old program and a name caught her eye. She quickly shuffled through the others beneath. There it was again. Not in every performance, and never in a major role, but it was there. Generally it played an innkeeper or a servant. “Walter Plinge?” she said. “ Walter? But… he doesn’t sing, does he?” She held up a program and pointed. “What? Oh, no!” André laughed. “Good heavens…it’s a…a kind of convenient name, I suppose. Sometimes someone has to sing a very minor part…perhaps a singer is in a role that they’d rather not be remembered in…well, here, they just go down on the program as Walter Plinge. Lots of theaters have a useful name like that. Like A. N. Other. It’s convenient for everyone. ” “But… Walter Plinge ?” “Well, I suppose it started as a joke. I mean, can you imagine Walter Plinge onstage?” André grinned. “In that little beret he wears?” “What does he think about it?” “I don’t think he minds. It’s hard to tell, isn’t it?” There was a crash from the direction of the kitchen, although it was really more of a crashendo—the long-drawn-out clatter that begins when a pile of plates begins to slip, continues when someone tries to grab at them, develops a desperate counter-theme when the person realizes they don’t have three hands, and ends with the roinroinroin of the one miraculously intact plate spinning around and around on the floor. They heard an irate female voice. “Walter Plinge!” “Sorry Mrs. Clamp!” “Damn thing keeps holding onto the edge of the pan! Let go, you wretched insect—” There was the sound of crockery being swept up, and then a rubbery noise that could approximately be described as a spoing. “ Now where’s it gone?” “Don’t know Mrs. Clamp!” “And what’s that cat doing in here?” André turned back to Agnes and flashed her a sad smile. “It is a little cruel, I suppose,” he said. “The poor chap is a bit daft. ” “I’m not at all sure,” said Agnes, “that I’ve met anyone here who isn’t. ” He grinned again. “I know,” he said.
“I mean, everyone acts as if it’s only the music that matters! The plots don’t make sense! Half the stories rely on people not recognizing their servants or wives because they’ve got a tiny mask on! Large ladies play the part of consumptive girls! No one can act properly! No wonder everyone accepts me singing for Christine—that’s practically normal compared to opera! It’s an operatic kind of idea! There should be a sign on the door saying ‘Leave your common sense here’! If it wasn’t for the music the whole thing would be ridiculous!” She realized he was looking at her with an opera face. “Of course, that’s it, isn’t it. It is the show that matters, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s all show. ” “It’s not meant to be real,” said André. “It’s not like theater. No one’s saying, ‘You’ve got to pretend this is a big battlefield and that guy in the cardboard crown is really a king. ’ The plot’s only there to fill in time before the next song. ” He leaned forward and took her hand. “This must be wretched for you,” he said. No male had ever touched Agnes before, except perhaps to push her over and steal her sweets. She pulled her hand away. “I, er, better go and practice,” she said, feeling the blush start. “You really picked up the role of Iodine very well,” said André. “I, er, have a private tutor,” said Agnes. “Then he’s really studied opera, that’s all I can say. ” “I…think he has. ” “Esme?” “Yes, Gytha?” “It’s not that I’m complaining or anything…” “Yes?” “…but why isn’t it me who’s being the posh opera patronizer?” “Because you’re as common as muck, Gytha. ” “Oh. Right. ” Nanny subjected this statement to some thought and couldn’t see any point of inaccuracy that would sway a jury. “Fair enough. ” “It’s not as though I like this. ” “Shall I do madam’s feet?” said the manicurist. She stared at Granny’s boots and wondered if it might be necessary to use a hammer. “I got to admit, it’s a nice hair style,” said Nanny. “Madam has marvelous hair,” said the hairdresser. “What is the secret?” “You’ve got to make sure there’s no newts in the water,” said Granny. She looked at her reflection in the mirror over the washbasin, and went to look away…and then sneaked another glance. Her lips pursed. “Hmm,” she said. At the other end, the manicurist had succeeded in getting Granny’s boots and socks off. Much to her amazement there was revealed, instead of the corned and bunioned monstrosities she’d been expecting, a pair of perfect feet. She didn’t know where to start because there was nowhere to begin, but this manicure was costing twenty dollars and in those circumstances you damn well find something to do. Nanny sat beside their pile of packages and tried to work everything out on a scrap of paper. She didn’t have Granny’s gift for numbers. They tended to writhe under her gaze and add themselves up wrong. “Esme? I reckon we’ve spent…probably more’n a thousand dollars so far, and that’s not including hirin’ the coach, and we haven’t paid Mrs. Palm for the room. ” “You said nothing was too much trouble to help a Lancre girl,” said Granny. But I didn’t say nothing was too much money, thought Nanny, and then scolded herself for thinking like that. But she was definitely feeling a little lighter in the underwear regions. There seemed to be a general consensus among the artisans of beauty that they’d done what they could. Granny swiveled the chair around. “What do you think?” she said. Nanny Ogg stared. She’d seen many strange things in her life, some of them twice. She’d seen elves and walking stones and the shoeing of a unicorn. She’d had a farmhouse dropped on her head. But she’d never seen Granny Weatherwax in rouge. All her normal expletives of shock and surprise fused instantly, and she found herself resorting to an ancient curse belonging to her grandmother. “Well, I’ll be mogadored !” she said. “Madam has extremely good skin,” said the cosmetics lady. “I know,” said Granny. “Can’t seem to do anything about it. ” “I’ll be mogadored !” said Nanny again. “Powder and paint,” said Granny. “Huh. Just another kind of mask. Oh, well. ” She gave the hairdresser a dreadful smile. “How much do we owe you?” she said. “Er…thirty dollars?” said the hairdresser. “That is…” “Give the w…man thirty dollars and another twenty to make up for his trouble,” said Granny, clutching at her head. “Fifty dollars? You could buy a shop for—” “Gytha!” “Oh, all right. ’Scuse me, I’m just going to the bank. ” She turned away demurely, raised the hem of her skirt— —twangtwingtwongtwang— —and turned back with a handful of coins. “There you go, my good wo…sir,” she said sourly. There was a coach waiting outside. It was the best Granny had been able to hire with Nanny’s money. A footman held open the door as Nanny helped her friend aboard. “We’ll go straight to Mrs. Palm’s so’s I can change,” said Granny as they pulled away. “And then to the Opera House. We ain’t got much time. ” “Are you all right?” “Never felt better. ” Granny patted her hair. “Gytha Ogg, you wouldn’t be a witch if you couldn’t jump to conclusions, right?” Nanny nodded. “Oh, yes. ” There was no shame in it. Sometimes there wasn’t time to do anything else but take a flying leap. Sometimes you had to trust to experience and intuition and general awareness and take a running jump. Nanny herself could clear quite a tall conclusion from a standing start. “So I’ve no doubt at all that there’s some kind of idea floating around in your mind about this Ghost…” “Well…sort of an idea, yes…” “A name, perhaps?” Nanny shifted uncomfortably, and not only because of the money bags under her skirt. “I got to admit something crossed my mind. A kind of…feeling. I mean, you never can tell…” Granny nodded. “Yes. It’s all neat, isn’t it? It’s a lie. ” “You said last night you saw the whole thing!” “It’s still a lie. Like the lie about masks. ” “What lie about masks?” “The way people say they hide faces. ” “They do hide faces,” said Nanny Ogg. “Only the one on the outside. ” No one took much notice of Agnes. The stage was being set for the new performance tonight. The orchestra was rehearsing. The ballerinas had been herded into their practice room. In various other rooms people were singing at cross-purposes. But no one seemed to want her to do anything. I’m just a wandering voice, she thought. She climbed the stairs to her room and sat on the bed. The curtains were still drawn and, in the gloom, the strange roses glowed. She had rescued them from the bin because they were beautiful, but, in a way, she’d have been happier if they weren’t there. Then she could have believed she’d imagined the whole thing. There was no sound from Christine’s room. Telling herself that it was really her room anyway , and Christine had just been allowed to borrow it, Agnes went in. It was a mess. Christine had got up, got dressed—either that or a thorough but overenthusiastic burglar had gone through every drawer in the place—and gone. The bouquets that Agnes had put into whatever receptacles she could find last night were where she had left them. The others were where she had left them, too, and they were already dying. She caught herself wondering where she could find some jars and pots for them, and hated herself for it. It was as bad as saying “poot!” You might as well paint WELCOME on yourself and lie down on the doorstep of the universe. It was no fun at all, having a wonderful personality. Oh…and good hair. And then she went and found pots for them anyway. The mirror dominated the room. It seemed to grow a little larger each time she looked at it. All right. She had to know, didn’t she? Heart pounding, she felt around the edges of it. There was a little raised area that might have looked like part of the frame, but as her fingers moved across it there was a “click” and the mirror swung inward a fraction of an inch. When she pushed at it, it moved. She breathed out. And stepped in. “It’s disgusting!” said Salzella. “It’s pandering to the most depraved taste!” Mr. Bucket shrugged.
“It’s not as though we’re putting ‘Good Chance of Seeing Someone Throttled on Stage’ on the posters,” he said. “But news has got around. People like…drama. ” “You mean the Watch didn’t want us to shut down?” “No. They just said we should mount guards like last night and they’d take steps. ” “Steps to the nearest place of safety, no doubt. ” “I don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s gone too far. We need the Watch now. Anyway, there’d be a riot if we closed. Ankh-Morpork has always enjoyed…excitement. We’re completely sold out. The show must go on. ” “Oh, yes,” said Salzella nastily. “Would you like me to slit a few throats in the second act? Just so no one feels disappointed?” “Of course not,” said Bucket. “We don’t want any deaths. But…” The “but” hung in the air like the late Dr. Undershaft. Salzella threw up his hands. “Anyway, I believe we are past the worst,” said Mr. Bucket. “I hope so,” said Salzella. “Where’s Señor Basilica?” said Bucket. “Mrs. Plinge is showing him his dressing room. ” “Mrs. Plinge hasn’t been murdered?” “No, no one has been found dead so far today,” said Salzella. “That is good news. ” “Yes, and it must be, oh, at least ten past twelve,” said Salzella with an irony that Bucket quite failed to notice. “I will go and fetch him up so that we can have lunch, shall I? It must be a good half an hour since he had a snack. ” Bucket nodded. After the director had gone he surreptitiously checked his desk drawers again. There was no letter. Perhaps it was over…Perhaps it was true what they were saying about the late doctor. Someone knocked at the door, four times. Only one person could achieve four knocks without any rhythm whatsoever. “Come in, Walter. ” Walter Plinge stumbled into the room. “There’s a lady!” he said. “She’s to see Mr. Bucket!” Nanny Ogg poked her head around the door. “Coo-ee,” she said. “It’s only me. ” “It’s…Mrs. Ogg, isn’t it?” said Mr. Bucket. There was something slightly worrying about the woman. He didn’t recall her name on the list of employees. On the other hand, she was clearly around the place, she wasn’t dead, and she made a decent cup of tea, so was it his worry if she wasn’t getting paid? “Good gracious, I’m not the lady ,” said Nanny Ogg. “I’m as common as muck, me, on the highest authority. No, she’s waiting down in the foyer. I thought I’d better nip around here and warn you. ” “Warn me? Warn me about what? I don’t have any other appointments this morning. Who is this lady?” “Have you ever heard of Lady Esmerelda Weatherwax?” “No. Should I?” “Famous patron of the opera. Conservatories all over the place,” said Nanny. “Pots of money, too. ” “Really? But I’m due to—” Bucket looked out of the window. There was a coach and four horses outside. It had so much rococo ornamentation on it that it was surprising it ever managed to move. “Well, I—” he began again. “It is really very incon—” “She ain’t the sort of person who likes to be kept waiting,” said Nanny, with absolute honesty. And then, because Granny had been getting on her nerves all morning and the initial embarrassment at Mrs. Palm’s still rankled and there was a streak of mischief in Nanny a mile wide, she added, “They say she was a famous courtesan in her younger days. They say she didn’t like to be kept waiting then, either. Retired now, of course. So they say. ” “You know, I’ve visited most of the major opera houses and I’ve never heard the name,” mused Bucket. “Ah, I heard she likes to keep her donations secret,” said Nanny. Mr. Bucket’s mental compass once again swung around to point due Money. “You’d better show her up,” he said. “I could perhaps give her a few minutes—” “No one ever gave Lady Esmerelda less than half an hour,” said Nanny, and gave Bucket a wink. “I’ll go and fetch her, shall I?” She bustled away, towing Walter behind her. Mr. Bucket stared after her. Then, after a moment’s thought, he got up and checked the set of his mustache in the mirror over the fireplace. He heard the door open and turned with his finest smile in place. It faded only slightly at the sight of Salzella, ushering the impressive bulk of Basilica in front of him. The little manager and interpreter fussed along beside him, like a tugboat. “Ah, Señor Basilica,” said Bucket. “I trust the dressing rooms are to your satisfaction?” Basilica gave him a blank smile while the interpreter spoke in Brindisian, and then replied. “Señor Basilica says they are fine but the larder isn’t big enough,” he said. “Haha,” said Bucket, and then stopped when no one else laughed. “In fact,” he said hurriedly, “Señor Basilica will I’m sure be very happy to hear that our kitchens have made a special effort to—” There was another knock at the door. He hurried across and opened it. Granny Weatherwax stood there, but not for long. She pushed him aside and swept into the room. There was a choking noise from Enrico Basilica. “Which one of you is Bucket?” she demanded. “Er…me…” Granny removed a glove and extended her hand. “So sorry,” she said. “Ai am not used to important people opening their own doors. Ai am Esmerelda Weatherwax. ” “How charming. I’ve heard so much about you,” lied Bucket. “Pray let me introduce you. No doubt you know Señor Basilica?” “Of course,” said Granny, looking Henry Slugg in the eye. “I’m sure Señor Basilica recalls the many happy times we’ve had in other opera houses whose names I can’t quite remember at the moment. ” Henry grimaced a smile, and said something to the interpreter. “That is astonishing,” said the interpreter. “Señor Basilica has just said how fondly he recalls meeting you many times before at opera houses that have just slipped his mind at present. ” Henry kissed Granny’s hand, and looked up at her with pleading in his eyes. My word, thought Bucket, that look he’s giving her…I wonder if they ever— “Oh, uh, and this is Mr. Salzella, our director of music,” he said, remembering himself. “Honored,” said Salzella, giving Granny a firm handshake and looking her squarely in the eye. She nodded. “And what’s the first thing you’d take out of a burning house, Mr. Salzella?” she inquired. He smiled politely. “What would you like me to take, madam?” She nodded thoughtfully and let go of his hand. “May I get you a drink?” said Bucket. “A small sherry,” said Granny. Salzella sidled up to Bucket as he was pouring the drink. “Who the hell is she?” “Apparently she’s rolling in money,” whispered Bucket. “And very keen on opera. ” “Never heard of her. ” “Well, Señor Basilica has, and that’s good enough for me. Make yourself pleasant to them, will you, while I try to sort out lunch. ” He pulled open the door and tripped over Nanny Ogg. “Sorry!” said Nanny, standing up and giving him a cheerful grin. “These doorknobs are a bugger to polish, aren’t they?” “Er, Mrs. —” “Ogg. ” “—Ogg, could you run along to the kitchens and tell Mrs. Clamp there will be another one for lunch, please. ” “Right you are. ” Nanny bustled away. Bucket nodded approvingly. What a reliable old lady, he thought. It wasn’t exactly a secret. When the room had been divided a space had been left between the walls. At the far end it opened onto a staircase, a perfectly ordinary staircase, which even had some grubby daylight via a dirt-encrusted window. Agnes was vaguely disappointed. She had expected, well, a real secret passage, perhaps with a few torches flickering secretly in rather valuable secret wrought-iron holders. But the staircase had just been walled off from the rest of the place at some time. It wasn’t secret—it had merely been forgotten. There were cobwebs in the corners. The cocoons of extinct flies hung down from the ceiling. The air smelled of long-dead birds. But there was a clear track through the dust. Someone had used the stairs several times. She hesitated between up and down, and headed up. That was no great journey—after one more flight it ended at a trapdoor that wasn’t even bolted. She pushed at it, and then blinked in the unaccustomed light. Wind caught at her hair. A pigeon stared at her, and flew away as she poked her head into the fresh air.
The door had opened out onto the Opera House’s roof, just one more item in a forest of sky-lights and air shafts. She went back inside and headed downward. And became aware, as she did so, of the voices… The old stairs hadn’t been totally forgotten. Someone had at least seen their usefulness as an air shaft. Voices filtered up. There were scales, distant music, snatches of conversation. As she went down she passed through layers of noise, like a very carefully made sundae of sound. Greebo sat on top of the kitchen cupboard and watched the performance with interest. “Use the ladle, why don’t you?” said a scene shifter. “It won’t reach! Walter!” “Yes Mrs. Clamp?” “Give me that broom!” “Yes Mrs. Clamp!” Greebo looked up at the high ceiling, to which was affixed a sort of thin, ten-pointed star. In the middle of it was a pair of very frightened eyes. “‘Plunge it into boiling water,’” said Mrs. Clamp, “that’s what it said in the cookbook. It never said ‘Watch out, it’ll grip the sides of the pot and spring straight up in the air—’” She flailed around with the broom handle. The squid shrank back. “And that pasta’s all gone wrong,” she muttered. “I’ve had it grilling for hours and it’s still hard as nails, the wretched stuff. ” “Coo-ee, it’s only me,” said Nanny Ogg, poking her head around the door, and such was the all-embracing nature of her personality that even those who didn’t know who she was took this on trust. “Having a bit of trouble, are you?” She surveyed the scene, including the ceiling. There was a smell of burning pasta in the air. “Ah,” she said. “This’d be the special lunch for Senior Basilica, would it?” “It was meant to be,” said the cook, still making ineffectual swipes. “Blasted thing won’t come down, though. ” Other pots were simmering on the long iron range. Nanny nodded toward them. “What’s everyone else having?” she said. “Mutton and clootie dumplings, with slumpie,” said the cook. “Ah. Good, honest food,” said Nanny, speaking of wall-to-wall suet oiled with lard. “And there’s supposed to be Jammy Devils for pudding and I’ve been so tied up with this wretched thing I haven’t even made a start!” Nanny carefully took the broom out of the cook’s hands. “Tell you what,” she said, “you make enough dumplings and slumpie for five people, and I’ll help by knocking up a quick pudding, how about that?” “Well, that’s a very handsome offer, Mrs. —” “Ogg. ” “The jam’s in the jar by—” “Oh, I won’t bother about jam,” said Nanny. She looked at the spice rack, grinned, and then stepped behind a table for modesty— —twingtwangtwongtwang— —“Got any chocolate?” she said, producing a slim volume. “I’ve got a recipe right here that might be fun…” She licked her thumb and opened the book at page 53. Chocolate Delight with Special Secret Sauce. Yes, thought Nanny, that would be fun. If people wanted to go around teaching people lessons, other people should remember that those people knew a thing or two about people. Scraps of conversation floated out of the walls as Agnes wound her secret way down the forgotten stairs. It was…thrilling. No one was saying anything important. There were no convenient guilty secrets. There were just the sounds of people getting through the day. But they were secret sounds. It was wrong to listen, of course. Agnes had been brought up in the knowledge that a lot of things were wrong. It was wrong to listen at doors, to look people directly in the eye, to talk out of turn, to answer back, to put yourself forward… But behind the walls she could be the Perdita she’d always wanted to be. Perdita didn’t care about anything. Perdita got things done. Perdita could wear anything she wanted. Perdita X Nitt, mistress of the darkness, magdalen of cool, could listen in to other people’s lives. And never, ever have to have a wonderful personality. Agnes knew she should go back up to her room. Whatever lay in the increasingly shadowy depths was probably something she ought not to find. Perdita continued downward. Agnes went along for the ride. The pre-luncheon drinks were going quite well, Mr. Bucket thought. Everyone was making polite conversation and absolutely no one had been killed up to the present moment. And it had been very gratifying to see the tears of gratitude in Señor Basilica’s eyes when he was told that the cook was preparing a special Brindisian meal, just for him. He’d seemed quite overcome. It was reassuring that he knew Lady Esmerelda. There was something about the woman that left Mr. Bucket terribly perplexed. He was finding it a little difficult to converse with her. As a conversational gambit, “Hello, I understand you have a lot of money, can I have some please?” lacked, he felt, a certain subtlety. “So, er, madam,” he ventured, “what brings you to our, er, city?” “I thought perhaps I could come and spend some money,” said Granny. “Got rather a lot of it, you know. Keep havin’ to change banks ’cos they get filled up. ” Somewhere in Bucket’s tortured brain, part of his mind went “whoopee” and clicked its heels. “I’m sure if there’s anything I can do—” he murmured. “As a matter of fact, there is,” said Granny. “I was thinking of—” A gong banged. “Ah,” said Mr. Bucket. “Luncheon is served. ” He extended his arm to Granny, who gave it an odd look before remembering who she was and taking it. There was a small exclusive dining room off his office. It contained a table set for five and, looking rather fetching in a waitress’s lacy bonnet, Nanny Ogg. She bobbed a curtsy. Enrico Basilica made a tiny strangling noise at the back of his throat. “’Scuse me, there’s been a bit of a problem,” said Nanny. “Who’s dead?” said Bucket. “Oh, no one’s dead,” said Nanny. “It’s the dinner, it’s still alive and hangin’ on to the ceiling. And the pasta’s all gone black, see. I said to Mrs. Clamp, I said, it may be foreign but I don’t reckon it should be crunchy—” “This is terrible! What a way to treat an honored guest!” said Bucket. He turned to the interpreter. “Please assure Señor Basilica that we will send out for fresh pasta straight away. What were we having, Mrs. Ogg?” “Roast mutton with clootie dumplings,” said Nanny. Behind the face of Señor Basilica the throat of Henry Slugg made another little growling sound. “And there’s some nice slumpie with a knob of butter,” Nanny went on. Bucket looked around, puzzled. “Is there a dog somewhere in here?” he said. “Well, I for one don’t believe in pandering to singers,” said Granny Weatherwax. “Fancy food, indeed! I never heard the like! Why not give him mutton with the rest of us?” “Oh, Lady Esmerelda, that’s hardly a way to treat—” Bucket began. Enrico’s elbow nudged his interpreter, with the special nudge of a man who could see clootie dumplings vanishing into the long grass if he weren’t careful. He rumbled out a very pointed sentence. “Señor Basilica says he would be more than happy to taste the indigenous food of Ankh-Morpork,” said the interpreter. “No, we really can’t—” Bucket tried again. “In fact Señor Basilica insists that he tries the indigenous food of Ankh-Morpork,” said the interpreter. “’S’right. Si,” said Basilica. “Good,” said Granny. “And give him some beer while you’re about it. ” She gave the tenor’s stomach a playful poke, losing her finger down to the second joint. “Why, in a day or two I expect you could practically turn him into a native!” The wooden stairs gave way to stone. Perdita said: He’ll have a vast cave somewhere under the Opera House. There will be hundreds of candles, casting an exciting yet romantic light over the, yes, the lake, and there will be a dinner table shining with crystal glass and silverware, and of course he will have, yes, a huge organ— Agnes blushed hotly in the darkness. —on which, that is to say, he will play in a virtuoso style many operatic classics. Agnes said: It’ll be damp. There will be rats. “Another clootie dumpling, Senior?” said Nanny Ogg. “Mmfmmfmmf!” “Take two while you’re about it. ” It was an education watching Enrico Basilica eat.
It wasn’t as though he gobbled his food, but he did eat continuously, like a man who intends to go on doing it all day on industrial lines, his napkin tucked neatly into his collar. The fork was loaded while the current consignment was being thoroughly masticated, so that the actual time between mouthfuls was as small as possible. Even Nanny, no stranger to a metabolism going for the burn, was impressed. Enrico Basilica ate like a man freed at last from the tyranny of tomatoes with everything. “I’ll order another mint-sauce tanker, shall I?” she said. Mr. Bucket turned to Granny Weatherwax. “You were saying that you might be inclined to patronize our Opera House,” he murmured. “Oh, yes,” said Granny. “Is Señor Basilica going to sing tonight?” “Mmfmmf. ” “I hope so,” muttered Salzella. “That or explode. ” “Then I shall definitely want to be there,” said Granny. “A little more lamb here, my good woman. ” “Yes ma’am,” said Nanny Ogg, making a face at the back of Granny’s head. “Er…seats for tonight, in fact, are—” Bucket began. “A Box would do me,” said Granny. “I’m not fussy. ” “In fact, even the Boxes are—” “How about Box Eight? I’ve heard as Box Eight is always empty. ” Bucket’s knife rattled on his plate. “Er, Box Eight, Box Eight, you see, we don’t…” “I was thinking of donating a little something,” said Granny. “But Box Eight, you see, although technically unsold, is…” “Two thousand dollars was what I had in mind,” said Granny. “Oh, dear me, your waitress has let her dumplings go all over the place. It’s so difficult to get reliable and polite staff these days, ain’t it…?” Salzella and Bucket stared at one another across the table. Then Bucket said, “Excuse me, my lady, I must just have a brief discussion with my director of music. ” The two men hurried to the far end of the room, where they began to argue in whispers. “Two thousand dollars!” hissed Nanny, watching them. “It might not be enough,” said Granny. “They’re both looking very red in the face. ” “Yes, but two thousand dollars !” “It’s only money. ” “Yes, but it’s only my money, not only your money,” Nanny pointed out. “We witches have always held everything in common, you know that,” said Granny. “Well, yes ,” said Nanny, and once again cut to the heart of the sociopolitical debate. “It’s easy to hold everything in common when no one’s got anything. ” “Why, Gytha Ogg,” said Granny, “I thought you despised riches!” “Right, so I’d like to get the chance to despise them up close. ” “But I knows you, Gytha Ogg. Money’d spoil you. ” “I’d just like the chance to prove that it wouldn’t, that’s all I’m saying. ” “Hush, they’re coming back—” Mr. Bucket approached, smiled uneasily, and sat down. “Er,” he began, “it has to be Box Eight, does it? Only we could perhaps persuade someone in one of the other—” “Wouldn’t hear of it,” said Granny. “I’ve heard that there’s no one ever seen in Box Eight. ” “Er…haha…it’s laughable, I know, but there are some old theatrical traditions associated with Box Eight, absolute rubbish of course, but…” He left the “but” hanging there hopefully. It froze in the face of Granny’s stare. “You see, it’s haunted,” he mumbled. “Oh lawks,” said Nanny Ogg, vaguely remembering to stay in character. “Another vat of slumpie, Senior Basilica? And how about another quart of beer?” “Mmfmmf,” said the tenor encouragingly, taking time out from his eating to point a fork at his empty mug. Granny went on staring. “Excuse me,” said Bucket again. He and Salzella went into another huddle, out of which came sounds like “But two thousand dollars ! That’s a lot of shoes!” Bucket surfaced again. His face was gray. Granny’s stare could do that to people. “Er…because of the danger, er, which of course doesn’t exist, haha, we…that is, the management…feel it incumbent on us to insist, that is, politely request, that if you do enter Box Eight you do so in company with a…man. ” He ducked slightly. “A man?” said Granny. “For protection,” said Bucket in a little voice. “Although who’d protect him we really couldn’t say,” said Salzella under his breath. “We thought perhaps one of the staff…” Bucket mumbled. “Ai am quate capable of finding my own man should the need arise,” said Granny, in a voice with snow on it. Bucket’s polite reply died in his throat when he saw, just behind Lady Esmerelda, Mrs. Ogg grinning like a full moon. “Anyone for pudding?” she said. She held a big bowl on a tray. There seemed to be a haze over it. “My word,” he said, “that looks delicious!” Enrico Basilica looked over the top of his food with the expression of a man who has had the amazing privilege of going to heaven while still alive. “Mmmf!” It was damp. And, with the demise of Mr. Pounder, there were indeed rats. The stone looked old, too. Of course, all stone was old, Agnes told herself, but this had grown old as masonry. Ankh-Morpork had been here for thousands of years. Where other cities were built on clay or rock or loam, Ankh-Morpork was built on Ankh-Morpork. People constructed new buildings on the remains of earlier ones, knocking out a few doorways here and there to turn ancient bedrooms into cellars. The stairs petered out on damp flagstones, in almost total darkness. Perdita thought it looked romantic and gothic. Agnes thought it looked gloomy. If someone used this place they’d need lights, wouldn’t they? And a fumbling search confirmed it. She found a candle and some matches tucked into a niche in the wall. That was sobering for Agnes and Perdita together. Someone used this prosaic book of matches with a picture of a grinning troll on the cover, and this piece of perfectly ordinary candle. Perdita would have preferred a flaming torch. Agnes didn’t know what she would have preferred. It was just that, if a mysterious person came and sang in the walls, and moved around the place like a ghost, and possibly killed people…well, you’d prefer a bit more style than a box of matches with a picture of a grinning troll on it. That was the sort of thing a murderer would use. She lit the candle and, in two minds about it all, went on into the dark. Chocolate Delight with Special Secret Sauce was a great success and heading down the little red lane as though hot-wired. “More, Mr. Salzella?” said Bucket. “This really is first-class stuff, isn’t it? I must congratulate Mrs. Clamp. ” “There is a certain piquancy, I must say,” said the director of music. “How about you, Señor Basilica?” “Mmmf. ” “Lady Esmerelda?” “I don’t mind if I do,” said Granny, passing her plate across. “I’m sure I detect a hint of cinnamon,” said the interpreter, a brown ring around his mouth. “Indeed, and possibly just a trace of nutmeg,” said Mr. Bucket. “I thought…cardamom?” said Salzella. “Creamy yet spicy,” said Bucket. His eyes unfocused slightly. “And curiously…warming. ” Granny stopped chewing, and looked down suspiciously at her plate. Then she sniffed at her spoon. “Is it, er…is it just me, or is it a trifle… warm in here?” said Bucket. Salzella had gripped the arms of his chair. His forehead glistened. “Do you think we could open a window?” he said. “I feel a little…strange. ” “Yes, by all means,” said Bucket. Salzella half-rose, and then a preoccupied expression suffused his features. He sat down suddenly. “No, I rather believe I’ll just sit quietly for a moment,” he said. “Oh, dear,” said the interpreter. There was a hint of vapor around his collar. Basilica tapped him politely on the shoulder, grunted hopefully, and made pass-it-here motions in the direction of the half-finished dish of chocolate pudding. “Mmmf?” he said. “Oh, dear ,” said the interpreter. Mr. Bucket ran a finger around his collar. Sweat was beginning to roll down his face. Basilica gave up on his stricken colleague and reached across in a businesslike way to hook the dish with his fork. “Er…yes,” said Bucket, trying to keep his eyes away from Granny. “Yes…indeed,” said Salzella, his voice coming from a long way away. “Oh, dear ,” said the interpreter, his eyes watering.
“Ai! Meu Deus! Dio Mio! O Goden! D’zuk f’t! Aagorahaa!” Señor Basilica upended the rest of the Special Secret Sauce onto his plate and carefully scraped out the dish with his spoon, holding it upside-down to reach the last little bit. “The weather has been a little…cool of late,” Bucket managed. “Very cold , in fact. ” Enrico held the sauce dish up to the light and regarded it critically in case there was any drop hiding in a corner. “Snow, ice, frost…that sort of thing,” said Salzella. “Yes, indeed! Coldness of all descriptions, in fact. ” “Yes! Yes!” said Bucket gratefully. “And at a time like this I think it is very important to try to remember the names of, say, any number of boring and hopefully chilly things!” “Wind, glaciers, icicles—” “Not icicles!” “Oh,” said the interpreter, and slumped forward into his plate. His head hit a spoon, which cart-wheeled into the air and bounced off Enrico’s head. Salzella started to whistle under his breath and pound the arm of his chair. Bucket blinked. In front of him was the water jug. The cold water jug. He reached out… “Oh, oh, oh , dear me, what can I say, I seem to have spilled it all over myself,” he said, through the rising clouds of steam. “What a butterfingers I am, to be sure. I shall ring for Mrs. Ogg to bring us another one. ” “Yes, indeed,” said Salzella. “And perhaps you would care to do it soon? I am also feeling very…accident-prone. ” Basilica, still chewing, lifted his interpreter’s head off the table and carefully tipped the man’s unfinished pudding into his own plate. “In fact, in fact, in fact,” said Salzella, “I think I shall just…have a brisk…have a nice cold…if you would excuse me a minute…” He pushed back his chair and fled the room in a kind of crouching gait. Mr. Bucket glistened. “I’ll just, I’ll just, I’ll just…be back quite shortly,” he said, and scurried away. There was silence, broken only by the scrape of Señor Basilica’s spoon and a sizzling noise from the interpreter. Then the tenor belched baritone. “Whoops, pardon my Klatchian,” he said. “Oh… damn. ” He appeared to notice the depleted table for the first time. He shrugged, and smiled hopefully at Granny. “Is there a cheese board, do you think?” he said. The door flew open and Nanny Ogg burst in, holding a bucket of water in both hands. “All right, all right, that’s—” she began, and then stopped. Granny dabbed primly at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ogg?” she said. Nanny looked at the empty dish in front of Basilica. “Or perhaps some fruit?” said the tenor. “A few nuts?” “How much has he had?” she whispered. “Best part of half,” said Granny. “But I don’t reckon it’s having any effect on account of not touching the sides. ” Nanny turned her attention to Granny’s plate. “How about you?” she said. “Two helpings,” said Granny. “With extra sauce, Gytha Ogg, may you be forgiven. ” Nanny looked at her with something like admiration in her eyes. “You ain’t even sweating!” she said. Granny picked up her water glass and held it at arm’s length. After a few seconds, the water began to boil. “All right, you’re getting really good, I’ve got to admit it,” said Nanny. “I reckon I should have to get up real early to put one over on you. ” “I reckon you should never go to sleep,” said Granny. “Sorry, Esme. ” Señor Basilica, at a loss to follow the conversation, realized with reluctance that the meal was probably over. “Absolutely superb,” he said. “I just loved that pudding, Mrs. Ogg. ” “I should just jolly well expect you did, Henry Slugg,” said Nanny. Henry carefully removed a clean handkerchief from his pocket, put it over his face, and leaned back in his chair. The first snore occurred a few seconds later. “He’s easy to have around, isn’t he?” said Nanny. “Eat, sleep and sing. You certainly know where you are with him. I’ve found Greebo, by the way. He’s still following Walter Plinge around. ” Her expression became a little defiant. “Say what you like, young Walter’s all right by me if Greebo likes him. ” Granny sighed. “Gytha, Greebo would like Norris the Eyeball-Eating Maniac of Quirm if he knew how to put food in a bowl. ” And now she was lost. She’d done her best not to be. As Agnes had walked through each dank room she’d thoughtfully taken note of details. She’d carefully remembered right and left turns. And yet she was lost. Here and there were steps down to lower cellars, but the water-level was so high that it was lapping at the first step. And it stank. The candle burned with a greenish-blue edge to the flame. Somewhere, said Perdita, there was the secret room. If there wasn’t a huge and glittering secret cavern, what on earth was life for? There had to be a secret room. A room, full of…giant candles, and enormous stalagmites… But it certainly isn’t here , said Agnes. She felt a complete idiot. She’d gone through the mirror looking for…well, she wasn’t quite prepared to admit what she might have been looking for, but whatever it was it certainly wasn’t this. She’d have to shout for help. Of course, someone might hear , but that was always a risk when you shouted for help. She coughed. “Er…hello?” The water gurgled. “Er…help? Is there anyone there?” A rat ran over her foot. Oh, yes , she thought bitterly with Perdita’s part of her brain, if Christine had come down here there probably would have been some great glistening cave and delicious danger. The world saved up rats and smelly cellars for Agnes, because she had such a wonderful personality. “Um…anyone?” More rats scuttled across the floor. There was a faint squeaking from the side passages. “Hello?” She was lost in some cellars with a candle getting shorter by the second. The air was foul, the flagstones were slippery, no one knew where she was, she could die down here, she could be— Eyes glowed in the darkness. One was green-yellow, the other pearly white. A light appeared behind them. Something was coming along the passageway, casting long shadows. Rats tumbled over themselves in their panic to get away… Agnes tried to press herself into the stone. “Hello Miss Perdita X Nitt!” A familiar shape juddered out of the darkness, just behind Greebo. It was all knees and elbows; it carried a sack over one shoulder and held a lantern in its other hand. Something fled from the darkness. The terror leached out of it… “You don’t want to be down here Miss Nitt with all the rats!” “Walter!” “Got to do Mister Pounder’s job now the poor man is passed away! I am a person of all jobs! No peas for the wicked! But Mister Greebo just hits them with his paws and they’re off to rat heaven in a jiff!” “Walter!” repeated Agnes, out of sheer relief. “Come for an explore have you? These ole tunnels goes all the way to the river! You have to keep your wits about you not to get lost down here! Want to come back with me?” It was impossible to be frightened of Walter Plinge. Walter attracted a number of emotions, but terror wasn’t among them. “Er…yes,” said Agnes. “I got lost. Sorry. ” Greebo sat down and started to wash himself in what Agnes considered to be a supercilious way. If a cat could snigger, he would be sniggering. “Now I’ve got a full sack I have to take it to Mister Gimlet’s shop!” announced Walter, turning around and loping out of the cellar without bothering to see if she was following him. “We get a ha’penny each which is not to be sneezed at! The dwarfs think a rat is a good meal which only goes to show it would be a strange world if we were all alike!” It seemed a ridiculously short journey to the foot of some different stairs, which had a well-used look to them. “Have you ever seen the Ghost, Walter?” said Agnes, as Walter put his foot on the first step. He didn’t turn around. “It is wrong to tell lies!” “Er…yes, so I believe. So…when did you last see the Ghost?” “I last saw the Ghost in the big room in the ballet school!” “Really? What did he do?” Walter paused for a moment, and then the words came out all together. “He ran off!” He stamped up the stairs in a way that suggested very emphatically that the exchange was over.
Greebo sneered at Agnes and followed him. The stairs went up just one flight and came out through a trapdoor backstage. She had been lost only a door or two from the real world. No one noticed her emerge. But then no one noticed her at all. They just assumed that she’d be around when she was needed. Walter Plinge had already loped off, in something of a hurry. Agnes hesitated. They probably wouldn’t even notice she wasn’t there, right up to the point when Christine opened her mouth… He hadn’t wanted to answer, but Walter Plinge spoke when spoken to and she had a feeling that he wasn’t able to lie. Telling lies would be being bad. She’d never seen the ballet school. It wasn’t far backstage, but it was a world of its own. The dancers issued from it every day like so many very thin and twittering sheep under the control of elderly women who looked as though they breakfasted on pickled limes. It was only after she’d timidly asked a few questions of the stagehands that she’d realized that the girls had joined the ballet because they wanted to. She had seen the dancers’ dressing room, where thirty girls washed and changed in a space rather smaller than Bucket’s office. It bore the same relationship to ballet as compost did to roses. She looked around again. Still no one had paid any attention to her. She headed for the school. It was up a few steps, along a fetid corridor lined with notice boards and smelling of ancient grease. A couple of girls fluttered past. You never saw just one: they went around in groups, like mayflies. She pushed open the door and stepped into the school. Reflections of reflections of reflections… There were mirrors on every wall. A few girls, practicing on the bars that lined the room, looked up as she entered. Mirrors… Out in the passage she leaned against the wall and got her breath back. She’d never liked mirrors. They always seemed to be laughing at her. But didn’t they say it was the mark of a witch, not liking to get between two mirrors? It sucked out your soul, or something. A witch would never get between two mirrors if she could help it… But, of course, she very definitely wasn’t a witch. So she took a deep breath, and went back into the room. Images of herself stretched away in every direction. She managed a few steps, then wheeled around and groped for the doorway again, watched by the surprised dancers. Lack of sleep, she told herself. And general over-excitement. Anyway, she didn’t need to go right into the room, now that she knew who the Ghost was. It was so obvious. The Ghost didn’t require any mysterious nonexistent caves when all he needed to do was hide where everyone could see him. Mr. Bucket knocked at the door of Salzella’s office. A muffled voice said, “Come in. ” There was no one in the office, but there was another closed door in the far wall. Bucket knocked again, and then rattled the door handle. “I’m in the bath,” said Salzella. “Are you decent?” “I’m fully clothed, if that’s what you mean. Is there a pail of ice out there?” “Was it you who ordered it?” said Bucket guiltily. “Yes!” “Only I, er, I had it taken to my office so I could stick my feet in it…” “Your feet ?” “Yes. Er…I went for a brisk run around the city, don’t know why, just felt like it…” “Well?” “My boots caught fire on the second lap. ” There was a sloshing noise and some sotto voce grumbling and then the door swung open, revealing Salzella in a purple dressing gown. “Has Señor Basilica been safely tethered?” he said, dripping on the floor. “He’s going through the music with Herr Trubelmacher. ” “And he’s…all right?” “He sent along to the kitchen for a snack. ” Salzella shook his head. “Astonishing. ” “And they’ve put the interpreter in a cupboard. They don’t seem to be able to get him unfolded. ” Bucket sat down carefully. He was wearing carpet slippers. “And—” Salzella prompted. “And what?” “Where did that dreadful woman go?” “Mrs. Ogg is showing her around. Well, what else could I do? Two thousand dollars, remember!” “I am endeavoring to forget,” said Salzella. “I promise never to talk about that lunch ever again, if you don’t either. ” “What lunch?” said Bucket innocently. “Well done. ” “She does seem to have an amazing effect though, doesn’t she…” “I don’t know who you are talking about. ” “I mean, it’s not hard to see how she made her money…” “Good heavens, man, she’s got a face like a hatchet!” “They say that Queen Ezeriel of Klatch had a squint, but that didn’t stop her having fourteen husbands, and that was only the official score. Besides, she’s knocking on a bit…” “I thought she’d been dead for two hundred years!” “I’m talking about Lady Esmerelda. ” “So am I. ” “At least try to be civil to her at the soirée before the performance tonight. ” “I’ll try. ” “The two thousand might be only the start, I hope. Every time I open a drawer there are more bills! We seem to owe money to everyone!” “Opera is expensive. ” “You’re telling me. Whenever I try to make a start on the books, something dreadful happens. Do you think I might just have a few hours without something awful happening?” “In an opera house?” The voice was muffled by the half-dismantled mechanism of the organ. “All right—give me middle C. ” A hairy finger pressed a key. It made a thudding noise and somewhere in the mechanism something else went woing. “Blast, it’s come off the peg…hold on…try again…” The note rang out sweet and clear. “O- kay ,” said the voice of the man hidden in the exposed entrails of the organ. “Wait until I tighten the peg…” Agnes stepped closer. The hulking figure seated at the organ turned around and gave her a friendly grin, which was much wider than the average grin. Its owner was covered in red hair and, while short-changed in the leg department, had obviously been first in the queue when the arm counter opened. And had also been given a special free offer of lip. “André?” said Agnes weakly. The organist extracted himself from the mechanism. He was holding a complicated wooden bar with springs on it. “Oh, hello,” he said. “Er…who is this?” said Agnes, backing away from the primeval organist. “Oh, this is the Librarian. I don’t think he has a name. He’s the Librarian at Unseen University but, much more importantly, he’s their organist and it turns out our organ is a Johnson, * just like theirs. He’s given us some spare parts—” “ Ook. ” “Sorry, lent us some spare parts. ” “He plays the organ?” “In an amazingly prehensile way, yes. ” Agnes relaxed. The creature didn’t seem about to attack. “Oh,” she said. “Well…I suppose it’s natural, because sometimes barrel-organ men came to our village and they often had a dear little mon—” There was a crashing chord. The orangutan raised its other hand and waved a finger politely in front of Agnes’s face. “He doesn’t like being called a monkey,” said André. “And he likes you. ” “How can you tell?” “He doesn’t usually go in for warnings. ” She stepped back quickly and grabbed the boy’s arm. “Can I have a word with you?” she said. “We’ve got only a few hours and I’d really like to get this—” “It’s important. ” He followed her into the wings. Behind them, the Librarian tapped a few keys on the half-repaired keyboard and then ducked underneath. “I know who the Ghost is,” whispered Agnes. André stared at her. Then he pulled her farther into the shadows. “The Ghost isn’t anybody ,” he said softly. “Don’t be silly. It’s just the Ghost. ” “I mean he’s someone else when he takes his mask off. ” “Who?” “Should I tell Mr. Bucket and Mr. Salzella?” “ Who? Tell them about who ?” “Walter Plinge. ” He stared at her again. “If you laugh I’ll…I’ll kick you,” said Agnes. “But Walter isn’t even—” “I didn’t believe it either but he said he saw the Ghost in the ballet school and there’s mirrors all over the walls and he’d be quite tall if he stood up properly and he roams around in the cellars—” “Oh, come on… ” “The other night I thought I heard him singing on the stage when everyone else had gone. ” “You saw him?” “It was dark. ” “Oh, well…” André began dismissively.
“But afterward I’m certain I heard him talking to the cat. Talking normally, I mean. I mean like a normal person, I mean. And you’ve got to admit…he is strange. Isn’t he just the sort of person who’d want to wear a mask to hide who he is?” She sagged. “Look, I can see you don’t want to listen—” “No! No, I think…well…” “I just thought I’d feel better if I told someone. ” André smiled in the gloom. “I wouldn’t mention it to anyone else, though. ” Agnes looked down at her feet. “I suppose it does sound a bit far-fetched…” André laid a hand on her arm. Perdita felt Agnes draw herself back. “ Do you feel better?” he said. “I…don’t know…I mean…I don’t know…I mean, I just can’t imagine him hurting anyone…I feel so stupid…” “Everyone’s on edge. Don’t worry about it. ” “I’d…hate you to think I was being silly—” “I’ll keep an eye on Walter, if you like. ” He smiled at her. “But I’d better get on with things,” he added. He gave her another smile, as fast and brief as summer lightning. “Thank y—” He was already walking back to the organ. This shop was a gentlemen’s outfitters. “It’s not for me,” said Nanny Ogg. “It’s for a friend. He’s six foot tall, very broad shoulders. ” “Inside leg?” “Oh, yes. ” She looked around the store. Might as well go all the way. It was her money, after all. “And a black coat, long black tights, shoes with them shiny buckles, one of those top hats, a big cloak with a red silk lining, a bow tie, a really posh black cane with a very nobby silver knob on it…and…a black eye patch. ” “An eye patch?” “Yes. Maybe with sequins or something on it, since it’s the opera. ” The tailor stared at Nanny. “This is a little irregular,” he said. “Why can’t the gentleman come in himself?” “He ain’t quite a gentleman yet. ” “But, madam, I meant that we have to get the size right. ” Nanny Ogg looked around the shop. “Tell you what,” she said, “you sell me something that looks about right and we’ll adjust him to fit. ’Scuse me…” She turned away demurely— —twingtwangtwong— —and turned back, smoothing down her dress and holding a leather bag. “How much’ll it be?” she said. The tailor looked blankly at the bag. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to have all that ready until at least next Wednesday,” he said. Nanny Ogg sighed. She felt she was becoming familiar with one of the most fundamental laws of physics. Time equaled money. Therefore, money equaled time. “I was sort of hoping to get it all a bit quicker than that,” she said, jingling the bag up and down. The tailor looked down his nose at her. “We are craftsmen, madam. How long did you think it should take?” “How about ten minutes?” Twelve minutes later she left the shop with a large packet under one arm, a hat box under the other, and an ebony cane between her teeth. Granny was waiting outside. “Got it all?” “Ess. ” “I’ll take the eye patch, shall I?” “We’ve got to get a third witch,” said Nanny, trying to rearrange the parcels. “Young Agnes has got good strong arms. ” “You know if we was to drag her out of there by the scruff of her neck we’d never hear the last of it,” said Granny. “She’ll be a witch when she wants to be. ” They headed for the Opera House’s stage door. “Afternoon, Les,” said Nanny cheerfully as they entered. “Stopped itching now, has it?” “Marvelous bit of ointment that was you gave me, Mrs. Ogg,” said the stage doorkeeper, his mustache bending into something that might have been a smile. “Mrs. Les keeping well? How’s her sister’s leg?” “Doing very well, Mrs. Ogg, thank you for asking. ” “This is just Esme Weatherwax who’s helping me with some stuff,” said Nanny. The doorkeeper nodded. It was clear that any friend of Mrs. Ogg was a friend of his. “No trouble at all, Mrs. Ogg. ” As they passed through into the dusty network of corridors Granny reflected, not for the first time, that Nanny had a magic all of her own. Nanny didn’t so much enter places as insinuate herself; she had unconsciously taken a natural talent for liking people and developed it into an occult science. Granny Weatherwax did not doubt that her friend already knew the names, family histories, birthdays and favorite topics of conversation of half the people here, and probably also the vital wedge that would cause them to open up. It might be talking about their children, or a potion for their bad feet, or one of Nanny’s really filthy stories, but Nanny would be in and after twenty-four hours they’d have known her all their lives. And they’d tell her things. Of their own free will. Nanny Got On with people. Nanny could get a statue to cry on her shoulder and say what it really thought about pigeons. It was a knack. Granny had never had the patience to acquire it. Just occasionally, she wondered whether it might have been a good idea. “Curtain up in an hour and a half,” said Nanny. “I promised Giselle I’d give her a hand…” “Who’s Giselle?” “She does makeup. ” “You don’t know how to do makeup!” “I distempered our privy, didn’t I?” said Nanny. “And I paint faces on eggs for the kiddies every Soul Cake Tuesday. ” “Got to do anything else, have you?” said Granny sarcastically. “Open the curtains? Fill in for a ballet dancer who’s been taken poorly?” “I did say I’d help with the drinks at the swarray,” said Nanny, letting the irony slide off like water on a red-hot stove. “Well, a lot of the staff have buggered off ’cos of the Ghost. It’s in the big foyer in half an hour. I expect you ought to be there, being a patronizer. ” “What’s a swarray?” said Granny suspiciously. “It’s a sort of posh party before the opera. ” “What do I have to do?” “Drink sherry and make polite conversation,” said Nanny. “Or conversation, anyway. I saw the grub being done for it. They’ve even got little cubes of cheese on sticks stuck in a grapefruit, and you don’t get much posher than that. ” “Gytha Ogg, you ain’t done any… special dishes, have you?” “No, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg meekly. “Only you’ve got an imp of mischief in you. ” “Been far too busy for anything like that,” said Nanny. Granny nodded. “Then we’d better find Greebo,” she said. “You sure about this, Esme?” said Nanny. “We might have a lot to do tonight,” said Granny. “Maybe we could do with an extra pair of hands. ” “Paws. ” “At the moment, yes. ” It was Walter. Agnes knew it. It wasn’t knowledge in her mind, exactly. It was practically something she breathed. She felt it as a tree feels the sun. It all fitted. He could go anywhere, and no one took any notice of Walter Plinge. In a way he was invisible, because he was always there. And, if you were someone like Walter Plinge, wouldn’t you long to be someone as debonair and dashing as the Ghost? If you were someone like Agnes Nitt, wouldn’t you long to be someone as dark and mysterious as Perdita X Dream? The traitor thought was there before she could choke it off. She added hurriedly: But I’ve never killed anyone. Because that’s what I’d have to believe, isn’t it? If he’s the Ghost, then he’s killed people. All the same…he does look odd, and he talks as if the words are trying to escape… A hand touched her shoulder. She spun round. “It’s only me!” said Christine. “…Oh. ” “Don’t you think this is a marvelous dress!?” “What?” “This dress, silly!!” Agnes looked her up and down. “Oh. Yes. Very nice,” she said, disinterest lying on her voice like rain on a midnight pavement. “You don’t sound very impressed!! Really, Perdita, there’s no need to be jealous !!” “I’m not jealous, I was thinking…” She’d only seen the Ghost for a moment, but he certainly hadn’t moved like Walter. Walter walked as though his body were being dragged along by his head. But the certainty was as hard as marble now. “Well, you don’t seem very impressed, I must say!!” “I’m wondering if Walter Plinge is the Ghost,” said Agnes, and immediately cursed herself, or at least pooted. She felt embarrassed enough about André’s reaction. Christine’s eyes widened. “But he’s a clown!!” “He walks odd and he talks odd,” said Agnes, “but if he stood up straight—” Christine laughed. Agnes felt herself getting angry.
“And he practically told me he was!” “You believed him, did you?!” Christine made a little tutting sound that Agnes considered quite offensive. “Really, you girls believe the strangest things!!” “What do you mean, we girls?” “Oh, you know! The dancers are always saying they’ve seen the Ghost all over the place—” “Good grief! Do you think I’m some sort of impressionable idiot? Think for a minute before answering!” “Well, of course I don’t, but—” “Huh!” Agnes strode off into the wings, concerned more with effect than direction. The background noise of the stage faded behind her as she stepped into the scenery store. It didn’t lead anywhere except to a pair of big double doors opening to the world outside. It was full of bits of castles, balconies and romantic prison cells, stacked any old how. Christine hurried up behind her. “I really didn’t mean…look, not Walter… he’s just a very odd odd-job man!” “He does all kinds of jobs! No one ever knows where he is—they all just assume he’s around!” “All right, but you don’t have to get so worked up—” There was the faintest of sounds behind them. They turned. The Ghost bowed. “Who’s a good boy, then? Nanny’s got a bowl of fish eggs for a good boy,” said Nanny, trying to see under the big dresser in the kitchen. “Fish eggs?” said Granny, coldly. “I borrowed them from the stuff they’ve done for the swarray,” said Nanny. “Borrowed?” said Granny. “That’s right. Come along, Greebo, who’s a good boy then?” “Borrowed. You mean…when the cat’s finished with them, you’re going to give them back?” “It’s only a manner of speaking, Esme,” said Nanny in a hurt little voice. “It’s not the same as stealing if you don’t mean it. Come along, boy, here’s some lovely fish eggs for you…” Greebo pulled himself farther into the shadows. There was a little sigh from Christine and she folded up into a faint. But she managed, Agnes noticed sourly, to collapse in a way that probably didn’t hurt when she hit the ground and which showed off her dress to the best effect. It was beginning to dawn on Agnes that Christine was remarkably clever in some specialized ways. She looked back at the mask. “It’s all right,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse even to her. “I know why you’re doing it. I really do. ” No expression could cross that ivory face, but the eyes flickered. Agnes swallowed. The Perdita part of her wanted to give in right now, because that would be more exciting, but she stood her ground. “You want to be something else and you’re stuck with what you are,” said Agnes. “I know all about that. You’re lucky. All you have to do is put on a mask. At least you’re the right shape. But why did you have to go and kill people? Why? Mr. Pounder couldn’t have done you any harm! But…he poked around in odd places, didn’t he, and he…found something?” The Ghost nodded slightly, and then held out his ebony cane. He grasped both ends and pulled, so that a long thin sword slid out. “I know who you are!” Agnes burst out, as he stepped forward. “I…I could probably help you! It might not have been your fault!” She backed away. “ I haven’t done anything to you! You don’t have to be afraid of me!” She backed away farther as the figure advanced. The eyes, in the dark hollows of the mask, glinted like tiny jewels. “I’m your friend , don’t you see? Please, Walter! Walter! ” There was, far off, an answering sound that seemed as loud as thunder and as impossible, in the circumstances, as a chocolate kettle. It was the clank of a bucket handle. “What’s the matter Miss Perdita Nitt?” The Ghost hesitated. There was the sound of footsteps. Irregular footsteps. The Ghost lowered the sword, opened a door in a piece of scenery painted to represent a castle wall, bowed ironically and slipped away. Walter rounded a corner. He was an unlikely knight errant. For one thing, he had on evening dress obviously designed for someone of a different shape. He was still wearing his beret. He also wore an apron and was carrying a mop and bucket. But no heroic lance-wielding rescuer ever galloped over a drawbridge more happily. He was practically surrounded by a golden glow. “…Walter?” “What’s the matter with Miss Christine?” “She…er…she fainted,” said Agnes. “Er. Probably…yes, probably the excitement. With the opera. Tonight. Yes. Probably. The excitement. Because of the opera tonight. ” Walter gave her a slightly worried look. “Yes,” he said, and added patiently, “I know where there’s a medicine box shall I get it?” Christine groaned and fluttered her eyelashes. “Where am I?” Perdita gritted Agnes’s teeth. Where am I? That didn’t sound the sort of thing someone said when they woke up from a faint; it sounded more like the sort of thing they said because they’d heard it was the sort of thing people said. “You fainted,” she said. She looked hard at Walter. “Why were you in here, Walter?” “Got to mop out the stagehands’ privy Miss Nitt. Always having trouble I’ve been working on it for months!” “But you’re wearing evening dress!” “Yes then I got to be a waiter afterward because we’re short-handed and there’s no one else to be a waiter when they have drinks and sausages on poles before the opera. ” No one could have moved that fast. True, Walter and the Ghost hadn’t both been in the room at the same time, but she’d heard his voice. No one could have had time to duck around behind the piles of flats and turn up at the opposite side of the room in seconds, unless they were some sort of wizard. Some of the girls did say the Ghost could almost seem to be in two places at once. Perhaps there were other secret places like the old staircase. Perhaps he— She stopped herself. Walter Plinge wasn’t the Ghost, then. There was no sense in trying to find some excitable explanation to prove wrong right. She’d told Christine. Well, Christine was giving her just a slightly bemused look as Walter helped her up. And she’d told André, but he hadn’t seemed to believe her so probably that was all right. Which meant that the Ghost was… …someone else. She’d been so certain. “You’ll enjoy it, mother. You really will. ” “’Tain’t for the likes of us, Henry. I don’t see why Mr. Morecombe couldn’t give you tickets to see Nellie Stamp at the music hall. Now that’s what I call music. Proper tunes you can understand. ” “Songs like ‘She Sits Among the Cabbages and Leeks’ are not very cultural, mother. ” Two figures wandered through the crowds heading for the Opera House. This was their conversation. “’S a good laugh, though. And you don’t have to hire suits. Seems daft to me, havin’ to wear a special suit just to listen to music. ” “It enhances the experience,” said young Henry, who had read this somewhere. “I mean, how does the music know?” said his mother. “Now, Nellie Stamp—” “Come along , mother. ” It was going to be one of those evenings, he knew it. Henry Lawsy did his best. And, given the starting point, it wasn’t a bad best. He was a clerk in the firm of Morecombe, Slant & Honeyplace, a somewhat old-fashioned legal partnership. One reason for its less-than-modern approach was the fact that Messrs. Morecombe and Honeyplace were vampires and Mr. Slant was a zombie. The three partners were, therefore, technically dead, although this did not prevent them putting in a proper day’s work—normally during the night, in the case of Mr. Morecombe and Mr. Honeyplace. From Henry’s point of view the hours were good and the job was not onerous, but he chafed somewhat about his promotion prospects because clearly dead men’s shoes were being fully occupied by dead men. He’d decided that the only way to succeed was to better himself by Improving His Mind, which he tried to do at every opportunity. It is probably a full description of Henry Lawsy’s mind that if you had given him a book called How to Improve Your Mind in Five Minutes , he would have read it with a stopwatch. His progress through life was hampered by his tremendous sense of his own ignorance, a disability which affects all too few people. Mr. Morecombe had given him two opera tickets as a reward for sorting out a particularly problematical tort.
He’d invited his mother because she represented 100 percent of all the women he knew. People tended to shake Henry’s hand cautiously, in case it came off. He’d bought a book about the opera and read it carefully, because he’d heard that it was absolutely unheard-of to go to an opera without knowing what it was about, and the chance of finding out while you were actually watching it was remote. The book’s reassuring weight was in his pocket right now. All he needed to complete the evening was a less embarrassing parent. “Can we get some peanuts before we go in?” said his mother. “Mother, they don’t sell peanuts at the opera. ” “No peanuts? What’re you supposed to do if you don’t like the songs?” Greebo’s suspicious eyes were two glows in the gloom. “Poke him with a broom handle,” suggested Granny. “No,” said Nanny. “With someone like Greebo you have to use a little bit of kindness. ” Granny closed her eyes and waved a hand. There was a yowl from under the kitchen’s dresser and a sound of frantic scrabbling. Then, his claws scoring tracks in the floor, Greebo came out backward, fighting all the way. “Mind you, a lot of cruelty does the trick as well,” Nanny conceded. “You’ve never been much of a cat person, have you, Esme?” Greebo would have hissed at Granny, except that even his cat brain was just bright enough to realize this was not the best move he could make. “Give him his fish eggs,” Granny said. “He might as well have them now as later. ” Greebo inspected the dish. Oh, this was all right, then. They wanted to give him food. Granny nodded at Nanny Ogg. They held out their hands, palm up. Greebo was halfway through the caviar when he felt It happening. “Wrrroowlllll—” he wailed, and then the voice went deeper as his chest expanded, and rose physically as his back legs lengthened under him. His ears flattened against his head, and then crept down the sides. “—lllllwwaaaa—” “The jacket’s a forty-four-inch chest,” said Nanny. Granny nodded. “—aaaaoooo—” His face flattened. His whiskers spread out. Greebo’s nose developed a life of its own. “—oooooss…sshit!” “He certainly gets the hang of it quicker these days,” said Nanny. “You put some clothes on right now, my lad,” said Granny, who had shut her eyes. Not that this made much difference, she had to admit later. Greebo fully clothed still managed to communicate the nakedness beneath. The insouciant mustache, the long sideburns and the tousled black hair combined with the well-developed muscles to give the impression of the more louche kind of buccaneer or a romantic poet who’d given up on the opium and tried red meat instead. He had a scar running across his face, and a black patch now where it crossed the eye. When he smiled, he exuded an easy air of undistilled, excitingly dangerous lasciviousness. He could swagger while asleep. Greebo could, in fact, commit sexual harassment simply by sitting very quietly in the next room. Except as far as the witches were concerned. To Granny a cat was a damn cat whatever shape it was, and Nanny Ogg always thought of him as Mister Fluffy. She adjusted the bow tie and stood back critically. “What do you think?” she said. “He looks like an assassin, but he’ll do,” said Granny. “Oh, what a nasty thing to say!” Greebo waved his arms experimentally and fumbled with the ebony cane. Fingers took a bit of getting used to, but cat reflexes learned fast. Nanny waved a finger playfully under his nose. He took a half hearted swipe at it. “Now you just stay with Granny and do what she tells you like a good boy,” she said. “Yess, Nan-ny,” said Greebo reluctantly. He managed to grip the stick properly. “And no fighting. ” “No, Nan-ny. ” “And no leaving bits of people on the doormat. ” “No, Nan-ny. ” “We’ll have no trouble like we did with those robbers last month. ” “No, Nan-ny. ” He looked depressed. Humans had no fun. Incredible complications surrounded the most basic activities. “And no turning back into a cat again until we say. ” “Yess, Nan-ny. ” “Play your cards right and there could be a kipper in this for you. ” “Yess, Nan-ny. ” “What’re we going to call him?” said Granny. “He can’t just be Greebo, which I’ve always said was a damn silly name for a cat. ” “Well, he looks aristocratic—” Nanny began. “He looks like a beautiful brainless bully,” Granny corrected her. “Aristocratic,” repeated Nanny. “Same thing. ” “We can’t call him Greebo, anyway. ” “We’ll think of something. ” Salzella leaned disconsolately against the marble banister of the foyer’s grand staircase and stared gloomily into his drink. It had always seemed to him that one of the major flaws in the whole business of opera was the audience. They were quite unsuitable. The only ones worse than the ones who didn’t know anything at all about music, and whose idea of a sensible observation was “I liked that bit near the end when her voice went wobbly,” were the ones who thought they did… “Want a drink do you Mister Salzella? There’s lots you know!” Walter Plinge ambled by, his black suit making him look like a very good class of scarecrow. “Plinge, you just say ‘Drink, sir?’” said the director of music. “And please take off that ridiculous beret. ” “My mum made it for me!” “I’m sure she did, but—” Bucket sidled up to him. “I thought I told you to keep Señor Basilica away from the canapés!” he hissed. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t find a big enough crowbar,” said Salzella, waving away Walter and his beret. “Anyway, isn’t he supposed to be communing with his muse in his dressing room? The curtain goes up in twenty minutes!” “He says he sings better on a full stomach. ” “Then we’re in for a big treat tonight. ” Bucket turned and surveyed the scene. “It’s going well, anyway,” he said. “I suppose so. ” “The Watch are here, you know. In secret. They’re mingling. ” “Ah…let me guess…” Salzella looked around at the crowds. There was, indeed, a very short man in a suit intended for a rather larger man; this was especially the case with the opera cloak, which actually trailed on the floor behind him to give the overall impression of a superhero who had spent too much time around the Kryptonite. He was wearing a deformed fur hat and trying surreptitiously to smoke a cigarette. “You mean that little man with the words ‘Watchman in Disguise’ flashing on and off just above his head?” “Where? I didn’t see that!” Salzella sighed. “It’s Corporal Nobby Nobbs,” he said wearily. “The only known person to require an identity card to prove his species. I’ve watched him mingle with three large sherries. ” “He’s not the only one, though,” said Mr. Bucket. “They’re taking this seriously. ” “Oh, yes,” said Salzella. “If we look over there, for example, we see Sergeant Detritus, who is a troll, and who is wearing what in the circumstances is actually a rather well-fitting suit. It is therefore, I feel, something of a pity he has neglected to remove his helmet. And these, you understand, the Watch has chosen for their ability to blend. ” “Well, they’ll certainly be useful if the Ghost strikes again,” said Bucket, hopelessly. “The Ghost would have to—” Salzella stopped. He blinked. “Oh, good grief,” he whispered. “What has she found?” Bucket turned. “That’s Lady Esmerelda…oh. ” Greebo strolled in alongside her with the gentle swagger that makes women thoughtful and men’s knuckles go white. The buzz of conversation was momentarily hushed, and then rose again to a slightly shriller buzz. “I’m impressed,” said Salzella. “He certainly doesn’t look like a gentleman ,” said Bucket. “Look at the color of that eye!” He set his face into what he hoped was a smile, and bowed. “Lady Esmerelda!” he said. “How pleasant to see you again! Won’t you introduce us to your…guest?” “This is Lord Gribeau,” said Granny. “Mr. Bucket, the owner, and Mr. Salzella, who seems to run the place. ” “Haha,” said Salzella. Gribeau snarled, revealing longer incisors than any that Bucket had seen outside a zoo. And Bucket had never seen such a greenish-yellow eye. The pupil was all wrong… “Ahaha…” he said.
“And may I order you something?” “He’ll have milk,” said Granny firmly. “I expect he has to keep up his strength,” said Salzella. Granny spun around. Her expression would have etched steel. “Anyone for a drink?” said Nanny Ogg, appearing out of nowhere with a tray and adroitly stepping between them like a very small peacekeeping force. “Got a bit of everything here…” “Including a glass of milk, I see,” said Bucket. Salzella looked from one witch to the other. “That’s remarkably foresighted of you,” he said. “Well, you never know,” said Nanny. Gribeau took the glass in both hands and lapped at it with his tongue. Then he looked at Salzella. “What yourrr lookin aat? Neverrr seein mil—uk drun beforr?” “Never quite…like that, I must admit. ” Nanny winked at Granny Weatherwax as she turned to scurry away. Granny caught her arm. “Remember,” she whispered, “when we go into the Box…you keep an eye on Mrs. Plinge. Mrs. Plinge knows something. I ain’t sure what’s going to happen. But it is going to happen. ” “Right,” said Nanny. She bustled off, muttering under her breath, “Oh, yes…do this, do that—” “Drink here, please, ma’am. ” Nanny looked down. “Good grief,” she said. “What are you?” The apparition in the fur hat winked at her. “I’m the Count de Nobbs,” it said, “and this here,” it added, indicating a mobile wall, “is the Count de Tritus. ” Nanny glanced at the troll. “Another Count? I’m sure there’s unaccountably more Counts here than I can count. And what can I get you, officers?” she said. “Officers? Us?” said the Count de Nobbs. “What makes you think we’re Watchmen?” “He’s got a helmet on,” Nanny pointed out. “Also, he’s got his badge pinned to his coat. ” “I told you to put it away!” Nobby hissed. He looked at Nanny and smiled uneasily. “Milit’ry chic,” he said. “It’s just a fashion accessory. Actually, we are gentlemen of means and have nothing to do with the city Watch whatsoever. ” “Well, gentlemen , would you like some wine?” “Not while we on duty, t’anks,” said the troll. “Oh, yes, thank you very much, Count de Tritus,” said Nobby bitterly. “Oh, yes, very undercover, that is! Why don’t you just wave your truncheon around where everyone can see it?” “Well, if you t’ink it’d help—” “Put it away !” The Count de Tritus’s eyebrows met with the effort of thought. “Dat was irony, den, was it? To a superior officer?” “Can’t be a superior officer, can you, ’cos we ain’t Watchmen. Look, Commander Vimes explained it three times…” Nanny Ogg tactfully moved away. It was bad enough watching them blow their cover without sucking at it as well. This was a new world, all right. She was used to a life where the men wore the bright clothes and the women wore black. It made it a lot easier to decide what to put on in the mornings. But inside the Opera House the rules of clothing were all in reverse, just like the laws of common sense. Here the women dressed like frosted peacocks and the men looked like penguins. So…there were coppers here. Nanny Ogg was basically a law-abiding person when she had no reason to break the law, and therefore had that kind of person’s attitude to law-enforcement officers, which was one of deep and permanent distrust. There was their approach to theft, for example. Nanny had a witch’s view of theft, which was a lot more complicated than the attitude adopted by the law and, if it came to it, people who owned property worth stealing. They tended to wield the huge blunt ax of the law in circumstances that required the delicate scalpel of common sense. No, thought Nanny. Policemen with their great big boots were not required here on a night like this. It would be a good idea to put a thumbtack under the ponderous feet of Justice. She ducked behind a gilt statue and fumbled in the recesses of her clothing while people nearby looked around in puzzlement at the erratic twanging of elastic. She was sure she had one around somewhere—she’d packed it in case of emergencies… There was the clink of a small bottle. Ah, yes. A moment later Nanny Ogg emerged decorously with two small glasses on her tray, and headed purposefully for the Watchmen. “Fruit drink, officers?” she said. “Oh, silly me, what am I saying, I didn’t mean officers. Homemade fruit drink?” Detritus sniffed suspiciously, immediately clearing his sinuses. “What’s in it?” he said. “Apples,” said Nanny Ogg promptly. “Well…mainly apples. ” Under her hand, a couple of spilt drops finished eating their way through the metal of the tray and dropped onto the carpet, where they smoked. The auditorium buzzed with the sound of operagoers settling down and Mrs. Lawsy trying to find her shoes. “You really shouldn’t have taken them off, mother. ” “My feet are giving me gyp. ” “Did you bring your knitting?” “I think I must’ve left it in the Ladies. ” “Oh, mother. ” Henry Lawsy marked his place in his book and raised his runny eyes heavenward, and blinked. Right above him—a long way above him—was a glittering circle of light. His mother followed his gaze. “What’s that, then?” “I think it’s a chandelier, mother. ” “It’s a pretty big one. What’s holding it up?” “I’m sure they’ve got special ropes and things, mother. ” “Looks a bit dangerous, to my mind. ” “I’m sure it’s absolutely safe, mother. ” “What do you know about chandeliers?” “I’m sure people wouldn’t come into the Opera House if there was any chance of a chandelier dropping on their heads, mother,” said Henry, trying to read his book. Il Truccatore, The Master of Disguise. Il Truccatore (ten. ), a mysterious nobleman, causes scandal in the city when he woos high-born ladies while disguised as their husbands. However, Laura (sop. ), the new bride of Capriccio (bar. ), refuses to give in to his blandishments— Henry put a bookmark in the book, took a smaller book from his pocket, and carefully looked up “blandishments. ” He was moving in a world he wasn’t quite sure of; embarrassment lay waiting at every turn, and he wasn’t going to get caught out over a word. Henry lived his life in permanent dread of Being Asked Questions Later. —and with the help of his servant Wingie (ten. ) he adopts a subterfuge— The dictionary came out again for a moment. —culminating— And again. —in the scene at the famous Masked Ball at the Duke’s Palace. But Il Truccatore has not reckoned with his old adversary the Count de— “Adversary”…Henry sighed, and reached for his pocket. Curtain up in five minutes… Salzella reviewed his troops. They consisted of scene builders and painters and all those other employees who could be spared for the evening. At the end of the line, about fifty percent of Walter Plinge had managed to stand to attention. “Now, you all know your positions,” said Salzella. “And if you see anything, anything at all, you are to let me know at once. Do you understand?” “Mr. Salzella!” “Yes, Walter?” “We mustn’t interrupt the opera Mr. Salzella!” Salzella shook his head. “People will understand, I’m sure—” “Show must go on Mr. Salzella!” “Walter, you will do what you’re told!” Someone raised a hand. “He’s got a point, though, Mr. Salzella…” Salzella rolled his eyes. “Just catch the Ghost,” he said. “If we can do it without a lot of shouting, that’s good. Of course I don’t want to stop the show. ” He saw them relax. A deep chord rolled out over the stage. “What the hell was that?” Salzella strode behind the stage and was met by André, looking excited. “What’s going on?” “We repaired it, Mr. Salzella! Only…well, he doesn’t want to give up the seat…” The Librarian nodded at the director of music. Salzella knew the orangutan, and among the things he knew was that, if the Librarian wanted to sit somewhere, then that was where he sat. But he was a first-class organist, Salzella had to admit. His lunch-time recitals in the Great Hall of Unseen University were extremely popular, especially since the University’s organ had every single sound-effect that Bloody Stupid Johnson’s inverted genius had been able to contrive.
No one would have believed, before a pair of simian hands had worked on the project, that something like Doinov’s romantic Prelude in G could be rescored for Whoopee Cushion and Squashed Rabbits. “There’s the overtures,” said André, “and the ballroom scene…” “At least get him a bow-tie,” said Salzella. “No one can see him, Mr. Salzella, and he hasn’t really got much of a neck…” “We do have standards, André. ” “Yes, Mr. Salzella. ” “Since you seem to have been relieved of employment this evening, then perhaps you could help us apprehend the Ghost. ” “Certainly, Mr. Salzella. ” “Fetch him a tie, then, and come with me. ” A little later, left to himself, the Librarian opened his copy of the score and placed it carefully on the stand. He reached down under the seat and pulled out a large brown paper bag of peanuts. He wasn’t entirely sure why André, having talked him into playing the organ this evening, had told the other man that it was because he, the Librarian, wouldn’t budge. In fact, he’d got some interesting cataloguing to do and had been looking forward to it. Instead, he seemed to be here for the night, although a pound of shelled peanuts was handsome pay by any ape’s standards. The human mind was a deep and abiding mystery and the Librarian was glad he didn’t have one anymore. He inspected the bow tie. As André had foreseen, it presented certain problems to someone who’d been behind the door when the necks were handed out. Granny Weatherwax stopped in front of Box Eight and looked around. Mrs. Plinge wasn’t visible. She unlocked the door with what was probably the most expensive key in the world. “And you behave yourself,” she said. “Ye-ess, Gran-ny,” moaned Greebo. “No going to the lavatory in the corners. ” “No, Gran-ny. ” Granny glared at her escort. Even in a bow tie, even with his fine mustaches waxed, he was still a cat. You just couldn’t trust them to do anything except turn up for meals. The inside of the Box was rich red plush, picked out with gilt decoration. It was like a soft little private room. There were a couple of fat pillars on either side, supporting part of the weight of the balcony above. She looked over the edge and noted the drop to the Stalls below. Of course, someone could probably climb in from one of the adjacent Boxes, but that’d be in full view of the audience and would be bound to cause some comment. She peeked under the seats. She stood on a chair and felt around the ceiling, which had gilt stars on it. She inspected the carpet minutely. She smiled at what she saw. She’d been prepared to bet that she knew how the Ghost got in, and now she was certain. Greebo spat on his hand and tried ineffectually to groom his hair. “You sit quiet and eat your fish eggs,” said Granny. “Ye-ess, Gran-ny. ” “And watch the opera, it’s good for you. ” “Ye-ess, Gran-ny. ” “Evenin’, Mrs. Plinge!” said Nanny cheerfully. “Ain’t this excitin’? The buzz of the audience, the air of expectation, the blokes in the orchestra findin’ somewhere to hide the bottles and tryin’ to remember how to play…all the exhilaration an’ drama of the operatic experience waitin’ to unfold…” “Oh, hello, Mrs. Ogg,” said Mrs. Plinge. She was polishing glasses in her tiny bar. “Certainly very packed,” said Nanny. She looked sidelong at the old woman. * “Every seat sold, I heard. ” This didn’t achieve the expected reaction. “Shall I give you a hand cleaning out Box Eight?” she went on. “Oh, I cleaned it out last week,” said Mrs. Plinge. She held a glass up to the light. “Yes, but I heard her ladyship is very particular,” said Nanny. “Very picky about things. ” “What ladyship?” “Mr. Bucket has sold Box Eight, see,” said Nanny. She heard a faint tinkle of glass. Ah. Mrs. Plinge appeared at the doorway of her nook. “But he can’t do that!” “It’s his Opera House,” said Nanny, watching Mrs. Plinge carefully. “I suppose he thinks he can. ” “It’s the Ghost’s Box!” Operagoers were appearing along the corridor. “I shouldn’t think he’d mind just for one night,” said Nanny Ogg. “The show must go on, eh? Are you all right, Mrs. Plinge?” “I think I’d just better go and—” she began, stepping forward. “No, you have a good sit down and a rest,” said Nanny, pressing her back with gentle but irresistible force. “But I should go and—” “ And what , Mrs. Plinge?” said Nanny. The old woman went pale. Granny Weatherwax could be nasty, but then nastiness was always in the window: you were aware that it might turn up on the menu. Sharpness from Nanny Ogg, though, was like being bitten by a big friendly dog. It was all the worse for being unexpected. “I daresay you wanted to go and have a word with somebody, did you, Mrs. Plinge?” said Nanny softly. “Someone who might be a little shocked to find his Box full, perhaps? I reckon I could put a name to that someone, Mrs. Plinge. Now, if—” The old woman’s hand came up holding a bottle of champagne and then came down hard in an effort to launch the SS Gytha Ogg onto the seas of unconsciousness. The bottle bounced. Then Mrs. Plinge leapt past and scuttled away, her polished little black boots twinkling. Nanny Ogg caught the door frame and swayed a little while blue and purple fireworks went off behind her eyes. But there was dwarf in the Ogg ancestry, and that meant a skull you could go mining with. She stared muzzily at the bottle. “Year of the Insulted Goat,” she mumbled. “’S a good year. ” Then consciousness gained the upper hand. She grinned as she galloped after the retreating figure. In Mrs. Plinge’s place she’d have done exactly the same thing, except a good deal harder. Agnes waited with the others for the curtain to go up. She was one of the crowd of fifty or so townspeople who would hear Enrico Basilica sing of his success as a master of disguise, it being a vital part of the entire process that, while the chorus would listen to expositions of the plot, and even sing along, they would suffer an instant lapse of memory afterward so that later unmaskings would come as a surprise. For some reason, without any word being spoken, as many people as possible seemed to have acquired very broad-brimmed hats. Those who hadn’t were taking every opportunity to glance upward. Beyond the curtain, Herr Trubelmacher launched the overture. Enrico, who had been chewing a chicken leg, carefully put the bone on a plate and nodded. The waiting stagehand dashed off. The opera had begun. Mrs. Plinge reached the bottom of the grand staircase and hung on to the banister, panting. The opera had started. There was no one around. And no sounds of pursuit, either. She straightened up, and tried to get her breath back. “Coo-ee, Mrs. Plinge!” Nanny Ogg, waving the champagne bottle like a club, was already traveling at speed when she hit the first turn in the banister, but she leaned like a professional and kept her balance as she went into the straight, and then tilted again for the next curve… …which left only the big gilt statue at the bottom. It is the fate of all banisters worth sliding down that there is something nasty waiting at the far end. But Nanny Ogg’s response was superb. She swung a leg over as she hurtled downward and pushed herself off, her nailed boots leaving grooves in the marble as she spun to a halt in front of the old woman. Mrs. Plinge was lifted off her feet and carried into the shadows behind another statue. “You don’t want to try and outrun me, Mrs. Plinge,” Nanny whispered, as she clamped a hand firmly over Mrs. Plinge’s mouth. “You just want to wait here quietly with me. And don’t go thinking I’m nice. I’m only nice compared to Esme, but so is practic’ly everyone…” “Mmf!” With one hand tightly around Mrs. Plinge’s arm and another over her mouth, Nanny peered round the statue. She could hear the singing, far off. Nothing else happened. After a while, she started to fret. Perhaps he’d taken fright. Perhaps Mrs. Plinge had left him some sort of signal.
Perhaps he’d decided that the world was currently too dangerous for Ghosts, although Nanny doubted he could ever decide that… At this rate the first act would be over before— A door opened somewhere. A lanky figure in a black suit and a ridiculous beret crossed the foyer and went up the stairs. At the top, they saw it turn in the direction of the Boxes and disappear. “Y’see,” said Nanny, trying to get the stiffness out of her limbs, “the thing about Esme is, she’s stupid…” “Mmf?” “…so she thinks that the most obvious way, d’y’see, for the Ghost to get in and out of the Box is through the door. If you can’t find a secret panel, she reckons, it’s because it ain’t there. A secret panel that ain’t there is the best kind there is, the reason bein’, no bugger can find it. That’s where you people all think too operatic, see? You’re all cooped up in this place, listening to daft plots what don’t make sense, and I reckon it does something to your minds. People can’t find a trapdoor so they say, oh, deary me, what a hidden trapdoor it must be. Whereas a normal person, e. g. , me and Esme, we’d say: Maybe there ain’t one, then. And the best way for the Ghost to get around the place without being seen is for him to be seen and not noticed. Especially if he’s got keys. People don’t notice Walter. They looks the other way. ” She gently released her grip. “Now, I don’t blame you, Mrs. Plinge, ’cos I’d do the same for one of mine, but you’d have done better to trust Esme right at the start. She’ll help you if she can. ” Nanny let Mrs. Plinge go, but kept a grip on the champagne bottle, just in case. “What if she can’t?” said Mrs. Plinge bitterly. “You think Walter did those murders?” “He’s a good boy!” “I’m sure that’s the same as a ‘no,’ isn’t it?” “They’ll put him in prison!” “If he done them murders, Esme won’t let that happen,” said Nanny. Something sank into Mrs. Plinge’s not very alert mind. “What do you mean, she won’t let that happen?” she said. “I mean,” said Nanny, “that if you throw yourself on Esme’s mercy, you better be damn sure you deserve to bounce. ” “Oh, Mrs. Ogg!” “Now, don’t you worry about anything,” said Nanny, perhaps a little late under the circumstances. It occurred to her that the immediate future might be a little bit easier on everyone if Mrs. Plinge got some well-earned rest. She fumbled in her clothing and produced a bottle, half-full of some cloudy orange liquid. “I’ll just give you a sip of a little something to calm your nerves…” “What is it?” “It’s a sort of tonic,” said Nanny. She flicked the cork out with her thumb; on the ceiling above her, the paint crinkled. “It’s made from apples. Well…mainly apples…” Walter Plinge stopped outside Box Eight and looked around. Then he removed his beret and pulled out the mask. The beret went into his pocket. He straightened up, and it looked very much as though Walter Plinge with the mask on was several inches taller. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, and the figure that stepped into the Box did not move like Walter Plinge. It moved as though every nerve and muscle were under full and athletic control. The sounds of the opera filled the Box. The walls had been lined with red velvet and were hung with curtains. The chairs were high and well padded. The Ghost slipped into one of them and settled down. A figure leaned forward out of the other chair and said, “You carrn’t havve my fisssh eggs!” The Ghost leapt up. The door clicked behind him. Granny stepped out from the curtains. “Well, well, we meet again,” she said. He backed away to the edge of the Box. “I shouldn’t think you could jump,” said Granny. “It’s a long way down. ” She focused her best stare on the white mask. “And now, Mister Ghost—” He sprang back onto the edge of the Box, saluted Granny flamboyantly, and leapt upward. Granny blinked. Up until now the Stare had always worked… “Too damn dark ,” she muttered. “Greebo!” The bowl of caviar flew out of his nervous fingers and caused a Fortean experience somewhere in the Stalls. “Yess, Gran-ny!” “Catch him! And there could be a kipper in it for you!” Greebo snarled happily. This was more like it. Opera had begun to pall for him the moment he realized that no one was going to pour a bucket of cold water over the singers. He understood chasing things. Besides, he liked to play with his friends. Agnes saw the movement out of the corner of her eye. A figure had jumped out of one of the Boxes and was climbing up to the balcony. Then another figure clambered after it, scrambling over the gilt cherubs. Singers faltered in mid-note. There was no mistaking the leading figure. It was the Ghost. The Librarian was aware that the orchestra had stopped playing. Somewhere on the other side of the backcloth the singers had stopped, too. There was a buzz of excited conversation and one or two cries. The hairs all over his body began to prickle. Senses designed to protect his species in the depths of the rain forest had adjusted nicely to the conditions of a big city, which was merely drier and had more carnivores. He picked up the discarded bow tie and, with great deliberation, tied it around his forehead so that he looked like a really formal Kamikaze warrior. Then he threw away the opera score and stared blankly into space for a moment. He knew instinctively that some situations required musical accompaniment. This organ lacked what he considered the most basic of facilities, such as the Thunder pedal, a 128-foot Earthquake pipe and a complete keyboard of animal noises, but he was certain there was something exciting that could be done in the bass register. He stretched out his arms and cracked his knuckles. This took some time. And then he began to play. The Ghost danced along the edge of the balcony, scattering hats and opera glasses. The audience watched in astonishment, and then began to clap. They couldn’t quite see how it fitted into the plot of the opera—but this was an opera, after all. He reached the center of the balcony, trotted a little way up the aisle, and then turned and ran down again at speed. He reached the edge, jumped, jumped again, soared out into the auditorium… …and landed on the chandelier, which jingled and began to sway gently. The audience stood up and applauded as he climbed through the jangling tiers toward the central cable. Then another shape clambered over the edge of the balcony and loped along in pursuit. This was a stockier figure than the first man, one-eyed, broad in the shoulders and tapering at the waist; he looked evil in an interesting kind of way, like a pirate who really understood the words “Jolly Roger. ” He didn’t even take a run but, when he reached the closest part to the chandelier, simply launched himself into space. It was clear that he wasn’t going to make it. And then it wasn’t clear how he did. Those watching through opera glasses swore later that the man thrust out an arm which merely seemed to graze the chandelier and yet was then somehow able to swivel his entire body in mid-air. A couple of people swore even harder that, just as the man reached out, his fingernails appeared to grow by several inches. The huge glass mountain swung ponderously on its rope and, as it reached the end of the swing, Greebo swung out farther, like a trapeze artist. There was an appreciative “oo” from the audience. He twisted again. The chandelier hesitated for a moment at the extremity of its arc, and then swept back again. As it jangled and creaked over the Stalls the hanging figure swung upward, let go and did a backward somersault that dropped him in the middle of the crystals. Candles and prisms were scattered over the seats below. And then, with the audience clapping and cheering, he scrambled up the rope after the fleeing Ghost. Henry Lawsy tried to move his arm, but a fallen crystal had stapled the sleeve of his coat to his arm rest. It was a quandary. He was pretty sure this wasn’t supposed to happen, but he wasn’t certain. Around him he could hear people hissing questions. “Was that part of the plot?” “I’m sure it must have been.
” “Oh, yes. Yes. It certainly was,” said someone farther down the row, authoritatively. “Yes. Yes. The famous chase scene. Indeed. Oh, yes. They did it in Quirm, you know. ” “Oh…yes. Yes, of course. I’m sure I heard about it…” “I thought it was bloody good,” said Mrs. Lawsy. “Mother!” “About time something interesting happened. You should’ve told me. I’d’ve put my glasses on. ” Nanny Ogg pounded up the back stairs toward the fly loft. “Something’s gone wrong!” she muttered under her breath as she took the stairs two at a time. “She reckons she’s only got to stare at ’em and they’re toffee in her hands, and then who has to sort it out afterward, eh? Go on, guess…” The ancient wooden door at the top of the stairs gave way to Nanny Ogg’s boot with Nanny Ogg’s momentum behind it, and cracked open onto a big, shadowy space. It was full of running figures. Legs flickered in the light of lanterns. People were shouting. A figure ran straight toward her. Nanny sprang into a crouch, both thumbs on the cork of the badly shaken champagne bottle she held cradled under one arm. “This is a magnum,” she said, “and I’m not afraid to drink it!” The figure stopped. “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Ogg…” Nanny’s infallible memory for personal details threw up a card. “Peter, isn’t it?” she said, relaxing. “The one with the bad feet?” “That’s right, Mrs. Ogg. ” “The powder I give you is working, is it?” “They’re a lot better now, Mrs. Ogg—” “So what’s been happening?” “Mr. Salzella caught the Ghost!” “Really?” Now that Nanny’s eyes had managed to discern some order in the chaos, she could see a cluster of people in the middle of the floor, around the chandelier. Salzella was sitting on the planking. His collar was torn and a sleeve had been ripped off his jacket, but he had a triumphant look in his eyes. He waved something in the air. It was white. It looked like a piece of a skull. “It was Plinge!” he said. “I tell you, it was Walter Plinge! Why are you all standing around? Get after him!” “Walter?” said one of the men, doubtfully. “Yes, Walter !” Another man hurried up, waving his lantern. “I saw the Ghost heading up to the roof! And there was some big one-eyed bastard going after him like a scalded cat!” That’s wrong , thought Nanny. Something wrong here. “To the roof!” shouted Salzella. “Hadn’t we better get the flaming torches first?” “Flaming torches are not compulsory!” “Pitchforks and scythes?” “That’s only for vampires!” “How about just one torch?” “Get up there now! Understand?” The curtains closed. There was a smattering of applause which was barely audible above the chatter from the audience. The chorus turned to one another. “Was that supposed to happen?” Dust rained down. Stagehands were scampering across the gantries far above. Shouts echoed among the ropes and dusty backdrops. A stagehand ran across the stage, holding a flaming torch. “Here, what’s going on?” said a tenor. “They’ve got the Ghost! He’s heading for the roof! It’s Walter Plinge !” “What, Walter?” “ Our Walter Plinge?” “Yes!” The stagehand ran on in a trail of sparks, leaving the yeast of rumor to ferment in the ready dough that was the chorus. “Walter? Surely not!” “Weeelll…he’s a bit odd, isn’t he…?” “But only this morning he said to me, ‘It’s a nice day Mr. Sidney!’ Just like that. Normal as anything. Well…normal for Walter…” “As a matter of fact, it’s always worried me, the way his eyes move as though they don’t talk to each other—” “And he’s always around the place!” “Yes, but he’s the odd-job man—” “No argument about that!” “It’s not Walter,” said Agnes. They looked at her. “That’s who he said they’re chasing, dear. ” “I don’t know who they’re chasing, but Walter’s not the Ghost. Fancy anyone thinking Walter’s the Ghost!” said Agnes, hotly. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly! Anyway, I’ve seen—” “He’s always struck me as a bit slimy, though. ” “And they say he goes down into the cellars a lot. What for, I ask myself? Let’s face it. Fair’s fair. He’s crazy. ” “He doesn’t act crazy!” said Agnes. “Well, he always looks as though he’s about to, you must admit. I’m going to see what’s happening. Anyone coming?” Agnes gave up. It was a horrible thing to learn, but there are times when evidence gets trampled and the hunt is on. A hatch flew open. The Ghost clambered out, looked down, and slammed the hatch shut. There was a yowl from below. Then he danced across the leads until he reached the gargoyle-encrusted parapet, black and silver in the moonlight. The wind caught at his cloak as he ran along the very edge of the roof and dropped down again near another door. And a gargoyle was suddenly no longer a gargoyle, but a figure that reached down suddenly and twitched off his mask. It was like cutting strings. “Good evening, Walter,” said Granny, as he sagged to his knees. “Hello Missus Weatherwax!” “Mistress,” Granny corrected him. “Now stand up. ” There was a growl farther along the roof, and then a thump. Bits of trapdoor rose for a moment against the moonlight. “It’s nice up here, ain’t it?” said Granny. “There’s fresh air and stars. I thought: up or down? But there’s only rats down below. ” In another swift movement she grabbed Walter’s chin and tilted it, just as Greebo pulled himself onto the roof with prolonged murder in his heart. “How does your mind work, Walter Plinge? If your house was on fire, what’s the first thing you’d try to take out?” Greebo stalked along the rooftop, growling. He liked rooftops in general, and some of his fondest memories involved them, but a trapdoor had just been slammed on his head and he was looking for anything he could disembowel. Then he recognized the shape of Walter Plinge as someone who had given him food. And, standing right next to him, the much more unwelcome shape of Granny Weatherwax, who had once caught him digging in her garden and had kicked him in the cucumbers. Walter said something. Greebo didn’t take much notice of it. Granny Weatherwax said: “Well done. A good answer. Greebo!” Greebo nudged Walter heavily in the back. “Want milluk right noaow! Purr, purr!” Granny thrust the mask at the cat. In the distance people were running up stairs and shouting. “You put this on! And you stay down real low, Walter Plinge. One man in a mask is pretty much like another, after all. And when they chase you, Greebo…give them a run for their money. Do it right and there could be—” “Yurr, I knoaow,” said Greebo despondently, taking the mask. It was turning out to be a long and busy evening for a kipper. Someone poked their head out of the stricken trapdoor. The light glinted off Greebo’s mask…and it had to be said, even by Granny, that he made a good Ghost. For one thing, his morphogenic field was trying to reassert itself. His claws could no longer even remotely be thought of as fingernails. He spat at the pursuit as they poured up the steps, arched his back dramatically on the very edge of the roof, and stepped off. One story down he thrust out an arm, caught a windowsill, and landed on the head of a gargoyle, which said “Oh, fank oo ver’ mush” in a reproachful voice. The pursuers looked down at him. Some of them had managed to get hold of flaming torches, because sometimes convention is too strong to be lightly denied. Greebo snarled defiance and dropped again, springing from sill to drain pipe to balcony and pausing every now and again for another dramatic pose and another snarl at the pursuers. “We’d better get after him, Corporal de Nobbs,” said one of them, who was staggering along behind. “We’d better get after him by carefully going back down the stairs, you mean. ’Cos somethin’ I drank don’t want to stay drunk. Much more runnin’ and I’ll be droppin’ a custard, I’m tellin’ you. ” The other members of the posse also seemed to be reaching the conclusion that there was no extended future in chasing a man down the sheer wall of a building. As one mob they turned and, shouting and waving their torches in the air, headed back to the stairs.
The parting crowd revealed Nanny Ogg, holding a pitchfork in one hand and a torch in the other and thrusting them both in the air while muttering, “Rhubarb, rhubarb. ” Granny walked over and tapped her on the shoulder. “They’ve gone, Gytha. ” “Rhuba—Oh, hello, Esme,” said Nanny, lowering the implements of righteous retribution. “I was just tagging along to see it didn’t get out of hand. Was that Greebo I saw just then?” “Yes. ” “Awww, bless him,” said Nanny. “He looked a bit bothered, though. I hope he doesn’t happen to anybody. ” “Where’s your broomstick?” said Granny. “It’s in the cleaners’ cupboard backstage. ” “Then I’ll borrow it and keep an eye on things,” said Granny. “Hey, he’s my cat, I ought to be looking after him—” Nanny began. Granny stepped aside, revealing a huddled shape sitting hugging its knees. “You look after Walter Plinge,” she said. “It’s something you’d be better at than me. ” “Hello Mrs. Ogg!” said Walter, mournfully. Nanny looked at him for a moment. “So he is the—?” “Yes. ” “You mean he really did do the mur—?” “What do you think?” said Granny. “Well, if it comes to it, I think he didn’t,” said Nanny. “Can I have a word in your ear, Esme? I don’t reckon I should say this in front of young Walter. ” The witches bent their heads together. There was a brief whispered conversation. “Everything is simple when you know the answer,” said Granny. “I’ll be back soon. ” She hurried off. Nanny heard her shoes clattering on the stairs. Nanny looked down at Walter again, and held out her hand. “Up you get, Walter. ” “Yes Mrs. Ogg!” “I expect we’d better find somewhere for you to lie low, eh?” “I know a hidden place Mrs. Ogg!” “You do, do you?” Walter lurched across the roof toward another trapdoor, and pointed to it proudly. “That?” said Nanny. “That doesn’t look very hidden to me, Walter. ” Walter gave it a puzzled look, and then grinned in the way a scientist might after he’d solved a particularly difficult equation. “It’s hidden where everyone can see it Mrs. Ogg!” Nanny gave him a sharp look, but there was nothing but a slightly glazed innocence in Walter’s eyes. He lifted up the trapdoor and pointed politely downward. “You go down the ladder first so I will not see your drawers!” “Very…kind of you,” said Nanny. It was the first time anyone had ever said anything like that to her. The man waited patiently until she had reached the bottom of the ladder, and then climbed laboriously down after her. “This is just an old staircase, isn’t it?” said Nanny, prodding at the darkness with her torch. “Yes! It goes all the way down! Except at the bottom where it goes all the way up!” “Anyone else know about it?” “The Ghost Mrs. Ogg!” said Walter, climbing down. “Oh, yes,” said Nanny slowly. “And where’s the Ghost now, Walter?” “He ran away!” She held up the torch. There was still nothing to be read in Walter’s expression. “What does the Ghost do here, Walter?” “He watches over the Opera!” “That’s very kind of him, I’m sure. ” Nanny started downward, and as the shadows danced around her she heard Walter say: “You know she asked me a very silly question Mrs. Ogg! It was a silly question any fool knows the answer!” “Oh, yes,” said Nanny, peering at the walls. “About houses on fire, I expect…” “Yes! What would I take out of our house if it was on fire!” “I expect you were a good boy and said you’d take your mum,” said Nanny. “No! My mum would take herself!” Nanny ran her hands over the nearest wall. Doors had been nailed shut when the staircase had been abandoned. Someone walking up and down here, with a keen pair of ears, could hear a lot of things… “What would you take out then, Walter?” she said. “The fire!” Nanny stared unseeing at the wall, and then her face slowly broke into a grin. “You’re daft, Walter Plinge,” she said. “Daft as a broom Mrs. Ogg!” said Walter cheerfully. But you ain’t insane, she thought. You’re daft but you’re sane. That’s what Esme would say. And there’s worser things. Greebo pounded along Broadway. He was suddenly not feeling very well. Muscles were twitching in odd ways. A tingling at the base of his spine indicated that his tail wanted to grow, and his ears definitely wanted to creep up the sides of his head, which is always embarrassing when it happens in company. In this case the company was about a hundred yards behind and apparently intent on moving his ears quite a long way from their current position, embarrassment or not. It was gaining, too. Greebo normally had a famous turn of speed, but not when his knees were trying to reverse direction every few seconds. His normal plan when pursued was to jump onto the water-butt behind Nanny Ogg’s cottage and rake the pursuer across the nose with his claws when it came around the corner. Since this would now involve a five-hundred-mile dash, an alternative had to be sought. There was a coach waiting outside one of the houses. He lurched over to it, pulled himself up, grabbed the reins and briefly turned his attention to the driver. “Get orfff. ” Greebo’s teeth shone in the moonlight. The coachman, with great presence of mind and urgent absence of body, somersaulted backward into the night. The horses reared, and tried to break into a gallop from a standing start. Animals are less capable of being fooled than are humans; they knew that what they had behind them was a very large cat, and the fact that it was man-shaped didn’t make them any happier. The coach lumbered off. Greebo looked over his twitching shoulder at the torchlit crowd and waved a paw derisively. The effect pleased him so much that he clambered onto the roof of the swaying coach and continued to jeer. It is a catlike attribute to spit defiance at the enemy from a place of safety. In the circumstances it would have been better if catlike attributes had included the ability to steer. A wheel hit the parapet of the Brass Bridge and scraped along it, the iron rim kicking up sparks. The shock knocked Greebo from his perch in midgesture. He landed on his feet in the middle of the road, while the terrified horses continued on with the coach rocking dangerously from side to side. The pursuers stopped. “What’s he doing now?” “He’s just standing there. ” “There’s only one of him and there’s lots of us, right? We could easily overpower him. ” “Good idea. On the count of three, we’ll all rush him, right? One…two…three…” Pause. “You didn’t run. ” “Well, nor did you. ” “Yes, but I was the one saying ‘one, two, three. ’” “Remember what he did to Mr. Pounder!” “Yes, well, I never liked the man all that much…” Greebo snarled. Ticklish things were happening to his body. He threw his head back and roared. “Look, at worst he’d only be able to get one or two of us—” “Oh, that’s good, is it?” “Here, why’s he twisting around like that?” “Maybe he hurt himself falling off the coach—” “Let’s get him!” The mob closed in. Greebo, struggling against a morphogenic field swinging wildly between species, punched the first man in the face with a hand and clawed the shirt off another man with something more like a giant paw. “Oh, shiiiooooo—” Twenty hands grabbed him. And then, in the mêlée and the darkness, twenty hands were holding just cloth and emptiness. Vengeful boots connected with nothing more than air. Clubs that had been swung at a snarling face whirled through empty space and returned to hit their owner on the ear. “—ooooaaawwwwl!” Quite unnoticed in the scrum, a flat-eared bullet of gray fur shot out from between the scuffling legs. The kicking and punching stopped only when it became apparent that all the mob was attacking was itself. And, since the IQ of a mob is the IQ of its most stupid member divided by the number of mobsters, it was never very clear to anyone what had happened. Obviously they’d closed in on the Ghost, and he certainly couldn’t have escaped. All that was left was a mask and some torn clothing. So, the mob reasoned, he must have ended up in the river. And good riddance, too. Happy in the knowledge of a job well done, they adjourned to the nearest pub.
This left Sergeant Count de Tritus and Corporal the Count de Nobby Nobbs, who lurched to the middle of the bridge and regarded the few scraps of cloth. “Commander Vimes isn’t…isn’t…isn’t goin’ to like dis,” said Detritus. “You know he likes prisoners to be alive. ” “Yeah, but this one would’ve been hung anyway,” said Nobby, who was trying to stand upright. “This way was just a bit more…democratic. A great saving in terms of rope, not to mention wear and tear on locks and keys. ” Detritus scratched his head. “Shouldn’t there be some blood?” he ventured. Nobby gave him a sour look. “He couldn’t’ve got away,” he said. “So don’t go asking questions like that. ” “Only, if humans is hit hard enough, they leaks all over der place,” said Detritus. Nobby sighed. That was the caliber of people you got in the Watch these days. They had to make a mystery of things. In days gone by, when it had been just the old gang and an unofficial policy of lazy fair , they’d have said a heartfelt “Well done, lads” to the vigilantes and turned in early. But now old Vimes had been promoted to Commander he seemed to be enrolling people who asked questions all the time. It was even affecting Detritus, considered by other trolls to be as dim as a dead glowworm. Detritus reached down and picked up an eye patch. “What d’you think, then?” said Nobby scornfully. “You think he turned into a bat and flew away?” “Ha! I do not t’ink that ’cos it is in…consist…ent with modern policing,” said Detritus. “Well, I think,” said Nobby, “that when you have ruled out the impossible, what is left, however improbable, ain’t worth hanging around on a cold night wonderin’ about when you could be getting on the outside of a big drink. Come on. I want to try a leg of the elephant that bit me. ” “Was dat irony?” “That was metaphor. ” Detritus, uneasy in what was technically his mind, prodded at the torn pieces of clothing. Something brushed against his leg. It was a cat. It had tattered ears, one good eye, and a face like a fist with fur on it. “Hello, little cat,” said Detritus. The cat stretched and grinned. “Gerrt lorssst, coppuurrrr…” Detritus blinked. There are no such things as troll cats, and Detritus had never seen a cat before he’d arrived in Ankh-Morpork and discovered that they were very, very hard to eat. And he’d never heard of them talking. On the other hand, he was very much aware of his reputation as the most stupid person in the city, and he wasn’t going to draw attention to a talking cat if it were going to turn out that everybody except him knew that they talked all the time. In the gutter, a few feet away, there was something white. He picked it up carefully. It looked like the mask the Ghost had worn. This was probably a Clue. He waved it urgently. “Hey, Nobby—” “Thank you. ” Something dipped through the darkness, snatched the mask from the troll’s hand, and soared into the night. Corporal Nobbs turned around. “Yes?” he said. “Er…how big are birds? Normally?” “Oh, blimey, I dunno. Some are small, some are big. Who cares?” Detritus sucked his finger. “Oh, no reason,” he said. “I am far too smart to be taken in by perfec’ly normal t’ings. ” Something squelched underfoot. “It’s pretty damp down here, Walter,” said Nanny. And the air was stale and heavy and seemed to be squeezing the light from the torch. There was a dark edge to the flame. “Not far now Mrs. Ogg!” Keys jingled in the darkness, and some hinges creaked. “I found this Mrs. Ogg! It’s the Ghost’s secret cave!” “Secret cave, eh?” “You got to shut your eyes! You got to shut your eyes!” said Walter urgently. Nanny did so, but to her shame kept a grip on the torch, just in case. She said: “And is the Ghost in there, Walter?” “No!” There was the rattle of a matchbox and some scuffling, and then— “You can open them now Mrs. Ogg!” Nanny did so. Color and light blurred and then swam into focus, first in her eyes and then, eventually, in her brain. “Oh, my,” she murmured. “Oh, my, my…” There were candles, the big flat ones used to illuminate the stage, floating in shallow bowls. The light they gave was soft, and it rippled over the room like the soul of water. It glinted off the beak of a huge swan. It glittered in the eye of a vast, sagging dragon. Nanny Ogg turned slowly. Her experience of opera had not been a lengthy one but witches pick things up quickly, and there was the winged helmet worn by Hildabrun in The Ring of the Nibelungingung , and here was the striped pole from The Barber of Pseudopolis , and there was the pantomime horse with the humorous trapdoor from The Enchanted Piccolo , and here… …here was opera, all piled in a heap. Once the eye had taken it all in, it had time to notice the peeling paint and rotting plaster and the general air of gentle moldering. The decrepit props and threadbare costumes had been dumped in here because people didn’t want them anywhere else. But someone did want them here. After the eye had seen the ruin, then there was time for it to see the little patches of recent repair, the careful areas of fresh paint. There was something like a desk in the tiny area of floor not occupied by the props. And then Nanny realized that it had a keyboard and a stool, and there were neat piles of paper on top of it. Walter was watching her with a big, proud grin. Nanny ambled over to the thing. “It’s a harmonium, ain’t it? A tiny organ?” “That’s right Mrs. Ogg!” Nanny picked up one of the sheaves of paper. Her lips moved as she read the meticulous copperplate writing. “An opera about cats ?” she said. “Never heard of an opera about cats… ” She thought for a moment, and then added to herself: But why not? It’s a damn good idea. The lives of cats are just like operas, when you come to think about it. She leafed through the other piles. “ Guys and Trolls? Hubward Side Story? Miserable Les? Who’s he? Seven Dwarfs for Seven Other Dwarfs? What’re all these, Walter?” She sat down on the stool and pressed a few of the cracked yellow keys, which moved with an audible creak. There were a couple of large pedals under the harmonium. You pedaled these and that worked the bellows and these spongy keys produced something which was to organ music what “poot” was to cursing. So this was where Wal…where the Ghost sat, thought Nanny, down under the stage, among the discarded wreckage of old performances; down under the huge windowless room where, night after night, music and songs and rampant emotion echoed back and forth and never escaped or entirely died away. The Ghost worked down here, with a mind as open as a well, and it filled up with opera. Opera went in at the ears, and something else came out of the mind. Nanny pumped the pedals a few times. Air hissed from inefficient seams. She tried a few notes. They were reedy. But, she considered, sometimes the old lie was true, and size really did not matter. It really was what you did with it that counted. Walter watched her expectantly. She took down another wad of paper and peered at the first page. But Walter leaned over and snatched at the script. “That one’s not finished Mrs. Ogg!” The Opera House was still in uproar. Half the audience had gone outside and the other half was hanging around in case further interesting events were going to transpire. The orchestra was in a huddle in the pit, preparing its request for a special Being Upset By A Ghost Allowance. The curtains were closed. Some of the chorus had stayed onstage; others had hurried off to take part in the chase. The air had the excited electric feel it gets when normal civilized life is temporarily short-circuited. Agnes bounced frantically from rumor to rumor. The Ghost had been caught, and it was Walter Plinge. The Ghost had been caught by Walter Plinge. The Ghost had been caught by someone else. The Ghost had escaped. The Ghost was dead. There were arguments breaking out everywhere.
“I still can’t believe it was Walter! I mean, good grief…Walter?” “What about the show? We can’t just stop! You never stop the show, not even if someone dies!” “Oh, we have stopped when people died…” “Yes, but only as long as it took to get the body offstage!” Agnes stepped back into the wings, and trod on something. “Sorry,” she said automatically. “It was only my foot,” said Granny Weatherwax. “So…how is life in the big city, Agnes Nitt?” Agnes turned. “Oh…hello, Granny…” she mumbled. “And I’m not Agnes here, thank you,” she added, a shade more defiantly. “It’s a good job, is it, bein’ someone else’s voice?” “I’m doing what I want to do,” said Agnes. She drew herself up to her full width. “And you can’t stop me!” “But you ain’t part of it, are you?” said Granny conversationally. “You try, but you always find yourself watchin’ yourself watchin’ people, eh? Never quite believin’ anything? Thinkin’ the wrong thoughts?” “Shut up!” “Ah. Thought so. ” “I have no intention of becoming a witch, thank you very much!” “Now, don’t go getting upset just because you know it’s going to happen. A witch you’re going to be because a witch you are, and if you turn your back on him now then I don’t know what’s going to happen to Walter Plinge. ” “He’s not dead?” “No. ” Agnes hesitated. “I knew he was the Ghost,” she began. “But then I saw he couldn’t be. ” “Ah,” said Granny. “Believed the evidence of your own eyes, did you? In a place like this?” “One of the stagehands just told me they chased him up onto the roof and then down into the street and beat him to death!” “Oh, well,” said Granny, “you’ll never get anywhere if you believe what you hear. What do you know ?” “What do you mean, what do I know?” “Don’t try cleverness on me, miss. ” Agnes looked at Granny’s expression, and knew when to fold. “I know he’s the Ghost,” she said. “Right. ” “But I can see that he isn’t. ” “Yes?” “And I know…I’m pretty sure he doesn’t mean any harm. ” “Good. Well done. Walter might not know his right from his left, but he does know his right from his wrong. ” Granny rubbed her hands together. “Well, we’re already home and looking for a clean towel, eh?” “What? You haven’t solved anything!” “’Course we have. We know that it wasn’t Walter what done the murders, so now we just have to find out who it was. Easy. ” “Where’s Walter now?” “Nanny’s got him somewhere. ” “She’s all by herself?” “I told you, she’s got Walter. ” “I meant…well, he’s a bit strange. ” “Only where it shows. ” Agnes sighed, and started to say that it wasn’t her problem. And realized it was useless even to try. The knowledge sat like a smug intruder in her mind. Whatever it was, it was her problem. “All right,” she said. “I’ll help you if I can, because I’m here. But afterward…that’s it ! Afterward, you’ll leave me alone. Promise?” “Certainly. ” “Well…all right, then…” Agnes stopped. “Oh, no,” she said. “That was too easy. I don’t trust you. ” “Don’t trust me?” said Granny. “You’re saying you don’t trust me?” “Yes. I don’t. You’ll find a way to wriggle around it. ” “I never wriggle,” said Granny. “It’s Nanny Ogg who thinks we ought to have a third witch. I reckon life’s difficult enough without some girl cluttering up the place just because she thinks she looks good in a pointy hat. ” There was a pause. Then Agnes said, “I’m not falling for that one, either. It’s where you say I’m too stupid to be a witch and I say, oh no I’m not, and you end up winning again. I’d rather be someone else’s voice than some old witch with no friends and having everyone frightened of me and being nothing more than just a bit cleverer than other people and not doing any real magic at all…” Granny put her head on one side. “Seems to me you’re so sharp you might cut yourself,” she said. “All right. When it’s all over, I’ll let you go your own way. I won’t stop you. Now show me the way to Mr. Bucket’s office…” Nanny smiled her jolly-wrinkled-old-apple smile. “Now, you just hand it over, Walter,” she said. “No harm in letting me see it, is there? Not old Nanny. ” “Can’t see it till it’s finished!” “Well, now,” said Nanny, hating herself for dropping the atom bomb, “I’m sure your mam wouldn’t want to hear that you’ve been a bad boy, would she?” Expressions floated over Walter’s waxen features as he struggled with several ideas at once. Finally, without a word, he thrust the bundle at her, his arms trembling with tension. “There’s a good boy,” said Nanny. She glanced at the first few pages, and then moved them nearer to the light. “Hmm. ” She treadled the harmonium for a while and played a few notes with her left hand. They represented most of the musical notes she knew how to read. It was a very simple little theme, such as might be picked out on the keyboard with one finger. “Hey…” Her lips moved as she read the narrative. “Well now, Walter,” she said, “isn’t this a sort of opera about a ghost who lives in an opera house?” She turned a page. “Very smart and debonair, he is. He’s got a secret cave, I see…” She played another short riff. “Catchy music, too. ” She read on, occasionally saying things like “Well, well” and “Lawks. ” Every now and again she’d give Walter an appraising look. “I wonder why the Ghost wrote this, Walter?” she said, after a while. “Quiet sort of chap, ain’t he? Put it all into his music. ” Walter stared at his feet. “There’s going to be a lot of trouble Mrs. Ogg. ” “Oh, me and Granny will sort it all out,” said Nanny. “It’s wrong to tell lies,” said Walter. “Probably,” said Nanny, who’d never let it worry her up to now. “It wouldn’t be right for our mum to lose her job Mrs. Ogg. ” “It wouldn’t be right, no. ” The feeling drifted over Nanny that Walter was trying to put across some sort of message. “Er…what sort of lies would it be wrong to tell, Walter?” Walter’s eyes bulged. “Lies…about things you see Mrs. Ogg! Even if you did see them!” Nanny thought it was probably time to present the Oggish point of view. “It’s all right to tell lies if you don’t think lies,” she said. “He said our mum would lose her job and I’d be locked up if I said Mrs. Ogg!” “Did he? Which ‘he’ was he?” “The Ghost Mrs. Ogg!” “I reckon Granny ought to have a good look at you, Walter,” said Nanny. “I reckon your mind’s all tangled up like a ball of string what’s been dropped. ” She pedaled the harmonium thoughtfully. “Was it the Ghost that wrote all this music, Walter?” “It’s wrong to tell lies about the room with the sacks in it Mrs. Ogg!” Ah , thought Nanny. “That’d be down here, would it?” “He said I wasn’t to tell anyone!” “Who did?” “The Ghost Mrs. Ogg!” “But you’re—” Nanny began, and then tried another way. “Ah, but I ain’t anyone,” she said. “Anyway, if you was to go to this room with the sacks and I was to follow you, that wouldn’t be telling anyone, would it? It wouldn’t be your fault if some ole woman followed you, would it?” Walter’s face was an agony of indecision but, erratic though his thinking might have been, it was no match for Nanny Ogg’s meretricious duplicity. He was up against a mind that regarded truth as a reference point but certainly not as a shackle. Nanny Ogg could think her way through a corkscrew in a tornado without touching the sides. “Anyway, it’s all right if it’s me,” she added for good measure. “In fact, he prob’ly meant to say ‘except for Mrs. Ogg,’ only he forgot. ” Slowly, Walter reached out and picked up a candle. Without saying a word he walked out of the door and into the damp darkness of the cellars. Nanny Ogg followed him, her boots making squelching noises in the mud. It didn’t seem like much of a distance. As far as Nanny could work out they were no longer under the Opera House, but it was hard to be sure. Their shadows danced around them and they walked through other rooms, even more dark and dripping than the ones they’d been in. Walter stopped in front of a pile of timber that glistened with rot, and pulled a few of the spongy planks aside. There were some sacks neatly piled. Nanny kicked one, and it broke.
In the flickering candlelight all that she could really see were sparkles of light as the cascade poured out, but there was no mistaking the gentle metallic scraping of lots of money. Lots and lots of money. Enough money to suggest very clearly that it belonged to either a thief or a publisher, and there didn’t seem to be any books around. “What’s this, Walter?” “It’s the Ghost’s money Mrs. Ogg!” There was a square hole in the opposite corner of the room. Water glinted a few inches below. Beside the hole were half a dozen containers of various sorts—old biscuit tins, broken bowls and the like. There was a stick, or possibly a dead shrub, in each one. “And those, Walter? What are those?” “Rose bushes Mrs. Ogg!” “Down here? But nothing could gr—” Nanny stopped. She squelched over to the pots. They’d been filled with muck scraped from the floor. The dead stems glistened with slime. Nothing could grow down here, of course. There was no light. Everything that grew needed something else to feed on. And…she moved the candle closer, and sniffed the fragrance. Yes. It was subtle, but it was there. Roses in darkness. “Well, my word, Walter Plinge,” she said. “Always one for the surprises, you are. ” Books were piled on Mr. Bucket’s desk. “What you’re doing is wrong , Granny Weatherwax,” said Agnes from the doorway. Granny glanced up. “Wrong as living other people’s lives for them?” she said. “’S’matter of fact, there’s something even worse than that, which is living other people’s lives for yourself. That kind of wrong?” Agnes said nothing. Granny Weatherwax couldn’t know. Granny turned back to the books. “Anyway, this only looks wrong. Appearances is deceivin’. You just pay attention to watching the corridor, madam. ” She riffled through the bits of torn envelope and scribbled notes that seemed to be the Opera House’s equivalent of proper accounts. It was a mess. In fact, it was more than a mess. It was far too much of a mess to be a real mess, because a real mess has occasional bits of coherence, bits of what might be called random order. Rather, it was the kind of erratic mess that suggested that someone had set out to be messy. Take the account books. They were full of tiny rows and columns, but someone hadn’t thought it worthwhile to invest in lined paper and had handwriting that wandered a bit. There were forty rows on the left-hand side but only thirty-six by the time they reached the other side of the page. It was hard to spot because of the way your eyes watered. “What are you doing?” said Agnes, tearing her gaze away from the corridor. “Amazin’,” said Granny. “Some things is entered twice! And I reckon there’s a page here where someone’s added the month and taken away the time of day!” “I thought you didn’t like books,” said Agnes. “I don’t,” said Granny, turning a page. “They can look you right in the face and still lie. How many fiddle players are there in the band?” “I think there are nine violinists in the orchestra. ” The correction appeared to pass unnoticed. “Well, there’s a thing,” said Granny, without moving her head. “Seems that twelve of ’em are drawing wages, but three of ’em is over the page, so you mightn’t notice. ” She looked up and rubbed her hands happily. “Unless you’ve got a good memory, that is. ” She ran a skinny finger down another erratic column. “What’s a flying ratchet?” “I don’t know!” “Says here ‘Repairs to flying ratchet, new springs for rotation cog assembly, and making good. Hundred and sixty dollars and sixty-three pence. ’ Hah!” She licked her finger and tried another page. “Even Nanny ain’t this bad at numbers,” she said. “To be this bad at numbers you’ve got to be good. Hah! No wonder this place never makes any money. You might as well try to fill a sieve. ” Agnes darted into the room. “There’s someone coming!” Granny got up and blew out the lamp. “You get behind the curtains,” she commanded. “What’re you going to do?” “Oh…I’ll just have to make myself inconspicuous…” Agnes hurried across to the big window and turned to look at Granny, who was standing by the fireplace. The old witch faded. She didn’t disappear. She merely slid into the background. An arm gradually became part of the mantelpiece. A fold of her dress was a piece of shadow. An elbow became the top of the chair behind her. Her face became one with a vase of faded flowers. She was still there, like the old woman in the puzzle picture they sometimes printed in the Almanack, where you could see the old woman or the young girl but not both at once, because one was made of the shadows of the other. Granny Weatherwax was standing by the fireplace, but you could see her only if you knew she was there. Agnes blinked. And there were just the shadows, the chair and the fire. The door opened. She ducked behind the curtains, feeling as conspicuous as a strawberry in a stew, certain that the sound of her heart would give her away. The door shut, carefully, with barely a click. Footsteps crossed the floor. A wooden scraping noise might have been a chair being moved slightly. A scratch and a hiss were the sound of a match, striking. A clink was the glass of the lamp, being lifted… All noise ceased. Agnes crouched, every muscle suddenly screaming with the strain. The lamp hadn’t been lit—she’d have seen the light around the curtain. Someone out there was making no noise. Someone out there was suddenly suspicious. A floorboard squeaked verrrry slowwwly, as someone shifted their weight. She felt as if she was going to scream, or burst with the effort of silence. The handle of the window behind her, a mere point of pressure a moment ago, was trying seriously to become part of her life. Her mouth was so dry that she knew it’d creak like a hinge if she dared to swallow. It couldn’t be anyone who had a right to be here. People who had a right to be in places walked around noisily. The handle was getting really personal. Try to think of something else… The curtain moved. Someone was standing on the other side of it. If her throat weren’t so arid she might be able to scream. She could feel the presence through the cloth. Any moment now, someone was going to twitch the curtain aside. She leapt, or as close to a leap as was feasible—it was a kind of vertical lumber, billowing the curtain aside, colliding with a slim body behind it, and ending on the floor in a tangle of limbs and ripping velvet. She gulped air, and pressed down on the squirming bundle below her. “I’ll scream!” she said. “And if I do your eardrums will come down your nose!” The writhing stopped. “ Perdifa? ” said a muffled voice. Above her, the curtain rail sagged at one end and the brass rings, one at a time, spun toward the floor. Nanny went back to the sacks. Each one bulged with round hard shapes that clinked gently under her questing finger. “This is a lot of money, Walter,” she said carefully. “Yes Mrs. Ogg!” Nanny lost track of money fairly easily, although this didn’t mean the subject didn’t interest her: it was just that, beyond a certain point, it became dreamlike. All she could be sure of was that the amount in front of her would make anyone’s drawers drop. “I suppose,” she said, “that if I was to ask you how it’d got here, you’d say it was the Ghost, yes? Like the roses?” “Yes Mrs. Ogg!” She gave him a worried look. “You’ll be all right down here, will you?” she said. “You’ll sit quiet? I reckon I need to talk to some people. ” “Where’s my mum Mrs. Ogg?” “She’s having a nice sleep, Walter. ” Walter seemed satisfied with this. “You’ll sit quiet in your…in that room, will you?” “Yes Mrs. Ogg!” “There’s a good boy. ” She glanced at the money bags again. Money was trouble. Agnes sat back. André raised himself on his elbows and pulled the curtain off his face. “What the hell were you doing there?” he said. “I was—What do you mean, what was I doing there? You were creeping around!” “You were hiding behind the curtain!” said André, getting to his feet and fumbling for the matches again. “Next time you blow out a lamp, remember it’ll still be warm. ” “ We were…on important business…” The lamp glowed.
André turned. “We?” he said. Agnes nodded, and looked across at Granny. The witch hadn’t moved, although it took a deliberate effort of will to focus on her among the shapes and shadows. André picked up the lamp and stepped forward. The shadows shifted. “Well?” he said. Agnes strode across the room and waved a hand in the air. There was the chair back, there was the vase, there was…nothing else. “But she was there!” “A ghost, eh?” said André sarcastically. Agnes backed away. There is something about the light of a lamp held lower than someone’s face. The shadows are wrong. They fall in unfortunate places. Teeth seem more prominent. Agnes came to realize that she was alone in a room in suspicious circumstances with a man whose face suddenly looked a lot more unpleasant than it had before. “I suggest,” he said, “that you get back to the stage right now, yes? That would be the very best thing you could do. And don’t meddle in things that don’t concern you. You’ve done too much as it is. ” The fear hadn’t drained out of Agnes, but it had found a space in which to metamorphose into anger. “I don’t have to put up with that! For all I know, you might be the Ghost!” “Really? I was told that Walter Plinge was the Ghost,” said André. “How many people did you tell? And now it turns out that he’s dead…” “No, he’s not!” It was out before she could stop it. She’d said it merely to wipe the sneer off his face. This happened. But the expression that replaced it was no improvement. A floorboard creaked. They both turned. There was a hat stand in the corner, next to a bookcase. There were a few coats and scarves hanging from it. It was surely only the way that the shadows fell that made it look, from this angle, like an old woman. Or… “Damn floors,” said Granny, fading into the foreground. She stepped away from the coats. As Agnes said, later: it wasn’t as though she’d been invisible. She’d simply become part of the scenery until she put herself forward again; she was there, but not there. She didn’t stand out at all. She was as unnoticeable as the very best of butlers. “How did you get in?” said André. “I looked all round the room!” “Seein’ is believin’,” said Granny, calmly. “Of course, the trouble is that believin’ is also seein’, and there’s been too much of that round here lately. Now, I know you ain’t the Ghost…so what are you, to be sneaking around in places where you shouldn’t be?” “I could ask you the same quest—” “Me? I’m a witch, and I’m pretty good at it. ” “She’s, er, from Lancre. Where I come from,” Agnes mumbled, trying to look at her feet. “Oh? Not the one who wrote the book?” said André. “I’ve heard people talking about—” “No! I’m much worse than her, understand?” “She is,” mumbled Agnes. André gave Granny a long look, like a man weighing up his chances. He must have decided that they were bobbing along the ceiling. “I…hang around in dark places looking for trouble,” he said. “Really? There’s a nasty name for people like that,” snapped Granny. “Yes,” said André. “It’s ‘policeman. ’” Nanny Ogg climbed out of the cellars, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. Musicians and singers were still milling around, uncertain about what was going to happen next. The Ghost had had the decency to be chased and killed during the interval. In theory that meant there was no reason why there shouldn’t be a third act, as soon as Herr Trubelmacher had scoured the nearby pubs and dragged the orchestra back. The show must go on. Yes, she thought, it has to go on. It’s like the buildup to a thunderstorm…no…it’s more like making love. Yes. That was a far more Oggish metaphor. You put everything you’ve got into it, so sooner or later there’s a point where it’s got to go on, because you can’t imagine stopping. The stage manager could dock a couple of dollars from their wages and they’d still go on, and everyone knew it. And they would still go on. She reached a ladder and climbed slowly into the flies. She hadn’t been certain. She needed to be certain now. The fly loft was empty. She walked carefully along the catwalk until she was over the auditorium. The buzz of the audience came through the ceiling beneath her, slightly muffled. Light shone up at the point where the thick cable for the chandelier disappeared into the hole. She stepped out over the creaking trapdoor and peered down. Terrific heat almost frizzled her hair. A few yards below her hundreds of candles were burning. “Dreadful if that lot fell down,” she said quietly. “I ’spect this place’d go up like a haystack…” She let her gaze travel up and up the cable to the point, at just about waist-height, where it was half-cut through. You’d never see it, if you weren’t expecting to find it. Then her gaze dropped again, and moved across the gloomy, dusty floor until it found something half-hidden in the dust. Behind her, a shadow among the shadows rose to its feet, balanced itself carefully, and started to run. “I knows about policemen,” said Granny. “They’ve got big helmets and big feet and you can see them a mile off. There’s a couple lurching around backstage. Anyone can see they’re policemen. You don’t look like one. ” She turned the badge over and over in her hands. “I ain’t happy with the idea of secret policemen,” she said. “Why do you need secret policemen?” “Because,” said André, “sometimes you have secret criminals. ” Granny almost smiled. “That’s a fact,” she said. She peered at the small engraving on the back of the badge. “Says here ‘Cable Street Particulars’…” “There aren’t many of us,” said André. “We’ve only just started. Commander Vimes said that, since we can’t do anything about the Thieves’ Guild and the Assassins’ Guild, we’d better look for other crimes. Hidden crimes. That need Watchmen with…different skills. And I can play the piano quite well…” “What kind of skills have that troll and that dwarf got?” said Granny. “Seems to me the only thing they’re really good at is standing around looking obvious and stupi—Hah! Yes…” “Right. And they didn’t even need much training,” said André. “Commander Vimes says they’re the most obvious policemen anyone could think of. Incidentally, Corporal Nobbs has got some papers to prove he’s a human being. ” “Forged?” “I don’t think so. ” Granny Weatherwax put her head on one side. “If your house was on fire, what’s the first thing you’d take out of it?” “Oh, Granny—” Agnes began. “Hmm. Who set fire to it?” said André. “You’re a policeman, right enough. ” Granny handed him his badge. “You come to arrest poor Walter?” she said. “I know he didn’t murder Dr. Undershaft. I was watching him. He was trying to unblock the privies all afternoon—” “I’ve had proof that Walter isn’t the Ghost,” said Agnes. “I was almost sure it was Salzella,” said André. “I know he creeps off to the cellars sometimes and I’m sure he’s stealing money. But the Ghost has been seen when Salzella is perfectly visible. So now I think—” “Think? Think?” said Granny. “Someone thinking around here at last? How’d you recognize the Ghost, Mister Policeman?” “Well…he’s got a mask on…” “Really? Now say it again, and listen to what you say. Good grief! You can recognize him because he’s got a mask on? You recognize him because you don’t know who he is? Life isn’t neat! Whoever said there’s only one Ghost?” The figure ran through the shadows of the fly loft, cloak billowing around it. Nanny Ogg was outlined against the light, peering down. She said, without turning her head: “Hello, Mr. Ghost. Come back for your saw, have you?” Then she darted around behind the cable until she faced the shadow. “Millions of people knows I’m up here! You wouldn’t hurt a little old lady, would you? Oh, dear…me poor old heart!” She keeled over backward, hitting the floor hard enough to make the cable swing. The figure hesitated. Then it took a length of thin rope from a pocket and advanced cautiously toward the fallen witch. It knelt down, wound an end of the rope around each hand, and leaned forward. Nanny’s knee came up sharply. “Feels a lot better now, mister,” she said, as he reared backward.
She scrambled up again and grabbed the saw. “Come back to finish it, eh?” she said, waving the implement in the air. “Wonder how you’d blame that on Walter! Make you happy, would it, the whole place burning down?” The figure, moving awkwardly, backed away as she advanced. Then it turned, lurched along the wobbling catwalk and disappeared into the gloom. Nanny pounded after him and saw the figure climbing down a ladder. She looked around quickly, grabbed a rope to slide after him, and heard a pulley somewhere above start to clatter. She descended, skirts billowing around her. When she was about halfway down, a bunch of sandbags went upward past her in a hurry. As she rattled onward she saw, between her boots, someone struggling with the trapdoor to the cellars. She landed a few feet away, still holding the rope. “Mr. Salzella?” Nanny stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a whistle that could have melted earwax. She let go of the rope. Salzella glanced up at her as he raised the trapdoor, and then saw the shape dropping out of the roof. One hundred and eighty pounds of sandbag hit the door, slamming it shut. “Watch out!” said Nanny, cheerfully. Bucket waited nervously in the wings. Unnecessarily nervously, of course. The Ghost was dead. There couldn’t be anything to worry about. People said they’d seen him killed, although they were, Bucket had to admit, a bit hazy on the actual details. Nothing to worry about. Not a thing. Nothing whatsoever in any way. Everything was absolutely nothing to worry about in any way. He ran a finger around the inside of his collar. It hadn’t been such a bad life in wholesale cheese. The most you had to worry about was one of poor old Reg Plenty’s trouser buttons in the Farmhouse Nutty and the time young Weevins minced his thumb in the stirring machine and it was only by luck they happened to be doing strawberry yogurt at the time— A figure loomed up beside him. He clutched at a curtain for support and then turned to see, with relief, the majestic and reassuring stomach of Enrico Basilica. The tenor looked magnificent in a huge cockerel costume, complete with giant beak, wattles and comb. “Ah, señor,” Bucket burbled. “Very impressive, may I say. ” “Si,” said a muffled voice from somewhere behind the beak, as other members of the company hurried past onto the stage. “May I say how sorry I am about all that business earlier. I can assure you that it doesn’t happen every night, ahahah…” “Si?” “Probably just high spirits, ahaha…” The beak turned toward him. Bucket backed away. “Si!” “…yes…well, I’m glad you’re so understanding…” Temperamental, he thought, as the tenor strode onto the stage and the overture to Act Three drifted to its close. They’re like that, the real artistes. Nerves stretched like rubber bands, I expect. It’s just like waiting for the cheese, really. You can get really edgy waiting to see whether you’ve got half a ton of best blue-vein or just a vat full of pig food. It’s probably like that when you’ve got an aria working its way up— “Where’d he go? Where’d he go?” “What? Oh…Mrs. Ogg…” The old woman waved a saw in front of his face. It was not, in Mr. Bucket’s current state of mental tension, a helpful gesture. He was suddenly surrounded by other figures, equally conducive to multiple exclamation marks. “Perdita? Why aren’t you onstage…oh, Lady Esmerelda, I didn’t see you there, of course if you want to come backstage you only have to—” “Where’s Salzella?” said André. Bucket looked around vaguely. “He was here a few minutes ago…That is,” he said, pulling himself together, “ Mr. Salzella is probably attending to his duties somewhere which, young man, is more than I can say for—” “I demand you stop the show now ,” said André. “Oh, you do, do you? And by what authority, may I ask?” “He’s been sawing through the rope!” said Nanny. André pulled out a badge. “This!” Bucket looked closely. “‘Ankh-Morpork Guild of Musicians member 1244’?” André glared at him, then at the badge, and started to pat his pockets urgently. “No! Blast, I know I had the other one a moment ago…Look, you’ve got to clear the theater, we’ve got to search it, and that means—” “Don’t stop the show,” said Granny. “I won’t stop the show,” said Bucket. “’Cos I reckon he’d like to see the show stopped. The show must go on, eh? Isn’t that what you believe? Could he have got out of the building?” “I sent Corporal Nobbs to the stage door and Sergeant Detritus is in the foyer,” said André. “When it comes to standing in doorways, they’re among the best. ” “Excuse me, what’s happening?” said Bucket. “He could be anywhere!” said Agnes. “There’re hundreds of hiding places!” “Who?” said Bucket. “How about these cellars everyone talks about?” said Granny. “Where?” “There’s only one entrance,” said André. “He’s not stupid. ” “He can’t get into the cellars,” said Nanny. “He ran off! Probably in a cupboard somewhere by now!” “No, he’ll stay where there’s crowds,” said Granny. “That’s what I’d do. ” “What?” said Bucket. “Could he have got into the audience from here?” said Nanny. “Who?” said Bucket. Granny jerked a thumb toward the stage. “He’s somewhere on there. I can feel him. ” “Then we’ll wait until he comes off!” “Eighty people coming offstage all at once?” said Agnes. “Don’t you know what it’s like when the curtain goes down?” “And we don’t want to stop the show,” Granny mused. “No, we don’t want to stop the show,” said Bucket, grasping at a familiar idea as it swept by on a tide of incomprehensibility. “Or give people their money back in any fashion whatsoever. What are we talking about, does anyone know?” “The show must go on…” murmured Granny Weatherwax, still staring out of the wings. “Things have to end right. This is an opera house. They should end…operatically…” Nanny Ogg hopped up and down excitedly. “Oo, I know what you’re thinking, Esme!” she squeaked. “Oo, yes! Can we? Just so’s I can say I done it! Eh? Can we? Go on! Let’s!” Henry Lawsy peered closely at his opera notes. He had not, of course, fully understood the events of the first two acts, but knew that this was perfectly okay because one would have to be quite naïve to expect good sense as well as good songs. Anyway, it would all be explained in the last act, which was the Masked Ball in the Duke’s Palace. It would almost certainly turn out that the woman one of the men had been rather daringly courting would be his own wife, but so cunningly disguised by a very small mask that her husband wouldn’t have spotted that she wore the same clothes and had the same hairstyle. Someone’s serving man would turn out to be someone else’s daughter in disguise; someone would die of something that didn’t prevent them from singing about it for several minutes; and the plot would be resolved by some coincidences which, in real life, would be as likely as a cardboard hammer. He didn’t know any of this for a fact. He was making a calculated guess. In the meantime Act Three opened with the traditional ballet, this time apparently a country dance by the Maidens of the Court. Henry was aware of muffled laughter around him. This was because, if you ran an eye at head-height along the row of ballerinas as they tripped, arm in arm, onto the stage, there was an apparent gap. This was only filled if the gaze went downward a foot or two, to a small fat ballerina in a huge grin, an overstretched tutu, long white drawers and…boots. Henry stared. They were big boots. They moved back and forth at an astonishing speed. The satin slippers of the other dancers twinkled as they drifted across the floor, but the boots flashed and clattered like a tap dancer afraid of falling into the sink. The pirouettes were novel, too. While the other dancers whirled like snowflakes, the little fat one spun like a top and moved across the floor like one, too, bits of her anatomy trying to achieve local orbit. Around Henry members of the audience were whispering to one another. “Oh yes,” he heard someone declare, “they tried this in Pseudopolis…” His mother nudged him.
“This supposed to happen?” “Er…I don’t think so…” “’S bloody good, though! A good laugh!” As the fat ballerina collided with a donkey in evening dress she staggered and grabbed at his mask, which came off… Herr Trubelmacher, the conductor, froze in horror and astonishment. Around him the orchestra rattled to a standstill, except for the tuba player— —oom-BAH-oom-BAH-oom-BAH— —who had memorized his score years ago and never took much interest in current affairs. Two figures rose up right in front of Trubelmacher. A hand grabbed his baton. “Sorry, sir,” said André, “but the show must go on, yes?” He handed the stick to the other figure. “There you are,” he said. “And don’t let them stop. ” “Ook!” The Librarian carefully lifted Herr Trubelmacher aside with one hand, licked the baton thoughtfully, and then focused his gaze on the tuba player. —oom-BAH-oom-BAHhhh…oom…om… The tuba player tapped a trombonist on the shoulder. “Hey, Frank, there’s a monkey where old troublemaker should be—” “Shutupshutupshutup!” Satisfied, the orangutan raised his arms. The orchestra looked up. And then looked up a bit more. No conductor in musical history, not even the one who once fried and ate the piccolo player’s liver on a cymbal for one wrong note too many, not even the one who skewered three troublesome violinists on his baton, not even the one who made really hurtful sarcastic remarks in a loud voice, was ever the focus of such reverential attention. Onstage, Nanny Ogg took advantage of the hush to pull the head off a frog. “Madam!” “Sorry, thought you might be someone else…” The long arms dropped. The orchestra, in one huge muddled chord, slammed back into life. The dancers, after a moment’s confusion during which Nanny Ogg took the opportunity to decapitate a clown and a phoenix, tried to continue. The chorus watched in bemusement. Christine felt a tap on her shoulder, and turned to see Agnes. “Perdita! Where have you been!?” she hissed. “It’s nearly time for my duet with Enrico!” “You’ve got to help!” hissed Agnes. But down in her soul Perdita said: Enrico, eh? It’s Señor Basilica to everyone else… “Help you what!?” said Christine. “Take everyone’s masks off!” Christine’s forehead wrinkled beautifully. “That’s not supposed to happen until the end of the opera, is it?” “Er…it’s all been changed!” said Agnes urgently. She turned to a nobleman in a zebra mask and tugged it desperately. The singer underneath glared at her. “Sorry!” she whispered. “I thought you were someone else!” “We’re not supposed to take them off until the end!” “It’s been changed!” “Has it? No one told me!” A short-necked giraffe next to him leaned sideways. “What’s that?” “The big unmasking scene is now, apparently!” “No one told me !” “Yes, but when does anyone ever tell us anything? We’re only the chorus…here, why is old Troublemaker wearing a monkey mask…?” Nanny Ogg pirouetted past, cannoned into an elephant in evening dress and beheaded him by the trunk. She whispered: “We’re looking for the Ghost, see?” “But…the Ghost is dead, isn’t he?” “Hard things to kill, ghosts,” said Nanny. The whisper spread outward from that point. There is nothing like a chorus for rumor. People who would not believe a High Priest if he said the sky was blue, and was able to produce signed affidavits to this effect from his white-haired old mother and three Vestal virgins, would trust just about anything whispered darkly behind their hand by a complete stranger in a pub. A cockatoo spun around and pulled the mask off a parrot… Bucket sobbed. This was worse than the day the buttermilk exploded. This was worse than the flash heatwave that had led a whole warehouseful of Lancre Extra Strong to riot. The opera had turned into a pantomime. The audience was laughing. About the only character still with a mask on was Señor Basilica, who was watching the struggling chorus with as much aloof amazement as his own mask could convey—and this, amazingly enough, was quite a lot. “Oh, no…” moaned Bucket. “We’ll never live it down! He’ll never come back! It’ll be all over the opera circuit and no one will ever want to come here ever again!” “Ever again wha’?” mumbled a voice behind him. Bucket turned. “Oh, Señor Basilica,” he said. “Didn’t see you there…I was just thinking, I do hope you don’t think this is typical!” Señor Basilica stared through him, swaying slightly from side to side. He was wearing a torn shirt. “Summon…” he said. “I’m sorry?” “Summon…summon hit me onna head,” said the tenor. “Wanna glassa water pliss…” “But you’re…just about…to…sing…aren’t you?” said Bucket. He grabbed the stunned man by the collar to pull him closer, but this simply meant that he dragged himself off the floor, bringing his shoes about level with Basilica’s knees. “Tell me…you’re out there…on the stage…please!!!” Even in his stunned state, Enrico Basilica a. k. a. Henry Slugg recognized what might be called the essential dichotomy of the statement. He stuck to what he knew. “Summon bashed me inna corridor…” he volunteered. “That’s not you out there?” Basilica blinked heavily. “’M not me?” “You’re going to sing the famous duet in a moment!!!” Another thought staggered through Basilica’s abused skull. “’M I?” he said “’S good…’ll look forwa’ to that. Ne’er had a chance to hear me befo’…” He gave a happy little sigh and fell full-length backward. Bucket leaned against a pillar for support. Then his brow furrowed and, in the best traditions of the extended double take, he stared at the fallen tenor and counted to one on his fingers. Then he turned toward the stage and counted to two. He could feel a fourth exclamation mark coming on any time now. The Enrico Basilica onstage turned his mask this way and that. Stage right, Bucket was whispering to a group of stagehands. Stage left, André the secret pianist was waiting. A large troll loomed next to him. The fat red singer walked to center stage as the prelude to the duet began. The audience settled down again. Fun and games among the chorus was all very well—it might even be in the plot—but this was what they’d paid for. This was what it was all about. Agnes stared at him as Christine walked toward him. Now she could see he wasn’t right. Oh, he was fat, in a pillow-up-your-shirt sort of way, but he didn’t move like Basilica. Basilica moved lightly on his feet, as fat men often do, giving the effect of a barely tethered balloon. She glanced at Nanny, who was also watching him carefully. She couldn’t see Granny Weatherwax anywhere. That probably meant she was really close. The expectancy of the audience dragged at them all. Ears opened like petals. The fourth wall of the stage, the big black sucking darkness outside, was a well of silence begging to be filled up. Christine was walking toward him quite unconcerned. Christine would walk into a dragon’s mouth if it had a sign on it saying “Totally harmless, I promise you”…at least, if it was printed in large, easy-to-understand letters. No one seemed to want to do anything. It was a famous duet. And a beautiful one. Agnes ought to know. She’d been singing it all last night. Christine took the false Basilica’s hand and, as the opening bars of the duet began, opened her mouth— “Stop right there!” Agnes put everything she could into it. The chandelier tinkled. The orchestra went silent in a skid of wheezes and twangs. In a fading of chords and a dying of echoes, the show stopped. Walter Plinge sat in the candlelit gloom under the stage, his hands resting on his lap. It was not often that Walter Plinge had nothing to do, but, when he did have nothing to do, he did nothing. He liked it down here. It was familiar. The sounds of the opera filtered through. They were muffled, but that didn’t matter. Walter knew all the words, every note of music, every step of every dance. He needed the actual performances only in the same way that a clock needs its tiny little escapement mechanism; it kept him ticking nicely. Mrs. Plinge had taught him to read using the old programs. That’s how he knew he was part of it all. But he knew that anyway.
He’d cut what teeth he had on a helmet with horns on it. The first bed he could remember was the very same trampoline used by Dame Gigli in the infamous Bouncing Gigli incident. Walter Plinge lived opera. He breathed its songs, painted its scenery, lit its fires, washed its floors and shined its shoes. Opera filled up places in Walter Plinge that might otherwise have been empty. And now the show had stopped. But all the energy, all the raw pent-up emotion that is dammed up behind a show—all the screaming, the fears, the hopes, the desires—flew on, like a body hurled from the wreckage. The terrible momentum smashed into Walter Plinge like a tidal wave hitting a teacup. It propelled him out of his chair and flung him against the crumbling scenery. He slid down and rolled into a twitching heap on the floor, clapping his hands over his ears to shut out the sudden, unnatural silence. A shape stepped out of the shadows. Granny Weatherwax had never heard of psychiatry and would have had no truck with it even if she had. There are some arts too black even for a witch. She practiced headology—practiced, in fact, until she was very good at it. And though there may be some superficial similarities between a psychiatrist and a headologist, there is a huge practical difference. A psychiatrist, dealing with a man who fears he is being followed by a large and terrible monster, will endeavor to convince him that monsters don’t exist. Granny Weatherwax would simply give him a chair to stand on and a very heavy stick. “Stand up, Walter Plinge,” she said. Walter stood up, staring straight ahead of him. “It’s stopped! It’s stopped! It’s bad luck to stop the show!” he said hoarsely. “Someone better start it again,” said Granny. “You can’t stop the show! It’s the show! ” “Yes. Someone better start it again, Walter Plinge. ” Walter didn’t appear to notice her. He pawed aimlessly through his stack of music and ran his hands through the drifts of old programs. One hand touched the keyboard of the harmonium and played a few neurotic notes. “Wrong to stop. Show must go on…” “Mr. Salzella is trying to stop the show, isn’t he, Walter?” Walter’s head shot up. He stared straight ahead of him. “You haven’t seen anything, Walter Plinge!” he said, in a voice so like Salzella’s that even Granny raised an eyebrow. “And if you tell lies, you will be locked up and I’ll see to it that there’s big trouble for your mother!” Granny nodded. “He found out about the Ghost, didn’t he?” she said. “The Ghost who comes out when he has a mask on…doesn’t he, Walter Plinge? And the man thought: I can use that. And when it’s time for the Ghost to be caught…well, there is a Ghost that can be caught. And the best thing is that everyone will believe it. They’ll feel bad about themselves, maybe, but they’ll believe it. Even Walter Plinge won’t be certain, ’cos his mind’s all tangled up. ” Granny took a deep breath. “It’s tangled, but it ain’t twisted. ” There was a sigh. “Well, matters will have to resolve themselves. There’s nothing else for it. ” She removed her hat and fished around in the point. “I don’t mind tellin’ you this, Walter,” she said, “because you won’t understand and you won’t remember. There was a wicked ole witch once called Black Aliss. She was an unholy terror. There’s never been one worse or more powerful. Until now. Because I could spit in her eye and steal her teeth, see. Because she didn’t know Right from Wrong, so she got all twisted up and that was the end of her. “The trouble is, you see, that if you do know Right from Wrong you can’t choose Wrong. You just can’t do it and live. So…if I was a bad witch I could make Mister Salzella’s muscles turn against his bones and break them where he stood…if I was bad. I could do things inside his head, change the shape he thinks he is, and he’d be down on what’d been his knees and begging to be turned into a frog…if I was bad. I could leave him with a mind like a scrambled egg, listening to colors and hearing smells…if I was bad. Oh, yes. ” There was another sigh, deeper and more heartfelt. “But I can’t do none of that stuff. That wouldn’t be Right. ” She gave a deprecating little chuckle. And if Nanny Ogg had been listening, she would have resolved as follows: that no maddened cackle from Black Aliss of infamous memory, no evil little giggle from some crazed vampyre whose morals were worse than his spelling, no side-splitting guffaw from the most inventive torturer, was quite so unnerving as a happy little chuckle from a Granny Weatherwax about to do what’s best. From the point of her hat Granny withdrew a paper-thin mask. It was a simple face—smooth, white, basic. There were semicircular holes for the eyes. It was neither happy nor sad. She turned it over in her hands. Walter seemed to stop breathing. “Simple thing, ain’t it?” said Granny. “Looks beautiful, but it’s really just a simple bit of stuff, just like any other mask. Wizards could poke at this for a year and still say there was nothing magic about it, eh? Which just shows how much they know, Walter Plinge. ” She tossed it to him. He caught it hungrily and pulled it over his face. Then he stood up in one flowing movement, moving like a dancer. “I don’t know what you are when you’re behind the mask,” said Granny, “but ‘ghost’ is just another word for ‘spirit’ and ‘spirit’ is just another word for ‘soul. ’ Off you go, Walter Plinge. ” The masked figure did not move. “I meant…off you go, Ghost. The show must go on. ” The mask nodded, and darted away. Granny slapped her hands together like the crack of doom. “Right! Let’s do some good!” she said, to the universe at large. Everyone was looking at her. This was a moment in time, a little point between the past and future, when a second could stretch out and out… Agnes felt the blush begin. It was heading for her face like the revenge of the volcano god. When it got there, she knew, it would be all over for her. You’ll apologize, Perdita jeered. “Shut up!” shouted Agnes. She strode forward before the echo had had time to come back from the farther ends of the auditorium, and wrenched at the red mask. The entire chorus came in on cue. This was opera, after all. The show had stopped, but opera continued… “ Salzella! ” He grabbed Agnes, clamping his hand over her mouth. His other hand flew to his belt and drew his sword. It wasn’t a stage prop. The blade hissed through the air as he spun to face the chorus. “Oh dear oh dear oh dear ,” he said. “How extremely operatic of me. And now, I fear, I shall have to take this poor girl hostage. It’s the appropriate thing to do, isn’t it?” He looked around triumphantly. The audience watched in fascinated silence. “Isn’t anyone going to say ‘You won’t get away with this’?” he said. “You won’t get away with this,” said André, from the wings. “You have the place surrounded, I have no doubt?” said Salzella brightly. “Yes, we have the place surrounded. ” Christine screamed and fainted. Salzella smiled even more brightly. “Ah, now there’s someone operatic!” he said. “But, you see, I am going to get away with it, because I don’t think operatically. Myself and this young lady here are going to go down to the cellars where I may, possibly, leave her unharmed. I doubt very much that you have the cellars surrounded. Even I don’t know everywhere they go, and believe me my knowledge is really rather extensive—” He paused. Agnes tried to break free, but his grip tightened around her neck. “By now,” he said, “someone should have said: ‘But why , Salzella?’ Honestly, do I have to do everything around here?” Bucket realized he had his mouth open. “That’s what I was going to say!” he said. “Ah, good. Well, in that case, I should say something like: Because I wanted to. Because I rather like money, you see. But more than that”—he took a deep breath—“I really hate opera. I don’t want to get needlessly excited about this, but opera, I am afraid, really is dreadful. And I have had enough.
So, while I have the stage, let me tell you what a wretched, self-adoring, totally unrealistic, worthless art form it is, what a terrible waste of fine music, what a—” There was a whirr off on one side of the stage. The skirts of costumes began to flap. Dust flew up. André looked around. Beside him, the wind machine had started up. The handle was turning by itself. Salzella turned to see what everyone was staring at. The Ghost had dropped lightly onto the stage. His opera cloak billowed around him…operatically. He bowed slightly, and drew his sword. “But you’re dea—” Salzella began. “Oh, yes! A ghost of a Ghost! Totally unbelievable and an offense against common sense, in the best operatic tradition! This was really too much to hope for!” He thrust Agnes away, and nodded happily. “That’s what opera does to a man,” he said. “It rots the brain, you see, and I doubt whether he had too much of that to begin with. It drives people mad. Mad, d’you hear me, mad!! Ahem. They act irrationally. Don’t you think I’ve watched you, over the years? It’s like a hothouse for insanity!! D’you hear me? Insanity!!” He and the Ghost began to circle one another. “You don’t know what it has been like, I assure you, being the only sane man in this madhouse!! You believe anything !! You’d prefer to believe a ghost can be in two places at once than that there might simply be two people!! Even Pounder thought he could blackmail me!! Poking around in places that he shouldn’t!! Well, of course, I had to kill him for his own good. This place sends even rat catchers mad!! And Undershaft…well, why couldn’t he have forgotten his glasses like he usually did, eh?” He lashed out with his sword. The Ghost parried. “And now I’ll fight your Ghost,” he said, moving forward in a flurry of strokes, “and you’ll notice that our Ghost here doesn’t actually know how to fence…because he only knows stage fencing, you see…where the whole point, of course, is simply to hit the other fellow’s sword with a suitably impressive metallic noise…so that you can die very dramatically merely because he’s carefully thrust his sword under your armpit…” The Ghost was forced to retreat under the onslaught, until he fell backward over the unconscious body of Christine. “See?” said Salzella. “That’s what comes of believing in opera!!!” He reached down quickly and tugged the mask off Walter Plinge’s face. “Really, Walter!!! You are a bad boy!!!!” “Sorry Mr. Salzella!” “Look how everyone’s staring!!!!” “Sorry Mr. Salzella!” The mask crumpled in Salzella’s fingers. He let the fragments tumble to the floor. Then he pulled Walter to his feet. “See, company? This is your luck!!! This is your Ghost!!! Without his mask he’s just an idiot who can hardly tie his shoelaces!!! Ahahaha!!!! Ahem. It’s all your fault, Walter Plinge…” “Yes Mr. Salzella!” “ No. ” Salzella looked around. A voice said, “ No one would believe Walter Plinge. Even Walter Plinge gets confused about the things Walter Plinge sees. Even his mother was afraid he might have murdered people. People could accept just about anything of a Walter Plinge. ” There was a steady tapping noise. The trapdoor opened beside Salzella. A pointy hat appeared slowly, followed by the rest of Granny Weatherwax, with her arms folded. She glared at Salzella as the floor clicked into place. Her foot stopped tapping on the boards. “Well, well,” he said. “Lady Esmerelda, eh?” “I’m stoppin’ bein’ a lady, Mr. Salzella. ” He glanced up at the pointy hat. “So you are a witch instead?” “Yes, indeed. ” “A bad witch, no doubt?” “Worse. ” “But this ,” said Salzella, “is a sword. Everyone knows witches can’t magic iron and steel. Get out of my way!!!” The sword hissed down. Granny thrust out her hand. There was a blur of flesh and steel and… …she held the sword, by the blade. “Tell you what, Mr. Salzella,” she said, levelly, “it ought to be Walter Plinge who finishes this, eh? It’s him you harmed, apart from the ones you murdered, o’ course. You didn’t need to do that. But you wore a mask, didn’t you? There’s a kind of magic in masks. Masks conceal one face, but they reveal another. The one that only comes out in darkness. I bet you could do just what you liked , behind a mask…?” Salzella blinked at her. He pulled on his sword, tugged hard on a sharp blade held in an unprotected hand. There was a groan from several members of the chorus. Granny grinned. Her knuckles whitened as she redoubled her grip. She turned her head toward Walter Plinge. “Put your mask on, Walter. ” Everyone looked down at the crumpled cardboard on the stage. “Don’t have one anymore Mistress Weatherwax!” Granny followed his gaze. “Oh deary, deary me,” she said. “Well, I can see we shall have to do something about that. Look at me, Walter. ” He did as he was told. Granny’s eyes half-closed. “You…trust Perdita , don’t you, Walter?” “Yes Mistress Weatherwax!” “That’s good, because she’s got a new mask for you, Walter Plinge. A magic one. It’s just like your old one, d’you see, only you wear it under your skin and you don’t have to take it off and no one but you will ever need to know it’s there. Got it, Perdita?” “But I—” Agnes began. “ Got it? ” “Er…oh, yes. Here it is. Yes. I’ve got it in my hand. ” She waved an empty hand vaguely. “You’re holding it the wrong way up, my girl!” “Oh. Sorry. ” “Well? Give it to him, then. ” “Er. Yes. ” Agnes advanced on Walter. “Now you take it, Walter,” said Granny, still gripping the sword. “Yes Mistress Weatherwax…” He reached out toward Agnes. As he did so, she was sure that, just for a moment, there was a faint pressure on her fingertips. “ Well? Put it on!” Walter looked uncertain. “You do believe there’s a mask there, don’t you, Walter?” Granny demanded. “Perdita’s sensible and she knows an invisible mask when she sees one. ” He nodded, slowly, and raised his hands to his face. And Agnes was sure that he’d somehow come into focus. Almost certainly nothing had happened that could be measured with any kind of instrument, any more than you could weigh an idea or sell good fortune by the yard. But Walter stood up, smiling faintly. “Good,” said Granny. She stared at Salzella. “I reckon you two should fight again,” she said. “But it can’t be said I’m unfair. I expect you’ve got a Ghost mask somewhere? Mrs. Ogg saw you waving it, see. And she’s not as gormless as she looks—” “Thank you,” said a fat ballerina. “—so she thought, how could people still say afterward that they’d seen the Ghost? ’Cos that’s how you recognize the Ghost, by his mask. So there’s two masks. ” Under her gaze, telling himself that he could resist any time he wanted to, Salzella reached into his jacket and produced his own mask. “Put it on, then. ” She let go of the sword. “Then who you are can fight who he is. ” Down in the pit, the percussionist stared as his sticks rose and began a drum roll. “Are you doing that, Gytha?” said Granny Weatherwax. “I thought you were. ” “It’s opera, then. The show must go on. ” Walter Plinge raised his sword. The masked Salzella glanced from him to Granny, and then lunged. The swords met. It was, Agnes realized, stage-fighting. The swords clashed and rattled as the fighters danced back and forth across the stage. Walter wasn’t trying to hit Salzella. Every thrust was parried. Every opportunity to strike back, as the director of music grew more angry, was ignored. “This isn’t fighting!” Salzella shouted, standing back. “This is—” Walter thrust. Salzella staggered away, until he cannoned into Nanny Ogg. He lurched sideways. Then he staggered forward, dropped onto one knee, got unsteadily to his feet again, and staggered into the center of the stage. “Whatever happens,” he gasped, wrenching off his mask, “it can’t be worse than a season of opera!!!! I don’t mind where I’m going so long as there are no fat men pretending to be thin boys, and no huge long songs which everyone says are so beautiful just because they don’t understand what the hell they’re actually about!!!! Ah—Ah-argh…” He slumped to the floor. “But Walter didn’t—” Agnes began.
“Shut up,” said Nanny Ogg, out of the corner of her mouth. “But he hasn’t— ” Bucket began. “Incidentally, another thing I can’t stand about opera,” said Salzella, rising to his feet and reeling crabwise toward the curtains, “are the plots. They make no sense!! And no one ever says so!!! And the quality of the acting? It’s nonexistent!! Everyone stands around watching the person who’s singing. Ye gods, it’s going to be a relief to put that behind…ah…argh…” He slumped to the floor. “Is that it?” said Nanny. “Shouldn’t think so,” said Granny Weatherwax. “As for the people who attend opera,” said Salzella, struggling upright again and staggering sideways, “I think I just possibly hate them even worse!!! They’re so ignorant !!! There’s hardly a one of them out there who knows the first thing about music!!! They go on about tunes !!! They spend all day endeavoring to be sensible human beings, and then they walk in here and they leave their intelligence on a nail by the door—” “Then why didn’t you just leave?” snapped Agnes. “If you’d stolen all this money why didn’t you just go away somewhere, if you hated it so much?” Salzella stared at her while swaying back and forth. His mouth opened and shut once or twice, as if he were trying out unfamiliar words. “Leave?” he managed. “ Leave? Leave the opera? …Argh argh argh…” He hit the floor again. André prodded the fallen director. “Is he dead yet?” he said. “How can he be dead?” said Agnes. “Good grief, can’t anyone see that—?” “You know what really gets me down,” said Salzella, rising to his knees, “is the way that in opera everyone takes such a long !!!!!…time!!!!!…to!!!!!…argh…argh…argh…” He keeled over. The company waited for a while. The audience held its collective breath. Nanny Ogg poked him with a boot. “Yep, that’s about it. Looks like he’s gone down for the last curtain call,” she said. “But Walter didn’t stab him!” said Agnes. “Why won’t anyone listen? Look, the sword isn’t even sticking in him! It’s just tucked between his body and his arm, for heaven’s sake!” “Yes,” said Nanny. “I s’pose, really, it’s a shame he dint notice that. ” She scratched at her shoulder. “Here, these ballet dresses really tickle…” “But he’s dead!” “Got a bit overexcited, perhaps,” said Nanny, fidgeting with a strap. “Overexcited?” “Frantic. You know these artistic types. Well, you are one, of course. ” “He’s really dead?” said Bucket. “Seems to be,” said Granny. “One of the best operatic deaths ever, I wouldn’t mind betting. ” “That’s terrible!!” Bucket grabbed the former Salzella by the collar and hauled him upright. “Where’s my money? Come on, out with it, tell me what you’ve done with my money!!! I don’t hear you!!!! He’s not saying anything!!!” “That’s on account of being dead,” said Granny. “Not talkative, the deceased. As a rule. ” “Well, you’re a witch!!! Can’t you do that thing with the cards and the glasses?” “Well, yes…we could have a poker game,” said Nanny. “Good idea. ” “The money is in the cellars,” said Granny. “Walter’ll show you. ” Walter Plinge clicked his heels. “Certainly,” he said. “I would be glad to. ” Bucket stared. It was Walter Plinge’s voice and it was coming out of Walter Plinge’s face, but both face and voice were different. Subtly different. The voice had lost the uncertain, frightened edge. The lopsided look had gone from the face. “Good grief,” Bucket murmured, and let go of Salzella’s coat. There was a thump. “And since you’re going to be needing a new director of music,” said Granny, “you could do worse than look to Walter here. ” “ Walter? ” “He knows everything there is to know about opera,” said Granny. “And everything about the Opera House, too. ” “You should see the music he’s written—” said Nanny. “Walter? Musical director?” said Bucket. “—stuff you can really hum—” “Yes, I think you might be surprised,” said Granny. “—there’s one with lots of sailors dancin’ around singin’ about how there’s no women—” “This is Walter, isn’t it?” “—and then some bloke called Les who’s miserable all the time—” “Oh, this is Walter,” said Granny. “The same person. ” “—and there’s one, hah, with all cats all leapin’ around all singin’, that was fun,” Nanny burbled. “Can’t imagine how he thought up that one—” Bucket scratched his chin. He was feeling lightheaded enough as it was. “And he’s trustworthy,” said Granny. “And he’s honest. And he knows all about the Opera House, as I said. And…where everything is…” That was enough for Mr. Bucket. “Want to be director of music, Walter?” he said. “Thank you, Mr. Bucket,” said Walter Plinge. “I should like that very much. But what about cleaning the privies?” “Sorry?” “I won’t have to stop doing them, will I? I’ve just got them working right. ” “Oh? Right. Really?” Mr. Bucket’s eyes crossed for a moment. “Well, fine. You can sing while you’re doing it, if you like,” he added generously. “And I won’t even cut your pay! I’ll…I’ll raise it! Six…no, seven shiny dollars!” Walter rubbed his face thoughtfully. “Mr. Bucket…” “Yes, Walter?” “I think…you paid Mr. Salzella forty shiny dollars…” Bucket turned to Granny. “Is he some kind of monster?” “You just listen to the stuff he’s been writin’,” said Nanny. “Amazin’ songs, not even in foreign. Will you just look at this stuff…’scuse me…” She turned her back on the audience— —twingtwangtwong— —and twirled round again with a wad of music paper in her hands. “I know good music when I sees it,” she said, handing it to Bucket and pointing excitedly at extracts. “It’s got blobs and curly bits all over it, see?” “ You have been writing this music?” said Bucket to Walter. “Which is unaccountably warm?” “Indeed, Mr. Bucket. ” “In my time?” “There’s a lovely song here,” said Nanny, “‘Don’t cry for me, Genua. ’ It’s very sad. That reminds me, I’d better go and see if Mrs. Plinge has come rou…has woken up. I may have overdone it a bit on the scumble. ’ She ambled off, twitching at bits of her costume, and nudged a fascinated ballerina. “This balleting doesn’t half make you sweat, don’t you find?” “Excuse me, there’s something I didn’t quite believe,” said André. He took Salzella’s sword and tested the blade carefully. “Ow!” he shouted. “Sharp, is it?” said Agnes. “Yes!” André sucked his thumb. “She caught it in her hand. ” “She’s a witch,” said Agnes. “But it was steel! I thought no one could magic steel! Everyone knows that. ” “I wouldn’t be too impressed if I was you,” said Agnes sourly. “It was probably just some kind of trick…” André turned to Granny. “Your hand isn’t even scratched! How did…you…” Her stare held him in its sapphire vice for a moment. When he turned away he looked vaguely puzzled, like a man who can’t remember where he’s just put something down. “I hope he didn’t hurt Christine,” he mumbled. “Why isn’t anyone seeing to her?” “Probably because she makes sure she screams and faints before anything happens,” said Perdita, through Agnes. André set off across the stage. Agnes trailed after him. A couple of dancers were kneeling down next to Christine. “It’d be terrible if anything happened to her,” said André. “Oh…yes. ” “Everyone says she’s showing such promise…” Walter stepped up beside him. “Yes. We should get her somewhere,” he said. His voice was clipped and precise. Agnes felt the bottom start to drop out of her world. “Yes, but… you know it was me doing the singing. ” “Oh, yes…yes, of course…” said André, awkwardly. “But…well…this is opera…you know…” Walter took her hand. “But it was me you taught!” she said desperately. “Then you were very good,” said Walter. “I suspect she will never be quite that good, even with many months of my tuition. But, Perdita, have you ever heard of the words ‘star quality’?” “Is it the same as talent ?” snapped Agnes. “It is rarer. ” She stared at him. His face, however it was controlled now, was quite handsome in the glare of the footlights. She pulled her hand free. “I liked you better when you were Walter Plinge,” she said. Agnes turned away, and felt Granny Weatherwax’s gaze on her. She was sure it was a mocking gaze. “Er…we ought to get Christine into Mr.
Bucket’s office,” André said. This seemed to break some sort of spell. “Yes, indeed!!!” said Bucket. “And we can’t leave Mr. Salzella corpsing onstage, either. You two, you’d better take him backstage. The rest of you…well, it was nearly over anyway…er…that’s it. The…opera is over…” “ Walter Plinge! ” Nanny Ogg entered, supporting Mrs. Plinge. Walter’s mother fixed him with a beady gaze. “Have you been a bad boy?” Mr. Bucket walked over to her and patted her hand. “I think you’d better come along to my office, too,” he said. He handed the sheaf of music to André, who opened it at random. André gave it a glance, and then stared. “Hey…this is good ,” he said. “Is it?” André looked at another page. “Good heavens!” “What? What?” said Bucket. “I’ve just never…I mean, even I can see…tum-ti TUM tum-tum…yes…Mr. Bucket, you do know this isn’t opera? There’s music and…yes…dancing and singing all right, but it’s not opera. Not opera at all. A long way from opera. ” “How far? You don’t mean…” Bucket hesitated, savoring the idea, “you don’t mean that it’s just possible that you put music in and you get money out ?” André hummed a few bars. “This could very well be the case, Mr. Bucket. ” Bucket beamed. He put one arm around André and the other around Walter. “Good!!!!!” he said. “This calls for a very lar…for a medium-sized drink!!!!!” One by one, or in groups, the singers and dancers left the stage. And the witches and Agnes were left alone. “Is that it ?” said Agnes. “Not quite yet,” said Granny. Someone staggered onto the stage. A kindly hand had bandaged Enrico Basilica’s head, and presumably another kindly hand had given him the plate of spaghetti he was holding. Mild concussion still seemed to have him in its grip. He blinked at the witches and then spoke like a man who’d lost his hold on immediate events and so was clinging hard to more ancient considerations. “Summon give me some ’ghetti,” he said. “That’s nice,” said Nanny. “Hah! ’Ghetti is fine for them as likes it…but not me! Hah! Yes!” He turned and peered muzzily at the darkness of the audience. “You know what I’m goin’ to do? You know what I’m goin’ to do now? I’m sayin’ goodbye to Enrico Basilica! Oh yes! He’s chewed his last tentacle! I’m goin’ to go right out now and have eight pints of Turbot’s Really Odd. Yes! And probably a sausage ina bun! And then I’m goin’ down to the music hall to hear Nellie Stamp sing ‘A Winkle’s No Use if You Don’t Have a Pin’—and if I sing again here it’s goin’ to be under the proud old name of Henry Slugg, do you hear—?” There was a shriek from somewhere in the audience. “Henry Slugg?” “Er…yes?” “I thought it was you! You’ve grown a beard and stuffed a haystack down your trousers but, I thought, under that little mask, that’s my Henry, that was!” Henry Slugg shaded his eyes from the footlights’ glare. “…Angeline?” “Oh, no!” said Agnes, wearily. “This sort of thing does not happen. ” “Happens in the theater all the time,” said Nanny Ogg. “It certainly does,” said Granny. “It’s only a mercy he doesn’t have a long-lost twin brother. ” There was the sound of much scuffling in the audience. Someone was climbing along a row, dragging someone else. “Mother!” came a voice from the gloom. “What do you think you are doing?” “You just come with me, young Henry!” “Mother, we can’t go up on the stage…!” Henry Slugg frisbeed the plate into the wings, clambered down from the stage and heaved himself over the edge of the orchestra pit, assisted by a couple of violinists. They met at the first row of seats. Agnes could just hear their voices. “I meant to come back. You know that!” “I wanted to wait but, what with one thing and another…especially one thing. Come here, young Henry…” “Mother, what is happening?” “Son…you know I always said your father was Mr. Lawsy the eel juggler?” “Yes, of—” “Please, both of you, come back to my dressing room! I can see we’ve got such a lot to talk about. ” “Oh, yes. A lot…” Agnes watched them go. The audience, who could spot opera even if it wasn’t being sung, applauded. “All right,” she said. “And now is it the end?” “Nearly,” said Granny. “Did you do something to everyone’s heads?” “No, but I felt like smacking a few,” said Nanny. “But no one said ‘thank you’ or anything!” “Often the case,” said Granny. “Too busy thinking about the next performance,” said Nanny. “The show must go on,” she added. “That’s…that’s madness!” “It’s opera. I noticed that even Mr. Bucket’s caught it, too,” said Nanny. “And that young André has been rescued from being a policeman, if I’m any judge. ” “But what about me ?” “Oh, them as makes the endings don’t get them,” said Granny. She brushed an invisible speck of dust off her shoulder. “I expect we’d better be gettin’ along, Gytha,” she said, turning her back on Agnes. “Early start tomorrow. ” Nanny walked forward, shading her eyes as she stared out into the dark maw of the auditorium. “The audience haven’t gone, you know,” she said. “They’re still sitting out there. ” Granny joined her, and peered into the gloom. “I can’t imagine why,” she said. “He did say the opera’s over…” They turned and looked at Agnes, who was standing in the center of the stage and glowering at nothing. “Feeling a bit angry?” said Nanny. “Only to be expected. ” “Yes!” “Feeling that everything’s happened for other people and not for you?” “ Yes! ” “But,” said Granny Weatherwax, “look at it like this: what’s Christine got to look forward to? She’ll just become a singer. Stuck in a little world. Oh, maybe she’ll be good enough to get a little fame, but one day the voice’ll crack and that’s the end of her life. You have got a choice. You can either be on the stage, just a performer, just going through the lines…or you can be outside it, and know how the script works, where the scenery hangs, and where the trapdoors are. Isn’t that better?” “ No! ” The infuriating thing about Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax, Agnes thought later, was the way they sometimes acted in tandem, without exchanging a word. Of course, there were plenty of other things—the way they never thought that meddling was meddling if they did it; the way they automatically assumed that everyone else’s business was their own; the way they went through life in a straight line; the way, in fact, that they arrived in any situation and immediately started to change it. Compared to that, acting on unspoken agreement was a mere minor annoyance, but it was here and up close. They walked toward her, and each laid a hand on her shoulder. “Feeling angry ?” said Granny. “ Yes! ” “I should let it out then, if I was you,” said Nanny. Agnes shut her eyes, clenched her fists, opened her mouth and screamed. It started low. Plaster dust drifted down from the ceiling. The prisms on the chandelier chimed gently as they shook. It rose, passing quickly through the mysterious pitch at fourteen cycles per second where the human spirit begins to feel distinctly uncomfortable about the universe and the place in it of the bowels. Small items around the Opera House vibrated off shelves and smashed on the floor. The note climbed, rang like a bell, climbed again. In the Pit, all the violin strings snapped, one by one. As the tone rose, the crystal prisms shook in the chandelier. In the bar, champagne corks fired a salvo. Ice jingled and shattered in its bucket. A line of wineglasses joined in the chorus, blurred around the rims, and then exploded like hazardous thistle down with attitude. There were harmonics and echoes that caused strange effects. In the dressing rooms the No. 3 greasepaint melted. Mirrors cracked, filling the ballet school with a million fractured images. Dust rose, insects fell. In the stones of the Opera House tiny particles of quartz danced briefly… Then there was silence, broken by the occasional thud and tinkle. Nanny grinned. “Ah,” she said, “ Now the opera’s over. ” Salzella opened his eyes. The stage was empty, and dark, and nevertheless brilliantly lit.
That is, a huge shadowless light was streaming from some unseen source and yet, apart from Salzella himself, there was nothing for it to illuminate. Footsteps sounded in the distance. Their owner took some time to arrive, but when he stepped into the liquid air around Salzella he seemed to burst into flame. He wore red: a red suit with red lace, a red cloak, red shoes with ruby buckles, and a broad-brimmed red hat with a huge red feather. He even walked with a long red stick, bedecked with red ribbons. But for someone who had taken such meticulous trouble with his costume, he’d been remiss in the matter of his mask. It was a crude one of a skull, such as might be bought in any theatrical shop—Salzella could even see the string. “Where did everyone go?” Salzella demanded. Unpleasant recent memories were beginning to bubble up in his mind. He couldn’t quite recall them clearly at the moment, but the taste of them was bad. The figure said nothing. “Where’s the orchestra? What happened to the audience?” There was a barely perceptible shrug from the tall red figure. Salzella began to notice other details. What he had thought was the stage seemed slightly gritty underfoot. The ceiling above him was a long way away, perhaps as far away as anything could be, and was filled with cold, hard points of light. “I asked you a question!” T HREE QUESTIONS, IN FACT. The words turned up on the inside of Salzella’s ears with no suggestion that they had had to travel like normal sound. “You didn’t answer me!” S OME THINGS YOU HAVE TO WORK OUT FOR YOURSELF, AND THIS IS ONE OF THEM, BELIEVE ME. “Who are you? You’re not a member of the cast, I know that! Take off that mask!” A S YOU WISH. I DO LIKE TO GET INTO THE SPIRIT OF THE THING. The figure removed its mask. “And now take off that other mask!” said Salzella, as the frozen fingers of dread rose through him. Death touched a secret spring on the stick. A blade shot out, so thin that it was transparent, its edge glittering blue as air molecules were sliced into their component atoms. A H , he said, raising the scythe. T HERE I THINK YOU HAVE ME. It was dark in the cellars, but Nanny Ogg had walked alone in the strange caverns under Lancre and through the nighttime forests with Granny Weatherwax. Darkness held no fears for an Ogg. She struck a match. “Greebo?” People had been tramping to and fro for hours. The darkness wasn’t private anymore. It had taken quite a lot of people to carry all the money, for a start. Up until the end of the opera, there had been something mysterious about these cellars. Now they were just…well…damp underground rooms. Something that had lived here had moved on. Her foot rattled a piece of pottery. She grunted as she went down on one knee. Spilled mud and shards of broken pot littered the floor. Here and there, unrooted and snapped, were some unheeded pieces of dead twig. Only some kind of fool would have stuck bits of wood in pots of mud far underground and expected anything to happen. Nanny picked one up and sniffed it tentatively. It smelled of mud. And nothing else. She’d have liked to have known how it had been done. Just professional interest, of course. And she knew she never would, now. Walter was a busy man now, up in the light. And, for something to begin, other things had to end. “We all wears a mask of one sort or another,” she said to the damp air. “No sense in upsetting things now, eh…” The coach didn’t leave until seven o’clock in the morning. By Lancre standards that was practically midday. The witches got there early. “I was hoping to shop for a few souvenirs,” said Nanny, stamping her feet on the cobbles to keep warm. “For the kiddies. ” “No time,” said Granny Weatherwax. “Not that it would have made any difference on account of me not having any money to buy ’em with,” Nanny went on. “Not my fault if you fritter your money away,” said Granny. “I don’t recall having a single chance to frit. ” “Money’s only useful for the things it can do. ” “Well, yes. I could’ve done with having some new boots, for a start. ” Nanny jiggled up and down a bit, and whistled around her tooth. “Nice of Mrs. Palm to let us stay there gratis,” she said. “Yes. ” “O’ course, I helped out playin’ the piano and tellin’ jokes. ” “An added bonus,” said Granny, nodding. “An’ of course there was all those little nibbles I prepared. With the Special Party Dip. ” “Yes indeed,” said Granny, poker-faced. “Mrs. Palm was saying only this morning that she’s thinking of retiring next year. ” Nanny looked up and down the street again. “I ’spect young Agnes’ll be turning up any minute now,” she said. “I really couldn’t say,” said Granny haughtily. “Not as though there’s much for her here, after all. ” Granny sniffed. “That’s up to her, I’m sure. ” “Everyone was very impressed, I reckon, when you caught that sword in your hand…” Granny sighed. “Hah! Yes, I expect they were. They didn’t think clearly, did they? People’re just lazy. They never think: maybe she had something in her hand, a bit of metal or something. They don’t think for a minute it was just a trick. They don’t think there’s always a perfectly good explanation if you look for it. They probably think it was some kind of magic. ” “Yeah, but…you didn’t have anything in your hand, did you?” “That’s not the point. I might have done. ” Granny looked up and down the square. “Besides, you can’t magic iron. ” “That’s very true. Not iron. Now, someone like ole Black Aliss, they could make their skin tougher than steel…but that’s just an ole legend, I expect…” “She could do it all right,” said Granny. “But you can’t go round messin’ with cause and effect. That’s what sent her mad, come the finish. She thought she could put herself outside of things like cause and effect. Well, you can’t. You grab a sharp sword by the blade, you get hurt. World’d be a terrible place if people forgot that. ” “ You weren’t hurt. ” “Not my fault. I didn’t have time. ” Nanny blew on her hands. “One good thing, though,” she said. “It’s a blessing the chandelier never came down. I was worried about that soon as I saw it. Looks too dramatic for its own good, I thought. First thing I’d smash, if I was a loony. ” “Yes. ” “Haven’t been able to find Greebo since last night. ” “Good. ” “He always turns up, though. ” “Unfortunately. ” There was a clatter as the coach swung around the corner. It stopped. Then the coachman tugged on the reins and it did a U-turn and disappeared again. “Esme?” said Nanny, after a while. “Yes?” “There’s a man and two horses peering at us around the corner. ” She raised her voice. “Come on, I know you’re there! Seven o’clock, this coach is supposed to leave! Did you get the tickets, Esme?” “Me?” “Ah,” said Nanny uncertainly. “So…we haven’t got eighty dollars for the tickets, then?” “What’ve you got stuffed up your elastic?” said Granny as the coach advanced cautiously. “Nothin’ that is legal tender for travelin’ purposes, I fear. ” “Then…no, we can’t afford tickets. ” Nanny sighed. “Oh, well, I’ll just have to use charm. ” “It’s going to be a long walk,” said Granny. The coach pulled up. Nanny looked up at the driver, and smiled innocently. “Good morning, my good sir!” He gave her a slightly frightened but mainly suspicious look. “Is it?” “We are desirous of traveling to Lancre but unfortunately we find ourselves a bit embarrassed in the knicker department. ” “You are?” “But we are witches and could prob’ly pay for our travel by, e. g. , curing any embarrassing little ailments you may have. ” The coachman frowned. “I ain’t carrying you for nothing, old crone. And I haven’t got any embarrassing little ailments!” Granny stepped forward. “How many would you like?” she said. Rain rolled over the plains. It wasn’t an impressive Ramtops thunderstorm but a lazy, persistent, low-cloud rain, like a fat fog. It had been following them all day. The witches had the coach to themselves. Several people had opened the door while it had been waiting to leave, but for some reason had suddenly decided that today’s travel plans didn’t include a coach ride.
“Making good time,” said Nanny, opening the curtains and peering out of the window. “I expect the driver’s in a hurry. ” “Yes, I ’spect he is. ” “Shut the window, though. It’s getting wet in here. ” “Righty-ho. ” Nanny grabbed the strap and then suddenly poked her head out into the rain. “Stop! Stop! Tell the man to stop!” The coach slewed to a halt in a sheet of mud. Nanny threw open the door. “I don’t know, trying to walk home, and in this weather, too! You’ll catch your death!” Rain and fog rolled in through the open doorway. Then a bedraggled shape pulled itself over the sill and slunk under the seats, leaving small puddles behind it. “Tryin’ to be independent,” said Nanny. “Bless ’im. ” The coach got under way again. Granny stared out at the endless darkening fields and the relentless drizzle, and saw another figure toiling along in the mud by the road that would, eventually, reach Lancre. As the coach swept past, it drenched the walker in thin slurry. “Yes, indeed. Being independent’s a fine ambition,” she said, drawing the curtains. The trees were bare when Granny Weatherwax got back to her cottage. Twigs and seeds had blown in under the door. Soot had fallen down the chimney. Her home, always somewhat organic, had grown a little closer to its roots in the clay. There were things to do, so she did them. There were leaves to be swept, and the woodpile to be built up under the eaves. The wind sock behind the beehives, tattered by autumn storms, needed to be darned. Hay had to be got in for the goats. Apples had to be stored in the loft. The walls could do with another coat of whitewash. But there was something that had to be done first. It’d make the other jobs a bit more difficult, but there was no help for that. You couldn’t magic iron. And you couldn’t grab a sword without being hurt. If that wasn’t true, the world’d be all over the place. Granny made herself some tea, and then boiled up the kettle again. She took a handful of herbs out of a box on the dresser, and dropped them in a bowl with the steaming water. She took a length of clean bandage out of a drawer and set it carefully on the table beside the bowl. She threaded an extremely sharp needle and laid needle and thread beside the bandage. She scooped a fingerful of greenish ointment out of a small tin, and smeared it on a square of lint. That seemed to be it. She sat down, and rested her arm on the table, palm-up. “Well,” she said, to no one in particular, “I reckon I’ve got time now. ” The privy had to be moved. It was a job Granny preferred to do for herself. There was something incredibly satisfying in digging a very deep hole. It was uncomplicated. You knew where you were with a hole in the ground. Dirt didn’t get strange ideas, or believe that people were honest because they had a steady gaze and a firm handshake. It just lay there, waiting for you to move it. And, after you’d done it, you could sit there in the lovely warm knowledge that it’d be months before you had to do it again. It was while she was at the bottom of the hole that a shadow fell across it. “Afternoon, Perdita,” she said without looking up. She lifted another shovelful to head-height and flung it over the edge. “Come home for a visit, have you?” she said. She rammed the shovel into the clay at the bottom of the hole again, winced, and forced it down with her foot. “Thought you were doing very well in the opera,” she went on. “’Course, I’m not an expert in these things. Good to see young people seeking their fortune in the big city, though. ” She looked up with a bright, friendly smile. “I see you’ve lost a bit of weight, too. ” Innocence hung from her words like loops of toffee. “I’ve been…taking exercise,” said Agnes. “Exercise is a fine thing, certainly,” said Granny, getting back to her digging. “Though they do say you can have too much of it. When are you going back?” “I…haven’t decided. ” “Weeelll, it doesn’t pay to be always planning. Don’t tie yourself down the whole time, I’ve always said that. Staying with your ma, are you?” “Yes,” said Agnes. “Ah? Only Magrat’s old cottage is still empty. You’d be doing everyone a favor if you aired it out a bit. You know…as long as you’re here. ” Agnes said nothing. She couldn’t think of anything to say. “Funny ole thing,” said Granny, hacking around a particularly troublesome tree root. “I wouldn’t tell everyone, but I was only thinking the other day, about when I was younger and called myself Endemonidia…” “You did ? When?” Granny rubbed her forehead with her bandaged hand, leaving a clay-red smudge. “Oh, for about three, four hours,” she said. “Some names don’t have the stayin’ power. Never pick yourself a name you can’t scrub the floor in. ” She threw her shovel out of the hole. “Give me a hand up, will you?” Agnes did so. Granny brushed the dirt and leaf mold off her apron and tried to stamp the clay off her boots. “Time for a cup of tea, eh?” she said. “My, you are looking well. It’s the fresh air. Too much stuffy air in that Opera House, I thought. ” Agnes tried in vain to detect anything in Granny Weatherwax’s eyes other than transparent honesty and goodwill. “Yes. I thought so, too,” she said. “Er…you’ve hurt your hand?” “It’ll heal. A lot of things do. ” She shouldered her shovel and headed toward the cottage; and then, halfway up the path, turned and looked back. “This is just me askin’, you understand, in a kind neighborly way, takin’ an interest sort of thing, wouldn’t be human if I didn’t—” Agnes sighed. “Yes?” “…you got much to do with your evenin’s these days?” There was just enough rebellion left in Agnes to put a sarcastic edge on her voice. “Oh? Are you offering to teach me something?” “Teach? No,” said Granny. “Ain’t got the patience for teaching. But I might let you learn. ” “When shall we three meet again?” “We haven’t met once , yet. ” “O’ course we have. I’ve person’ly known you for at least—” “I mean we Three haven’t Met. You know…officially…” “All right…When shall we three meet?” “We’re already here. ” “All right. When shall—?” “Just shut up and get out the marshmallows. Agnes, give Nanny the marshmallows. ” “Yes, Granny. ” “And mind you don’t burn mine. ” Granny sat back. It was a clear night, although clouds mounting toward the hub promised snow soon. A few sparks flew up toward the stars. She looked around proudly. “Isn’t this nice ,” she said. About the Author Terry Pratchett’s novels have sold more than thirty million (give or take a few million) copies worldwide. He lives in England. www. terrypratchettbooks. com Visit www. AuthorTracker. com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author. Praise for TERRY PRATCHETT’s DISCWORLD “Smart and funny. ” Denver Post “Discworld is more complicated and satisfactory than Oz…. It has the energy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and the inventiveness of Alice in Wonderland. It also has an intelligent wit and a truly original grim and comic grasp of the nature of things. ” A. S. Byatt “Humorously entertaining (and subtly thought-provoking) fantasy…Pratchett’s Discworld books are filled with humor and with magic, but they’re rooted in, of all things, real life and cold, hard reason. ” Contra Costa Times “Pratchett has created an alternate universe full of trolls, dwarfs, wizards, and other fantasy elements, and he uses that universe to reflect on our own culture with entertaining and gloriously funny results. It’s an accomplishment nothing short of magical. ” Chicago Tribune “Discworld takes the classic fantasy universe through its logical, and comic, evolution. ” Cleveland Plain Dealer “In [Pratchett’s] range of invented characters, his adroit storytelling, and his clear-eyed acceptance of humankind’s foibles, he reminds me of no one in English literature as much as Geoffrey Chaucer. No kidding. ” Washington Post Book World “What makes Terry Pratchett’s fantasies so entertaining is that their humor depends on the characters first, on the plot second, rather than the other way around. The story isn’t there simply to lead from one slapstick pratfall to another pun.
Its humor is genuine and unforced. ” Ottawa Citizen “Terry Pratchett seems constitutionally unable to write a page without at least a twitch of the grin muscles…. [But] the notions Pratchett plays with are nae so narrow or nae so silly as your ordinary British farce. Seriously. ” San Diego Union-Tribune “Pratchett, for those not yet lucky enough to have discovered him, is one of England’s most highly regarded satirists. Nothing—not religion, not politics, not anything—is safe from him. ” South Bend Tribune “Think J. R. R. Tolkien with a sharper, more satiric edge. ” Houston Chronicle “The Discworld novels are a phenomenon. ” Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel “Consistently, inventively mad…wild and wonderful. ” Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine “He is head and shoulders above the best of the rest. He is screamingly funny. He is wise. He has style. ” Daily Telegraph (London) “Pratchett has now moved beyond the limits of humorous fantasy and should be recognized as one of the more significant contemporary English language satirists. ” Publishers Weekly “Pratchett’s humor is international, satirical, devious, knowing, irreverent, unsparing, and, above all, funny. ” Kirkus Reviews “Pratchett demonstrates just how great the distance is between one-or two-joke writers and the comic masters whose work will be read into the next century. ” Locus “If Terry Pratchett is not yet an institution, he should be. ” Fantasy & Science Fiction O THER B OOKS BY T ERRY P RATCHETT 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) T HE D ISCWORLD ® S ERIES : Going Postal • Monstrous Regiment • Night Watch The Last Hero • The Truth • Thief of Time The Fifth Elephant • Carpe Jugulum The Last Continent • Jingo Hogfather • Feet of Clay • Maskerade Interesting Times • Soul Music • Men at Arms Lords and Ladies • Small Gods Witches Abroad • Reaper Man Moving Pictures • Eric (with Josh Kirby) Guards! Guards! • Pyramids Wyrd Sisters • Sourcery • Mort • Equal Rites The Light Fantastic • The Color of Magic The Art of Discworld (with Paul Kidby) 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) The Pratchett Portfolio (with Paul Kidby) 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. MASKERADE. Copyright © 1995 by Terry and Lyn Pratchett. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. EPub Edition © JULY 2007 ISBN: 9780061809293 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. 25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321) Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia http://www. harpercollinsebooks. com. au Canada HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900 Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada http://www. harpercollinsebooks. ca New Zealand HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited P. O. 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. harpercollinsebooks. co. uk United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www. harpercollinsebooks. com * The people of Lancre thought that marriage was a very serious step that ought to be done properly, so they practiced quite a lot. * Not that she sat looking out of the window. She’d been watching the fire when she picked up the approach of Jarge Weaver. But that wasn’t the point. * Or, at least, dying for chocolate. * Er. That is to say, they went to bed at the same time as the chickens went to bed. and got up at the same time as the cows got up. Loosely worded sayings can really cause misunderstandings. * Distillation of alcohol was illegal in Lancre. On the other hand, King Verence had long ago given up any idea of stopping a witch doing something she wanted to do, so merely required Nanny Ogg to keep her still somewhere it wasn’t obvious. She thoroughly approved of the prohibition, since this gave her an unchallenged market for her own product, known wherever men fell backward into a ditch as “suicider. ” * Strictly speaking, this means being chased by photographers anxious to get a picture of you with your vest off. * Without regret, since she hadn’t found any use for it. * Bergholt Stuttley (“Bloody Stupid”) Johnson was Ankh-Morpork’s most famous, or rather most notorious, inventor. He was renowned for never letting his number blindness, his lack of any skill whatsoever or his complete failure to grasp the essence of a problem stand in the way of his cheerful progress as the first Counter-Renaissance man. Shortly after building the famous Collapsed Tower of Quirm he turned his attention to the world of music, particularly large organs and mechanical orchestras. Examples of his handiwork still occasionally come to light in sales, auctions, and quite frequently, wreckage. * It was central to Nanny Ogg’s soul that she never considered herself an old woman, while of course availing herself of every advantage that other people’s perceptions of her as such would bring. Table of Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Contents Begin Reading About the Author Praise Other Books by Terry Pratchett Copyright About the Publisher Terry Pratchett CARPE JUGULUM A Novel of Discworld ® Contents Begin Reading About the Author Praise Other Books by Terry Pratchett Copyright About the Publisher Begin Reading Through the shredded black clouds a fire moved like a dying star, falling back to earth— —the earth, that is, of the Discworld— —but unlike any star had ever done before, it sometimes managed to steer its fall, sometimes rising, sometimes twisting, but inevitably heading down. Snow glowed briefly on the mountain slopes when it crackled overhead. Under it, the land itself started to fall away. The fire was reflected off walls of blue ice as the light dropped into the beginnings of a canyon and thundered now through its twists and turns. The light snapped off. Something still glided down the moonlit ribbon between the rocks. It shot out of the canyon at the top of a cliff, where meltwater from a glacier plunged down into a distant pool. Against all reason there was a valley here, or a network of valleys, clinging to the edge of the mountains before the long fall to the plains. A small lake gleamed in the warmer air. There were forests. There were tiny fields, like a patchwork quilt thrown across the rocks. The wind had died. The air was warmer. The shadow began to circle. Far below, unheeded and unheeding, something else was entering this little handful of valleys. It was hard to see exactly what it was; furze rippled, heather rustled, as if a very large army made of very small creatures was moving with one purpose. The shadow reached a flat rock that offered a magnificent view of the fields and wood below, and there the army came out from among the roots. It was made up of very small blue men, some wearing pointy blue caps but most of them with their red hair uncovered. They carried swords. None of them was more than six inches high. They lined up and looked down into the new place and then, weapons waving, raised a battle cry.
It would have been more impressive if they’d all agreed on one before, but as it was it sounded as though every single small warrior had a battle cry of his very own and would fight anyone who tried to take it away from him. “Nac mac Feegle!” “Ach, stickit yer trakkans!” “Gie you sich a kickin’!” “Bigjobs!” “Dere c’n onlie be whin t’ousand!” “Nac mac Feegle wha hae!” “Wha hae yersel, ya boggin!” The little cup of valleys, glowing in the last shreds of evening sunlight, was the kingdom of Lancre. From its highest points, people said, you could see all the way to the rim of the world. It was also said, although not by the people who lived in Lancre, that below the rim, where the seas thundered continuously over the edge, their home went through space on the back of four huge elephants that in turn stood on the shell of a turtle that was as big as the world. The people of Lancre had heard of this. They thought it sounded about right. The world was obviously flat, although in Lancre itself the only truly flat places were tables and the top of some people’s heads, and certainly turtles could shift a fair load. Elephants, by all accounts, were pretty strong too. There didn’t seem any major gaps in the thesis, so Lancrastrians left it at that. It wasn’t that they didn’t take an interest in the world around them. On the contrary, they had a deep, personal and passionate involvement in it, but instead of asking “why are we here?” they asked “is it going to rain before the harvest?” A philosopher might have deplored this lack of mental ambition, but only if he was really certain about where his next meal was coming from. In fact Lancre’s position and climate bred a hardheaded and straightforward people who often excelled in the world down below. It had supplied the plains with many of their greatest wizards and witches and, once again, the philosopher might have marveled that such a four-square people could give the world so many successful magical practitioners, being quite unaware that only those with their feet on rock can build castles in the air. And so the sons and daughters of Lancre went off into the world, carved out careers, climbed the various ladders of achievement, and always remembered to send money home. Apart from noting the return addresses on the envelope, those who stayed didn’t think much about the world outside. The world outside thought about them, though. The big flat-topped rock was deserted now, but on the moor below, the heather trembled in a V-shape heading toward the lowlands. “Gin’s a haddie!” “Nac mac Feegle!” There are many kinds of vampires. Indeed, it is said that there are as many kinds of vampires as there are types of disease. * And they’re not just human (if vampires are human). All along the Ramtops may be found the belief that any apparently innocent tool, be it hammer or saw, will seek blood if left unused for more than three years. In Ghat they believe in vampire watermelons, although folklore is silent about what they believe about vampire watermelons. Possibly they suck back. Two things have traditionally puzzled vampire researchers. One is: why do vampires have so much power ? Vampires’re so easy to kill, they point out. There are dozens of ways to dispatch them, quite apart from the stake through the heart, which also works on normal people so if you have any stakes left over you don’t have to waste them. Classically, they spent the day in some coffin somewhere, with no guard other than an elderly hunchback who doesn’t look all that spry and should succumb to quite a small mob. Yet just one can keep a whole community in a state of sullen obedience… The other puzzle is: why are vampires always so stupid? As if wearing evening dress all day wasn’t an undead giveaway, why do they choose to live in old castles which offer so much in the way of ways to defeat a vampire, like easily torn curtains and wall decorations that can readily be twisted into a religious symbol? Do they really think that spelling their name backward fools anyone? A coach rattled across the moorlands, many miles away from Lancre. From the way it bounced over the ruts, it was traveling light. But darkness came with it. The horses were black, and so was the coach, except for the coat of arms on the doors. Each horse had a black plume between its ears; there was a black plume at each corner of the coach as well. Perhaps these caused the coach’s strange effect of traveling shadow. It seemed to be dragging the night behind it. On the top of the moor, where a few trees grew out of the rubble of a ruined building, it creaked to a halt. The horses stood still, occasionally stamping a hoof or tossing their heads. The coachman sat hunched over the reins, waiting. Four figures flew just above the clouds, in the silvery moonlight. By the sound of their conversation someone was annoyed, although the sharp unpleasant tone to the voice suggested that a better word might be “vexed. ” “You let it get away !” This voice had a whine to it, the voice of a chronic complainer. “It was wounded, Lacci. ” This voice sounded conciliatory, parental, but with just a hint of a repressed desire to give the first voice a thick ear. “I really hate those things. They’re so…soppy!” “Yes, dear. A symbol of a credulous past. ” “If I could burn like that I wouldn’t skulk around just looking pretty. Why do they do it?” “It must have been of use to them at one time, I suppose. ” “Then they’re…what did you call them?” “An evolutionary cul-de-sac, Lacci. A marooned survivor on the seas of progress. ” “Then I’m doing them a favor by killing them?” “Yes, that is a point. Now, shall—” “After all, chickens don’t burn,” said the voice called Lacci. “Not easily, anyway. ” “We heard you experiment. Killing them first might have been a good idea. ” This was a third voice—young, male, and also somewhat weary with the female. It had “older brother” harmonics on every syllable. “What’s the point in that?” “Well, dear, it would have been quieter. ” “Listen to your father, dear. ” And this, the fourth voice, could only be a mother’s voice. It’d love the other voices whatever they did. “You’re so unfair!” “We did let you drop rocks on the pixies, dear. Life can’t be all fun. ” The coachman stirred as the voices descended through the clouds. And then four figures were standing a little way off. The coachman clambered down and, with difficulty, opened the coach door as they approached. “Most of the wretched things got away, though,” said Mother. “Never mind, my dear,” said Father. “I really hate them. Are they a dead end too?” said Daughter. “Not quite dead enough as yet, despite your valiant efforts. Igor! On to Lancre. ” The coachman turned. “Yeth, marthter. ” “Oh, for the last time, man…is that any way to talk?” “It’th the only way I know, marthter,” said Igor. “And I told you to take the plumes off the coach, you idiot. ” The coachman shifted uneasily. “Gotta hath black plumeth, marthter. It’th tradithional. ” “Remove them at once,” Mother commanded. “What will people think?” “Yeth, mithtreth. ” The one addressed as Igor slammed the door and lurched back around to the horse. He removed the plumes reverentially and placed them under his seat. Inside the coach the vexed voice said, “Is Igor an evolutionary dead end too, Father?” “We can but hope, dear. ” “Thod,” said Igor to himself, as he picked up the reins. The wording began: YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED … …and was in that posh runny writing that was hard to read but ever so official. Nanny Ogg grinned and tucked the card back on the mantelpiece. She liked the idea of “cordially. ” It had a rich, a thick and above all an alcoholic sound. She was ironing her best petticoat. That is to say, she was sitting in her chair by the fire while one of her daughters-in-law, whose name she couldn’t remember just at this moment, was doing the actual work. Nanny was helping by pointing out the bits she’d missed. It was a damn good invite, she thought. Especially the gold edging, which was as thick as syrup.
Probably not real gold, but impressively glittery all the same. “There’s a bit there that could do with goin’ over again, gel,” she said, topping up her beer. “Yes, Nanny. ” Another daughter-in-law, whose name she’d certainly be able to recall after a few seconds’ thought, was buffing up Nanny’s red boots. A third was very carefully dabbing the lint off Nanny’s best pointed hat, on its stand. Nanny got up again and wandered over and opened the back door. There was little light left in the sky now, and a few rags of cloud were scudding over the early stars. She sniffed the air. Winter hung on late up here in the mountains, but there was definitely a taste of spring on the wind. A good time, she thought. Best time, really. Oh, she knew that the year started on Hogswatchnight, when the cold tide turned, but the new year started now, with green shoots boring upward through the last of the snow. Change was in the air, she could feel it in her bones. Of course, her friend Granny Weatherwax always said you couldn’t trust bones, but Granny Weatherwax said a lot of things like that all the time. Nanny Ogg closed the door. In the trees at the end of her garden, leafless and scratchy against the sky, something rustled its wings and chattered as a veil of dark crossed the world. In her own cottage a few miles away the witch Agnes Nitt was in two minds about her new pointy hat. Agnes was generally in two minds about anything. As she tucked in her hair and observed herself critically in the mirror she sang a song. She sang in harmony. Not, of course, with her reflection in the glass, because that kind of heroine will sooner or later end up singing a duet with Mr. Bluebird and other forest creatures and then there’s nothing for it but a flamethrower. She simply sang in harmony with herself. Unless she concentrated it was happening more and more these days. Perdita had rather a reedy voice, but she insisted on joining in. Those who are inclined to casual cruelty say that inside a fat girl is a thin girl and a lot of chocolate. Agnes’s thin girl was Perdita. She wasn’t sure how she’d acquired the invisible passenger. Her mother had told her that when she was small she’d been in the habit of blaming accidents and mysteries, such as the disappearance of a bowl of cream or the breaking of a prized jug, on “the other little girl. ” Only now did she realize that indulging this sort of thing wasn’t a good idea when, despite yourself, you’ve got a bit of natural witchcraft in your blood. The imaginary friend had simply grown up and had never gone away and had turned out to be a pain. Agnes disliked Perdita, who was vain, selfish and vicious, and Perdita hated going around inside Agnes, whom she regarded as a fat, pathetic, weak-willed blob that people would walk all over were she not so steep. Agnes told herself she’d simply invented the name Perdita as some convenient label for all those thoughts and desires she knew she shouldn’t have, as a name for that troublesome little commentator that lives on everyone’s shoulder and sneers. But sometimes she thought Perdita had created Agnes for something to pummel. Agnes tended to obey rules. Perdita didn’t. Perdita thought that not obeying rules was somehow cool. Agnes though that rules like “Don’t fall into this huge pit of spikes” were there for a purpose. Perdita thought, to take an example at random, that things like table manners were a stupid and repressive idea. Agnes, on the other hand, was against being hit by flying bits of other people’s cabbage. Perdita thought a witch’s hat was a powerful symbol of authority. Agnes thought that a dumpy girl should not wear a tall hat, especially with black. It made her look as though someone had dropped a licorice-flavored ice-cream cone. The trouble was that although Agnes was right, so was Perdita. The pointy hat carried a lot of weight in the Ramtops. People talked to the hat, not to the person wearing it. When people were in serious trouble they went to a witch. * You had to wear black, too. Perdita liked black. Perdita thought black was cool. Agnes thought that black wasn’t a good color for the circumferentially challenged…oh, and that “cool” was a dumb word only used by people whose brains wouldn’t fill a spoon. Magrat Garlick hadn’t worn black and had probably never in her life said “cool” except when commenting on the temperature. Agnes stopped examining her pointiness in the mirror and looked around the cottage that had been Magrat’s and was now hers, and sighed. Her gaze took in the expensive, gold-edged card on the mantelpiece. Well, Magrat had certainly retired now, and had gone off to be Queen and if there was ever any doubt about that then there could be no doubt today. Agnes was puzzled at the way Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax still talked about her, though. They were proud (more or less) that she’d married the King, and agreed that it was the right kind of life for her, but while they never actually articulated the thought it hung in the air over their heads in flashing mental colors: Magrat had settled for second prize. Agnes had almost burst out laughing when she first realized this, but you wouldn’t be able to argue with them. They wouldn’t even see that there could be an argument. Granny Weatherwax lived in a cottage with a thatch so old there was quite a sprightly young tree growing in it, and got up and went to bed alone, and washed in the rain barrel. And Nanny Ogg was the most local person Agnes had ever met. She’d gone off to foreign parts, yes, but she always carried Lancre with her, like a sort of invisible hat. But they took it for granted that they were top of every tree, and the rest of the world was there for them to tinker with. Perdita thought that being a queen was just about the best thing you could be. Agnes though the best thing you could be was far away from Lancre, and good second best would be to be alone in your own head. She adjusted the hat as best she could and left the cottage. Witches never locked their doors. They never needed to. As she stepped out into the moonlight, two magpies landed on the thatch. The current activities of the witch Granny Weatherwax would have puzzled a hidden observer. She peered at the flagstones just inside her back door and lifted the old rag rug in front of it with her toe. Then she walked to the front door, which was never used, and did the same thing there. She also examined the cracks around the edges of the doors. She went outside. There had been a sharp frost during the night, a spiteful little trick by the dying winter, and the drifts of leaves that still hung on in the shadows were crisp. In the harsh air she poked around in the flowerpots and bushes by the front door. Then she went back inside. She had a clock. Lancrastrians liked clocks, although they didn’t bother much about actual time in any length much shorter than an hour. If you needed to boil an egg, you sang fifteen verses of “Where Has All the Custard Gone?” under your breath. But the tick was a comfort on long evenings. Finally she sat down in her rocking chair and glared at the doorway. Owls were hooting in the forest when someone came running up the path and hammered on the door. Anyone who hadn’t heard about Granny’s iron self-control, which you could bend a horseshoe round, might just have thought they heard her give a tiny sigh of relief. “Well, it’s about time—” she began. The excitement up at the castle was just a distant hum down here in the mews. The hawks and falcons sat hunched on their perches, lost in some inner world of stoop and updraft. There was the occasional clink of a chain or flutter of a wing. Hodgesaargh the falconer was getting ready in the tiny room next door when he felt the change in the air. He stepped out into a silent mews. The birds were all awake, alert, expectant. Even King Henry the eagle, who Hodgesaargh would only go near at the moment when he was wearing full plate armor, was peering around. You got something like this when there was a rat in the place, but Hodgesaargh couldn’t see one.
Perhaps it had gone. For tonight’s event he’d selected William the buzzard, who could be depended upon. All Hodgesaargh’s birds could be depended upon, but more often than not they could be depended upon to viciously attack him on sight. William, however, thought that she was a chicken, and she was usually safe in company. But even William was paying a lot of attention to the world, which didn’t often happen unless she’d seen some corn. Odd, thought Hodgesaargh. And that was all. The birds went on staring up, as though the roof simply was not there. Granny Weatherwax lowered her gaze to a red, round and worried face. “Here, you’re not—” She pulled herself together. “You’re the Wattley boy from over in Slice, aren’t you!” “Y’g’t…” The boy leaned against the doorjamb and fought for breath. “You g’t—” “Just take deep breaths. You want a drink of water?” “You g’t t’—” “Yes, yes, all right. Just breathe …” The boy gulped air a few times. “You got to come to Mrs. Ivy and her baby missus!” The words came out in one quick stream. Granny grabbed her hat from its peg by the door and pulled her broomstick out of its lodging in the thatch. “I thought old Mrs. Patternoster was seeing to her,” she said, ramming her hatpins into place with the urgency of a warrior preparing for sudden battle. “She says it’s all gone wrong, miss!” Granny was already running down her garden path. There was a small drop on the other side of the clearing, with a twenty-foot fall to a bend in the track. The broom hadn’t fired by the time she reached it but she ran on, swinging a leg over the bristles as it plunged. The magic caught halfway down and her boots dragged across the dead bracken as the broom soared up into the night. The road wound over the mountains like a dropped ribbon. Up here there was always the sound of the wind. The highwayman’s horse was a big black stallion. It was also quite possibly the only horse with a ladder strapped behind the saddle. This was because the highwayman’s name was Casanunda, and he was a dwarf. Most people thought of dwarfs as reserved, cautious, law-abiding and very reticent on matters of the heart and other vaguely connected organs, and this was indeed true of almost all dwarfs. But genetics rolls strange dice on the green baize of life and somehow the dwarfs had produced Casanunda, who preferred fun to money and devoted to women all the passion that other dwarfs reserved for gold. He also regarded laws as useful things and he obeyed them when it was convenient. Casanunda despised highwaymanning, but it got you out in the fresh air of the countryside which was very good for you, especially when the nearby towns were lousy with husbands carrying a grudge and a big stick. The trouble was that no one on the road took him seriously. He could stop the coaches all right, but people tended to say, “What? I say, it’s a lowwayman. What’s up? A bit short, are you? Hur, hur, hur,” and he would be forced to shoot them in the knee. He blew on his hands to warm them, and looked up at the sound of an approaching coach. He was about to ride out of his meager hiding place in the thicket when he saw the other highwayman trot out from the wood opposite. The coach came to a halt. Casanunda couldn’t hear what transpired, but the highwayman rode around to one of the doors and leaned down to speak to the occupants… …and a hand reached out and plucked him off his horse and into the coach. It rocked on its springs for a while, and then the door burst open and the highwayman tumbled out and lay still on the road. The coach moved on… Casanunda waited a little while and then rode down to the body. His horse stood patiently while he untied the ladder and dismounted. He could tell the highwayman was stone dead. Living people are expected to have some blood in them. The coach stopped at the top of a rise a few miles farther on, before the road began the long winding fall toward Lancre and the plains. The four passengers got out and walked to the start of the drop. The clouds were rolling in behind them but here the air was frosty clear, and the view stretched all the way to the Rim under the moonlight. Down below, scooped out of the mountains, was the little kingdom. “Gateway to the world,” said the Count de Magpyr. “And entirely undefended,” said his son. “On the contrary. Possessed of some extremely effective de-fenses,” said the Count. He smiled in the night. “At least…until now…” “Witches should be on our side,” said the Countess. “She will be soon, at any rate,” said the Count. “A most…interesting woman. An interesting family. Uncle used to talk about her grandmother. The Weatherwax women have always had one foot in shadow. It’s in the blood. And most of their power comes from denying it. However,” and his teeth shone as he grinned in the dark, “she will soon find out on which side her bread is buttered. ” “Or her gingerbread is gilded,” said the Countess. “Ah, yes. How nicely put. That’s the penalty for being a Weatherwax woman, of course. When they get older they start to hear the clang of the big oven door. ” “I’ve heard she’s pretty tough, though,” said the Count’s son. “A very sharp mind. ” “Let’s kill her!” said the Count’s daughter. “Really, Lacci dear, you can’t kill everything. ” “I don’t see why not. ” “No. I rather like the idea of her being…useful. And she sees everything in black and white. That’s always a trap for the powerful. Oh yes. A mind like that is so easily…led. With a little help. ” There was a whir of wings under the moonlight and something bi-colored landed on the Count’s shoulder. “And this…” said the Count, stroking the magpie and then letting it go. He pulled a square of white card from an inner pocket of his jacket. Its edge gleamed briefly. “Can you believe it? Has this sort of thing ever happened before? A new world order indeed…” “Do you have a handkerchief, sir?” said the Countess. “Give it to me, please. You have a few specks…” She dabbed at his chin and pushed the bloodstained handkerchief back into his pocket. “There,” she said. “There are other witches,” said the son, like someone turning over a mouthful that was proving rather tough to chew. “Oh yes. I hope we will meet them. They could be entertaining. ” The coach went on. Back in the mountains, the man who had tried to rob the coach managed to get to his feet, which seemed for a moment to be caught in something. He rubbed his neck irritably and looked around for his horse, which he found standing behind some rocks a little way away. When he tried to lay a hand on the bridle it passed straight through the leather and the horse’s neck, like smoke. The creature reared up and galloped madly away. It was not, the highwayman thought muzzily, going to be a good night. Well, he’d be damned if he’d lose a horse as well as some wages. Who the hell were those people? He couldn’t quite remember what had happened in the carriage, but it hadn’t been enjoyable. The highwayman was of that simple class of men who, having been hit by someone bigger than them, finds someone smaller than them for the purposes of retaliation. Someone else was going to suffer tonight, he vowed. He’d get another horse, at least. And, on cue, he heard the sound of hoofbeats on the wind. He drew his sword and stepped out into the road. “Stand and deliver!” The approaching horse halted obediently a few feet away. This was not going to be such a bad night after all, he thought. It really was a magnificent creature, more of a warhorse than an everyday hack. It was so pale that it shone in the light of the occasional star and, by the look of it, there was silver on its harness. The rider was heavily wrapped up against the cold. “Your money or your life!” said the highwayman. I’m sorry? “Your money,” said the highwayman, “or your life. Which part of this don’t you understand?” Oh, I see. Well, I have a small amount of money. A couple of coins landed on the frosty road. The highwayman scrabbled for them but could not pick them up, a fact that only added to his annoyance.
“It’s your life, then!” The mounted figure shook its head. I think not. I really do. It pulled a long curved stick out of a holster. The highwayman had assumed it was a lance, but now a curved blade sprang out and glittered blue along its edges. I must say that you have an amazing persistence of vitality, said the horseman. It was no so much a voice, more an echo inside the head. If not a presence of mind. “Who are you?” I’m Death, said Death. And I really am not here to take your money. Which part of this don’t you understand? Something fluttered weakly at the window of the castle mews. There was no glass in the frame, just thin wooden slats to allow some passage of air. And there was a scrabbling, and then a faint pecking, and then silence. The hawks watched. Outside the window something went whoomph. Beams of brilliant light jerked across the far wall and, slowly, the bars began to char. Nanny Ogg knew that while the actual party would be in the Great Hall all the fun would be outside, in the courtyard around the big fire. Inside it’d be all quails’ eggs, goose-liver jam and little sandwiches that were four to the mouthful. Outside it’d be roasted potatoes floating in vats of butter and a whole stag on a spit. Later on, there’d be a command performance by that man who put weasels down his trousers, a form of entertainment that Nanny ranked higher than grand opera. As a witch, of course, she’d be welcome anywhere and it was always a good idea to remind the nobs of this, in case they forgot. It was a hard choice, but she decided to stay outside and have a good dinner of venison because, like many old ladies, Nanny Ogg was a bottomless pit for free food. Then she’d go inside and fill the gaps with the fiddly dishes. Besides, they probably had that expensive fizzy wine in there and Nanny had quite a taste for it, provided it was served in a big enough mug. But you needed a good depth of beer before you loaded up on the fancy stuff. She picked up a tankard, ambled to the front of the queue at the beer barrel, gently nudged aside the head of a man who’d decided to spend the evening lying under the tap, and drew herself a pint. As she turned back she saw the splay-footed figure of Agnes approaching, still slightly uneasy with the idea of wearing the new pointy hat in public. “Wotcha, girl,” said Nanny. “Try some of the venison, it’s good stuff. ” Agnes looked doubtfully at the roasting meat. Lancre people looked after the calories and let the vitamins go hang. “Do you think I could get a salad?” she ventured. “Hope not,” said Nanny happily “Lot of people here,” said Agnes. “ Everyone got a invite,” said Nanny. “Magrat was very gracious about that, I thought. ” Agnes craned her head. “Can’t see Granny around anywhere, though. ” “She’ll be inside, tellin’ people what to do. ” “I haven’t seen her around much at all, lately,” said Agnes. “She’s got something on her mind, I think. ” Nanny narrowed her eyes. “You think so?” she said, adding to herself: you’re getting good , miss. “It’s just that ever since we heard about the birth,” Agnes waved a plump hand to indicate the general high-cholesterol celebration around them, “she’s been so…stretched, sort of. Twanging. ” Nanny Ogg thumbed some tobacco into her pipe and struck a match on her boot. “You certainly notice things, don’t you,” she said, puffing away. “Notice, notice, notice. We’ll have to call you Miss Notice. ” “I certainly notice you always fiddle around with your pipe when you’re thinking thoughts you don’t much like,” said Agnes. “It’s displacement activity. ” Through a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke Nanny reflected that Agnes read books. All the witches who’d lived in her cottage were bookish types. They thought you could see life through books but you couldn’t, the reason being that the words got in the way. “She has been a bit quiet, that’s true,” she said. “Best to let her get on with it. ” “I thought perhaps she was sulking about the priest who’ll be doing the Naming,” said Agnes. “Oh, old Brother Perdore’s all right,” said Nanny. “Gabbles away in some ancient lingo, keeps it short and then you just give him sixpence for his trouble, fill him up with brandy and load him on his donkey and off he goes. ” “What? Didn’t you hear?” said Agnes. “He’s laid up over in Skund. Broke his wrist and both legs falling off his donkey. ” Nanny Ogg took her pipe out of her mouth. “Why wasn’t I told?” she said. “I don’t know, Nanny. Mrs. Weaver told me yesterday. ” “Oo, that woman! I passed her in the street this morning! She could’ve said!” Nanny poked her pipe back in her mouth as though stabbing all uncommunicative gossips. “How can you break both your legs falling off a donkey?” “It was going up that little path on the side of Skund Gorge. He fell sixty feet. ” “Oh? Well…that’s a tall donkey, right enough. ” “So the King sent down to the Omnian mission in Ohulan to send us up a priest, apparently,” said Agnes. “He did what ?” said Nanny. A small gray tent was inexpertly pitched in a field just outside the town. The rising wind made it flap, and tore at the poster which had been pinned onto an easel outside. It read: GOOD NEWS ! OM WELCOMES YOU !!! In fact no one had turned up to the small introductory service that Mightily Oats had organized that afternoon, but since he had an-nounced one he had gone ahead with it anyway, singing a few cheerful hymns to his own accompaniment on the small portable harmonium and then preaching a very short sermon to the wind and the sky. Now the Quite Reverend Oats looked at himself in the mirror. He was a bit uneasy about the mirror, to be honest. Mirrors had led to one of the Church’s innumerable schisms, one side saying that since they encouraged vanity they were bad, and the other saying that since they reflected the goodness of Om they were holy. Oats had not quite formed his own opinion, being by nature someone who tries to see something in both sides of every question, but at least the mirrors helped him get his complicated clerical collar on straight. It was still very new. The Very Reverend Mekkle, who’d taken Pastoral Practice, had advised that the rules about starch were only really a guideline, but Oats hadn’t wanted to put a foot wrong and his collar could have been used as a razor. He carefully lowered his holy turtle pendant into place, noting its gleam with some satisfaction, and picked up his finely printed graduation copy of the Book of Om. Some of his fellow students had spent hours carefully ruffling the pages to give them that certain straight-and-narrow credibility, but Oats had refrained from this as well. Besides, he knew most of it by heart. Feeling rather guilty, because there had been some admonitions at the college against using holy writ merely for fortune telling, he shut his eyes and let the book flop open at random. Then he opened his eyes quickly and read the first passage they encountered. It was somewhere in the middle of Brutha’s Second Letter to the Omish, gently chiding them for not replying to the First Letter to the Omish. “…silence is an answer that begs three more questions. Seek and you will find, but first you should know what you seek…” Oh well. He shut the book. What a place! What a dump. He’d had a short walk after the service, and every path seemed to end in a cliff or a sheer drop. Never had he seen such a vertical country. Things had rustled at him in the bushes, and he’d got his shoes muddy. As for the people he’d met…well, simple ignorant country folk, salt of the earth, obviously, but they’d just stared at him carefully from a distance, as if they were waiting for something to happen to him and didn’t care to be too close to him when it did. But still, he mused, it did say in Brutha’s Letter to the Simonites that if you wished the light to be seen you had to take it into dark places. And this was certainly a dark place. He said a small prayer and stepped out into the muddy, windy darkness. Granny flew high above the roaring treetops, under a half moon. She distrusted a moon like that.
A full moon could only wane, a new moon could only wax, but a half moon, balancing so precariously between light and dark…well, it could do anything. Witches always lived on the edges of things. She felt the tingle in her hands. It was not just from the frosty air. There was an edge somewhere. Something was beginning. On the other side of the sky the Hublights were burning around the mountains at the center of the world, bright enough even to fight the pale light of the moon. Green and gold flames danced in the air over the central mountains. It was rare to see them at this time of the year, and Granny wondered what that might signify. Slice was perched along the sides of a cleft in the mountains that couldn’t be dignified by the name of valley. In the moonlight she saw the pale upturned face waiting in the shadows of garden as she came into land. “Evening, Mr. Ivy,” she said, leaping off. “Upstairs, is she?” “In the barn,” said Ivy, flatly. “The cow kicked her…hard. ” Granny’s expression stayed impassive. “We shall see,” she said, “what may be done. ” In the barn, one look at Mrs. Patternoster’s face told her how little that might now be. The woman wasn’t a witch, but she knew all the practical midwifery that can be picked up in an isolated village, be it from cows, goats, horses or humans. “It’s bad,” she whispered, as Granny looked at the moaning figure on the straw. “I reckon we’ll lose both of them…or maybe just one…” There was, if you were listening for it, just the suggestion of a question in that sentence. Granny focused her mind. “It’s a boy,” she said. Mrs. Patternoster didn’t bother to wonder how Granny knew, but her expression indicated that a little more weight had been added to a burden. “I’d better go and put it to John Ivy, then,” she said. She’d barely moved before Granny Weatherwax’s hand locked on her arm. “He’s no part in this,” she said. “But after all, he is the—” “He’s no part in this. ” Mrs. Patternoster looked into the blue stare and knew two things. One was that Mr. Ivy had no part in this, and the other was that anything that happened in this barn was never, ever, going to be mentioned again. “I think I can bring ’em to mind,” said Granny, letting go and rolling up her sleeves. “Pleasant couple, as I recall. He’s a good husband, by all accounts. ” She poured warm water from its jug into the bowl that the midwife had set up on a manger. Mrs. Patternoster nodded. “Of course, it’s difficult for a man working these steep lands alone,” Granny went on, washing her hands. Mrs. Patternoster nodded again, mournfully. “Well, I reckon you should take him into the cottage, Mrs. Patternoster, and make him a cup of tea,” Granny commanded. “You can tell him I’m doing all I can. ” This time the midwife nodded gratefully. When she had fled, Granny laid a hand on Mrs. Ivy’s damp forehead. “Well now, Florence Ivy,” she said, “let us see what might be done. But first of all…no pain…” As she moved her head she caught sight of the moon through the unglazed window. Between the light and the dark…well, sometimes that’s where you had to be. I NDEED. Granny didn’t bother to turn around. “I thought you’d be here,” she said, as she knelt down in the straw. W HERE ELSE ? said Death. “Do you know who you’re here for?” T HAT IS NOT MY CHOICE. O N THE VERY EDGE YOU WILL ALWAYS FIND SOME UNCERTAINTY. Granny felt the words in her head for several seconds, like little melting cubes of ice. On the very, very edge, then, there had to be…judgment. “There’s too much damage here,” she said, at last. “Too much. ” A few minutes later she felt the life stream past her. Death had the decency to leave without a word. When Mrs. Patternoster tremulously knocked on the door and pushed it open, Granny was in the cow’s stall. The midwife saw her stand up holding a piece of thorn. “Been in the beast’s leg all day,” she said. “No wonder it was fretful. Try and make sure he doesn’t kill the cow, you understand? They’ll need it. ” Mrs. Patternoster glanced down at the rolled-up blanket in the straw. Granny had tactfully placed it out of sight of Mrs. Ivy, who was sleeping now. “I’ll tell him,” said Granny, brushing off her dress. “As for her, well, she’s strong and young and you know what to do. You keep an eye on her, and me or Nanny Ogg will drop in when we can. If she’s up to it, they may need a wet nurse up at the castle, and that may be good for everyone. ” It was doubtful that anyone in Slice would defy Granny Weatherwax, but Granny saw the faintest gray shadow of disapproval in the midwife’s expression. “You still reckon I should’ve asked Mr. Ivy?” she said. “That’s what I would have done…” the woman mumbled. “You don’t like him? You think he’s a bad man?” said Granny. adjusting her hat pins. “No!” “Then what’s he ever done to me , that I should hurt him so?” Agnes had to run to keep up. Nanny Ogg, when roused, could move as though powered by pistons. “But we get a lot of priests up here, Nanny!” “Not like the Omnians!” snapped Nanny. “We had ’em up here last year. A couple of ’em knocked at my door !” “Well, that is what a door is f—” “ And they shoved a leaflet under it saying ‘Repent!’” Nanny Ogg went on. “Repent? Me? Cheek! I can’t start repenting at my time of life. I’d never get any work done. Anyway,” she added, “I ain’t sorry for most of it. ” “You’re getting a bit excited, I think—” “They set fire to people!” said Nanny. “I think I read somewhere that they used to, yes,” said Agnes, panting with the effort of keeping up. “But that was a long time ago, Nanny! The ones I saw in Ankh-Morpork just handed out leaflets and preached in a big tent and sang rather dreary songs—” “Hah! The leopard does not change his shorts, my girl!” They ran along a corridor, and out from behind a screen into the hubbub of the Great Hall. “Knee-deep in nobs,” said Nanny, craning. “Ah, there’s our Shawn…” Lancre’s standing army was lurking by a pillar, probably in the hope that no one would see him in his footman’s powdered wig, which had been made for a much bigger footman. The kingdom didn’t have much of an executive arm of government, and most of its actual hands belonged to Nanny Ogg’s youngest son. Despite the earnest efforts of King Verence, who was quite a forward-looking ruler in a nervous kind of way, the people of Lancre could not be persuaded to accept a democracy at any price and the place had not, regrettably, attracted much in the way of government. A lot of the bits it couldn’t avoid were done by Shawn. He emptied the palace privies, delivered its sparse mail, guarded the walls, operated the Royal Mint, balanced the budget, helped out the gardener in his spare time and, on those occasions these days when it was felt necessary to man the borders, and Verence felt that yellow and black striped poles did give a country such a professional look, he stamped passports, or at a pinch any other pieces of paper the visitor could produce, such as the back of an envelope, with a stamp he’d carved quite nicely out of half a potato. He took it all very seriously. At times like this, he buttled when Spriggins the butler was not on duty, or if an extra hand was needed he footed as well. “Evening, our Shawn,” said Nanny Ogg. “I see you’ve got that dead lamb on your head again. ” “Aoow, Mum ,” said Shawn, trying to adjust the wig. “Where’s this priest that’s doing the Naming?” said Nanny. “What, Mum? Dunno, Mum. I stopped shouting out the names half an hour ago and got on to serving the bits of cheese on sticks—aoow, Mum, you shouldn’t take that many, Mum!” * Nanny Ogg sucked the cocktail goodies off four sticks in one easy movement, and looked speculatively at the throng. “I’m going to have a word with young Verence,” said Nanny. “He is the king, Nanny,” said Agnes. “That’s no reason for him to go around acting like he was royalty. ” “I think it is, actually. ” “None of that cheek. You just go and find this Omnian and keep an eye on him. ” “What should I look for?” said Agnes sourly. “A column of smoke?” “They all wear black,” said Nanny firmly. “Hah! Typical!” “Well? So do we.
” “Right! But ours is…ours is…” Nanny thumped her chest, causing considerable ripples, “ours is the right black, right? Now, off you go and look inconspicuous,” added Nanny, a lady wearing a two-foot-tall pointed black hat. She stared around at the crowd again, and nudged her son. “Shawn, you did deliver an invite to Esme Weatherwax, didn’t you?” He looked horrified. “Of course , Mum. ” “Shove it under her door?” “No, Mum. You know she gave me an ear-bashin’ when the snails got at that postcard last year. I put it under a stone, good and tight. ” “There’s a good boy,” said Nanny. Lancre people didn’t bother much with letterboxes. Mail was infrequent but biting gales were not. Why have a slot in the door to let in unsolicited winds? So letters were left under large stones, wedged firmly in flowerpots or slipped under the door. There were never very many. * Lancre operated on the feudal system, which was to say, everyone feuded all the time and handed on the fight to their descendants. The chips on some shoulders had been passed down for generations. Some had antique value. A bloody good grudge, Lancre reckoned, was like a fine old wine. You looked after it carefully and left it to your children. You never wrote to anyone. If you had anything to say, you said it to their face. It kept everything nice and hot. Agnes edged into the crowd, feeling stupid. She often did. Now she knew why Magrat Garlick had always worn those soppy floppy dresses and never wore the pointy hat. Wear the pointy hat and dress in black, and on Agnes there was plenty of black to go around, and everyone saw you in a certain way. You were A Witch. It had its good points. Among the bad ones was the fact that people turned to you when they were in trouble and never thought for a moment that you couldn’t cope. But she got a bit of respect, even from people who could remember her before she’d been allowed to wear the hat. They tended to make way for her, although people tended to make way in any case for Agnes when she was in full steam. “Evening, miss…” She turned, and saw Hodgesaargh in full official regalia. It was important not to smile at times like this, so Agnes kept a straight face and tried to ignore Perdita’s hysterical laughter at the back of her mind. She’d seen Hodgesaargh occasionally, around the edges of the woods or up on the moors. Usually the royal falconer was vainly fighting off his hawks, who attacked him for a pastime, and in the case of King Henry kept picking him up and dropping him again in the belief that he was a giant tortoise. It wasn’t that he was bad falconer. A few other people in Lancre kept hawks and reckoned he was one of the best trainers in the mountains, possibly because he was so single-minded about it. It was just that he trained every feathery little killing machine so well that it became unable to resist seeing what he tasted like. He didn’t deserve it. Nor did he deserve his ceremonial costume. Usually, when not in the company of King Henry, he just wore working leathers and about three sticking plasters, but what he was wearing now had been designed hundreds of years before by someone with a lyrical view of the countryside and who had never had to run through a bramble bush with a gerfalcon hanging on their ear. It had a lot of red and gold in it and would have looked much better on someone two feet taller who had the legs for red stockings. The hat was best not talked about, but if you had to, you’d talk about it in terms of something big, red and floppy. With a feather in it. “Miss Nitt?” said Hodgesaargh. “Sorry…I was looking at your hat. ” “It’s good, isn’t it,” said Hodgesaargh amiably. “This is William. She’s a buzzard. But she thinks she’s a chicken. She can’t fly. I’m having to teach her how to hunt. ” Agnes was craning her neck for any signs of overtly religious activity, but the incongruity of the slightly bedraggled creature on Hodgesaargh’s wrist brought her gaze back down again. “How?” she said. “She walks into the burrows and kicks the rabbits to death. And I’ve almost cured her of crowing. Haven’t I, William?” “William?” said Agnes. “Oh…yes. ” To a falconer, she remembered, all hawks were “she. ” “Have you seen any Omnians here?” she whispered, leaning down toward him. “What kind of bird are they, miss?” said the falconer uneasily. He always seemed to have a preoccupied air when not discussing hawks, like a man with a big dictionary who couldn’t find the index. “Oh, er…don’t worry about it, then. ” She stared at William again and said, “How? I mean, how does a bird like that think he’s—she’s a chicken ?” “Can happen all too easy, miss,” said Hodgesaargh. “Thomas Peerless over in Bad Ass pinched an egg and put it under a broody hen, miss. He didn’t take the chicken away in time. So William thought if her mum was a chicken, then so was she. ” “Well, that’s—” “And that’s what happens, miss. When I raise them from eggs I don’t do that. I’ve got a special glove, miss—” “That’s absolutely fascinating, but I’d better go,” said Agnes, quickly. “Yes, miss. ” She’d spotted the quarry, walking across the hall. There was something unmistakable about him. It was as if he was a witch. It wasn’t that his black robe ended at the knees and became a pair of legs encased in gray socks and sandals, or that his hat had a tiny crown but a brim big enough to set out your dinner on. It was because wherever he walked, he was in a little empty space that seemed to move around him, just like you got around witches. No one wanted to get too close to witches. She couldn’t see his face. He was making a beeline for the buffet table. “Excuse me, Miss Nitt?” Shawn had appeared at her side. He stood very stiffly, because if he made any sudden turns the oversized wig tended to spin on his head. “Yes, Shawn?” said Agnes. “The queen wants a word, miss,” said Shawn. “With me ?” “Yes, miss. She’s up in the Ghastly Green Drawing Room, miss. ” Shawn swiveled slowly. His wig stayed facing the same way. Agnes hesitated. It was a royal command, she supposed, even if it was only from Magrat Garlick as was, and as such it superseded anything Nanny had asked her to do. Anyway, she had spotted the priest, and it was not as though he was going to set fire to everyone over the canapés. She’d better go. A little hatch shot open behind the doleful Igor. “Why’ve we stopped this time?” “Troll’th in the way, marthter. ” “A what?” Igor rolled his eyes. “A troll’th in the way,” he said. The hatch shut. There was a whispered conversation inside the coach. The hatch opened. “You mean a troll ?” “ Yeth , marthter. ” “Run it down!” The troll advanced, holding a flickering torch above its head. At some point recently someone had said “this troll needs a uniform” and had found that the only thing in the armory that would fit was the helmet, and then only if you attached it to his head with string. “The old Count wouldn’t have told me to run it down,” Igor muttered, not quite under his breath. “But, then, he wath a gentleman. ” “What was that?” a female voice snapped. The troll reached the coach and banged its knuckles on its helmet respectfully. “Evenin’,” it said. “Dis is a bit embarrassin’. You know a pole?” “Pole?” said Igor suspiciously. “It are a long wooden fing—” “Yeth? Well? What about it?” “I’d like you to imagine, right, dat dere’s a black an’ yellow striped one across dis road, right? Only ’cos we’ve only got der one, an’ it’s bein’ used up on der Copperhead road tonight. ” The hatch slid open. “Get a move on, man! Run it down!” “I could go an’ get it if you like,” said the troll, shifting nervously from one huge foot to the other. “Only it wouldn’t be here till tomorrow, right? Or you could pretend it’s here right now, an’ then I could pretend to lift it up, and dat’d be okay, right?” “Do it, then,” said Igor. He ignored the grumbling behind him. The old Count had always been polite to trolls even though you couldn’t bite them, and that was real class in a vampire. “Only firs’ I gotta stamp somethin’,” said the troll. It held up half a potato and a paint-soaked rag.
“Why?” “Shows you’ve bin past me,” said the troll. “Yeth, but we will have been parthed you,” Igor pointed out. “I mean, everyone will know we’ve been parthed you becauthe we are. ” “But it’ll show you done it officially ,” said the troll. “What’ll happen if we jutht drive on?” said Igor. “Er…den I won’t lift der pole,” said the troll. Locked in a metaphysical conundrum, they both looked at the patch of road where the virtual pole barred the way. Normally, Igor wouldn’t have wasted any time. But the family had been getting on his nerves, and he reacted in the traditional way of the put-upon servant by suddenly becoming very stupid. He leaned down and addressed the coach’s occupants through the hatch. “It’th a border check, marthter,” he said. “We got to have thomething thtamped. ” There was more whispering inside the coach, and then a large white rectangle, edged in gold, was thrust ungraciously through the hatch. Igor passed it down. “Seems a shame,” said the troll, stamping it inexpertly and handing it back. “What’th thith?” Igor demanded. “Pardon?” “Thith…thtupid mark!” “Well, the potato wasn’t big enough for the official seal and I don’t know what a seal look like in any case but I reckon dat’s a good carvin’ of a duck I done there,” said the troll cheerfully. “Now…are you ready? ’Cos I’m liftin’ der pole. Here it goes now. Look at it pointin’ up in der air like dat. Dis means you can go. ” The coach rolled on a little way and stopped just before the bridge. The troll, aware that he’d done his duty, wandered toward it and heard what he considered to be a perplexing conversation, although to Big Jim Beef most conversations involving polysyllabic words were shrouded in mystery. “Now, I want you to all pay attention—” “Father, we have done this before. ” “The point can’t be hammered home far enough. That is the Lancre River down there. Running water. And we will cross it. It is as well to consider that your ancestors, although quite capable of undertaking journeys of hundreds of miles, nevertheless firmly believed that they couldn’t cross a stream. Do I need to point out the contradiction?” “No, Father. ” “Good. Cultural conditioning would be the death of us, if we are not careful. Drive on, Igor. ” The troll watched them go. Coldness seemed to follow them across the bridge. Granny Weatherwax was airborne again, glad of the clean, crisp air. She was well above the trees and, to the benefit of all concerned, no one could see her face. Isolated homesteads passed below, a few with lighted windows but most of them dark, because people would long ago have headed for the palace. There was a story under every roof, she knew. She knew all about stories. But those down there were the stories that were never to be told, the little secret stories, enacted in little rooms… They were about those times when medicines didn’t help and headology was at a loss because a mind was a rage of pain in a body that had become its own enemy, when people were simply in a prison made of flesh, and at times like this she could let them go. There was no need for desperate stuff with a pillow, or deliberate mistakes with the medicine. You didn’t push them out of the world, you just stopped the world pulling them back. You just reached in, and…showed them the way. There was never anything said. Sometimes you saw in the face of the relatives the request they’d never, ever put words around, or maybe they’d say “is there something you can do for him?” and this was, perhaps, the code. If you dared ask, they’d be shocked that you might have thought they meant anything other than, perhaps, a comfier pillow. And any midwife, out in isolated cottages on bloody nights, would know all the other little secrets… Never to be told… She’d been a witch here all her life. And one of the things a witch did was stand right on the edge, where the decisions had to be made. You made them so that others didn’t have to, so that others could even pretend to themselves that there were no decisions to be made, no little secrets, that things just happened. You never said what you knew. And you didn’t ask for anything in return. The castle was brightly lit, she saw. She could even make out figures around the bonfire. Something else caught her eye, because she was going to look everywhere but at the castle now, and it jolted her out of her mood. Mist was pouring over the mountains and sliding down the far valleys under the moonlight. One strand was flowing toward the castle and pouring, very slowly, into the Lancre Gorge. Of course you got mists in the spring, when the weather was changing, but this mist was coming from Uberwald. The door to Magrat’s room was opened by Millie Chillum, the maid, who curtseyed to Agnes, or at least to her hat, and then left her alone with the Queen, who was at her dressing table. Agnes wasn’t sure of the protocol, but tried a sort of republican curtsey. This caused considerable movement in outlying regions. Queen Magrat of Lancre blew her nose and stuffed the hankie up the sleeve of her dressing gown. “Oh, hello, Agnes,” she said. “Take a seat, do. You don’t have to bob up and down like that. Millie does it all the time and I get seasick. Anyway, strictly speaking, witches bow. ” “Er…” Agnes began. She glanced at the crib in the corner. It had more loops and lace than any piece of furniture should. “She’s asleep,” said Magrat. “Oh, the crib? Verence ordered it all the way from Ankh-Morpork. I said the old one they’d always used was fine, but he’s very, you know… modern. Please sit down. ” “You wanted me, your maj—” Agnes began, still uncertain. It was turning out to be a very complicated evening, and she wasn’t sure even now how she felt about Magrat. The woman had left echoes of herself in the cottage—an old bangle lost under the bed, rather soppy notes in some of the ancient notebooks, vases full of desiccated flowers…You can build up a very strange view of someone via the things they leave behind the dresser. “I just wanted a little talk,” said Magrat. “It’s a bit…look, I’m really very happy, but…well, Millie’s nice but she agrees with me all the time and Nanny and Granny still treat me as if I wasn’t, well, you know, Queen and everything…not that I want to be treated as Queen all the time but, well, you know, I want them to know I’m Queen but not treat me as one, if you see what I mean…” “I think so,” said Agnes carefully. Magrat waved her hands in an effort to describe the indescribable. Used handkerchiefs cascaded out of her sleeves. “I mean…I get dizzy with people bobbing up and down all the time, so when they see me I like them to think ‘Oh, there’s Magrat, she’s Queen now but I shall treat her in a perfectly normal way—’” “But perhaps just a little bit more politely because she is Queen, after all,” Agnes suggested. “Well, yes…exactly. Actually, Nanny’s not too bad, at least she treats everyone the same all the time, but when Granny looks at me you can see her thinking ‘Oh, there’s Magrat. Make the tea, Magrat. ’ One day I swear I’ll make a very cutting remark. It’s as if they think I’m doing this as a hobby !” “I do know what you mean. ” “It’s as if they think I’m going to get it out of my system and go back to witching again. They wouldn’t say that, of course, but that’s what they think. They really don’t believe there’s any other sort of life. ” “That’s true. ” “How’s the old cottage?” “There’s a lot of mice,” said Agnes. “I know. I used to feed them. Don’t tell Granny. She’s here, isn’t she?” “Haven’t seen her yet,” said Agnes. “Ah, she’ll be waiting for a dramatic moment,” said Magrat. “And you know what? I’ve never caught her actually waiting for a dramatic moment, not in all the, well, things we’ve been involved in. I mean, if it was you or me, we’d be hanging around in the hall or something, but she just walks in and it’s the right time. ” “She says you make your own right time,” said Agnes. “Yes. ” “Yes. ” “And you say she’s not here yet? It was the first card we did!” Magrat leaned closer. “Verence got them to put extra gold leaf on it.
I’m amazed it doesn’t go clang when she puts it down. How are you at making the tea?” “They always complain,” said Agnes. “They do, don’t they. Three lumps of sugar for Nanny Ogg, right?” “It’s not as if they even give me tea money,” said Agnes. She sniffed. There was a slight mustiness to the air. “It’s not worth baking biscuits, I can tell you that,” said Magrat. “I used to spend hours doing fancy ones with crescent moons and so on. You might just as well get them from the shop. ” She sniffed, too. “That’s not the baby,” she said. “I’m sure Shawn Ogg’s been so busy arranging things he hasn’t had time to clean up the privy pit the last two weeks. The smell comes right up the garderobe in the Gong Tower when the wind gusts. I’ve tried hanging up fragrant herbs but they sort of dissolve. ” She looked uncertain, as if a worse prospect than lax castle sanitation had crossed her mind. “Er…she must’ve got the invitation, mustn’t she?” “Shawn says he delivered it,” said Agnes. “And she probably said,” and here her voice changed, becoming clipped and harsh, “‘I can’t be havin’ with that at my time of life. I’ve never bin one to put meself forward, no one could ever say I’m one to put meself forward. ’” Magrat’s mouth was an O of amazement. “That’s so like her it’s frightening!” she said. “It’s one of the few things I’m good at,” said Agnes, in her normal voice. “Big hair, a wonderful personality, and an ear for sounds. ” And two minds, Perdita added. “She’ll come anyway,” Agnes went on, ignoring the inner voice. “But it’s gone half eleven…good grief, I’d better get dressed! Can you give me a hand?” She hurried into the dressing room with Agnes tagging along behind. “I even wrote a bit underneath asking her to be a godmother,” she said, sitting down in front of the mirror and scrabbling among the debris of makeup. “She’s always secretly wanted to be one. ” “That’s something to wish on a child,” said Agnes, without thinking. Magrat’s hand stopped halfway to her face, in a little cloud of powder, and Agnes saw her horrified look in the mirror. Then the jaw tightened, and for a moment the Queen had just the same expression that Granny sometimes employed. “Well, if it was a choice of wishing a child health, wealth and happiness, or Granny Weatherwax being on her side, I know which I’d choose,” said Magrat. “You must have seen her in action. ” “Once or twice, yes,” Agnes conceded. “She’ll never be beaten,” said Magrat. “You wait till you see her when she’s in a tight corner. She’s got that way of…putting part of herself somewhere safe. It’s as if…as if she gives herself to someone else to keep hidden for a while. It’s all part of that Borrowing stuff she does. ” Agnes nodded. Nanny had warned her about it but, even so, it was unnerving to turn up at Granny’s cottage and find her stretched out on the floor as stiff as a stick and holding, in fingers that were almost blue, a card with the words: I ATE’NT DEAD. * It just meant that she was out in the world somewhere, seeing life through the eyes of a badger or a pigeon, riding as an unheeded passenger in its mind. “And you know what?” Magrat went on. “It’s just like those magicians in Howondaland who keep their heart hidden in a jar somewhere, for safety, so they can’t be killed. There’s something about it in a book at the cottage. ” “Wouldn’t have to be a big jar,” said Agnes. “That wasn’t fair,” said Magrat. She paused. “Well…not fair for most of the time. Often, anyway. Sometimes, at least. Can you help me with this bloody ruff?” There was a gurgle from the cradle. “What name are you giving her?” said Agnes. “You’ll have to wait,” said Magrat. That made a sort of sense, Agnes admitted, as she followed Magrat and the maids to the hall. In Lancre, you named children at midnight, so that they started a day with a new name. She didn’t know why it made sense. It just felt as though, once, someone had found that it worked. Lancrastrians never threw away anything that worked. The trouble was, they seldom changed anything that worked, either. She’d heard that this was depressing King Verence, who was teaching himself kinging out of books. His plans for better irrigation and agriculture were warmly applauded by the people of Lancre, who then did nothing about them. Nor did they take any notice of his scheme for sanitation, i. e. , that there should be some, since the Lancrastrian idea of posh sanitation was a non-slippery path to the privy and a mail-order catalogue with really soft pages. They’d agreed to the idea of a Royal Society for the Betterment of Mankind, but since this largely consisted of as much time as Shawn Ogg had to spare on Thursday afternoons Mankind was safe from too much Betterment for a while, although Shawn had invented draft excluders for some of the windier parts of the castle, for which the King had awarded him a small medal. The people of Lancre wouldn’t dream of living in anything other than a monarchy. They’d done so for thousands of years and knew that it worked. But they’d also found that it didn’t do to pay too much attention to what the King wanted, because there was bound to be another king along in forty years or so and he’d be certain to want something different and so they’d have gone to all that trouble for nothing. In the meantime, his job as they saw it was to mostly stay in the palace, practice the waving, have enough sense to face the right way on coins and let them get on with the plowing, sowing, growing and harvesting. It was, as they saw it, a social contract. They did what they always did, and he let them. But sometimes, he kinged… In Lancre Castle, King Verence looked at himself in the mirror, and sighed. “Mrs. Ogg,” he said, adjusting his crown, “I have, as you know, a great respect for the witches of Lancre but this is, with respect, broadly a matter of general policy which, I respectfully submit, is a matter for the King. ” He adjusted the crown again, while Spriggins the butler brushed his robe. “We must be tolerant. Really, Mrs. Ogg, I haven’t seen you in a state like this before—” “They go round setting fire to people!” said Nanny, annoyed at all the respect. “ Used to , I believe,” said Verence. “And it was witches they burned!” Verence removed his crown and polished it with his sleeve in an infuriatingly reasonable manner. “I’ve always understood they set fire to practically everybody,” he said, “but that was some time ago, wasn’t it?” “Our Jason heard ’em preaching once down in Ohulan and they was saying some very nasty things about witches,” said Nanny. “Sadly, not everyone knows witches like we do,” said Verence, with what Nanny on her overheated state thought was unnecessary diplomacy. “And our Wayne said they tries to turn folk against other religions,” she went on. “Since they opened up that mission of theirs even the Offlerians have upped sticks and gone. I mean, it’s one thing saying you’ve got the best god, but sayin’ it’s the only real one is a bit of a cheek, in my opinion. I know where I can find at least two any day of the week. And they say everyone starts out bad and only gets good by believin’ in Om, which is frankly damn nonsense. I mean, look at your little girl—What’s her name going to be, now…?” “Everyone will know in twenty minutes, Nanny,” said Verence smoothly. “Hah!” Nanny’s tone made it clear that Radio Ogg disapproved of this news management. “Well, look…the worst she could put her little hand up to at her age is a few grubby nappies and keepin’ you awake at night. That’s hardly sinful , to my mind. ” “But you’ve never objected to the Gloomy Brethren, Nanny. Or to the Wonderers. And the Balancing Monks come through here all the time. ” “But none of them object to me ,” said Nanny. Verence turned. He was finding this disconcerting. He knew Nanny Ogg very well, but mainly as the person standing just behind Granny Weatherwax and smiling a lot. It was hard to deal with an angry Ogg. “I really think you’re taking this too much to heart, Mrs. Ogg,” he said. “Granny Weatherwax won’t like it!” Nanny played the trump card.
To her horror, it didn’t seem to have the desired effect. “Granny Weatherwax isn’t King, Mrs. Ogg,” said Verence. “And the world is changing. There is a new order. Once upon a time trolls were monsters that ate people but now, thanks to the endeavors of men, and of course trolls, of goodwill and peaceful intent we get along very well and I hope we understand each other. This is no longer a time when little kingdoms need only worry about little concerns. We’re part of a big world. We have to play that part. For example, what about the Muntab question?” Nanny Ogg asked the Muntab question. “Where the hell’s Muntab?” she said. “Several thousand miles away, Mrs. Ogg. But it has ambitions Hubward, and it there’s war with Borogravia we will certainly have to adopt a position. ” “This one several thousand miles away looks fine by me,” said Nanny. “And I don’t see—” “I’m afraid you don’t,” said Verence. “Nor should you have to. But affairs in distant countries can suddenly end up close to home. If Klatch sneezes, Ankh-Morpork catches a cold. We have to pay attention. Are we always to be part of the Ankh-Morpork hegemony? Are we not in a unique position as we reach the end of the Century of the Fruitbat? The countries widdershins of the Ramtops are beginning to make themselves felt. The ‘werewolf economies,’ as the Patrician in Ankh-Morpork calls them. New powers are emerging. Old countries are blinking in the sunlight of the dawning millennium. And of course we have to maintain friendships with all blocs. And so on. Despite a turbulent past, Omnia is a friendly country…or, at least,” he admitted, “I’m sure they would be friendly if they knew about Lancre. Being unpleasant to the priests of its state religion will serve us no good purpose. I’m sure we will not regret it. ” “Let’s hope we won’t,” said Nanny. She gave Verence a withering look. “And I remember you when you were just a man in a funny hat. ” Even this didn’t work. Verence merely sighed again and turned toward the door. “I still am, Nanny,” he said. “It’s just that this one’s a lot heavier. And now I must go, otherwise we shall be keeping our guests waiting. Ah, Shawn…” Shawn Ogg had appeared at the door. He saluted. “How’s the army coming along, Shawn?” “I’ve nearly finished the knife, sir. * Just got to do the nose-hair tweezers and the folding saw, sir. But actually I’m here as herald at the moment, sir. ” “Ah, it must be time. ” “Yes, sir. ” “A shorter fanfare this time, Shawn, I think,” said the King. “While I personally appreciate your skill, an occasion like this calls for something a little simpler than several bars of ‘Pink Hedgehog Rag. ’” “Yes, sir. ” “Let us go, then. ” They went out into the main passage just as Magrat’s group was passing, and the King took her hand. Nanny Ogg trailed after them. The King was right, in a way. She did feel… unusual , ill-tempered and snappish, as if she’d put on a vest that was too tight. Well, Granny would be here soon enough, and she knew how to talk to kings. You needed a special technique for that, Nanny reasoned; for example, you couldn’t say things like “who died and made you king?” because they’d know. “You and whose army?” was another difficult one, although in this case Verence’s army consisted of Shawn and a troll and was unlikely to be a serious threat to Shawn’s own mother if he wanted to be allowed to eat his tea indoors. She pulled Agnes to one side as the procession reached the top of the big staircase and Shawn went on ahead. “We’ll get a good view from the minstrel gallery,” she hissed, dragging Agnes into the king oak structure just as the trumpet began the royal fanfare. “That’s my boy,” she added proudly, when the final flourish caused a stir. “Yes, not many royal fanfares end with ‘shave and a haircut, no legs,’ * ” said Agnes. “Puts people at their ease, though,” said Shawn’s loyal mum. Agnes looked down at the throng, and caught sight of the priest again. He was moving through the press of guests. “I found him, Nanny,” she said. “He didn’t make it hard, I must say. He won’t try anything in a crowd, will he?” “Which one is it?” Agnes pointed. Nanny stared, and then turned to her. “Sometimes I think the weight of that damn crown is turning Verence’s head,” she said. “I reckon he really doesn’t know what he’s lettin’ into the kingdom. When Esme gets here she’s going to go through this priest like cabbage soup. ” By now the guests had got themselves sorted out on either side of the red carpet that began at the bottom of the stairs. Agnes glanced up at the royal couple, waiting awkwardly, just out of sight for the appropriate moment to descend, and thought: Granny Weatherwax says you make your own right time. They’re the royal family. All they need to do is walk down the stairs and it’d be the right time. They’re doing it wrong. Several of the Lancre guests were occasionally glancing at the big double doors, shut for this official ceremony. They’d be thrown open later, for the more public and enjoyable part, but right now they looked… …like doors which would soon creak back and frame a figure against the firelight. She could see the image so clearly. The exercises Granny had reluctantly given her were working, Perdita thought. There was a hurried conversation among the royal party and then Millie hurried back up the stairs and toward the witches. “Mag—the Queen says, is Granny Weatherwax coming or not?” she panted. “Of course she is,” said Nanny. “Only, well, the King’s getting a bit…upset. He said it did say RSVP on the invitation,” said Millie, trying not to meet Nanny eye to eye. “Oh, witches never reservups,” said Nanny. “They just come. ” Millie put her hand in front of her mouth and gave a nervous little cough. She glanced wretchedly toward Magrat, who was making frantic hand signals. “Only, well, the Queen says we’d better not hold things up, so, er, would you be godmother, Mrs. Ogg?” The wrinkles doubled on Nanny’s face as she smiled. “Tell you what,” she said brightly, “I’ll come and sort of stand in until Granny gets here, shall I?” Once again, Granny Weatherwax paced up and down in the spartan grayness of her kitchen. Occasionally she’d glance at the floor. There was quite a gap under the door, and sometimes things could be blown anywhere. But she’d already searched a dozen times. She must’ve got the cleanest floor in the country by now. Anyway, it was too late. Even so… Uberwald … * She strode up and down a few more times. “I’ll be blowed if I’ll give ’em the satisfaction,” she muttered. She sat down in her rocking chair, stood up again so quickly that the chair almost fell over, and went back to the pacing. “I mean, I never been the kind of person to put myself forward,” she said to the air. “I’m not the sort to go where I’m not welcome, I’m sure. ” She went to make a cup of tea, fumbling with the kettle in shaking hands, and dropped the lid on her sugar bowl, breaking it. A light caught her eye. The half moon was visible over the lawn. “Anyway, it’s not as if I’ve not got other things to do,” she said. “Can’t all be rushing off to parties the whole time…wouldn’t have gone anyway. ” She found herself flouncing around the corners of the floor again and thought: if I’d found it, the Wattley boy would have knocked at an empty cottage. I’d have gone and enjoyed meself. And John Ivy’d be sitting alone, now… “Drat!” That was the worst part about being good—it caught you coming and going. She landed in the rocking chair again and pulled her shawl around her, against the chill. She hadn’t kept the fire in. She hadn’t expected to be at home tonight. Shadows filled the corners of the room, but she couldn’t be bothered to light the lamp. The candle would have to do. As she rocked, glaring at the wall, the shadows lengthened. Agnes followed Nanny down into the hall. She probably wasn’t meant to, but very few people will argue with a hat of authority. Small countries were normal along this part of the Ramtops.
Every glacial valley, separated from its neighbors by a route that required a scramble or, at worst, a ladder, more or less ruled itself. There seemed to Agnes to be any number of kings, even if some of them did their ruling in the evenings after they’d milked the cows. A lot of them were here, because a free meal is not to be sneezed at. There were also some senior dwarfs from Copperhead and, standing well away from them, a group of trolls. They weren’t carrying weapons, so Agnes assumed they were politicians. Trolls weren’t strictly subjects of King Verence, but they were there to say, in official body language, that playing football with human heads was something no one did anymore, much. Hardly at all, really. Not roun’ here, certainly. Dere’s practic’ly a law against it. The witches were ushered to the area in front of the thrones, and then Millie scurried away. The Omnian priest nodded at them. “Good, um, evening,” he said, and completely failed to set fire to anyone. He wasn’t very old and had a rather ripe boil beside his nose. Inside Agnes, Perdita made a face at him. Nanny Ogg grunted. Agnes risked a brief smile. The priest blew his nose noisily. “You must be some of these, um, witches I’ve heard so much about,” he said. He had an amazing smile. It appeared on his face as if someone had operated a shutter. One moment it wasn’t there, the next moment it was. And then it was gone. “Um, yes,” said Agnes. “Hah,” said Nanny Ogg, who could haughtily turn her back on people while looking them in the eye. “And I am, I am, aaaa…” said the priest. He stopped, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, I am sorry. the mountain air doesn’t agree with me. I am the Quite Reverend Mightily Oats. ” “You are?” said Agnes. To her amazement, the man began to redden. The more she looked at him, the more she realized that he wasn’t much older than she was. “That is, Mightily-Praiseworthy-Are-Ye-Who-Exalteth-Om Oats,” he said. “It’s much shorter in Omnian, of course. Have you by any chance heard the Word of Om?” “Which one? ‘Fire’?” said Nanny Ogg. “Hah!” The nascent religious war was abruptly cut short by the first official royal fanfare to end with a few bars from the “Hedgehog Cakewalk. ” The royal couple began to descend the stairs. “And we’ll have none of your heathen ways, thank you very much,” muttered Nanny Ogg behind the pastor. “No sloshing water or oil or sand around or cutting any bits off and if I hears a single word I understand, well, I’m standing behind you with a pointy stick. ” * From the other side he heard, “He’s not some kind of horrible inquisitor, Nanny!” “But my pointy stick’s still a pointy stick, my girl!” What’s got into her? Agnes thought, watching the pastor’s ears turn red. That’s the way Granny would act. Perdita added: Perhaps she thinks she’s got to carry on like that because that old bat’s not here yet. Agnes was quite shocked at hearing herself think that. “You do things our way here, all right?” said Nanny. “The, um, King did explain it all to me, um,” said the pastor. “Er, do have anything for a headache. I’m afraid I—” “You put the key in one hand and let her grip the crown with the other,” Nanny Ogg went on. “Yes, um, he did —” “Then you tell her what her name is and her mum’s name and her dad’s name, mumbling a bit over the latter if the mum ain’t sure—” “Nanny! This is royalty !” “Hah, I could tell you stories, gel…and then, see, you give her to me and I tell her, too, and then I give her back and you tell the people what her name is, an’ then you give her to me, and then I give her to her dad, and he takes her out through the doors and shows her to everyone, everyone throws their hats in the air and shouts ‘hoorah!’ and then it’s all over bar the drinks and horses’ doovers and findin’ your own hat. Start extemporizin’ on the subject of sin and it’ll go hard with you. ” “What is, um, your role, madam?” “I’m the godmother!” “Which, um, god?” The young man was trembling slightly. “It’s from Old Lancre,” said Agnes hurriedly. “It’s means something like ‘goodmother. ’ It’s all right…as witches we believe in religious toleration…” “That’s right,” said Nanny Ogg. “But only for the right religions, so you watch your step!” The royal parents had reached the thrones. Magrat took her seat and, to Agnes’s amazement, gave her a sly wink. Verence didn’t wink. He stood there and coughed loudly. “Ahem!” “I’ve got a pastille somewhere,” said Nanny, her hand reaching toward her knicker leg. “Ahem!” Verence’s eyes darted toward his throne. What had appeared to be a gray cushion rolled over, yawned, gave the King a brief glance, and started to wash itself. “Oh, Greebo!” said Nanny. “I was wonderin’ where you’d got to…” “Could you please remove him, Mrs. Ogg?” said the King. Agnes glanced at Magrat. The Queen had half turned away, with her elbow on the arm of the throne and her hand covering her mouth. Her shoulders were shaking. Nanny grabbed her cat off the throne. “A cat can look at a king,” she said. “Not with that expression, I believe,” said Verence. He waved graciously at the assembled company, just as the castle’s clock began to strike midnight. “Please begin, Reverend. ” “I, um, did have a small suitable homily on the subject of, um, hope for the—” the Quite Reverend Oats began, but there was a grunt from Nanny and he suddenly seemed to jerk forward slightly. He blinked once or twice and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “But alas I fear we have no time,” he concluded quickly. Magrat leaned over and whispered something in her husband’s ear. Agnes heard him say, “Well, dear, I think we have to, whether she’s here or not…” Shawn scurried up, slightly out of breath and with his wig on sideways. He was carrying a cushion. On the faded velvet was the big iron key of the castle. Millie Chillum carefully handed the baby to the priest, who held it gingerly. It seemed to the royal couple that he suddenly started to speak very hesitantly. Behind him, Nanny Ogg’s was an expression of extreme interest that was nevertheless made up of one hundred percent artificial additives. They also had the impression that the poor man was suffering from frequent attacks of cramp. “—we are gathered here together in the sight of…um…one another…” “Are you all right, Reverend?” said the King, leaning forward. “Never better, sir, um, I assure you,” said Oats miserably, “…and I therefore name thee…that is, you…” There was a deep, horrible pause. Glassy faced, the priest handed the baby to Millie. Then he removed his hat, took a small scrap of paper from the lining, read it, moved his lips a few times as he said the words to himself, and then replaced the hat on his sweating forehead and took the baby again. “I name you…Esmerelda Margaret Note Spelling of Lancre!” The shocked silence was suddenly filled. “Note Spelling?” said Magrat and Agnes together. “Esmerelda?” said Nanny. The baby opened her eyes. And the doors swung back. Choices. It was always choices… There’d been that man down in Spackle, the one that’d killed those little kids. The people’d sent for her and she’d looked at him and seen the guilt writhing in his head like a red worm, and then she’d taken them to his farm and showed them where to dig, and he’d thrown himself down and asked her for mercy, because he said he’d been drunk and it’d all been done in alcohol. Her words came back to her. She’d said, in sobriety: end it in hemp. And they’d dragged him off and hanged him in a hempen rope and she’d gone to watch because she owed him that much, and he’d cursed, which was unfair because hanging is a clean death, or at least cleaner than the one he’d have got if the villagers had dared defy her, and she’d seen the shadow of Death come for him, and then behind Death came the smaller, brighter figures, and then — In the darkness, the rocking chair creaked as it thundered back and forth. The villagers had said justice had been done, and she’d lost patience and told them to go home, then, and pray to whatever gods they believed in that it was never done to them.
The smug mask of virtue triumphant could be almost as horrible as the face of wickedness revealed. She shuddered at a memory. Almost as horrible, but not quite. The odd thing was, quite a lot of villagers had turned up to his funeral, and there had been mutterings from one or two people on the lines of, yes, well, but overall he wasn’t such a bad chap…and anyway, maybe she made him say it. And she’d got the dark looks. Supposing there was justice for all, after all? For every unheeded beggar, every harsh word, every neglected duty, every slight…every choice…Because that was the point, wasn’t it? You had to choose. You might be right, you might be wrong, but you had to choose , knowing that the rightness or wrongness might never be clear or even that you were deciding between two sorts of wrong, that there was no right anywhere. And always, always , you did it by yourself. You were the one there, on the edge, watching and listening. Never any tears, never any apology, never any regrets…You saved all that up in a way that could be used when needed. She never discussed this with Nanny Ogg or any of the other witches. That would be breaking the secret. Sometimes, late at night, when the conversation tip-toed around to that area, Nanny might just drop in some line like “old Scrivens went peacefully enough at the finish” and may or may not mean something by it. Nanny, as far as she could see, didn’t agonize very much. To her, some things obviously had to be done, and that was that. Any of the thoughts that hung around she kept locked up tight, even from herself. Granny envied her. Who’d come to her funeral when she died? They didn’t ask her! Memories jostled. Other figures marched out into the shadows around the candlelight. She’d done things and been places, and found ways to turn anger outward that had surprised even her. She’d faced down others far more powerful than she was, if only she’d allowed them to believe it. She’d given up so much, but she’d earned a lot… It was a sign. She knew it’d come, sooner or later…They’d realized it, and now she was no more use… What had she ever earned? The reward for toil had been more toil. If you dug the best ditches, they gave you a bigger shovel. And you got these bare walls, this bare floor, this cold cottage. The darkness in the corners grew out into the room and began to tangle in her hair. They didn’t ask her! She’d never, ever asked for anything in return. And the trouble with not asking for anything in return was that sometimes you didn’t get it. She’d always tried to face toward the light. She’d always tried to face toward the light. But the harder you stared into the brightness the harsher it burned into you until, at last, the temptation picked you up and bid you turn around to see how long, rich, strong and dark, streaming away behind you, your shadow had become— Someone mentioned her name. There was a moment of light and noise and bewilderment. And then she awoke, and looked at the darkness flowing in, and saw things in black and white. “So sorry…delays on the road, you know how it is…” The newcomers hurried in and joined the crowd, who paid little attention because they were watching the unplanned entertainment around the thrones. “Note Spelling?” “Definitely a bit tricky,” said Nanny. “Esmerelda, now, that was a good one. Gytha would have been good too, but Esmerelda, yes, you can’t argue with it. But you know kids. They’ll all be calling her Spelly. ” “If she’s lucky,” said Agnes gloomily. “I didn’t expect anyone to say it!” Magrat hissed. “I just wanted to make sure she didn’t end up with ‘Magrat’!” Mightily Oats was standing with his eyes cast upward and his hands clasped together. Occasionally he made a whimpering sound. “We can change it, can’t we?” said King Verence. “Where’s the Royal Historian?” Shawn coughed. “It’s not Wednesday evening and I’ll have to go and fetch the proper hat, sire—” “Can we change it or not, man?” “Er…it has been said , sire. At the official time. I think it’s her name now, but I’ll need to go and look it up. Everyone heard it, sire. ” “No, you can’t change it,” said Nanny, who as the Royal Historian’s mum took it as read that she knew more than the Royal Historian. “Look at old Moocow Poorchick over in Slice, for one. ” “What happened to him, then?” said the King sharply. “His full name is James What the Hell’s That Cow Doing in Here Poorchick,” said Magrat. “That was a very strange day, I do remember that,” said Nanny. “And if my mother had been sensible enough to tell Brother Perdore my name instead of coming over all bashful and writing it down, life would have been a whole lot different,” said Magrat. She glanced nervously at Verence. “Probably worse, of course. ” “So I’ve got to take Esmerelda out to her people and tell them one of her middle names is Note Spelling?” said Verence. “Well, we did once have a king called My God He’s Heavy the First,” said Nanny. “And the beer’s been on for the last couple of hours so, basic’ly, you’ll get a cheer whatever you say. ” Besides, thought Agnes, I know for a fact there’s people out there called Syphilidae Wilson and Yodel Lightley and Total Biscuit. * Verence smiled. “Oh well…let me have her…” “Whifm…” said Mightily Oats. “…and perhaps someone ought to give this man a drink. ” “I’m so terribly, terribly sorry,” whispered the priest, as the King walked between the lines of guests. “Been on the drink already, I expect,” said Nanny. “I never ever touch alcohol!” moaned the priest. He dabbed at his streaming eyes with a handkerchief. “I knew there was something wrong with him as soon as I looked at him,” said Nanny. “Where’s Esme, then?” “I don’t know , Nanny!” said Agnes. “She’d know about this, you mark my words. This’ll be a feather in her cap, right enough, a princess named after her. She’ll be crowing about it for months. I’m going to see what’s going on. ” She stumped off. Agnes grabbed the priest’s arm. “Come along, you,” she sighed. “I really cannot, um, express how sorry—” “It’s a very strange evening all round. ” “I’ve, I’ve, I’ve never, um, heard of the custom before—” “People put a lot of importance on words in these parts. ” “I’m very much afraid the King will give a bad, um, report of me to Brother Melchio…” “Really. ” There are some people who could turn even the most amiable character into a bully and he seemed to be one of them. There was something…sort of damp about him, the kind of helpless hopelessness that made people angry rather than charitable, the total certainty that if the whole world was a party he’d still find the kitchen. She seemed to be stuck with him. The VIPs were all crowded around the open doors, where loud cheering indicated that the people of Lancre thought that Note Spelling was a nice name for a future queen. “Perhaps you should just sit there and try to get a grip,” she said. “There’s going to be dancing later on. ” “Oh, I don’t dance,” said Mightily Oats. “Dancing is a snare to entrap the weak-willed. ” “Oh. Well, I suppose there’s a barbecue outside…” Mightily Oats dabbed at his eyes again. “Um, any fish?” “I doubt it. ” “We eat only fish this month. ” “Oh. ” But a deadpan voice didn’t seem to work. He still wanted to talk to her. “Because the prophet Brutha eschewed meat, um, when he was wandering in the desert, you see. ” “Each mouthful forty times?” “Pardon?” “Sorry, I was thinking of something else. ” Against her better judgment, Agnes let curiosity enter her life. “What meat is there to eat, in a desert?” “Um, none, I think. ” “So he didn’t exactly refuse to eat it, did he?” Agnes scanned the gathering crowds, but no one seemed anxious to join in this little discussion. “Um…you’d have to, um, ask Brother Melchio that. I’m so sorry. I think I have a migraine coming on…” You don’t believe anything you’re saying, do you? Agnes thought. Nervousness and a sort of low-grade terror was radiating off him. Perdita added: What a damp little maggot! “I’ve got to go and…er…to go and…I’ve got to go and…help,” said Agnes, backing away. He nodded.
As she left, he blew his nose again, produced a small black book from a pocket, sighed, and hurriedly opened it at a bookmark. She picked up a tray to add some weight to the alibi, stepped toward the food table, turned to look back at the hunched figure as out of place as a lost sheep, and walked into someone as solid as a tree. “Who is that strange person?” said a voice by her ear. Agnes heard Perdita curse her for jumping sideways, but she recovered and managed to smile awkwardly at the person who’d spoken. He was a young man and, it dawned on her, a very attractive one. Attractive men were not in plentiful supply in Lancre, where licking your hand and smoothing your hair down before taking a girl out was considered swanky. He’s got a ponytail! squeaked Perdita. Now that is cool! Agnes felt the blush start somewhere in the region of her knees and begin its inevitable acceleration upward. “Er…sorry?” she said. “You can practically smell him,” said the man. He inclined his head slightly toward the sad priest. “Looks rather like a scruffy little crow, don’t you think?” “Er…yes,” Agnes managed. The blush rounded the curve of her bosom, red hot and rising. A ponytail on a man was unheard of in Lancre, and the cut of his clothes also suggested that he’d spent time somewhere where fashion changed more than once a lifetime. No one in Lancre had ever worn a waistcoat embroidered with peacocks. Say something to him! Perdita screamed within. “Wstfgl?” said Agnes. Behind her, Mightily Oats had got up and was inspecting the food suspiciously. “I beg your pardon?” Agnes swallowed, partly because Perdita was trying to shake her by the throat. “He does look as if he’s about to flap away, doesn’t he,” she said. Oh, please, don’t let me giggle… The man snapped his fingers. A waiter hurrying past with a tray of drinks turned through ninety degrees. “Can I get you a drink, Miss Nitt?” “Er…white wine?” Agnes whispered. “No, you don’t want white wine, the red is much more…colorful,” he said, taking a glass and handing it to her. “What is our quarry doing now…ah, applying himself to a biscuit with a very small amount of pâté on it, I see…” Ask him his name! Perdita yelled. No, that’d be forward of me, Agnes thought. Perdita screamed, You were built forward, you stupid lump— “Please let me introduce myself. I’m Vlad,” he said, kindly. “Oh, now he’s…yes, he’s about to pounce on…yes, a prawn vol-au-vent. Prawns up here, eh? King Verence has spared no expense, has he?” “He had them brought up on ice all the way from Genua,” Agnes mumbled. “They do very good seafood there, I believe. ” “Never been,” Agnes mumbled. Inside her head Perdita laid down and cried. “Maybe we could visit it one day, Agnes,” said Vlad. The blush was at Agnes’s neck. “It’s very hot in here, don’t you think?” said Vlad. “It’s the fire,” said Agnes gratefully. “It’s over there,” she added, nodding to where quite a large amount of a tree was burning in the hall’s enormous fireplace and could only have been missed by a man with a bucket on his head. “My sister and I have—” Vlad began. “Excuse me, Miss Nitt?” “What is it, Shawn?” Drop dead, Shawn Ogg, said Perdita. “Mum says you’re to come at once, miss. She’s down in the yard. She says it’s important. ” “It always is,” said Agnes. She gave Vlad a quick smile. “Excuse me, I have to go and help an old lady. ” “I’m sure we’ll meet again, Agnes,” said Vlad. “Oh, er…thank you. ” She hurried out and was halfway down the steps before she remembered she hadn’t told him her name. Two steps farther she thought: well, he could have asked someone. Two steps after that Perdita said: Why would he ask anyone your name? Agnes cursed the fact that she had grown up with an invisible enemy. “Come and look at this!” hissed Nanny, grabbing her by the arm as she reached the courtyard. She was dragged out to the carriages parked near the stables. Nanny waved a finger to the door of the nearest one. “See that?” she said. “It looks very impressive,” said Agnes. “See the crest?” “Looks like…a couple of black and white birds. Magpies, aren’t they?” “Yeah, but look at the writin’,” said Nanny Ogg, with that dark relish old ladies reserve for nastily portentous things. “‘Carpe Jugulum,’” read Agnes aloud. “That’s…well, Carpe Diem is ‘Seize the Day,’ so this means—” “‘Go for the Throat,’” said Nanny. “You know what our king has done, so we can play our part in this new changin’ world order thing and get money for hedges because Klatch gets a nosebleed when Ankh-Morpork stubs its toe? He’s gone an’ invited some bigwigs from Uberwald, that’s what he’s done. Oh, deary deary me. Vampires and werewolves, werewolves and vampires. We’ll all be murdered in one another’s beds. ” She walked up to the front of the coach and tapped on the wood near the driver, who was sitting hunched up in an enormous cloak. “Where’re you from, Igor?” The shadowy figure turned. “What maketh you think my name ith…Igor?” “Lucky guess?” said Nanny. “You think everyone from Uberwald ith called Igor, do you? I could have any one of a thouthand different nameth, woman. ” “Look, I’m Nanny Ogg and thith, excuse me, this is Agnes Nitt. And you are…?” “My name ith…well, it’th Igor, ath a matter of facththth,” said Igor. He raised a hasty finger. “But it might not have been!” “It’s a chilly night. Can we get you something?” said Nanny cheerfully. “Perhaps a towel?” said Agnes. Nanny nudged her in the ribs to be silent. “A glass of wine, p’raps?” she said. “I do not drink…wine,” said Igor haughtily. “I’ve got some brandy,” said Nanny, hitching up her skirt. “Oh right , I drink brandy like thtink. ” Knickerleg elastic twanged in the gloom. “So,” said Nanny, passing up the flask, “what’re you doing this far from home, Igor?” “Why’th there a thtupid troll down there on the…bridge?” said Igor, taking the flask in one large hand which, Agnes noticed, was a mass of scars and stitches. “Oh, that’s Big Jim Beef. The King lets him live under there provided he looks official when we’ve got comp’ny comin’. ” “Beef ith an odd name for a troll. ” “He likes the sound of it,” said Nanny. “It’s like a man calling himself Rocky, I suppose. So…I used to know an Igor from Uber-wald. Walked with a limp. One eye a bit higher than the other. Had the same manner of…speaking. Very good at brain juggling, too. ” “That thoundth like my Uncle Igor,” said Igor. “He worked for the mad doctor at Blinz. Ha, an’ he wath a proper mad doctor, too, not like the mad doctorth you get thethe dayth. And the thervantth? Even worthe. No pride thethe dayth. ” He tapped the brandy flask for emphasis. “When Uncle Igor wath thent out for a geniuth’th brain, that’th what you damn well got. There wath none of thith fumble-finger thtuff and then pinching a brain out of the ‘Really Inthane’ jar and hopin’ no one’d notithe. They alwayth do, anyway. ” Nanny took a step back. The only sensible way to hold a conversation with Igor was when you had an umbrella. “I think I’ve heard of that chap,” she said. “Didn’t he stitch folk together out of dead parts?” “No! Really?” said Agnes, shocked. “Ow!” “That’th right. Ith there a problem?” “No, I call it prudent,” said Nanny, taking her foot off Agnes’s toe. “My mum was a dab hand at sewing a new sheet from bits of old ones, and people’re worth more than linen. So he’s your master now, is he?” “No, my Uncle Igor thtill workth for him. Been thtruck by lightning three hundred timeth and thtill putth in a full night’th work. ” “Have a drop more of that brandy, it’s very cold out here,” said Nanny. “So who is your master, Igor?” “Call them marthterth?” said Igor, with sudden venom and a light shower. “Huh! Now the old Count, he wath a gentleman of the old thcool. He knew how it all workth. Proper evening dreth at all timeth , that’th the rule!” “Evenin’ dress, eh?” said Nanny.
“Yeth! Thith lot only wear it in the evening, can you imagine that? The retht of the time it’th all thwanning around in fanthy waithtcoatth and lacy thkirtth! Hah! D’you know what thith lot hath done?” “Do tell…” “They’th oiled the hingeth!” Igor took a hefty pull of Nanny’s special brandy. “Thome of thothe thqueakth took bloody yearth to get right. But, oh no, now it’th ‘Igor, clean thothe thpiderth out of the dungeon’ and ‘Igor, order up thome proper oil lampth, all thethe flickering torcheth are tho fifthteen minuteth ago’! Tho the plathe lookth old? Being a vampire’th about continuity, ithn’t it? You get lotht in the mountainth and thee a light burnin’ in thome carthle, you got a right to expect proper thqueakin’ doorth and thome old-world courtethy, don’t you?” “Ah, right. An’ a bed in the room with a balcony outside,” said Nanny. “My point egthactly!” “Proper billowing curtains, too?” “Damn right!” “Real gutterin’ candles?” “I spend ageth gettin them properly dribbly. Not that anyone careth. ” “You got to get the details right, I always say,” said Nanny. “Well, well, well…so our king invited vampires, eh?” There was a thump as Igor slumped backward and a tinny sound as the flask landed on the cobbles. Nanny picked it up and secreted it about her person. “Good head for his drink,” she remarked. Not many people ever tasted Nanny Ogg’s homemade brandy; it was technically impossible. Once it encountered the warmth of the human mouth it immediately turned into fumes. You drank it via your sinuses. “What’re we going to do ?” said Agnes. “Do? He invited ’em. They’re guests,” said Nanny. “I bet if I asked him, Verence’d tell me to mind my own business. O’ course, he wouldn’t put it quite like that ,” she added, since she knew the King had no suicidal tendencies. “He’d prob’ly use the word ‘respect’ two or three times at least. But it’d mean the same thing in the end. ” “But vampires …what’s Granny going to say?” “Listen, my girl, they’ll be gone tomorrow…well, today, really. We’ll just keep an eye on ’em and wave ’em goodbye when they go. ” “We don’t even know what they look like!” Nanny looked at the recumbent Igor. “On reflection, maybe, I should’ve asked him,” she said. She brightened up. “Still, there’s one way to find them. That’s something everyone knows about vampires…” In fact there are many things everyone knows about vampires, without really taking into account that perhaps the vampires know them by now, too. The castle hall was a din. There was a mob around the buffet table. Nanny and Agnes helped out. “Can o’ pee, anyone?” said Nanny, shoving a tray toward a likely looking group. “I beg your pardon?” said someone. “Oh…canapés…” He took a vol-au-vent and bit into it as he turned back to the group. “…so I said to his lordship what the hell is this? ” He turned to find himself under close scrutiny by the wrinkled old lady in a pointy hat. “Sorry?” she said. “This…this…this is just mashed garlic!” “Don’t like garlic flavor, eh?” said Nanny, sternly. “I love garlic, but it doesn’t like me ! This isn’t just garlic flavored, woman, it’s all garlic!” Nanny peered at her tray with theatrical shortsightedness. “No, there’s some…there’s a bit of…you’re right, perhaps we overdid it a gnat’s…I’ll just go and…just get some…I’ll just go…” She collided with Agnes at the entrance to the kitchen. Two trays slid to the floor, spilling garlic vol-au-vents, garlic dip, garlic stuffed with garlic and tiny cubes of garlic on a stick, stuck into a garlic. “Either there’s a lot of vampires in these parts or we’re doing something wrong,” said Agnes flatly. “ I’ve always said you can’t have too much garlic,” said Nanny. “Everyone else disagrees, Nanny. ” “All right, then. What else…ah! All vampires wear evening dress in the evenings. ” “ Everyone here is wearing some kind of evening dress, Nanny. Except us. ” Nanny Ogg looked down. “This is the dress I always wear in the evenin’. ” “Vampires aren’t supposed to show up in a mirror, are they?” said Agnes. Nanny snapped her fingers. “Good thinking!” she said. “There’s one in the lavvie. I’ll kind of hover in there. Everyone’s got to go sooner or later. ” “But what if a man comes in?” “Oh, I won’t mind,” said Nanny dismissively. “I won’t be embarrassed. ” “I think there may be objections,” said Agnes, trying to ignore the mental picture just conjured up. Nanny had a pleasant grin, but there had to be times when you didn’t want it looking at you. “We’ve got to do something. Supposing Granny were to turn up now, what would she think?” said Nanny. “We could just ask,” said Agnes. “What? ‘Hands up all vampires’?” “Ladies?” They turned. The young man who had introduced himself as Vlad was approaching. Agnes began to blush. “I think you were talking about vampires,” he said, taking a garlic pasty from Agnes’s tray and biting into it with every sign of enjoyment. “Could I be of assistance?” Nanny looked him up and down. “Do you know much about them?” she said. “Well, I am one,” he said. “So I suppose the answer is yes. Charmed to meet you, Mrs. Ogg. ” He bowed, and reached for her hand. “Oh no you don’t!” said Nanny, snatching it away. “I don’t hold with bloodsuckers!” “I know. But I’m sure you shall in time. Would you like to come and meet my family?” “They can bugger off! What was the King thinking of?” “Nanny!” snapped Agnes. “What?” “You don’t have to shout like that. It’s not very…polite. I don’t think—” “Vlad de Magpyr,” said Vlad, bowing. “—is going to bite my neck!” shouted Nanny. “Of course not,” said Vlad. “We had some sort of bandit earlier. Mrs. Ogg is, I suspect, a meal to be savored. Any more of these garlic things? They’re rather piquant. ” “You what?” said Nanny. “You just…killed someone?” said Agnes. “Of course. We are vampires,” said Vlad. “Or, we prefer, vampyres. With a ‘y. ’ It’s more modern. Now, do come and meet my father. ” “You actually killed someone?” said Agnes. “Right! That’s it !” snarled Nanny, marching away. “I’m getting Shawn and he’s gonna come back with a big sharp—” Vlad coughed quietly. Nanny stopped. “There are several other things people know about vampires,” he said. “And one is that they have considerable control over the minds of lesser creatures. So forget all about vampires, dear ladies. That is an order. And do come and meet my family. ” Agnes blinked. She was aware that there had been…something. She could feel the tail of it, slipping away between her fingers. “Seems a nice young man,” said Nanny, in a mildly stunned voice. “I…he…yes,” said Agnes. Something surfaced in her mind, like a message in a bottle written indistinctly in some foreign language. She tried, but she could not read it. “I wish Granny were here,” she said at last. “She’d know what to do. ” “What about?” said Nanny. “She ain’t good at parties. ” “I feel a bit…odd,” said Agnes. “Ah, could be the drink,” said Nanny. “I haven’t had any!” “No? Well, there’s the problem right there. Come on. ” They hurried into the hall. Even though it was now well after midnight, the noise level was approaching the pain threshold. When the midnight hour lies on the glass like a big cocktail onion, there’s always an extra edge to the laughter. Vlad gave them an encouraging wave and beckoned them over to a group around King Verence. “Ah, Agnes and Nanny,” said the King, “Count, may I present—” “Gytha Ogg and Agnes Nitt, I believe,” said the man the King had just been talking to. He bowed. For some reason a tiny part of Agnes was expecting a somber-looking man with an exciting widows’ peak hairstyle and an opera cloak. She couldn’t think why. This man looked like…well, like a gentleman of independent means and an inquiring mind, perhaps, the kind of man who goes for long walks in the morning and spends the afternoons improving his mind in his own private library or doing small interesting experiments on parsnips and never, ever, worrying about money.
There was something glossy about him, and also a sort of urgent, hungry enthusiasm, the kind you get when someone has just read a really interesting book and is determined to tell someone all about it. “Allow me to present the Countess de Magpyr,” he said. “These are the witches I told you about, dear. I believe you’ve met my son? And this is my daughter, Lacrimosa. ” Agnes met the gaze of a thin girl in a white dress, with very long black hair and far too much eye makeup. There is such a thing as hate at first sight. “The Count was just telling me how he is planning to move into the castle and rule the country,” said Verence. “And I was saying that I think we shall be honored. ” “Well done,” said Nanny. “But it you don’t mind, I don’t want to miss the weasel man…” “The trouble is that people always think of vampires in terms of their diet,” said the Count, as Nanny hurried away. “It’s really rather insulting. You eat animal flesh and vegetables, but it hardly defines you, does it?” Verence’s face was contorted in a smile, but it looked glassy and unreal. “But you do drink human blood?” he said. “Of course. And sometimes we kill people, although hardly at all these days. In any case, where exactly is the harm in that? Prey and hunter, hunter and prey. The sheep was designed as dinner for the wolf, the wolf as a means of preventing overgrazing by the sheep. If you examine your teeth, sire, you’ll see that they are designed for a particular kind of diet and, indeed, your whole body is constructed to take advantage of it. And so it is with us. I’m sure the nuts and cabbages do not blame you. Hunter and prey are all just part of the great cycle of life. ” “Fascinating,” said Verence. Little beads of sweat were rolling down his face. “Of course, in Uberwald everyone understands this instinctively,” said the Countess. “But it is rather a backward place for the children. We are so looking forward to Lancre. ” “Very glad to hear it,” said Verence “And so kind of you to invite us,” she went on. “Otherwise we could not have come, of course. ” “Not exactly ,” said the Count, beaming at his wife. “But I have to admit that the prohibition against entering places uninvited has proved curiously…durable. It must be something to do with ancient territorial instincts. But ,” he added brightly, “I have been working on an instructional technique which I’m sure will, within a few years—” “Oh, don’t let’s go through all that dull stuff again ,” said Lacri-mosa. “Yes, I suppose it can sound a little tedious,” said the Count, smiling benevolently at his daughter. “Has anyone any more of that wonderful garlic dip?” The king still looked uneasy, Agnes noticed. Which was odd, because the Count and his family seemed absolutely charming and what they were saying made perfect sense. Everything was perfectly all right. “Exactly,” said Vlad, beside her. “Do you dance, Miss Nitt?” On the other side of the hall, the Lancre Light Symphony Orchestra (cond. S. Ogg) was striking up and out at random. “Ur…” She stopped it turning into a giggle. “Not really. Not very well…” Didn’t you listen to what they were saying? They’re vampires! “Shut up,” she said aloud. “I beg your pardon?” said Vlad, looking puzzled. “And they’re…well, they’re not a very good orchestra…” Didn’t you pay any attention to what they were saying at all, you useless lump? “They’re a very bad orchestra,” said Vlad. “Well, the King only bought the instruments last month and basically they’re trying to learn together—” Chop his head off! Give him a garlic enema! “Are you all right? You really know there are no vampires here, don’t you…” He’s controlling you! Perdita screamed. They’re…affecting people! “I’m a bit…faint from all the excitement,” Agnes mumbled. “I think I’ll go home. ” Some instinct at bone-marrow level made her add, “I’ll ask Nanny to go with me. ” Vlad gave her an odd look, as if she wasn’t reacting in quite the right way. Then he smiled. Agnes noticed that he had very white teeth. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you, Miss Nitt,” he said. “There’s something so… inner about you. ” That’s me! That’s me! He can’t work me out! Now let’s both get out of here! yelled Perdita. “But we shall meet again. ” Agnes gave him a nod and staggered away, clutching at her head. It felt like a ball of cotton wool in which there was, inexplicably, a needle. She passed Mightily Oats, who’d dropped his book on the floor and was sitting groaning with his head in his hands. He raised it to look at her. “Er…miss, have you anything that might help my head?” he said. “It really is…rather painful…” “The queen makes up some sort of headache pills out of willow bark,” Agnes panted, and hurried on. Nanny Ogg was standing morosely with a pint in her hand, a hitherto unheard-of combination. “The weasel juggler didn’t turn up,” she said. “Well, I’m going to put out the hard word on him. He’s had it in showbusiness in these parts. ” “Could you…help me home, Nanny?” “So what if he got bitten on the essentials, that’s all part of—Are you all right?” “I feel really awful, Nanny. ” “Let’s go, then. All the good beer’s gone and I’m not stoppin’ anyway if there’s nothin’ to laugh at. ” The wind was whistling across the sky when they walked back to Agnes’s cottage. In fact there seemed more whistle than wind. The leafless trees creaked as they passed, the weak moonlight filling the eaves of the woods with dangerous shadows. Clouds were piling in, and there was more rain on the way. Agnes noticed Nanny pick up something as they left the town behind them. It was a stick. She’d never known a witch to carry a stick at night before. “Why have you got that, Nanny?” “What? Oh? Dunno, really. It’s a rattly old night, ain’t it…?” “But you’re never frightened of anything in Lan—” Several things pushed through the bushes and clattered onto the road ahead. For a moment Agnes thought they were horses, until the moonlight caught them. Then they were gone, into the shadows on the other side of the road. She heard galloping among the trees. “Haven’t seen any of those for a long time,” said Nanny. “I’ve never seen centaurs at all except in pictures,” said Agnes. “Must’ve come down out of Uberwald,” said Nanny. “Nice to see them about again. ” Agnes hurriedly lit the candles when she got into the cottage, and wished there were bolts on the door. “Just sit down,” said Nanny, “I’ll get a cup of water, I know my way around here. ” “It’s all right, I—” Agnes’s left arm twitched. To her horror it swung at the elbow and waved its hand up and down in front of her face, as if guided by a mind of its own. “Feeling a bit warm, are you?” said Nanny. “I’ll get the water!” panted Agnes. She rushed into the kitchen, gripping her left wrist with her right hand. It shook itself free, grabbed a knife from the draining board, and stabbed it into the wall, dragging it so that it formed crude letters in the crumbling plaster: VMPIR It dropped the knife, grabbed at the hair on the back of Agnes’s head, and thrust her face within inches of the letters. “You all right in there?” Nanny called from the next room. “Er, yes, but I think I’m trying to tell me something—” A movement made her turn. A small blue man wearing a blue cap was staring at her from the shelves over the washcopper. He stuck out his tongue, made a very small obscene gesture, and disappeared behind a bag of washing crystals. “Nanny?” “Yes, luv?” “Are there such things as blue mice?” “Not while you’re sober, dear. ” “I think…I’m owed a drink, then. Is there any brandy left?” Nanny came in, uncorking the flask. “I topped it up at the party. Of course, it’s only shop-bought stuff, you couldn’t—” Agnes’s left hand snatched it and poured it down her throat. Then she coughed so hard that some of it went up her nose. “Hang on, hang on, it’s not that weak,” said Nanny. Agnes plonked the flask down on the kitchen table. “Right,” she said, and her voice sounded quite different to Nanny, “My name is Perdita and I’m taking over this body right now.
” Hodgesaargh noticed the smell of burnt wood as he ambled back to the mews but put it down to the bonfire in the courtyard. He’d left the party early. No one had wanted to talk about hawks. The smell was very strong when he looked in on the birds and saw the little flame in the middle of the floor. He stared at it for a second, then picked up a water bucket and threw it. The flame continued to flicker gently on a bare stone that was awash with water. Hodgesaargh looked at the birds. They were watching it with interest; normally they’d be frantic in the presence of fire. Hodgesaargh was never one to panic. He watched it for a while, and then took a piece of wood and gently touched it to the flame. The fire leapt on to the wood and went on burning. The wood didn’t even char. He found another twig and brushed it against the flame, which slid easily from one to the other. There was one flame. It was clear there wasn’t going to be two. Half the bars in the window had been burned away, and there was some scorched wood at the end of the mews, where the old nestboxes had been. Above it, a few stars shone through rags of mist over a charred hole in the roof. Something had burned here, Hodgesaargh saw. Fiercely, by the look of it. But also in a curiously local way, as if all the heat had been somehow contained… He reached toward the flame dancing on the end of the stick. It was warm, but…not as hot as it should be. Now it was on his finger. It tingled. As he waved it around, the head of every bird turned to watch it. By its light, he poked around in the charred remains of the nestboxes. In the ashes were bits of broken eggshell. Hodgesaargh picked them up and carried them into the crowded little room at the end of the mews which served as workshop and bedroom. He balanced the flame on a saucer. In here, where it was quieter, he could hear it making a slight sizzling noise. In the dim glow he looked along the one crowded bookshelf over his bed and pulled down a huge ragged volume on the cover of which someone had written, centuries ago, the word “Burds. ” The book was a huge ledger. The spine had been cut and widened inexpertly several times so that more pages could be pasted in. The falconers of Lancre knew a lot about birds. The kingdom was on a main migratory route between the Hub and the Rim. The hawks had brought down many strange species over the centuries and the falconers had, very painstakingly, taken notes. The pages were thick with drawings and closely spaced writing, the entries copied and recopied and updated over the years. The occasional feather carefully glued to a page had added to the thickness of the thing. No one had ever bothered with an index, but some past falconer had considerately arranged many of the entries into alphabetical order. Hodgesaargh glanced again at the flame burning steadily in its saucer, and then, handing the crackling pages with care, turned to “F. ” After some browsing, he eventually found what he was looking for under “P. ” Back in the mews, in the deepest shadow, something cowered. There were three shelves of books in Agnes’s cottage. By witch standards, that was a giant library. Two very small blue figures lay on the top of the books, watching the scene with interest. Nanny Ogg backed away, waving the poker. “It’s all right ,” said Agnes. “It’s me again, Agnes Nitt, but…She’s here but…I’m sort of holding on. Yes! Yes! All right! All right, just shut up, will y—Look, it’s my body, you’re just a figment of my imagina—Okay! Okay! Perhaps it’s not quite so clear c—Let me just talk to Nanny, will you?” “Which one are you now?” said Nanny Ogg. “I’m still Agnes, of course. ” She rolled her eyes up. “All right ! I’m Agnes currently being advised by Perdita, who is also me. In a way. And I’m not too fat, thank you so very much! ” “How many of you are there in there?” said Nanny. “What do you mean, ‘room for ten’?” shouted Agnes. “Shut up! Listen, Perdita says there were vampires at the party. The Magpyr family, she says. She can’t understand how we acted. They were putting a kind of…’fluence over everyone. Including me, which is why she was able to break thr—Yes, all right, I’m telling it, thank you!” “Why not her, then?” said Nanny. “Because she’s got a mind of her own! Nanny, can you remember anything they actually said ?” “Now you come to mention it, no. But they seemed nice enough people. ” “And you remember talking to Igor?” “Who’s Igor?” The tiny blue figures watched, fascinated, for the next half hour. Nanny sat back at the end of it and stared at the ceiling for a while. “Why should we believe her?” she said eventually. “Because she’s me. ” “They do say that inside every fat girl is a thin girl and—” Nanny began. “Yes,” said Agnes bitterly. “I’ve heard it. Yes. She’s the thin girl. I’m the lot of chocolate. ” Nanny leaned toward Agnes’s ear and raised her voice. “How’re you gettin’ on in there? Everything all right, is it? Treatin’ you all right, is she?” “Haha, Nanny. Very funny. ” “They were saying all this stuff about drinkin’ blood and killin’ people and everyone was just noddin’ and sayin’, ‘Well, well, how very fascinatin’?” “Yes!” “And eatin’ garlic?” “Yes!” “That can’t be right, can it?” “I don’t know, perhaps we used the wrong sort of garlic!” Nanny rubbed her chin, torn between the vampiric revelation and prurient curiosity about Perdita. “How does Perdita work, then?” she said. Agnes sighed. “Look, you know the part of you that wants to do all the things you don’t dare do, and thinks the thoughts you don’t dare think?” Nanny’s face stayed blank. Agnes floundered. “Like…maybe…rip off all your clothes and run naked in the rain?” she hazarded. “Oh yes. Right,” said Nanny. “Well…I suppose Perdita is that part of me. ” “Really? I’ve always been that part of me,” said Nanny. “The important thing is to remember where you left your clothes. ” Agnes remembered too late that Nanny Ogg was in many ways a very uncomplicated personality. “Mind you, I think I know what you mean,” Nanny went on in a more thoughtful voice. “There’s times when I’ve wanted to do things and stopped meself…” She shook her head. “But…vampires…Verence wouldn’t be so stupid as to send an invitation to vampires, would he?” She paused for thought. “Yes, he would. Prob’ly think of it as offering the hand of friendship. ” She stood up. “Right, they won’t have left yet. Let’s get straight to the jelly. You get extra garlic and a few stakes, I’ll round up Shawn and Jason and the lads. ” “It won’t work, Nanny. Perdita saw what they can do. The moment you get near them, you’ll forget all about it. They do something to your mind, Nanny. ” Nanny hesitated. “Can’t say I know that much about vampires,” she said. “Perdita thinks they can tell what you’re thinking too. ” “Then this is Esme’s type of stuff,” said Nanny. “Messing with minds and so on. It’s meat and drink to her. ” “Nanny, they were talking about staying ! We have to do something!” “Well, where is she?” Nanny almost wailed. “Esme ought to be sortin’ this out!” “Maybe they’ve got to her first?” “You don’t think so, do you?” said Nanny, now looking quite panicky. “I can’t think about a vampire getting his teeth into Esme. ” “Don’t worry, dog doesn’t eat dog. ” It was Perdita who blurted it out, but it was Agnes who got the blow. It wasn’t a ladylike slap of disapproval. Nanny Ogg had reared some strapping sons; the Ogg forearm was a power in its own right. When Agnes looked up from the hearthrug Nanny was rubbing some life back into her hand. She gave Agnes a solemn look. “We’ll say no more about that, shall we?” she commanded. “I ain’t gen’rally given to physicality of that nature but it saves a lot of arguing. Now, we’re goin’ back to the castle. We’re going to sort this out right now. ” Hodgesaargh shut the book and looked at the flame. It was true, then. There’d even been a picture of one just like it in the book, painstakingly drawn by another royal falconer two hundred years before. He wrote that he’d found the thing up on the high meadows, one spring.
It’d burned for three years, and then he’d lost it somewhere. If you looked at it closely, you could even see the detail. It was not exactly a flame. It was more like a bright feather… Well, Lancre was on one of the main migration routes, for birds of all sorts. It was only a matter of time. So…the new hatchling was around. They needed time to grow, it said in the book. Odd that it should lay an egg here, because it said in the book that it was always hatched in the burning deserts of Klatch. He went and looked at the birds in the mews. They were still very alert. Yes, it all made sense. It had flown in here, among the comfort of other birds, and laid its egg, just like it said it did in the book, and then it had burned itself up to hatch the new bird. If Hodgesaargh had a fault, it lay in his rather utilitarian view of the bird world. There were birds that you hunted, and there were birds you hunted with. Oh, there were other sorts, tweeting away in the bushes, but they didn’t really count. It occurred to him that if ever there was a bird you could hunt with, it’d be the phoenix. Oh yes. It’d be weak, and young, and it wouldn’t have gone far. Hmm…birds tended to think the same way, after all. It would have helped if there was one picture in the book. In fact, there were several, all carefully drawn by ancient falconers who claimed it was a firebird they’d seen. Apart from the fact that they all had wings and a beak, no two were remotely alike. One looked very much like a heron. Another looked like a goose. One, and he scratched his head about this, appeared to be a sparrow. Bit of a puzzle, he decided, and left it at that and selected a drawing that looked at least slightly foreign. He glanced at the bird gloves hanging on their hooks. He was good at rearing young birds. He could get them eating out of his hand. Later on, of course, they just ate his hand. Yes. Catch it young and train it to the wrist. It’d have to be a champion hunting bird. Hodgesaargh couldn’t imagine a phoenix as quarry. For one thing, how could you cook it? …and in darkest corner of the mews, something hopped onto a perch… Once again Agnes had to run to keep up as Nanny Ogg strode into the courtyard, elbows pumping furiously. The old lady marched up to a group of men standing around one of the barrels and grabbed two of them, spilling their drinks. Had it not been Nanny Ogg, this would have been a challenge equal to throwing down a glove or, in slightly less exalted circles, smashing a bottle on the edge of a bar. But the men looked sheepish and one or two of the others in the circle even scuffled their feet and made an attempt to hide their pints behind their backs. “Jason? Darren? You come along of me,” Nanny commanded. “We’re after vampires, right? Any sharp stakes around here?” “No, Mum,” said Jason, Lancre’s only blacksmith. Then he raised his hand. “But ten minutes ago the cook come out and said, did anyone want all these nibbly things that someone had mucked up with garlic and I et ’em, Mum. ” Nanny sniffed, and then took a step back, fanning her hand in front of her face. “Yeah, that should do it all right,” she said. “If I give you the signal, you’re to burp hugely, understand?” “I don’t think it’ll work, Nanny,” said Agnes, as boldly as she dared. “I don’t see why, it’s nearly knocking me down. ” “I told you, you won’t get close enough, even if it’ll work at all. Perdita could feel it. It’s like being drunk. ” “I’ll be ready for ’em this time,” said Nanny. “I’ve learned a thing or two from Esme. ” “Yes, but she’s—” Agnes was going to say “better at them than you,” but changed it to “not here…” “That’s as may be, but I’d rather face ’em now than explain to Esme that I didn’t. Come on. ” Agnes followed the Oggs, but very uneasily. She wasn’t sure how far she trusted Perdita. A few guests had departed, but the castle had laid on a pretty good feast and Ramtop people at any social level were never ones to pass up a laden table. Nanny glanced at the crowd and grabbed Shawn, who was passing with a tray. “Where’s the vampires?” “What, Mum?” “That Count…Magpie…” “Magpyr,” said Agnes. “Him,” said Nanny. “He’s not a…he’s gone up to…the solar, Mum. They all have—What’s that smell of garlic, Mum?” “It’s your brother. All right, let’s keep going. ” The solar was right at the top of the keep. It was old, cold and drafty. Verence had put glass in the huge windows, at his queen’s insistence, which just meant that now the huge room attracted the more cunning, insidious kind of draft. But it was the royal room—not as public as the great hall, but the place where the king received visitors when he was being formally informal. The Nanny Ogg expeditionary force corkscrewed up the spiral staircase. She advanced across the good yet threadbare carpet to the group seated around the fire. She took a deep breath. “Ah, Mrs Ogg,” said Verence, desperately. “Do join us. ” Agnes looked sideways at Nanny, and saw her face contort into a strange smile. The Count was sitting in the big chair by the fire, with Vlad standing behind him. They both looked very handsome, she thought. Compared to them Verence, in his clothes that never seemed to fit right and permanently harassed expression, looked out of place. “The Count was just explaining how Lancre will become a duchy of his lands in Uberwald,” said Verence. “But we’ll still be referred to as a kingdom, which I think is very reasonable of him, don’t you agree?” “Very handsome suggestion,” said Nanny. “There will be taxes, of course,” said the Count. “Not onerous. We don’t want blood—figuratively speaking!” He beamed at the joke. “Seems reasonable to me,” said Nanny. “It is , isn’t it,” said the Count, beaming. “I knew it would work out so well. And I am so pleased, Verence, to see your essential modern attitude. People have quite the wrong idea about vampires, you see. Are we fiendish killers?” He beamed at them. “Well, yes, of course we are. But only when necessary. Frankly, we could hardly hope to rule a country if we went around killing everyone all the time, could we? There’d be none left to rule, for one thing!” There was polite laughter, loudest of all from the Count. It made perfect sense to Agnes. The Count was clearly a fair-minded man. Anyone who didn’t think so deserved to die. “And we are only human,” said the Countess. “Well…in fact, not only human. But if you prick us do we not bleed? Which always seems such a waste. ” They’ve got you again, said a voice in her mind. Vlad’s head jerked up. Agnes felt him staring at her. “We are, above all, up to date,” said the Count. “And we do like what you’ve done to this castle, I must say. ” “Oh, those torches back home!” said the Countess, rolling her eyes. “And some of the things in the dungeons, well, when I saw them I nearly died of shame. So… fifteen centuries ago. If one is a vampire then one is,” she gave a deprecating little laugh, “a vampire. Coffins, yes, of course, but there’s no point in skulking around as if you’re ashamed of what you are, is there? We all have…needs. ” You’re all standing around like rabbits in front of a fox! Perdita raged in the caverns of Agnes’s brain. “Oh!” said the Countess, clapping her hands together. “I see you have a pianoforte!” It stood under a shroud in a corner of the room where it had stood for four months now. Verence had ordered it because he’d heard they were very modern, but the only person in the kingdom who’d come close to mastering it was Nanny Ogg who would, as she put it, come up occasionally for a tinkle on the ivories. * Then it had been covered over on the orders of Magrat and the palace rumor was that Verence had got an ear-bashing for buying what was effectively a murdered elephant. “Lacrimosa would so like to play for you,” the Countess commanded. “Oh, Mother ,” said Lacrimosa. “I’m sure we should love it,” said Verence. Agnes wouldn’t have noticed the sweat running down his face if Perdita hadn’t pointed it out: He’s trying to fight it, she said.
Aren’t you glad you’ve got me? There was some bustling while a wad of sheet music was pulled out of the piano stool and the young lady sat down to play. She glared at Agnes before beginning. There was some sort of chemistry there, although it was the sort that results in the entire building being evacuated. It’s a racket, said the Perdita within, after the first few bars. Everyone’s looking as though it’s wonderful but it’s a din! Agnes concentrated. The music was beautiful but if she really paid attention, with Perdita nudging her, it wasn’t really there at all. It sounded like someone playing scales, badly and angrily. I can say that at any time, she thought. Any time I want, I can just wake up. Everyone else applauded politely. Agnes tried to, but found that her left hand was suddenly on strike. Perdita was getting stronger in her left arm. Vlad was beside her so quickly that she wasn’t even aware that he’d moved. “You are a…fascinating woman, Miss Nitt,” he said. “Such lovely hair, may I say? But who is Perdita?” “No one, really,” Agnes mumbled. She fought against the urge to bunch her left hand into a fist. Perdita was screaming at her again. Vlad stroked a strand of her hair. It was, she knew, good hair. It wasn’t simply big hair, it was enormous hair, as if she was trying to counterbalance her body. It was glossy, it never split, and was extremely well behaved except for a tendency to eat combs. “Eat combs?” said Vlad, coiling the hair around his finger. “Yes, it—” He can see what you’re thinking. Vlad looked puzzled again, like someone trying to make out some faint noise. “You…can resist, can’t you,” he said. “I was watching you when Lacci was playing the piano and losing. Do you have any vampire blood in you?” “What? No!” “It could be arranged, haha. ” He grinned. It was the sort of grin that Agnes supposed was called infectious but, then, so was measles. It filled her immediate future. Something was pouring over her like a pink fluffy cloud saying: it’s all right, everything is fine, this is exactly right… “Look at Mrs. Ogg there,” said Vlad. “Grinning like a pumpkin, ain’t she. And she is apparently one of the more powerful witches in the mountains. It’s almost distressing, don’t you think?” Tell him you know he can read minds, Perdita commanded. And again, the puzzled, quizzical look. “You can—” Agnes began. “No, not exactly. Just people,” said Vlad. “One learns, one learns. One picks things up. ” He flung himself down on a sofa, one leg over the arm, and stared thoughtfully at her. “Things will be changing, Agnes Nitt,” he said. “My father is right. Why lurk in dark castles? Why be ashamed? We’re vampires. Or, rather, vamp y res. Father’s a bit keen on the new spelling. He says it indicates a clean break with a stupid and superstitious past. In any case, it’s not our fault. We were born vampires. ” “I thought you became—” “—vampires by being bitten? Dear me, no. Oh, we can turn people into vampires, it’s an easy technique, but what would be the point? When you eat…now what is it you eat? Oh yes, chocolate…you don’t want to turn it into another Agnes Nitt, do you? Less chocolate to go around. ” He sighed. “Oh dear, superstition, superstition everywhere we turn. Isn’t it true that we’ve been here at least ten minutes and your neck is quite free of anything except a small amount of soap you didn’t wash off?” Agnes’s hand flew to her throat. “We notice these things,” said Vlad. “And now we’re here to notice them. Oh, Father is powerful in his way, and quite an advanced thinker, but I don’t think even he is aware of the possibilities. I can’t tell you how good it is to be out of that place, Miss Nitt. The werewolves…oh dear, the werewolves…Marvelous people, it goes without saying, and of course the Baron has a certain rough style, but really…give them a good deer hunt, a warm spot in front of the fire and a nice big bone and the rest of the world can go hang. We have done our best, we really have. No one has done more than Father to bring our part of the country into the Century of the Fruitbat—” “It’s nearly over—” Agnes began. “Perhaps that’s why he’s so keen,” said Vlad. “The place is just full of…well, remnants. I mean…centaurs? Really! They’ve got no business surviving. They’re out of place. And frankly all the lower races are just as bad. The trolls are stupid, the dwarfs are devious, the pixies are evil and the gnomes stick in your teeth. Time they were gone. Driven out. We have great hopes of Lancre. ” He looked around disdainfully. “After some redecoration. ” Agnes looked back at Nanny and her sons. They were listening quite contentedly to the worst music since Shawn Ogg’s bagpipes had been dropped down the stairs. “And…you’re taking our country?” she said. “Just like that?” Vlad gave her another smile, stood up, and walked toward her. “Oh yes. Bloodlessly. Well…metaphorically. You really are quite remarkable, Miss Nitt. The Uberwald girls are so sheep-like. But you…you’re concealing something from me. Everything I feel tells me you’re quite under my power—and yet you’re not. ” He chuckled. “This is delightful…” Agnes felt her mind unraveling. The pink fog was blowing through her head… …and looming out of it, deadly and mostly concealed, was the iceberg of Perdita. As Agnes withdrew into the pinkness she felt the tingle spread down her arms and legs. It was not pleasant. It was like sensing someone standing right behind you, and then feeling them take one step forward. Agnes would have pushed him away. That is, Agnes would have dithered and tried to talk her way out of things, but if push had come to shove then she’d have pushed hard. But Perdita struck, and when her hand was halfway around she turned it palm out and curled her fingers to bring her nails into play… He caught her wrist, his hand moving in a blur. “Well done ,” he said, laughing. His other hand shot out and caught her other arm as it swung. “I like a woman with spirit!” However, he had run out of hands, and Perdita still had a knee in reserve. Vlad’s eyes crossed and he made that small sound best recorded as “ghni…” “Magnificent!” he croaked as he folded up. Perdita pulled herself away and ran over to Nanny Ogg, grabbing the woman’s arm. “Nanny, we are leaving !” “Are we, dear?” said Nanny calmly, not making a move. “And Jason and Darren too!” Perdita didn’t read as much as Agnes. She thought books were boring. But now she really needed to know: what did you use against vampires? Holy symbols! Agnes prompted from within. Perdita looked around desperately. Nothing in the room looked particularly holy. Religion, apart from its use as a sort of cosmic registrar, had never caught on in Lancre. “Daylight is always good, my dear,” said the Countess, who must have caught the edge of her thought. “Your uncle always had big windows and easily twitched aside curtains, didn’t he, Count. ” “Yes indeed,” said the Count. “And when it came to running water, he always kept the moat flowing perfectly, didn’t he?” “Fed from a mountain stream, I think,” said the Count. “And, for a vampire, he always seemed to have so many ornamental items around the castle that could be bent or broken into the shape of some religious symbol, as I recall. ” “He certainly did. A vampire of the old school. ” “Yes. ” The Countess gave her husband a smile. “The stupid school. ” She turned to Perdita and looked her up and down. “So I think you will find we are here to stay, my dear. Although you do seem to have made an impression on my son. Come here, girl. Let me have a good look at you. ” Even cushioned inside her own head Agnes felt the weight of the vampire’s will hit Perdita like an iron bar, pushing her down. Like the other end of a seesaw, Agnes rose. “Where’s Magrat? What have you done with her ?” she said. “Putting the baby to bed, I believe,” said the Countess, raising her eyebrows. “A lovely child. ” “Granny Weatherwax is going to hear about this, and you’ll wish you’d never been born…or un-born or re-born or whatever you are!” “We look forward to meeting her,” said the Count calmly.
“But here we are, and I don’t seem to see this famous lady with us. Perhaps you should go and fetch her? You could take your friends. And when you see her, Miss Nitt, you can tell her that there is no reason why witches and vampires should fight. ” Nanny Ogg stirred. Jason shifted in his seat. Agnes pulled them upright and toward the stairs. “We’ll be back!” she shouted. The Count nodded. “Good,” he said. “We are famous for our hospitality. ” It was still dark when Hodgesaargh set out. If you were hunting a phoenix, he reasoned, the dark was probably the best time. Light showed up better in the darkness. He’d packed a portable wire cage after considering the charred bars of the window, and he’d also spent some time on the glove. It was basically a puppet, made of yellow cloth with some purple and blue rags tacked on. It was not, he conceded, very much like the drawing of the phoenix, but in his experience birds weren’t choosy observers. Newly hatched birds were prepared to accept practically anything as their parent. Anyone who’d hatched eggs under a broody hen knew that ducklings could be made to think they were chicks, and poor William the buzzard was a case in point. The fact that a young phoenix never saw its parent and therefore didn’t know what it was supposed to look like might be a drawback in getting its trust, but this was unknown territory and Hodgesaargh was prepared to try anything. Like bait, for example. He’d packed meat and grain, although the drawing certainly suggested a hawk-like bird, but in case it needed to eat inflammable materials as well he also put in a bag of moth balls and a pint of fish oil. Nets were out of the question, and bird lime was not to be thought of. Hodgesaargh had his pride. Anyway, they probably wouldn’t work. Since anything might be worth trying, he’d also adapted a duck lure, trying to achieve a sound described by a long-dead falconer as “like unto the cry of a buzzard yet of a lower pitch. ” He wasn’t too happy about the result but, on the other hand, maybe a young phoenix didn’t know what a phoenix was meant to sound like, either. It might work, and if he didn’t try it, he’d always be wondering. He set out. Soon a cry like a duck in a power dive was heard among the damp, dark hills. The pre-dawn light was gray on the horizon and a shower of sleet had made the leaves sparkle when Granny Weatherwax left her cottage. There had been so much to do. What she’d chosen to take with her was slung in a sack tied across her back with string. She’d left the broomstick in the corner by the fire. She wedged the door open with a stone and then, without once looking back, strode off through the woods. Down in the villages, the cocks crowed in response to a sunrise hidden somewhere beyond the clouds. An hour later, a broomstick settled gently on the lawn. Nanny Ogg got off and hurried to the back door. Her foot kicked something holding it open. She glared at the stone as if it was something dangerous, and then edged around it and into the gloom of the cottage. She came out a few minutes later, looking worried. Her next move was toward the water butt. She broke the film of ice with her hand and pulled out a piece, looked at it for a moment, and then tossed it away. People often got the wrong idea about Nanny Ogg, and she took care to see that they did. One thing they often got wrong was the idea that she never thought further than the bottom of the glass. Up in a nearby tree, a magpie chattered at her. She threw a stone at it. Agnes arrived half an hour later. She preferred to go on foot whenever possible. She suspected that she overhung too much. Nanny Ogg was sitting on a chair just inside the door, smoking her pipe. She took it out of her mouth and nodded. “She’s gorn,” she said. “Gone? Just when we need her?” said Agnes. “What do you mean?” “She ain’t here,” Nanny expanded. “Perhaps she’s just out?” said Agnes. “Gorn,” said Nanny. “These past two hours, if I’m any judge. ” “How do you know that?” Once—probably even yesterday—Nanny would have alluded vaguely to magical powers. It was a measure of her concern that, today, she got right to the jelly. “First thing she does in the mornings, rain or shine, is wash her face in the water butt,” she said. “Someone broke the ice two hours ago. You can see where it’s frozed over again. ” “Oh, is that all?” said Agnes. “Well…perhaps she’s got business—” “You come and see,” said Nanny, standing up. The kitchen was spotless. Every flat surface had been scrubbed. The fireplace had been swept and a new fire laid. Most of the cottage’s smaller contents had been laid out on the table. There were three cups, three plates, three knives, a cleaver, three forks, three spoons, two ladles, a pair of scissors and three candlesticks. A wooden box was packed with needles and thread and pins… If it was possible for anything to be polished, it had been. Someone had even managed to buff up a shine on the old pewter candlesticks. Agnes felt the little knot of tension grow inside her. Witches didn’t own much. The cottage owned things. They were not yours to take away. This looked like an inventory. Behind her, Nanny Ogg was opening and shutting drawers in the ancient dresser. “She’s left it all neat,” Nanny said. “She’s even chipped all the rust off the kettle. The larder’s all bare except for some hobnailed cheese and suicide biscuits. It’s the same in the bedroom. Her ‘I ATE’NT DEAD’ card is hanging behind the door. And the guzunda’s so clean you could eat your tea out of it, if the fancy took you that way. And she’s taken the box out of the dresser. ” “What box?” “Oh, she keeps stuff in it,” said Nanny. “Memororabililia. ” “Mem—?” “You know…keepsakes and whatnot. Stuff that’s hers—” “What’s this?” said Agnes, holding up a green glass ball. “Oh, Magrat passed that on to her,” said Nanny, lifting up a corner of the rug and peering under it. “It’s a float our Wayne brought back from the seaside once. It’s a buoy for the fishing nets. ” “I didn’t know buoys had glass balls,” said Agnes. She groaned inwardly, and felt the blush unfold. But Nanny hadn’t noticed. It was then she realized how really serious this was. Nanny would normally leap on such a gift like a cat on a feather. Nanny could find an innuendo in “Good morning. ” She could certainly find one in “innuendo. ” And “buoys with glass balls” should have lasted her all week. She’d be accosting total strangers and saying, “You’ll never guess what Agnes Nitt said…” She ventured “I said —” “Dunno much about fishing, really,” said Nanny. She straightened up, biting her thumbnail thoughtfully. “Something’s wrong with all this,” she said. “The box…she wasn’t going to leave anything behind…” “Granny wouldn’t go , would she?” said Agnes nervously. “I mean, not actually leave. She’s always here. ” “Like I told you last night, she’s been herself lately,” said Nanny, vaguely. She sat down in the rocking chair. “You mean she’s not been herself, don’t you?” said Agnes. “I knows exactly what I means, girl. When she’s herself she snaps at people and sulks and makes herself depressed. Ain’t you ever heard of taking people out of themselves? Now shut up, ’cos I’m thinkin’. ” Agnes looked down at the green ball in her hands. A glass fishing float, five hundred miles from the sea. An ornament, like a shell. Not a crystal ball. You could use it like a crystal ball but it wasn’t a crystal ball…and she knew why that was important. Granny was a very traditional witch. Witches hadn’t always been popular. There might even be times—there had been times, long ago—when it was a good idea not to advertise what you were, and that was why all these things on the table didn’t betray their owner at all. There was no need for that anymore, there hadn’t been in Lancre for hundreds of years, but some habits get passed down in the blood. In fact things now worked the other way. Being a witch was an honorable trade in the mountains, but only the young ones invested in real crystal balls and colored knives and dribbly candles.
The old ones…they stuck with simple kitchen cutlery, fishing floats, bits of wood, whose very ordinariness subtly advertised their status. Any fool could be a witch with a runic knife, but it took skill to be one with an apple-corer. A sound she hadn’t been hearing stopped abruptly, and the silence echoed. Nanny glanced up. “Clock’s stopped,” she said. “It’s not even telling the right time,” said Agnes, turning to look at it. “Oh, she just kept it for the tick,” said Nanny. Agnes put down the glass ball. “I’m going to look around some more,” she said. She learned to look around when she visited someone’s home, because in one way it was a piece of clothing and had grown to fit their shape. It might show not just what they’d been doing, but what they’d been thinking. You might be visiting someone who expected you to know everything about everything, and in those circumstances you took every advantage you could get. Someone had told her that a witch’s cottage was her second face. Come to think of it, it had been Granny. It should be easy to read this place. Granny’s thoughts had the strength of hammer blows and they’d pounded her personality into the walls. If her cottage had been any more organic it would have had a pulse. Agnes wandered through to the dank little scullery. The copper wash pot had been scoured. A fork and a couple of shining spoons lay beside it, along with the washboard and scrubbing brush. The slop bucket gleamed, although the fragments of a broken cup in the bottom said that the recent intensive housework hadn’t been without its casualties. She pushed open the door into the old goat shed. Granny was not keeping goats at the moment, but her homemade beekeeping equipment was neatly laid out on a bench. She’d never needed much. If you needed smoke and a veil to deal with your bees, what was the point of being a witch? Bees… A moment later she was out in the garden, her ear pressed against a beehive. There were no bees flying this early in the day, but the sound inside was a roar. “They’ll know,” said a voice behind her. Agnes stood up so quickly she bumped her head on the hive roof. “But they won’t say,” Nanny added. “She’d have told ’em. Well done for thinkin’ about ’em, though. ” Something chattered at them from a nearby branch. It was a magpie. “Good morning, Mister Magpie,” said Agnes automatically. “Bugger off, you bastard,” said Nanny, and reached down for a stick to throw. The bird swooped off to the other side of the clearing. “That’s bad luck,” said Agnes. “It will be if I get a chance to aim,” said Nanny. “Can’t stand those maggoty-pies. ” “‘One for sorrow,’” said Agnes, watching the bird hop along a branch. “I always take the view there’s prob’ly going to be another one along in a minute,” said Nanny, dropping a stick. “‘Two for joy’?” said Agnes. “It’s ‘two for mirth. ’” “Same thing, I suppose. ” “Dunno about that,” said Nanny. “I was joyful when our Jason was born, but I can’t say I was laughin’ at the time. Come on, let’s have another look. ” Two more magpies landed on the cottage’s antique thatch. “That’s ‘three for a girl—’” said Agnes nervously. “‘Three for a funeral’ is what I learned,” said Nanny. “But there’s lots of magpie rhymes. Look, you take her broomstick and have a look over toward the mountains, and I’ll—” “Wait,” said Agnes. Perdita was screaming at her to pay attention. She listened. Threes… Three spoons. Three knives. Three cups. The broken cup thrown away. She stood still, afraid that if she moved or breathed something awful would happen. The clock had stopped… “Nanny?” Nanny Ogg was wise enough to recognize that something was happening and didn’t waste time on daft questions. “Yes?” she said. “Go in and tell me what time the clock stopped at, will you?” Nanny nodded and trotted off. The tension in Agnes’s head stretched out thin and made a noise like a plucked string. She was amazed that the whine from it couldn’t be heard all round the garden. If she moved, if she tried to force things, it’d snap. Nanny returned. “Three o’clock?” said Agnes, before she opened her mouth. “Just after. ” “How much after?” “Two or three minutes…” “Two or three?” “Three, then. ” The three magpies landed together in another tree and chased one another through the branches, chattering loudly. “Three minutes after three,” said Agnes, and felt the tension ease and the words form. “Threes, Nanny. She was thinking in threes. There was another candlestick out in the goat shed, and some cutlery too. But she only put out threes. ” “Some things were in ones and twos,” said Nanny, but her voice was edged with doubt. “Then she’d only got one or two of them,” said Agnes. “There were more spoons and things out in the scullery that she’d missed. I mean that for some reason she wasn’t putting out more than three. ” “I know for a fact she’s got four cups,” said Nanny. “Three,” said Agnes. “She must’ve broken one. The bits are in the slop bucket. ” Nanny Ogg stared at her. “She’s not clumsy, as a rule,” she mumbled. She looked to Agnes as though she was trying to avoid some huge and horrible thought. A gust shook the trees. A few drops of rain spattered across the garden. “Let’s get inside,” Agnes suggested. Nanny shook her head. “It’s chillier in there than out here,” she said. Something skimmed across the leaves and landed on the lawn. It was a fourth magpie. “‘Four for a birth,’” she added, apparently to herself. “That’d be it, sure enough. I hoped she wouldn’t realize, but you can’t get anything past Esme. I’ll tan young Shawn’s hide for him when I get home! He swore he’d delivered that invite!” “Perhaps she took it away with her?” “No! If she’d got it she’d have been there last night, you can bet on it!” snapped Nanny. “ What wouldn’t she realize?” said Agnes. “Magrat’s daughter!” “What? Well, I should think she would realize! You can’t hide a baby! Everyone in the kingdom knows about it. ” “I mean Magrat’s got a daughter ! She’s a mother !” said Nanny “Well, yes! That’s how it works! So?” They were shouting at one another, and they both realized it at the same time. It was raining harder now. Drips were flying off Agnes’s hat every time she moved her head. Nanny recovered a little. “All right, I s’pose between us we’ve got enough sense to get in out of the rain. ” “And at least we can light the fire,” said Agnes, as they stepped into the chill of the kitchen. “She’s left it all laid—” “No!” “There’s no need to shout again!” “Look, don’t light the fire, right?” said Nanny. “Don’t touch anything more than you have to!” “I could easily get more kindling in, and—” “Be told! That fire wasn’t laid for you to light! And leave that door alone!” Agnes stopped in the act of pushing away the stone. “Be sensible, Nanny, the rain and leaves are blowing in!” “Let ’em!” Nanny flopped into the rocking chair, pulled up her skirt and fumbled in the depths of a lengthy knicker leg until she came up with the spirit flask. She took a long pull. Her hands were shaking. “I can’t start being a hag at my time of life,” she muttered. “None of my bras’ll fit. ” “Nanny?” “Yes?” “What the hell are you going on about? Daughter? Not lighting fires? Hags?” Nanny replaced the flask and felt around in the other leg, coming up eventually with her pipe and tobacco pouch. “Not sure if I ought to tell you,” she said. Now Granny Weatherwax was well beyond the local woods and high in the forests, following a track used by the charcoal burners and the occasional dwarf. Already Lancre was dying away. She could feel it ebbing from her mind. Down below, when things were quiet, she was always aware of the buzz of minds around her. Human and animal, they all stirred up together in some great mental stew. But here there were mainly the slow thoughts of the trees, which were frankly boring after the first few hours and could be safely ignored. Snow, still quite thick in the hollows and on the shadow sides of trees, was dissolving in a drizzle of rain. She stepped into a clearing and a small herd of deer on the far edge raised their heads to watch her.
Out of habit she stopped and gently let herself unravel, until from the deer’s point of view there was hardly anyone there. When she began to walk forward again a deer stepped out of some bushes and stopped and turned to face her. She’d seen this happen before. Hunters talked about it sometimes. You could track a herd all day, creeping silently among the trees in search of that one clean shot, and just as you were aiming, a deer would step out right in Ffront of you, turn and watch—and wait. Those were the times when a hunter found out how good he was… Granny snapped her fingers. The deer shook itself, and galloped off. She climbed higher, following the stony bed of a stream. Despite its swiftness, there was a border of ice along its banks. Where it dropped over a series of small waterfalls she turned and looked back down into the bowl of Lancre. It was full of clouds. A few hundred feet below she saw a black and white magpie skim across the forest roof. Granny turned and scrambled quickly up the dripping, icy rocks and onto the fringes of the moorland beyond. Up here there was more sky. Silence clamped down. Far overhead, an eagle wheeled. It seemed to be the only other life. No one ever came up here. The furze and heather stretched away for a mile between the mountains, unbroken by any path. It was matted, thorny stuff that would tear unprotected flesh to ribbons. She sat down on a rock and stared at the unbroken expanse for a while. Then she reached into her sack and took out a thick pair of socks. And set off, onward and upward. Nanny Ogg scratched her nose. She very seldom looked embarrassed, but there was just a hint of embarrassment about her now. It was even worse than Nanny Ogg upset. “I ain’t sure if this is the right time,” she said. “Look, Nanny,” said Agnes, “we need her. If there’s something I ought to know, then tell me. ” “It’s this business with…you know…three witches,” she said. “The maiden, the mother and…” “—the other one,” said Agnes. “Oh yes, I know that. But that’s just a bit of superstition, isn’t it? Witches don’t have to come in threes. ” “Oh no. Course not,” said Nanny. “You can have any number up to about, oh, four or five. ” “What happens if there’s more, then? Something awful?” “Bloody great row, usually,” said Nanny. “Over nothin’ much. And then they all goes off and sulks. Witches don’t like being compressed up, much. But three…sort of…works well. I don’t have to draw you a picture, do I?” “And now Magrat’s a mother —” said Agnes. “Ah, well, that’s where it all goes a bit runny,” said Nanny. “This maiden and mother thing…it’s not as simple as you’d think, see? Now you,” she prodded Agnes with her pipe, “are a maiden. You are , aren’t you?” “Nanny! That’s not the sort of thing people discuss!” “Well, I knows you are, ’cos I’d soon hear if you wasn’t,” said Nanny, the kind of person who discussed that kind of thing all the time. “But that ain’t really important, because it ain’t down to technicalities , see? Now me, I don’t reckon I was ever a maiden ment’ly. Oh, you don’t need to go all red like that. What about your Aunt May over in Creel Springs? Four kids and she’s still bashful around men. You got your blush from her. Tell her a saucy joke and if you’re quick you can cook dinner for six on her head. When you’ve been around for a while, miss, you’ll see that some people’s bodies and heads don’t always work together. ” “And what’s Granny Weatherwax, then?” said Agnes, and added, a little nastily because the reference to the blush had gone home, “Ment’ly. ” “Damned if I’ve ever worked that out,” said Nanny. “But I reckon she sees there’s a new three here. That bloody invitation must’ve been the last straw. So she’s gone. ” She poked at her pipe. “Can’t say I fancy being a crone. I ain’t the right shape and anyway I don’t know what sound they make. ” Agnes had a sudden and very clear and horrible mental image of the broken cup. “But Granny isn’t a…wasn’t a…I mean, she didn’t look like a—” she began. “There’s no point in lookin’ at a dog an’ sayin’ that’s not a dog ’cos a dog don’t look like that,” said Nanny simply. Agnes fell silent. Nanny was right, of course. Nanny was someone’s mum. It was written all over her. If you cut her in half, the word “Ma” would be all the way through. Some girls were just naturally…mothers. And some, Perdita added, were cut out to be professional maidens. As for the third, Agnes went on, ignoring her own interruption, perhaps it wasn’t so odd that people generally called Nanny out for the births and Granny for the deaths. “She thinks we don’t need her anymore?” “I reckon so. ” “What is she going to do, then?” “Dunno. But if you had three, and now there’s four…well, something’s got to go, hasn’t it?” “What about the vampires? The two of us can’t cope with them!” “She’s been telling us there’s three of us,” said Nanny. “What? Magrat? But she’s—” Agnes stopped herself. “She’s no Nanny Ogg,” she said. “Well, I sure as hell ain’t an Esme Weatherwax, if it comes to that,” said Nanny. “The ment’l stuff is meat and drink to her. Getting inside other heads, puttin’ her mind somewhere else…that’s her for-tay, right enough. She’d wipe the smile off that Count’s face for him. From the inside, if I know Esme. ” They sat and stared glumly at the empty, cold fireplace. “Maybe we weren’t always very nice to her,” said Agnes. She kept thinking of the broken cup. She was sure Granny Weatherwax hadn’t done that accidentally. She may have thought she’d done it accidentally, but maybe everyone had a Perdita inside. She’d walked around this gloomy cottage, which was as much in tune with her thoughts by now as a dog is with its master, and she’d had three on her mind. Three, three, three… “Esme didn’t thrive on nice,” said Nanny Ogg. “Take her an apple pie and she’ll complain about the pastry. ” “But people don’t often thank her. And she does do a lot. ” “She’s not set up for thanks, neither. Ment’ly. To tell you the honest truth, there’s always been a bit of the dark in the Weatherwaxes, and that’s where the trouble is. Look at old Alison Weatherwax. ” “Who was she?” “Her own granny. Went to the bad, they say, just packed up one day and headed for Uberwald. And as for Esme’s sister…” Nanny stopped, and restarted. “Anyway, that’s why she’s always standin’ behind herself and criticizin’ what she’s doing. Some-times I reckon she’s terrified she’ll go bad without noticin’. ” “Granny? But she’s a moral as—” “Oh yes, she is. But that’s because she’s got Granny Weather-wax glarin’ over her shoulder the whole time. ” Agnes took another look around the spartan room. Now the rain was leaking steadily through the ceiling. She fancied she could hear the walls settling into the clay. She fancied she could hear them thinking. “Did she know Magrat was going to call the baby Esme?” she said. “Probably. It’s amazin’ what she picks up. ” “Maybe not tactful, when you think about it,” said Agnes. “What do you mean? I ’d have been honored, if it was me. ” “Perhaps Granny thought the name was being passed on. Inherited. ” “Oh. Yes,” said Nanny. “Yes, I can just imagine Esme workin’ it up to that, when she’s in one of her gloomy moods. ” “My granny used to say if you’re too sharp you’ll cut yourself,” said Agnes. They sat in gray silence for a while, and then Nanny Ogg said: “My own granny has an old country sayin’ she always trotted out at times like this…” “Which was…?” “‘Bugger off, you little devil, or I’ll chop off your nose and give it to the cat. ’ Of course, that’s not so very helpful at a time like this, I’ll admit. ” There was a tinkle behind them. She turned her head and looked down at the table. “There’s a spoon gone…” There was another jangle, this time by the door. A magpie paused in its attempt to pick the stolen spoon off the doorstep, cocked its head and glared at them with a beady eye. It just managed to get airborne before Nanny’s hat, spinning like a plate, bounced off the doorjamb. “The devils’ll pinch anything that damn well shines—” she began.
The Count de Magpyr looked out of the window at the glow that marked the rising sun. “There you are, you see?” he said, turning back to his family. “Morning, and here we are. ” “You’ve made it overcast,” said Lacrimosa sullenly. “It’s hardly sunny. ” “One step at a time, dear, one step at a time,” said the Count cheerfully. “I just wished to make the point. Today, yes, it is overcast. But we can build on it. We can acclimatize. And one day…the beach…” “You really are very clever, dear,” said the Countess. “Thank you, my love,” said the Count, nodding his private agreement. “How are you doing with that cork, Vlad?” “Is this such a good idea, Father?” said Vlad, struggling with a bottle and a corkscrew. “I thought we did not drink…wine. ” “I believe it’s time we started. ” “Yuk,” said Lacrimosa. “I’m not touching that, it’s squeezed from vegetables !” “Fruit, I think you’ll find,” said the Count calmly. He took the bottle from his son and removed the cork. “A fine claret, I understand. You’ll try some, my dear?” His wife smiled nervously, supporting her husband but slightly against her better judgment. “Do we, er, are we, eh, supposed to warm it up?” she said. “Room temperature is suggested. ” “That’s sickening ,” said Lacrimosa. “I don’t know how you can bear it!” “Try it for your father, dear,” said the Countess. “Quickly, before it congeals. ” “No, my dear. Wine stays runny. ” “Really? How very convenient. ” “Vlad?” said the Count, pouring a glass. The son watched nervously. “Perhaps it would help if you think of it as grape blood,” said his father, as Vlad took the wine. “And you, Lacci?” She folded her arms resolutely. “Huh!” “I thought you’d like this sort of thing, dear,” said the Countess. “It’s the sort of thing your crowd does, isn’t it?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” said the girl. “Oh, staying up until gone noon, and wearing brightly colored clothes, and giving yourselves funny names,” said the Countess. “Like Gertrude ,” sneered Vlad. “And Pam. They think it’s cool. ” Lacrimosa turned on him furiously, nails out. He caught her wrist, grinning. “That’s none of your business!” “Lady Strigoiul said her daughter has taken to calling herself Wendy,” said the Countess. “I can’t imagine why she’d want to, when Hieroglyphica is such a nice name for a girl. And if I was her mother I’d see to it that she at least wore a bit of eyeliner—” “Yes, but no one drinks wine ,” said Lacrimosa. “Only real weirdos who file their teeth blunt drink wine—” “Maladora Krvoijac does,” said Vlad. “Or ‘Freda,’ I should say—” “No she doesn’t!” “What? She wears a silver corkscrew on a chain round her neck and sometimes there’s even a cork on it!” “That’s just a fashion item! Oh, I know she says she’s partial to a drop of port, but really it’s just blood in the glass. Henry actually brought a bottle to a party and she fainted at the smell!” “Henry?” said the Countess. Lacrimosa looked down sulkily. “Graven Gierachi,” she said. “The one who grows his hair short and pretends he’s an accountant,” said Vlad. “I just hope someone’s told his father, then,” said the Countess. “Be quiet ,” said the Count. “This is all just cultural conditioning, you understand? Please! I’ve worked hard for this! All we want is a piece of the day. Is that too much to ask? And wine is just wine. There’s nothing mystical about it. Now, take up your glasses. You too, Lacci. Please? For Daddy?” “And when you tell ‘Cyril’ and ‘Tim’ they’ll be so impressed,” said Vlad to Lacrimosa. “Shut up!” she hissed. “Father, it’ll make me sick!” “No, your body will adapt,” said the Count. “I’ve tried it myself. A little watery, perhaps, somewhat sour, but quite palatable. Please?” “Oh well…” “Good,” said the Count. “Now, raise the glasses—” “ Le sang nouveau est arrivé, ” said Vlad. “ Carpe diem, ” said the Count. “By the throat,” said the Countess. “People won’t believe me when I tell them,” said Lacrimosa. They swallowed. “There,” said Count Magpyr. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?” “A bit chilly,” said Vlad. “I’ll have a wine warmer installed,” said the Count. “I’m not an unreasonable vampire. But within a year, children, I think I can have us quite cured of phenophobia and even capable of a little light salad—” Lacrimosa turned her back theatrically and made throwing-up noises into a vase. “—and then, Lacci, you’ll be free. No more lonely days. No more—” Vlad was half expecting it, and kept an entirely blank expression as his father whipped a card from his pocket and held it up. “That is the double snake symbol of the Djelibeybian water cult,” he said calmly. “You see?” said the Count excitedly. “You barely flinched! Sacrephobia can be beaten! I’ve always said so! The way may have been hard at times—” “I hated the way you used to leap out in corridors and flick holy water on us,” said Lacrimosa. “It wasn’t holy at all,” said her father. “It was strongly diluted. Mildly devout at worst. But it made you strong, didn’t it?” “I caught colds a lot, I know that. ” The Count’s hand whipped out of his pocket. Lacrimosa gave a sigh of theatrical weariness. “The All-Seeing Face of the Ionians,” she said wearily. The Count very nearly danced a jig. “You see? It has worked! You didn’t even wince! And apparently as holy symbols go it’s pretty strong. Isn’t it all worth it?” “There’ll have to be something really good to make up for those garlic pillows you used to make us sleep on. ” Her father took her by the shoulder and turned her toward the window. “Will it be enough to know that the world is your oyster?” Her forehead wrinkled in perplexity. “Why should I want it to be some nasty little sea creature?” she said. “Because they get eaten alive,” said the Count. “Unfortunately I doubt if we can find a slice of lemon five hundred miles long, but the metaphor will suffice. ” She brightened up, grudgingly. “We-ell…” she said. “Good. I like to see my little girl smile,” said the Count. “Now…who shall we have for breakfast?” “The baby. ” “No, I think not. ” The Count pulled a bellpull beside the fireplace. “That would be undiplomatic. We’re not quite there yet. ” “Well, that apology for a queen looks pretty bloodless. Vlad should have hung on to his fat girl,” said Lacrimosa. “Don’t you start,” Vlad warned. “Agnes is a…very interesting girl. I feel there is a lot in her. ” “A lot of her,” said Lacrimosa. “Are you saving her for later?” “Now, now,” said the Count. “Your own dear mother wasn’t a vampire when I met her—” “Yes, yes, you’ve told us a million times,” said Lacrimosa, rolling her eyes with the impatience of someone who’d been a teenager for eighty years. “The balcony, the nightdress, you in your cloak, she screamed—” “Things were simpler then,” said the Count. “And also very, very stupid. ” He sighed. “Where the hell’s Igor?” “Ahem. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about him, dear,” said the Countess. “I think he’ll have to go. ” “That’s right!” snapped Lacrimosa. “Honestly, even my friends laugh at him!’ “I find his more-gothic-than-thou attitude extremely irritating,” said the Countess. “That stupid accent…and do you know what I found him doing in the old dungeons last week?” “I’m sure I couldn’t guess,” said the Count. “He had a box of spiders and a whip! He was forcing them to make webs all over the place. ” “I wondered why there was always so many, I must admit,” said the Count. “I agree, Father,” said Vlad. “He’s all right for Uberwald, but you’d hardly want something like him opening the door in polite society, would you?” “And he smells,” said the Countess. “Of course, parts of him have been in the family for centuries,” said the Count. “But I must admit he’s getting beyond a joke. ” He yanked the bellpull again. “Yeth, marthter?” said Igor, behind him. The Count spun around. “I told you not to do that!” “Not to do what, marthter?” “Turn up behind me like that!” “It’th the only way I know how to turn up, marthter. ” “Go and fetch King Verence, will you? He’s joining us for a light meal. ” “Yeth, marthter. ” They watched the servant limp off. The Count shook his head.
“He’ll never retire,” said Vlad. “He’ll never take a hint. ” “And it’s so old-fashioned, having a servant called Igor,” said the Countess. “He really is too much. ” “Look, it’s simple,” said Lacrimosa. “Just take him down to the cellars, slam him in the Iron Maiden, stretch him on the rack over a fire for a day or two, and then slice him thinly from the feet upward, so he can watch. You’ll be doing him a kindness, really. ” “I suppose it’s the best way,” said the Count sadly. “I remember when you told me to put my cat out of its misery,” said Lacrimosa. “I really meant for you to stop what you were doing to it,” said the Count. “But…yes, you are right, he’ll have to go—” Igor ushered in King Verence, who stood there with the mildly bemused expression of someone in the presence of the Count. “Ah, your majesty,” said the Countess, advancing. “Do join us in a light meal. ” Agnes’s hair snagged in the twigs. She managed to get one boot on a branch while holding on for dear life to the branch above, but that left her other foot standing on the broomstick, which was beginning to drift sideways and causing her to do what even ballerinas can’t do without some training. “Can you see it yet?” Nanny cried, from far too far below. “I think this is an old nest as well—Oh no…” “What’s happened?” “I think my drawers have split…” “I always go for roomy, myself,” said Nanny. Agnes got the other leg onto the branch, which creaked. Lump, said Perdita. I could have climbed this like a gazelle! “Gazelles don’t climb!” said Agnes. “What’s that?” said the voice from below. “Oh, nothing…” Agnes inched her way along, and suddenly her vision was full of black and white wings. A magpie landed on a twig a foot from her face and screamed at her. Five others swooped in from the other trees and joined in the chorus. She didn’t like birds in any case. They were fine when they were flying, and their songs were nice, but up close they were mad little balls of needles with the intelligence of a house fly. She tried to swat the nearest one, and it fluttered onto a higher branch while she struggled to get her balance back. When the branch stopped rocking she moved further along, gingerly, trying to ignore the enraged birds, and looked at the nest. It was hard to tell if it was the remains of an old one or the start of a new one, but it did contain a piece of tinsel, a shard of broken glass and, gleaming even under this sullen sky, something white…with a gleaming edge. “‘Five for silver… six for gold …’” she said, half to herself. “It’s ‘five for heaven, six for hell,’” Nanny called up. “I can just reach it, anyway…” The bough broke. There were plenty of others up. below it, but they just served as points of interest on the way down. The last one flipped Agnes into a holly bush. Nanny took the invitation from her outflung hand. Rain had made the ink run, but the word “Weatherwax” was still very readable. She scratched at the gold edging with her thumb. “Too much gold,” she said. “Well, that explains the invite. I told you them birds will steal anything that glitters. ” “I’m not hurt at all,” said Agnes pointedly. “The holly quite cushioned my fall. ” “I’ll wring their necks,” said Nanny. The magpies in the trees around the cottage screamed at her. “I think I may have dislocated my hat, however,” said Agnes, pulling herself to her feet. But it was useless angling for sympathy in a puddle, so she gave up. “All right, we’ve found the invitation. It was all a terrible mistake. No one’s fault. Now let’s find Granny. ” “Not if she don’t want to be found,” said Nanny, rubbing the edge of the card thoughtfully. “You can do Borrowing. Even if she left early, some creatures will have seen her—” “I don’t Borrow, as a rule,” said Nanny firmly. “I ain’t got Esme’s self-discipline. I gets…involved. I was a rabbit for three whole days until our Jason went and fetched Esme and she brought me back. Much longer and there wouldn’t have been a me to come back. ” “Rabbits sound dull. ” “They have their ups and downs. ” “All right, then, have a look in the buoy’s glass ball,” said Agnes. “You’re good at that, Magrat told me. ” Across the clearing a crumbling brick fell out of the cottage’s chimney. “Not here, then,” said Nanny, with some reluctance. “It’s giving me the willies—Oh no, as if we didn’t have enough…What’s he doing here?” Mightily Oats was advancing through the wood. He walked awkwardly, as city people do when traversing real, rutted, leaf-moldy, twig-strewn soil, and had the concerned look of someone who was expecting to be attacked at any moment by owls or beetles. In his strange black and white clothing he looked like a human magpie himself. The magpies screamed from the trees. “‘Seven for a secret never to be told,’” said Agnes. “‘Seven’s a devil, his own sel’,’” said Nanny, darkly. “You’ve got your rhyme, I’ve got mine. ” When Oats saw the witches he brightened up very slightly and blew his nose at them. “What a waste of skin,” muttered Nanny. “Ah, Mrs. Ogg…and Miss Nitt,” said Oats, inching around some mud. “Er…I trust I find you well?” “Up till now,” said Nanny. “I had, er, hoped to see Mrs. Weatherwax. ” For a moment the only sound was the chattering of the ravens. “Hoped?” said Agnes. “ Mrs. Weatherwax?” said Nanny. “Er, yes. It is part of my…I’m supposed to…one of the things we…Well, I heard she might be ill, and visiting the elderly and infirm is part, er, of our pastoral duties…Of course, I realize that technically I have no pastoral duties, but still, while I’m here…” Nanny’s face was a picture, possibly one painted by an artist with a very strange sense of humor. “I’m really sorry she ain’t here,” she said, and Agnes knew she was being altogether honest and absolutely nasty. “Oh dear. I was, er, going to give her some…I was going…er…Is she well, then?” “I’m sure she’d be all the better for a visit from you,” said Nanny, and once again there was a strange, curvy sort of truth to this. “It’d be the sort of thing she’d talk about for days. You can come back any time you want. ” Oats looked helpless. “Then I suppose I’d better, er, be getting back to my, er, tent,” he said. “May I accompany you ladies down to the town? There are, er, some dangerous things in the woods…” “We got broomsticks,” said Nanny firmly. The priest looked crestfallen, and Agnes made a decision. “ A broomstick,” she said. “I’ll walk you—I mean, you can walk me back. If you like. ” The priest looked relieved. Nanny sniffed. There was a certain Weatherwax quality to the sniff. “Back at my place, then. An’ no dilly-dallyin’,” she said. “I don’t dilly-dally,” said Agnes. “Just see you don’t start,” said Nanny, and went to find her broomstick. Agnes and the priest walked in embarrassed silence for a while. At last Agnes said: “How’s the headache?” “Oh, much better, thank you. It went away. But her majesty was kind enough to give me some pills anyway. ” “That’s nice,” said Agnes. She ought to have given him a needle! Look at the size of that boil! said Perdita, one of nature’s born squeezers. Why doesn’t he do something about it? “Er…you don’t like me very much, do you,” said Oats. “I’ve hardly met you. ” She was becoming aware of an embarrassing draftiness in the nether regions. “A lot of people don’t like me as soon as they’ve met me,” said Oats. “I suppose that saves time,” said Agnes, and cursed. Perdita had got through on that one, but Oats didn’t seem to have noticed. He sighed. “I’m afraid I have a bit of a difficulty with people,” he went on. “I fear I’m just not cut out for pastoral work. ” Don’t get involved with this twerp, said Perdita. But Agnes said, “You mean sheep and so on?” “It all seemed a lot clearer at college,” said Oats, who like many people seldom paid much attention to what others said when he was unrolling his miseries, “but here, when I tell people some of the more accessible stories from the Book of Om they say things like, ‘That’s not right, mushrooms wouldn’t grow in the desert,’ or ‘That’s a stupid way to run a vineyard. ’ Everyone here is so very…literal. ” Oats coughed.
There seemed to be something preying on his mind. “Unfortunately, the Old Book of Om is rather unyielding on the subject of witches,” he said. “Really. ” “Although having studied the passage in question in the original Second Omnian IV text, I have advanced the rather daring theory that the actual word in question translates more accurately as ‘cockroaches. ’” “Yes?” “Especially since it goes on to say that they can be killed by fire or in ‘traps of treacle. ’ It also says later on that they bring lascivious dreams. ” “Don’t look at me,” said Agnes. “All you’re getting is a walk home. ” To her amazement, and Perdita’s crowing delight, he blushed as red as she ever did. “Er, er, the word in question in that passage might just as easily be read in context as ‘boiled lobsters,’” he said hurriedly. “Nanny Ogg says Omnians used to burn witches,” said Agnes. “We used to burn practically everybody,” said Oats gloomily. “Although some witches did get pushed into big barrels of treacle, I believe. ” He had a boring voice, too. He did appear, she had to admit, to be a boring person. It was almost too perfect a presentation, as if he was trying to make himself seem boring. But one thing had piqued Agnes’s curiosity. “Why did you come to visit Granny Weatherwax?” “Well, everyone speaks very…highly of her,” said Oats, suddenly picking his words like a man pulling plums from a boiling pot. “And they said she hadn’t turned up last night, which was very strange. And I thought it must be hard for an old lady living by herself. And…” “Yes?” “Well, I understand she’s quite old and it’s never too late to consider the state of your immortal soul,” said Oats. “Which she must have, of course. ” Agnes gave him a sideways look. “She’s never mentioned it,” she said. “You probably think I’m foolish. ” “I just think you are an amazingly lucky man, Mr. Oats. ” On the other hand…here was someone who’d been told about Granny Weatherwax, and had still walked through these woods that scared him stiff to see her, even though she was possibly a cockroach or a boiled lobster. No one in Lancre ever came to see Granny unless they wanted something. Oh, sometimes they came with little presents (because one day they’d want something again), but they generally made sure she was out first. There was more to Mr. Oats than met the eye. There had to be. A couple of centaurs burst out of the bushes ahead of them and cantered away down the path. Oats grabbed a tree. “They were running around when I came up!” he said. “Are they usual ?” “I’ve never seen them before,” said Agnes. “I think they’re from Uberwald. ” “And the horrible little blue goblins? One of them made a very unpleasant gesture at me!” “Don’t know about them at all. ” “And the vampires? I mean, I knew that things were different here, but really—” “Vampires?!” shouted Agnes. “You saw the vampires? Last night?” “Well, I mean, yes , I studied them at length at the seminary, but I never thought I’d see them standing around talking about drinking blood and things, really, I’m surprised the King allows it—” “And they didn’t…affect your mind?” “I did have that terrible migraine. Does that count? I thought it was the prawns. ” A cry rang through the woods. It seemed to have many components, but mostly it soundly as though a turkey was being throttled at the other end of a tin tube. “And what the heck was that?” shouted Oats. Agnes looked around, bewildered. She’d grown up in the Lancre woods. Oh, you got strange things sometimes, passing through, but generally they contained nothing more dangerous than other people. Now, in this tarnished light, even the trees were starting to look suspicious. “Let’s at least get down to Bad Ass,” she said, tugging at Oats’s hand. “You what?” Agnes sighed. “It’s the nearest village. ” “Bad Ass?” “Look, there was a donkey, and it stopped in the middle of the river, and it wouldn’t go backward or forward,” said Agnes, as patiently as possible. Lancre people got used to explaining this. “Bad Ass. See? Yes, I know that ‘Disobedient Donkey’ might have been more… acceptable , but—” The horrible cry echoed around the woods again. Agnes thought of all the things that were rumored to be in the mountains, and dragged Oats after her like a badly hitched cart. Then the sound was right in front of them and, at a turn in the lane, a head emerged from a bush. Agnes had seen pictures of an ostrich. So…start with one of them, but make the head and neck in violent yellow, and give the head a huge ruff of red and purple feathers and two big round eyes, the pupils of which jiggled drunkenly as the head moved back and forth… “Is that some sort of local chicken?” warbled Oats. “I doubt it,” said Agnes. One of the long feathers had a tartan pattern. The cry started again, but was strangled halfway through when Agnes stepped forward, grabbed the thing’s neck, and pulled. A figure rose from the undergrowth, dragged up by his arm. “Hodgesaargh?” He quacked at her. “Take that thing out of your mouth,” said Agnes. “You sound like Mr. Punch. ” He removed the whistle. “Sorry, Miss Nitt. ” “Hodgesaargh, why—and I realize I might not like the answer—why are you hiding in the woods with your arm dressed up like Hetty the Hen and making horrible noises through a tube?” “Trying to lure the phoenix, miss. ” “The phoenix? That’s a mythical bird, Hodgesaargh. ” “That’s right, miss. There’s one in Lancre, miss. It’s very young, miss. So I thought I might be able to attract it. ” She looked at the brightly colored glove. Oh yes—if you raised chicks, you had to let them know what kind of bird they were, so you used a sort of glove-puppet. But… “Hodgesaargh?” “Yes, miss?” “I’m not an expert, of course, but I seem to recall that according to the commonly accepted legend of the phoenix it would never see its parent. You can only have one phoenix at a time. It’s automatically an orphan. You see?” “Um, may I say something?” said Oats. “Miss Nitt is right, I have to say. The phoenix builds a nest and bursts into flame and the new bird arises from the ashes. I’ve read that. Anyway, it’s an allegory. ” Hodgesaargh looked at the puppet phoenix on his arm and then looked bashfully at his feet. “Sorry about that, miss. ” “So, you see, a phoenix can never see another phoenix,” said Agnes. “Wouldn’t know about that, miss,” said Hodgesaargh, still staring at his boots. An idea struck Agnes. Hodgesaargh was always out of doors. “Hodgesaargh?” “Yes, miss?” “Have you been out in the woods all morning?” “Oh yes, miss. ” “Have you seen Granny Weatherwax. ” “Yes, miss. ” “You have?” “Yes, miss. ” “Where?” “Up in the woods over toward the border, miss. At first light, miss. ” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “Er…did you want to know, miss?” “Oh. Yes, sorry…what were you doing up there?” Hodgesaargh blew a couple of quacks on his phoenix lure by way of explanation. Agnes grabbed the priest again. “Come on, let’s get to the road and find Nanny—” Hodgesaargh was left with his glove puppet and his lure and his knapsack and a deeply awkward feeling. He’d been brought up to respect witches, and Miss Nitt was a witch. The man with her hadn’t been a witch, but his manner fitted him into that class of people Hodgesaargh mentally pigeonholed as “my betters,” although in truth this was quite a large category. He wasn’t about to disagree with his betters. Hodgesaargh was a one-man feudal system. On the other hand, he thought, as he packed up and prepared to move on, books that were all about the world tended to be written by people who knew all about books rather than all about the world. All that stuff about birds hatching from ashes must have been written by someone who didn’t know anything about birds. As for there only ever being one phoenix, well, that’d obviously been written down by a man who ought to get out in the fresh air more and meet some ladies. Birds came from eggs. Oh, the phoenix was one of those creatures that had learned to use magic, had built it right into its very existence, but magic was tricky stuff and nothing used any more of it than it needed to.
So there’d be an egg, definitely. And eggs needed warmth, didn’t they? Hodgesaargh had been thinking about this a lot during the morning, as he tramped through damp bushes making the acquaintance of several disappointed ducks. He’d never bothered much about history, except the history of falconry, but he did know that there were once places—and in some cases still were—with a very high level of background magic, which made them rather exciting and not a good place to raise your young. Maybe the phoenix, whatever it really looked like, was simply a bird who’d worked out a way of making incubation work very, very fast. Hodgesaargh had actually got quite a long way, and if he’d had a bit more time he’d have worked out the next step, too. It was well after noon before Granny Weatherwax came off the moor, and a watcher might have wondered why it took such a long time to cross a little patch of moorland. They’d have wondered even more about the little stream. It had cut a rock-studded groove in the peat that a healthy woman could have leapt across, but someone had place a broad stone across it for a bridge. She looked at it for a while, and then reached into her sack. She took out a long piece of black material and blindfolded herself. Then she walked out across the stone, taking tiny steps with her arms flung out wide for balance. Halfway across she fell onto her hands and knees and stayed there, panting, for several minutes. Then she crawled forward again, by inches. A few feet below, the peaty stream rattled happily over the stones. The sky glinted. It was a sky with blue patches and bits of cloud, but it had a strange look, as though a picture painted on glass had been fractured and then the shards reassembled wrongly. A drifting cloud disappeared against some invisible line and began to emerge in another part of the sky altogether. Things were not what they seemed. But then, as Granny always said, they never were. Agnes practically had to pull Oats into Nanny Ogg’s house, which was in fact so far away from the concept of a witch’s cottage that it, as it were, approached it from the other side. It tended toward jolly clashing colors rather than black, and smelled of polish. There were no skulls or strange candles, apart from the pink novelty one that Nanny had once bought in Ankh-Morpork and only brought out to show to guests with the right sense of humor. There were lots of tables, mainly in order to display the vast number of drawings and iconographs of the huge Ogg clan. At first sight these looked randomly placed, until you worked out the code. In reality, pictures were advanced or retarded around the room as various family members temporarily fell in or out of favor, and anyone ending up on the small wobbly table near the cat’s bowl had some serious spadework to do. What made it worse was you could fall down the pecking order not because you’d done something bad, but because everyone else had done something better. This was why what space wasn’t taken up with family pictures was occupied by ornaments, because no Ogg who traveled more than ten miles from the homestead would dream of returning without a present. The Oggs loved Nanny Ogg and, well, there were even worse places than the wobbly table. A distant cousin had once ended up in the hall. Most of the ornaments were cheapjack stuff bought from fairs, but Nanny Ogg never minded, provided they were colorful and shiny. So there were a lot of cross-eyed dogs, pink shepherdesses and mugs with badly spelled slogans like “To the Wordl’s Best Mum” and “We Luove Our Nanny. ” A huge gilded china beer stein that played “Ich Bin Ein Rattarsedschwein” from The Student Horse was locked in a glass-fronted cabinet as a treasure too great for common display, and had earned Shirl Ogg’s picture a permanent place on the dresser. Nanny Ogg had already cleared a space on the table for the green ball. She looked up sharply when Agnes entered. “You were a long time. Been dallyin’?” she said, in an armor-piercing voice. “Nanny, Granny would have said that,” said Agnes reproachfully. Nanny shivered. “You’re right, gel,” she said. “Let’s find her quickly, eh? I’m too cheerful to be a crone. ” “There’s odd creatures everywhere!” said Agnes. “There’s loads of centaurs! We had to dive into the ditch!” “Ah, I did notice you’d got grass and leaves on your dress,” said Nanny. “But I was too polite to mention it. ” “Where’re they all coming from?” “Down out of the mountains, I suppose. Why did you bring Soapy Sam back with you?” “Because he’s covered in mud, Nanny,” said Agnes sharply, “and I said he could have a wash down here. ” “Er…is this really a witch’s cottage?” said Oats, staring at the assembled ranks of Oggery. “Oh dear,” said Nanny. “Pastor Melchio said they are sinks of depravity and sexual ex-cess. ” The young man took a nervous step backward, knocking against a small table and causing a blue clockwork ballerina to begin a jerky pirouette to the tune of “Three Blind Mice. ” “Well, we’ve got a sink all right,” said Nanny. “What’s your best offer?” “I suppose we should be grateful that was a Nanny Ogg comment,” said Agnes. “Don’t wind him up, Nanny. It’s been a busy morning. ” “Er…which way’s the pump?” said Oats. Agnes pointed. He hurried out, gratefully. “Wetter than a thunderstorm sandwich,” said Nanny, shaking her head. “Granny was seen up above the long lake,” said Agnes, sitting down at the table. Nanny looked up sharply. “On that bit of moor?” she said. “Yes. ” “That’s bad. That’s gnarly country up there. ” “Gnarly?” “All scrunched up. ” “What? I’ve been up there. It’s just heather and gorse and there’s a few old caves at the end of the valley. ” “Oh really? Looked up at the clouds, did you? Oh well, let’s have a go…” When Oats came back, scrubbed and shining, they were arguing. They looked rather embarrassed when they saw him. “I said it’d need three of us,” said Nanny, pushing the glass ball aside. “Especially if she’s up there. Gnarly ground plays merry hell with scrying. We just ain’t got the power. ” “I don’t want to go back to the castle!” “Magrat’s good at this sort of thing. ” “She’s got a little baby to look after, Nanny!” “Yeah, in a castle full of vampires. Think about that. No knowing when they’ll get hungry again. Better for ’em both to be out of it. ” “But—” “You get her out now. I’d come myself, but you said I just sit there grinnin’. ” Agnes suddenly pointed a finger at Oats. “You!” “Me?” he quavered. “You said you could see they were vampires, didn’t you?” “I did?” “You did. ” “That’s right, I did. Er…and?” “You didn’t find your mind becoming all pink and happy?” “I don’t think my mind has ever been pink and happy,” said Oats. “So why didn’t they get through to you?” Oats smiled uneasily and fished in his jacket. “I am protected by the hand of Om,” he said. Nanny inspected the pendant. It show a figure trussed across the back of a turtle. “You say?” she said. “That’s a good wheeze, then. ” “Just as Om reach out his hand to save the prophet Brutha from the torture. so will he spread his wings over me in my time of trial,” said Oats, but he sounded as though he was trying to reassure himself rather than Nanny. He went on: “I’ve got a pamphlet if you would like to know more,” and this time the tone was much more positive, as if the existence of Om was a little uncertain whereas the existence of pamphlets was obvious to any open-minded, rational-thinking person. “Don’t,” said Nanny. She let the medallion go. “Well, Brother Perdore never needed any magic jewelry for fighting off people, that’s all I can say. ” “No, he just used to breathe alcohol all over them,” said Agnes. “Well, you’re coming with me, Mr. Oats. I’m not facing Prince Slime again alone! And you can shut up!” “Er, I didn’t say anything—” “I didn’t mean you, I meant—Look, you said you’ve studied vampires, didn’t you? What’s good for vampires?” Oats thought for a moment. “Er…a nice dry coffin, er, plenty of fresh blood, er, overcast skies…” His voice trailed off when he saw her expression.
“Ah…well, it depends exactly where they’re from, I remember. Uberwald is a very big place. Er…cutting off the head and staking them in the heart is generally efficacious. ” “But that works on everyone,” said Nanny. “Er…in Splintz they die if you put a coin in their mouth and cut their head off…” “Not like ordinary people, then,” said Nanny, taking out a notebook. “Er…in Klotz they die if you stick a lemon in their mouth—” “Sounds more like it. ” “—after you cut their head off. I believe that in Glitz you have to fill their mouth with salt, hammer a carrot into both ears, and then cut off their head. ” “I can see that must’ve been fun finding that out. ” “And in the valley of the Ah they believe it’s best to cut off the head and boil it in vinegar. ” “You’re going to need someone to carry all this stuff, Agnes,” said Nanny Ogg. “But in Kashncari they say you should cut off their toes and drive a nail through their neck. ” “And cut their head off?” “Apparently you don’t have to. ” “Toes is easy ,” said Nanny. “Old Windrow over in Bad Ass cut off two of his with a spade and he weren’t even trying. ” “And then, of course, you can defeat them by stealing their left sock,” said Oats. “Sorry?” said Agnes. “I think I misheard you there. ” “Um…they’re pathologically meticulous, you see. Some of the gypsy tribes in Borogravia say that if you steal their sock and hide it somewhere they’ll spend the rest of eternity looking for it. They can’t abide things to be out of place or missing. ” “I wouldn’t have put this down as a very widespread belief,” said Nanny. “Oh, they say in some villages that you can even slow them down by throwing poppyseed at them,” said Oats. “Then they’ll have a terrible urge to count every seed. Vampires are very anal retentive, you see?” “I shouldn’t like meeting one that was the opposite,” said Nanny. “Yes, well, I don’t think we’re going to have time to ask the Count for his precise address,” said Agnes quickly. “We’re going to go in, fetch Magrat and get back here, all right? Why are you such a vampire expert, Oats?” “I told you, I studied this sort of thing at college. We have to know the enemy if we’re to combat evil forces…vampires, demons, wit—” He stopped. “Do go on,” said Nanny Ogg, as sweet as arsenic. “But with witches I’m just supposed to show them the error of their ways. ” Oats coughed nervously. “That’s something to look forward to, then,” said Nanny. “What with me not havin’ my fireproof corsets on. Off you go, then…all three of you. ” “There’s three of us?” said Oats. Agnes felt her left arm tremble. Against every effort of will her wrist bent, her palm curled up and she felt a finger straining to unfold. Only Nanny Ogg noticed. “Like having your own chaperone all the time, ain’t it,” she said. “What was she talking about?” said Oats, as they headed for the castle. “Her mind’s wandering,” said Agnes, loudly. There were covered ox-carts rumbling up the street to the castle. Agnes and Oats stood to one side and watched them. The drivers didn’t seem interested in the bystanders. They wore drab, ill-fitting clothing, but an unusual touch was the scarf each one had wrapped around his neck so tightly that it might have been a bandage. “Either there’s a plague of sore throats in Uberwald or there will be nasty little puncture wounds under those, I’ll bet,” said Agnes. “Er…I do know a bit about the way they’re supposed to control people,” said Oats. “Yes?” “It sounds silly, but it was in an old book. ” “Well?” “They find single-minded people easier to control. ” “Single-minded?” said Agnes suspiciously. More carts rolled past. “It doesn’t sound right, I know. You’d think strong minded people would be harder to affect. I suppose a big target is easier to hit. In some of the villages, apparently, vampire hunters get roaring drunk first. Protection, you see? You can’t punch fog. ” So we’re fog? said Perdita. So’s he, by the look of him… Agnes shrugged. There was a certain bucolic look to the faces of the cart drivers. Of course, you got that in Lancre too, but in Lancre it was overlaid by a mixture of guile, common sense and stubborn rock-headedness. Here the eyes behind the faces had a switched-off look. Like cattle, said Perdita. “Yes,” said Agnes. “Pardon?” said Oats. “Just thinking aloud…” And she thought of the way one man could so easily control a herd of cows, any one of which could have left him as a small damp depression in the ground had it wanted to. Somehow, they never got around to thinking about it. Supposing they are better than us, she thought. Supposing that, compared to them, we’re just— You’re too close to the castle, snapped Perdita. You’re thinking cow thoughts. Then Agnes realized that there was a squad of men marching behind the carts. They didn’t look at all like the carts’ drivers. And these, said Perdita, are the cattle prods. They had uniforms, of a sort, with the black and white crest of the Magpyrs, but they weren’t a body of men that looked smart in a uniform. They looked very much like men who killed other people for money, and not even for a lot of money. They looked, in short, like men who’d cheerfully eat a puppy sandwich. Several of them leered at Agnes when they went past, but it was only a generic leer that was simply leered on the basis that she had a dress on. More wagons came up behind them. “Nanny Ogg says you must take time by the foreskin,” Agnes said, and darted forward as the last wagon rumbled past. “She does?” “I’m afraid so. You get used to it. ” She caught the back of the cart and pulled herself up, beckoning him hastily to follow. “Are you trying to impress me?” he said as she hauled him on board. “Not you ,” she said. And realized, at this point, that what she was sitting on was a coffin. There were two of them in the back of the cart, packed around with straw. “Are they moving the furniture in?” said Oats. “Er…I think…it might…be occupied,” said Agnes. She almost shrieked when he removed the lid. The coffin was empty. “You idiot! Supposing there was someone in there!” “Vampires are weak during the day. Everyone knows that,” said Oats reproachfully. “I can…feel them here…somewhere,” said Agnes. The rattling of the cart changed as it rumbled onto the cobblestones of the courtyard. “Get off the other one and I’ll have a look. ” “But supposing—” He pushed her off and raised the lid before she could protest further. “No, no vampire in here, either,” he said. “Supposing one’d just reached out and grabbed you by the throat!” “Om is my shield,” said Oats. “Really? That’s nice. ” “You may chortle—” “I didn’t chortle. ” “You can if you want to. But I’m sure we are doing the right thing. Did not Sonaton defeat the Beast of Batrigore in its very cave?” “I don’t know. ” “He did. And didn’t the prophet Urdure vanquish the Dragon of Sluth on the Plain of Gidral after three days’ fighting?” “I don’t know that we’ve got that much time—” “And wasn’t it true the Sons of Exequial beat the hosts of Myrilom?” “Yes?” “You’ve heard of that?” “No. Listen, we’ve stopped. I don’t particularly want us to be found, do you? Not right now. And not by those guards. They didn’t look like nice men at all. ” They exchanged a meaningful glance over the coffins, concerning a certain inevitability about the immediate future. “They’ll notice they’re heavier, won’t they?” said Oats. “Those people driving the carts didn’t look as though they notice anything very much. ” Agnes stared at the coffin beside her. There was some dirt in the bottom, but it was otherwise quite clean and had a pillow at the head end. There were also some side pockets in the lining. “It’s the easiest way in,” she said. “You get into this one, I’ll get into that one. And, look…those people you just told me about…were they real historical characters?” “Certainly. They—” “Well, don’t try to imitate them yet, all right? Otherwise you’ll be a historical character too. ” She shut the lid, and still felt there was a vampire around. Her hand touched the side pocket. There was something soft yet spiky there.
Her fingers explored it in fascinated horror and discovered it to be a ball of wool with a couple of long knitting needles stuck through it, suggesting either a very domesticated form of voodoo or that someone was knitting a sock. Who knitted socks in a coffin? On the other hand, perhaps even vampires couldn’t sleep sometimes, and tossed and turned all day. She braced herself as the coffin was picked up and she tried to occupy her mind by working out where it was being taken. She heard the sound of footsteps on the cobbles, and then the ring of the flagstones on the main steps, echoing in the great hall, a sudden dip— That meant the cellars. Logical, really, but not good. You’re doing this to impress me, said Perdita. You’re doing it to try to be extrovert and dynamic. Shut up, Agnes thought. A voice outside said, “Put them down there and puth off. ” That was the one who called himself Igor. Agnes wished she’d thought of a weapon. “Get rid of me, would they?” the voice went on, against a background of disappearing footsteps. “Thith ith all going to end in tearth. It’th all very well for them, but who hath to go and thweep up the dutht, eh? That’th what I’d like to know. Who’th it hath to pull their headth out of the pickle jarth? Who’th it hath to find them under the ithe? I mutht’ve pulled out more thtaketh than I’ve had wriggly dinnerth…” Light flooded in as the coffin lid was removed. Igor stared at Agnes. Agnes stared at Igor. Igor unfroze first. He smiled—he had a geometrically interesting smile, because of the row of stitches right across it—and said, “Dear me, thomeone’th been lithening to too many thtorieth. Got any garlic?” “Masses,” Agnes lied. “Won’t work. Any holy water?” “Gallons. ” “It—” A coffin lid smacked down on Igor’s head, making an oddly metallic sound. He reached up slowly to rub the spot, and then turned around. This time the lid smacked into his face. “Oh…thit,” he said, and folded up. Oats appeared, face aglow with adrenaline and righteousness. “I smote him mightily!” “Good, good, let’s get out of here! Help me up!” “My wrath descended upon him like—” “It was a heavy lid and he’s not that young,” said Agnes. “Look, I used to play down here, I know how to get to the back stairs—” “He’s not a vampire? He looks like one. First time I’ve ever seen a patchwork man…” “He’s a servant. Now, please come—” Agnes paused. “Can you make holy water?” “What, here?” “I mean bless it, or dedicate it to Om, or…boil the hell out of it, perhaps,” said Agnes. “There is a small ceremony I can—” He stopped. “That’s right! Vampires can be stopped by holy water!” “Good. We’ll go via the kitchens, then. ” The huge kitchens were almost empty. They never bustled these days, since the royal couple were not the sort who demanded three meat courses with every meal, and at the moment there was only Mrs. Scorbic the cook in there, calmly rolling out pastry. “Afternoon, Mrs. Scorbic,” said Agnes, deciding the best course was to march past and rely on the authority of the pointy hat. “We’ve just dropped in for some water, don’t worry, I know where the pump is, but if you’ve got a couple of empty bottles that would be helpful. ” “That’s right, dear,” said Mrs. Scorbic. Agnes stopped and turned. Mrs. Scorbic was famously acerbic, especially on the subject of soya, nut cutlets, vegetarian meals and any vegetable that couldn’t be boiled until it was yellow. Even the King hesitated to set foot in her kitchen, but whereas he only got an angry silence, lesser mortals got the full force of her generalized wrath. Mrs. Scorbic was permanently angry, in the same way that mountains are permanently large. Today she was wearing a white dress, a white apron, a big white mob cap and a white bandage around her throat. She also looked, for want of any better word, happy. Agnes urgently waved Oats toward the pump. “Find something to fill up,” she hissed, and then said brightly, “How are you feeling, Mrs. Scorbic?” “All the better for you asking, miss. ” “I expect you’re busy with all these visitors?” “Yes, miss. ” Agnes coughed. “And, er, what did you give them for breakfast?” The cook’s huge pink brow wrinkled. “Can’t remember, miss. ” “Well done. ” Oats nudged her. “I’ve filled up a couple of empty bottles and I said the Purification Rite of Om over them. ” “And that will work?” “You must have faith. ” The cook was watching them amiably. “Thank you, Mrs. Scorbic,” said Agnes. “Please get on with…whatever you were doing. ” “Yes, miss. ” The cook turned back to her rolling pin. Plenty of meals on her, said Perdita. Cook and larder all in one. “That was tasteless!” said Agnes. “What was?” said the priest. “Oh…just a thought I had. Let’s go up the back stairs. ” They were bare stone, communicating with the public bits of the keep via a door at every level. On the other side of those doors it was still bare stone, but a better class of masonry altogether and with tapestries and carpets. Agnes pushed open a door. A couple of the Uberwald people were ambling along the corridor beyond, carrying something covered in a cloth. They didn’t spare the newcomers a glance as Agnes led the way to the royal apartments. Magrat was standing on a chair when they came in. She looked down at them while little painted wooden stars and animals tangled themselves around her upraised arm. “Wretched things,” she said. “You’d think it would be easy, wouldn’t you? Hello, Agnes. Could you hold the chair?” “What are you doing?” said Agnes. She looked carefully. There was no bandage around Magrat’s neck. “Trying to hook this mobile onto the chandelier,” said Magrat. “Uh…that’s done it. But it tangles up all the time! Verence says it’s very good for young children to see lots of bright colors and shapes. It speeds development, he says. But I can’t find Millie anywhere. ” There’s a castle full of vampires, and she’s decorating the playroom, said Perdita. What’s wrong with this woodcut? Somehow, Agnes couldn’t bring herself to blurt out a warning. Apart from anything else, the chair looked wobbly. “Little Esme’s only two weeks old,” said Agnes. “Isn’t that a bit young for education?” “Never too early to start, he says. What can I do for you?” “We need you to come with us. Right now. ” “Why?” said Magrat, and to Agnes’s relief she stepped down from the chair. “Why? Magrat, there’s vampires in the castle! The Magpyr family are vampires !” “Don’t be silly, they’re very pleasant people. I was talking to the Countess only this morning—” “What about?” Agnes demanded. “I bet you can’t remember!” “I am Queen, Agnes,” said Magrat reproachfully. “Sorry, but they affect people’s minds—” “Yours?” “Um, no, not mine. I have—I’m—It seems I’m immune,” Agnes lied. “And his?” said Magrat sharply. “I am protected by my faith in Om,” said Oats. Magrat raised her eyebrows at Agnes. “Is he?” Agnes shrugged. “Apparently. ” Magrat leaned closer. “He’s not drunk, is he? He’s holding two beer bottles. ” “They’re full of holy water,” Agnes whispered. “Verence said Omnianism seemed a very sensible and stable religion,” hissed Magrat. They both looked at Oats, mentally trying the words on him for size. “Are we leaving?” he said. “Of course not,” snapped Magrat, straightening up. “This is silly, Agnes. I’m a married woman, I’m Queen, I’ve got a little baby. And you come in here telling me we’ve got vampires! I’ve got guests here and—” “The guests are vampires , your majesty,” said Agnes. “The King invited them!” “Verence says we have to learn to deal with all sorts of people—” “We think Granny Weatherwax is in very bad trouble,” said Agnes. Magrat stopped. “How bad?” she said. “Nanny Ogg is very worried. Quite snappish. She says it needs three of us to find Granny. ” “Well, I—” “And Granny’s taken the box, whatever that means,” said Agnes. “The one she keeps in the dresser?” “Yes. Nanny wouldn’t tell me much about what was in it. ” Magrat opened up her hands like an angler measuring a medium-sized fish. “The polished wooden box? About this size?” “I don’t know, I’ve never seen it. Nanny seemed to think it was important.
She didn’t say what was in it,” Agnes repeated, just in case Magrat hadn’t got the hint. Magrat clasped her hands together and looked down, biting her knuckles. When she looked up her face was set with purpose. She pointed at Oats. “ You find a bag or something and empty into it all the stuff in the top drawer over there, and take the potty, and the little truck, oh, and the stuffed animals, and the bag of nappies, and the bag for used nappies, and the bath, and the bag with the towels, and the box of toys, and the wind-up things, and the musical box, and the bag with the little suits, oh, and the woolly hat, and you , Agnes, find something we can make into a sling. You came up the back stairs? We’ll go down the same way. ” “What do we need a sling for?” Magrat leaned over the crib and picked up the baby, wrapped in a blanket. “I’m not going to leave her here, am I?” she said. There was a clatter from the direction of Mightily Oats. He already had both arms full, and a large stuffed rabbit in his teeth. “Do we need all of that?” said Agnes. “You never know,” said Magrat. “Even the box of toys?” “Verence thinks she might be an early developer,” said Magrat. “She’s a couple of weeks old!” “Yes, but stimulus at an early age is vital to the development of the growing brain,” said Magrat, laying baby Esme on the table and shuffling her into a romper suit. “Also, we have to get on top of her hand–eye coordination as soon as possible. It’s no good just letting things slide. Oh yes…If you can bring the little slide, too. And the yellow rubber duck. And the sponge in the shape of a teddy bear. And the teddy bear in the shape of a sponge. ” There was another crash from the mound around Oats. “Why’s the box so important?” said Agnes. “Not important as such,” said Magrat. She looked over her shoulder. “Oh, and put in that rag doll, will you? I’m sure she’s focusing on it. Oh blast…the red bag has got the medicines in it, thank you…What was it you asked me?” “Granny’s box,” Agnes hinted. “Oh, it’s…just important to her. ” “It’s magical?” “What? Oh no. No as far as I know. But everything in it belongs to her, you see. Not to the cottage,” said Magrat, picking up her daughter. “Who’s a good girl, then? You are!” She looked around. “Have we forgotten anything?” Oats spat out the rabbit. “Possibly the ceiling,” he said. “Then let’s go. ” Magpies flocked around the castle tower. Most magpie rhymes peter out at around ten or twelve, but here were hundreds of birds, enough to satisfy any possible prediction. There are many rhymes about magpies, but none of them is very reliable because they are not the ones the magpies know themselves. The Count sat in the darkness below, listening to their minds. Images flashed behind his eyes. This was the way to run a country, he reflected. Human minds were so hard to read, unless they were so close that you could see the words just hovering below actual vocalization. But the birds could get everywhere, see every worker in the fields and hunter in the forest. They were good listeners, too. Much better than bats or rats. Once again, tradition was overturned. No sign of Granny, though. Some trick, perhaps. It didn’t matter. Eventually she’d find him. She wouldn’t hide for long. It wasn’t in her nature. Weatherwaxes would always stand and fight, even when they knew they would be beaten. So predictable. Several of the birds had seen a busy little figure trudging across the kingdom, leading a donkey laden with falconry gear. The Count had taken a look at Hodgesaargh, found a mind crammed end to end with hawks, and dismissed him. He and his silly birds would have to go eventually, of course, because he made the magpies nervous. He made a note to mention this to the guards. “Ooaauooow!” …but there was probably no combination of vowels that could do justice to the cry Nanny Ogg made on seeing a young baby. It included sounds known only to cats. “Isn’t she a little precious,” Nanny crooned. “I’ve probably got a sweetie somewhere—” “She’s not on solids,” said Magrat. “Still keeping you up at nights?” “And days. But she’s slept well today, thank goodness. Nanny, give her to Mr. Oats and let’s sort this out right away. ” The young priest took the baby nervously, holding it, as some men do, as if it would break or at least explode. “There, there, there,” he said, vaguely. “Now…what’s this about Granny?” said Magrat. They told her, interrupting one another at important points. “The gnarly ground over toward the top of the forest?” said Magrat, when they were nearly finished. “That’s right,” said Nanny. “What is gnarly ground?” said Agnes. “There’s a lot of magic in these mountains, right?” said Nanny. “And everyone knows mountains get made when lumps of land bang together, right? Well, when the magic gets trapped you…sort of…get a bit of land where the space is…sort of…scrunched up, right? It’d be quite big if it could but it’s like a bit of gnarly wood in an ol’ tree. Or a used hanky…all folded up small but still big in a different way. ” “But I’ve been up there and it’s just a bit of moorland!” “You’ve got to know the right direction,” said Nanny. “Damn hard to scry into a place like that. It goes all wobbly. It’s like tryin’ to look at something close up and a long way away at the same time. It makes your crystal ball water. ” She pulled the green ball toward her. “Now, you two push an’ I’ll steer—” “Er, are you going to do some magic?” said Oats, behind them. “What’s the problem?” said Nanny. “I mean, does it involve, er…” he colored up, “er…removing your garments and dancing around and summoning lewd and salacious creatures? Only I’m afraid I couldn’t be a party to that. The Book of Om forbids consorting with false enchanters and deceitful soothsayers, you see. ” “I wouldn’t consort with false enchanters neither,” said Nanny. “Their beards fall off. ” “We’re real,” said Magrat. “And we certainly don’t summon lewd and salacious creatures,” said Agnes. “Unless we want to,” said Nanny Ogg, almost under her breath. “Well…all right, then,” said Oats. As they unwound the power, Agnes heard Perdita think I don’t like Magrat. She’s not like she used to be. Well, of course she’s not. But she’s taking charge, she’s not cringing slightly like she used to, she’s not WET. That’s because she’s a mother, Agnes thought. Mothers are only slightly damp. She was not, herself, hugely in favor of motherhood in general. Obviously it was necessary, but it wasn’t exactly difficult. Even cats managed it. But women acted as if they’d been given a medal that entitled them to boss people around. It was as if, just because they’d got the label which said “mother,” everyone else got a tiny part of the label that said “child”… She gave a mental shrug, and concentrated on the craft in hand. Light grew and faded inside the green globe. Agnes had only scryed a few times before, but she didn’t remember the light pulsing like this. Every time it dissolved into an image the light flickered and bounced to somewhere else…a patch of heather…a tree…boiling clouds… And then Granny Weatherwax came and went. The image appeared and was gone in an instant, and the glow that rolled in with a finality told Agnes that this was all, folks. “She was lying down,” said Magrat. “It was all fuzzy. ” “Then she’s in one of the caves. She said once she goes up there to be alone with her thoughts,” said Nanny. “And did you catch that little twitch? She’s trying to keep us out. ” “The caves up there are just scoops in the rock,” said Agnes. “Yes…and no,” said Nanny. “Did I see her holding a card in her hands?” “The ‘I ate’nt dead’ card?” said Magrat. “No, she’d left that in the cottage. ” “Just when we really need her, she goes away into a cave?” “Does she know we need her? Did she know about the vampires?” said Agnes. “Can’t we go and ask her?” said Magrat. “We can’t fly all the way,” said Nanny, scratching her chin. “Can’t fly prop’ly over gnarly ground. The broomsticks act funny. ” “Then we’ll walk the rest,” said Magrat. “It’s hours to sunset.
” “You’re not coming, are you?” said Agnes, aghast. “Yes, of course. ” “But what about the baby?” “She seems to like it in the sling and it keeps her warm and it’s not as if there’s monsters up there,” said Magrat. “Anyway, I think it’s possible to combine motherhood and a career. ” “I thought you’d given up witchcraft,” said Agnes. “Yes…well…yes. Let’s make sure Granny’s all right and get this all sorted out, and then obviously I’ll have other things to do…” “But it could be dangerous!” said Agnes. “Don’t you think so, Nanny?” Nanny Ogg turned her chair and looked at the baby. “Cootchie-cootchie?” she said. The small head looked around and Esme opened her blue eyes. Nanny Ogg stared thoughtfully. “Take her with us,” she said at last. “I used to take our Jason everywhere when he was tiny. They like being with their mum. ” She gave the baby another long hard look. “Yes,” she went on, “I think that’d be a damn good idea. ” “Er…I feel perhaps there is little that I’d be able to do,” Oats said. “Oh, it’d be too dangerous to take you ,” said Nanny, dismissively. “But of course my prayers will go with you. ” “That’s nice. ” Nanny sniffed. Drizzling rain soaked Hodgesaargh as he trudged back to the castle. The damp had got into the lure, and the noise it made now could only attract some strange, lost creature, skulking in ancient estuaries. Or possibly a sheep with a very sore throat. And then he heard the chattering of magpies. He tied the donkey to a sapling and stepped out into a clearing. The birds were screaming in the trees around him, but erupted away at the sight of King Henry on her perch on the donkey. Crouched against a mossy rock was……a small magpie. It was bedraggled and wrong , as if put together by someone who had seen one but didn’t know how it was supposed to work. It struggled when it saw him, there was a fluffing of feathers and, now, a smaller version of King Henry was trying to unfold its tattered wings. He backed away. On her perch, the hooded eagle had its head turned to the strange bird… …which was now a pigeon. A thrush. A wren… A sudden intimation of doom made Hodgesaargh cover his eyes, but he saw the flash through the skin of his fingers, felt the thump of the flame, and smelled the scorched hairs on the back of his hand. A few tufts of grass smoldered on the edge of a circle of scorched earth. Inside it a few pathetic bones glowed red hot and then crumbled into fine ash. Away in the forest, the magpies screamed. Count Magpyr stirred in the darkness of his room and opened his eyes. The pupils widened to take in more light. “I think she has gone to ground,” he said. “That was remarkably quick,” said the Countess. “I thought you said she was quite powerful. ” “Oh, indeed. But human. And she’s getting older. With age comes doubt. It’s so simple. All alone in that barren cottage, no company but the candlelight…it’s so simple to open up all the little cracks and let her mind turn in on itself. It’s like watching a forest fire when the wind changes, and suddenly it’s roaring down on all the houses you thought were built so strongly. ” “So graphically put. ” “Thank you. ” “You were so successful in Escrow, I know…” “A model for the future. Vampires and humans in harmony at last. There is no need for this animosity, just as I have always said. ” The Countess walked over to the window and gingerly pulled aside the curtain. Despite the overcast sky, gray light filtered in. “There’s no requirement to be so cautious about this, either,” said her husband, coming up behind her and jerking the curtain aside. The Countess shuddered and turned her face away. “You see? Still harmless. Every day, in every way, we get better and better,” said Count Magpyr cheerfully. “Self help. Positive thinking. Training. Familiarity. Garlic? A pleasant seasoning. Lemons? Merely an acquired taste. Why, yesterday I mislaid a sock and I simply don’t care. I have lots of socks. Extra socks can be arranged!” His smile faded when he saw his wife’s expression. “The word ‘but’ is on the tip of your tongue,” he said flatly. “I was just going to say that there were no witches in Escrow. ” “And the place is all the better for it!” “Of course, but—” “There you go again, my dear. There is no room for ‘but’ in our vocabulary. Verence was right, oddly enough. There’s a new world coming, and there won’t be any room in it for those ghastly little gnomes or witches or centaurs and especially not for the firebirds! Away with them! Let us progress! They are unfitted for survival!” “You only wounded that phoenix, though. ” “My point exactly. It allowed itself to be hurt, and therefore extinction looms. No, my dear, if we won’t fade with the old world we must make shift in the new. Witches? I’m afraid witches are all in the past now. ” The broomsticks in the present landed just above the treeline, on the edge of the moor. As Agnes had said, it was barely big enough to deserve the term. She could even hear the little mountain brook at the far end. “I can’t see anything gnarly looking,” said Agnes. She knew it was a stupid thing to say, but the presence of Magrat was getting on her nerves. Nanny looked up at the sky. The other two followed her gaze. “You’ve got to get your eye in, but you’ll see it if you watch,” she said. “You can only see it if you stands on the moor. ” Agnes squinted at the overcast. “Oh…I think I can,” said Magrat. I bet she doesn’t, said Perdita, I can’t. And then Agnes did. It was tricky to spot, like a join between two sheets of glass, and it seemed to move away whenever she was certain she could see it, but there was an… inconsistency , flickering in and out on the edge of vision. Nanny licked a finger and held it up to the wind. Then she pointed. “This way. An’ shut your eyes. ” “There’s no path,” said Magrat. “That’s right. You hold on to my hand, Agnes will hold onto yours. I’ve been this way a few times. It ain’t hard. ” “It’s like a children’s story,” said Agnes. “Yes, we’re down to the bone now, all right,” said Nanny. “And…off we go…” Agnes felt the heather brush her feet as she stepped forward. She opened her eyes. Moorland stretched away on every side, even behind them. The air was darker, the clouds heavier, the wind sharper. The mountains looked a long way away. There was a distant thunder of water. “Where are we now?” said Magrat. “Still here,” said Nanny. “I remember my dad saying sometimes a deer or somethin’ would run into gnarly ground if it was bein’ hunted. ” “It’d have to be pretty desperate,” said Agnes. The heather was darker here, and scratched so much it was almost thorny. “Everything’s so…nasty looking. ” “Attitude plays a part,” said Nanny. She tapped something with her foot. It was…well, it had been a standing stone, Agnes thought, but now it was a lying stone. Lichen grew thickly all over it. “The marker. Hard to get out again if you don’t know about it,” said Nanny. “Let’s head for the mountains. Esme all wrapped up, Magrat? Little Esme, I mean. ” “She’s asleep. ” “Yeah,” said Nanny, in what Agnes thought was an odd tone of voice. “Just as well, really. Let’s go. Oh…I thought we might need these…” She fumbled in the bottomless storeroom of her knicker leg and produced a couple of pairs of socks so thick that they could have stood up by themselves. “Lancre wool,” she said. “Our Jason knits ’em of an evenin’ and you know what strong fingers he’s got. You could kick your way through a wall. ” The heather ripped fruitlessly at the wire-like wool as the women hurried over the moor. There was still a sun here, or at least a bright spot in the overcast, but darkness seemed to come up from beneath the ground. Agnes… said Perdita’s voice, in the privacy of her shared brain. What? thought Agnes. Nanny’s worried about something to do with the baby and Granny. Have you noticed? Agnes thought: I know Nanny keeps looking at little Esme as if she’s trying to make up her mind about something, if that’s what you mean. Well, I think it’s to do with Borrowing… She thinks Granny’s using the baby to keep an eye on us? I don’t know.
But something’s happening… The roar ahead grew louder. “There’s a little stream, isn’t there?” said Agnes. “That’s right,” said Nanny. “Just here. ” The moor fell away. They stared into the abyss, which didn’t stare back. It was huge. White water was just visible far below. Cold damp air blew past their faces. “That can’t be right,” said Magrat. “That’s wider and deeper than Lancre Gorge!” Agnes looked down into the mist. It’s a couple of feet deep, Perdita told her. I can see every pebble. “Perdita thinks it’s a…well, an optical illusion,” Agnes said aloud. “She could be right,” said Nanny. “Gnarly ground, see? Bigger on the inside. ” Magrat picked up a rock and tossed it in. It bounced off the wall a few times, tumbling end over end, and then nothing was left but a stony echo. The river was too far down even to see the splash. “It’s very realistic, isn’t it,” she said weakly. “We could use the bridge,” said Nanny, pointing. They regarded the bridge. It had a certain negative quality. That is to say, while it was possible at the limits of probability that if they tried to cross the chasm by walking out over thin air this might just work—because of sudden updrafts, or air molecules suddenly all having a crazy idea at the same time—trying to do the same thing via the bridge would clearly be laughable. There was no mortar in it. The pillars had been piled up out of rocks laid like a drystone wall, and then a series of big flat stones dropped across the top. The result would have been called primitive even by people who were too primitive to have a word yet for “primitive. ” It creaked ominously in the wind. They could hear stone grind against stone. “That’s not right,” said Magrat. “It wouldn’t stand up to a gale. ” “It wouldn’t stand up to a dead calm,” said Agnes. “I don’t think it’s really real. ” “Ah, I can see where that’d make crossing it a bit tricky, then,” said Nanny. It’s just a slab laid over a ditch, Perdita insisted. I could cart-wheel over it. Agnes blinked. “Oh, I understand ,” she said. “This is some sort of test, is it? It is, isn’t it? We’re worried, so fear makes it a deep gorge. Perdita’s always confident, so she hardly notices it…” “ I ’d like to notice it’s there,” said Magrat. “It’s a bridge. ” “We’re wasting time,” said Agnes. She strode out over the slabs of stone and stopped halfway. “Rocks a bit, but it’s not too bad,” she called back. “You just have to—” The slab shifted under her, and tipped her off. She flung out her hands and caught the edge of the stone by sheer luck. But, strong though her fingers were, a lot of Agnes was penduluming underneath. She looked down. She didn’t want to, but it was a direction occupying a lot of the world. The water’s about a foot below you, it really is, said Perdita. All you have to do is drop, and you’d be good at that… Agnes looked down again. The drop was so long that probably no one would hear the splash. It didn’t just look deep, it felt deep. Clammy air rose around her. She could feel the sucking emptiness under her feet. “Magrat threw a stone down there!” she hissed. Yes, and I saw it fall a few inches. “Now, I’m lyin’ flat and Magrat’s holdin’ on to my legs,” said Nanny Ogg conversationally, right above her. “I’m going to grab your wrists and, you know, I reckon if you swings a little sideways you ought to get your foot on one of the stone pillars and you’ll be right as ninepence. ” “You don’t have to talk to me as if I’m some kind of frightened idiot!” snapped Agnes. “Just tryin’ to be pleasant. ” “I can’t move my hands!’ “Yes, you can. See, I’ve got your arm now. ” “I can’t move my hands!” “Don’t rush, we’ve got all day,” said Nanny. “Whenever you’re ready. ” Agnes hung for a while. She couldn’t even sense her hands now. That presumably meant that she wouldn’t feel it when her grip slipped. The stones groaned. “Er…Nanny?” “Yep?” “Can you talk to me a bit more as if I’m some kind of frightened idiot?” “Okay. ” “Er…why do they say ‘right as ninepence’? As opposed to, say, tenpence?” “Interestin’. Maybe it’s—” “And can you speak up? Perdita’s shouting at me that if I drop eighteen inches I’ll be standing in the stream!” “Do you think she’s right?” “Not about the eighteen inches!” The bridge creaked. “People seldom are,” said Nanny. “Are you getting anywhere, dear? Only I can’t lift you up, you see. And my arms are going numb, too. ” “I can’t reach the pillar!” “Then let go,” said Magrat, from somewhere behind Nanny. “Magrat!” snapped Nanny. “Well, perhaps it is only a little stream to Perdita. Gnarly ground can be two things at the same time, can’t it? So if that’s how she sees it…well, can’t you let her get on with it? Let her sort it out. Can’t you let her take over?” “She only does that when I’m really under stress! Shut up!” “I only—” “Not you, her! Oh no —” Her left hand, white and almost numb, pulled itself off the stone and out of Nanny’s grip. “Don’t let her do this to us!” Agnes shrieked. “I’ll fall hundreds of feet onto sharp rocks!” “Yes, but since you’re going to do that anyway, anything’s worth a try, isn’t it?” said Nanny. “I should shut your eyes, if I was you—” The right hand came loose. Agnes shut her eyes. She fell. Perdita opened her eyes. She was standing in the stream. “Damn!” And Agnes would never say “damn,” which was why Perdita did so at every suitable occasion. She reached up to the slab just above her, got a grip, and hauled herself up. Then, catching sight of Nanny Ogg’s expression, she jerked her hands around into a new position and kicked her legs up. That stupid Agnes never realizes how strong she is, Perdita thought. There’s all these muscles she’s afraid of using… She pushed gently until her toes pointed at the sky and she was doing a handstand on the edge. The effect, she felt, was spoilt by her skirt falling over her eyes. “You’ve still got that tear in yer knickers,” said Nanny sharply. Perdita flicked herself onto her feet. Magrat had her eyes tight shut. “She didn’t do a handstand on the edge , did she?” “She did,” said Nanny. “Now then, A—Perdita, stop that showing off, we’ve wasted too much time. Let Agnes have the body back, you know it’s hers really—” Perdita did a cartwheel. “This body’s wasted on her,” she said. “And you should see the stuff she eats! Do you know she’s still got two shelves full of soft toys? And dolls? And she wonders why she can’t get along with boys!” “Nothing like being stared at by a teddy bear to put a young man off his stroke,” said Nanny Ogg. “Remember old Mrs. Sleeves, Magrat? Used to need two of us when she had one of her nasty turns. ” “What’s that got to do with toys?” said Perdita suspiciously. “And what’s it—Oh yes,” said Magrat. “Now, I recall that old bellringer down in Ohulan,” said Nanny, leading the way. “He had no fewer than seven personalities in his head. Three of ’em were women and four of ’em were men. Poor old chap. He said he was always the odd one out. He said they let him get on with all the work and the breathin’ and eatin’ and they had all the fun. Remember? He said it was hellish when he had a drink and they all started fightin’ for a tastebud. Sometimes he couldn’t hear himself think in his own head, he said— Now! Now! Now! ” Agnes opened her eyes. Her jaw hurt. Nanny Ogg was peering at her closely, while rubbing some feeling back into her wrist. From a couple of inches away, her face looked like a friendly pile of elderly laundry. “Yes, that’s Agnes,” she said, standing back. “Her face goes sharper when it’s the other one. See? I told you she’d be the one that came back. She’s got more practice. ” Magrat let go of her arms. Agnes rubbed her chin. “That hurt ,” she said reproachfully. “Just a bit of tough love,” said Nanny. “Can’t have that Perdita running around at a time like this. ” “You just sort of grabbed the bridge and came right back up,” said Magrat. “I felt her stand on the ground!” said Agnes. “And that too, then,” said Nanny. “Come on. Not far now. Sometimes. And let’s just take it easy, shall we? Some of us might have further to fall than others.
” They edged forward, despite an increasingly insistent voice in Agnes’s head that kept telling her she was being a stupid coward and of course she wouldn’t be hurt. She tried to ignore it. The caves that Agnes remembered hadn’t been much more than rock overhangs. These were caverns. The difference is basically one of rugged and poetic grandeur. These had a lot of both. “Gnarly ground’s a bit like icebergs,” said Nanny, leading them up a little gully to one of the largest. “Nine-tenths of it is under water?” said Agnes. Her chin still hurt. “There’s more to it than meets the eye, I mean. ” “There’s someone there!” said Magrat. “Oh, that’s the witch,” said Nanny. “She’s not a problem. ” Light from the entrance fell on a hunched figure, sitting among pools of water. Closer to, it looked like a statue, and perhaps not quite as human as the eye at first suggested. Water glistened on it; drops formed on the end of the long hooked nose and fell into a pool with the occasional plink. “I come up here with a young wizard once, when I was a girl,” said Nanny. “He liked nothing so much as bashing at rocks with his little hammer…well, almost nothing,” she added, with a smile toward the past and then a happy sigh. “He said the witch was just a lot of ol’ stuff from the rocks, left there by the water drippin’. But my granny said it was a witch that sat up here to think about some big spell, and she turned to stone. Person’ly, I keep an open mind. ” “It’s a long way to bring someone,” said Agnes. “Oh, there was a lot of us kids at home and it was rainin’ a lot and you need a lot of privacy for really good geology,” said Nanny vaguely. “I think his hammer’s still around here somewhere. He quite forgot about it after a while. Mind how you tread, the rocks is very slippery. How’s young Esme doing, Magrat?” “Oh, gurgling away. I’ll have to feed her soon. ” “We’ve got to look after her,” said Nanny. “Well, yes. Of course. ” Nanny clapped her hands together and pulled them apart gently. The glow between them wasn’t the showy light that wizards made, but a grainy graveyard glimmer. It was just enough to ensure that no one fell down a hole. “Probably some dwarfs in a place like this,” said Magrat, as they picked their way along a tunnel. “Shouldn’t think so. They don’t like places that don’t stay the same. No one comes up here now but animals and Granny when she wants to be alone with her thoughts. ” “And you when you were banging rocks,” said Magrat. “Hah! But it was different then. There was flowers on the moor and the bridge was just stepping stones. That’s ’cos I was in love. ” “You mean it really does change because of the way you feel?” said Agnes. “You spotted it. It’s amazing how high and rocky the bridge can be if you’re in a bad mood, I know that. ” “I wonder how high it was for Granny, then?” “Probably clouds could go underneath, girl. ” Nanny stopped where the path forked, and then pointed. “I reckon she’s gone this way. Hold on—” She thrust out an arm. Stone groaned, and a slab of roof thudded down, throwing up spray and pebbles. “So we’ll just have to climb over this bit, then,” Nanny went on, in the same matter-of-fact tone of voice. “Something’s trying to push us out,” said Agnes. “But it won’t,” said Nanny. “And I don’t think it’ll harm us. ” “That was a big slab!” said Agnes. “Yeah. But it missed us, didn’t it. ” There was an underground river farther on, sheer white water blurred with speed. It poured around and almost over a dam of driftwood, topped by an inviting long log. “Look, this isn’t safe for the baby!” said Agnes. “Do you both see that? You’re her mother, Magrat!” “Yes, I know, I was there,” said Magrat, with infuriating calm. “But this doesn’t feel unsafe. Granny’s here somewhere. ” “That’s right,” said Nanny. “Really close now, I think. ” “Yes, but she can’t control rivers and rocks—” Agnes began. “Here? Dunno. Very… responsive place, this. ” They inched their way across the log, passing the baby from one to the other. Agnes leaned against the stone wall. “How much farther ?” “Well, tecnic’ly a few inches,” said Nanny. “That’s helpful to know, isn’t it?” “Is it just me,” said Magrat, “or is it getting warmer?” “Now that ,” said Agnes, pointing ahead, “I don’t believe. ” At the end of a slope a crevasse has opened in the rock. Red light spilled out of it. As they stared at it, a ball of flame rolled up and burst across the ceiling. “Oh deary deary me,” said Nanny, who had taken a turn to carry the baby. “An’ it’s not even as if there’s any volcanoes anywhere near here. What can she be thinking?” She headed purposefully toward the fire. “Careful!” Agnes shouted. “Perdita says it’s real!” “What’s that got to do with the price of fish?” said Nanny, and stepped into the fire. The flames snapped out. The other two stood in the chilly, damp gloom. Magrat shuddered. “Nanny, you are carrying the baby. ” “The harm you come to here is what you brings with you,” said Nanny. “And it’s Granny’s thoughts that are shaping this place. But she wouldn’t raise a hand to a child. Couldn’t do it. Hasn’t got it in her. ” “This place is reacting to what she’s thinking?” said Agnes. “I reckon so,” said Nanny, setting off again. “I’d hate to be inside her head!” “You nearly are,” said Nanny. “Come on. We’ve passed the fire. I don’t think there’ll be anything else. ” They found her in a cavern. It had sand on the floor, smooth and unmarked by anything except one set of footprints. Her hat had been placed neatly beside her. Her head rested on a rolled up sack. She held a card in stiff hands. It read: GOE AWAY “That is not very helpful,” said Magrat, and sat down with the baby across her lap. “After all this, too. ” “Can’t we wake her up?” said Agnes. “That’s dangerous,” said Nanny Ogg. “Trying to call her back when she ain’t ready to come? Tricky. ” “Well, can we at least take her out of here?” “She won’t bend round corners but, hah, maybe we could use her as a bridge,” said Nanny. “No, she came here for a reason…” She pulled the sack out from under Granny’s head, which did not move, and opened it. “Wrinkly apple, bottle of water and a cheese sandwich you could bend horseshoes round,” she said. “And her old box. ” She set it down on the floor between them. “What is in there?” said Agnes. “Oh, keepsakes. Memorororabililia, like I said. That sort of thing,” said Nanny. “She always says it’s full of things she’s got no further use for. ” She drummed her fingers on the box as if accompanying a thought on the piano, and then picked it up. “Should you do that?” said Agnes. “No,” said Nanny. She lifted out a bundle of papers tied with ribbon and put them on one side. They all saw the light shining up from underneath. Nanny reached in and took out a small glass medicine bottle, tightly corked, and held it up. A little glow inside was quite bright in the gloom of the cave. “Seen this bottle before,” said Nanny. “She’s got all kinds of odds and ends in here. Never noticed it glowing, though. ” Agnes took the bottle. Inside there was what looked like a piece of fern, or…no, it was a feather, quite black except for the very tip which was as yellow and bright as a candle flame. “Do you know what it is?” “No. She’s always pickin’ up stuff. She’s had the bottle a long time, ’cos I’ve seen it in there—” “I faw her fick it uff—” Magrat removed a safety pin from her mouth. “I saw her pick that thing up years ago,” she tried again. “It was around this time of year, too. We were walking back through the woods and there was a shooting star and this sort of light fell off it and we went to look and there it was. It looked like a flame but she was able to pick it up. ” “Sounds like a firebird feather,” said Nanny. “There used to be old stories about them. They pass through here. But if you touch their feathers, you’d better be damn sure of yourself, because the old stories say they burn in the presence of evil—” “Firebird? You mean a phoenix?” said Agnes. “Hodgesaargh was going on about one. ” “Haven’t seen one go over for years,” said Nanny.
“Sometimes you’d see two or three at a time when I was girl, just lights flying high up in the sky. ” “No, no, the phoenix…there’s only one of it, that’s the whole point,” said Agnes. “One of anything’s no bloody use,” said Nanny. Granny Weatherwax smacked her lips, like someone emerging from a very deep sleep. Her eyelids flickered. “Ah, I knew opening her box’d work,” said Nanny happily. Granny Weatherwax’s eyes opened. She stared straight up for a moment, and then swiveled them toward Nanny Ogg. “W’t’r,” she mumbled. Agnes hastily passed her the water bottle. She touched Granny’s fingers, and they were as chilly as stone. The old witch took a gulp. “Oh. It’s you three,” she whispered. “Why did you come here?” “You told us to,” said Agnes. “No I didn’t!” Granny snapped. “Wrote you a note, did I?” “No, but the stuff—” Agnes stopped. “Well, we thought you wanted us to. ” “Three witches?” said Granny. “Well, no reason why not. The maiden, the mother and the—” “Go carefully,” Nanny Ogg warned. “—the other one,” said Granny. “That’s up to you, I’m sure. It’s not something about which I would venture any sort of opinion. So I expect you’ve got some dancin’ to be doing, and good day to you. I’ll have my pillow back, thank you very much. ” “You know there’s vampires in Lancre?” Nanny demanded. “Yes. They got invited. ” “You know they’re taking over?” “Yes!” “So why did you run away up here?” said Agnes. The temperature of a deep cave should remain constant, but suddenly this one was a lot colder. “I can go where I like,” said Granny. “Yes, but you ought—” Agnes began. She wished she could bite the word back, but it was too late. “Oh, ought , is it? Where does it say ought ? I don’t remember it saying ought anywhere. Anyone going to tell me where it says ought ? There’s lots of things that ought , I dare say. But they ain’t. ” “You know a magpie stole your invite?” said Nanny. “Shawn delivered it okay, but them thieving devils had it away and into a nest. ” She flourished the crumpled, smudged yet gold-laden invitation. In the moment of silence Agnes fancied she could hear the stalactites grow. “Yes, of course I did,” said Granny. “Worked that out first thing. ” But the moment had been just slightly too long, and just slightly too quiet. “And you know Verence got an Omnian priest in to do the naming of young Esme?” Again…fractionally too long, infinitesimally too silent. “You know I put my mind to business,” said Granny. She glanced at the baby sitting on Magrat’s lap. “Why’s she got a pointy head?” she said. “It’s the little hood Nanny knitted for her,” said Magrat. “It’s meant to look like that. Would you like to hold her?” “She looks comfortable where she is,” said Granny diffidently. She didn’t know the baby’s name! Perdita whispered. I told you! Nanny thinks Granny’s been in the baby’s mind, I can tell by the way she’s been looking at her, but if she did she’d know the name and she doesn’t, I swear. She wouldn’t do anything that might hurt a child… Granny shook herself. “Anyway, if there’s a problem, well, you’ve got your three witches. It doesn’t say anywhere that one of them ought ,” she nodded at Agnes, “to be Granny Weatherwax. You sort it out. I’ve been witching in these parts for altogether too long and it’s time to…move on…do something else…” “You’re going to hide up here?” said Magrat. “I’m not going to keep on repeating myself, my girl. People aren’t going to tell me what I ought to do no more. I know what’s ought and what’s not. Your husband invited vampires into the country, did he? That’s modern for you. Well, everyone else knows that a vampire don’t have no power over you ’less you invite it in, and if it’s a king as does the inviting, then they’ve got their teeth into the whole country. And I’m an ol’ woman living in the woods and I’ve got to make it all better? When there’s three of you? I’ve had a lifetime of ought from can to can’t and now it’s over, and I’ll thank you for gettin’ out of my cave. And that’s an end of it. ” Nanny glanced at the other two and shrugged. “Come on, then,” she said. “If we get a wiggle on we can be back at the broomsticks before dark. ” “Is that all ?” said Magrat. “Things come to an end,” said Granny. “I’m going to rest up here and then I’m on my way. Plenty of places to go. ” Now get her to tell you the truth, said Perdita. Agnes bit down. Ought had been bad enough. “So we’ll be getting along,” said Nanny. “Come on. ” “But—” “But me no buts,” said Nanny. “As Granny would have said. ” “That’s right!” said Granny, lying back. As they filed back into the caves Agnes heard Perdita start counting. Magrat patted her pockets. Nanny patted her knickerlegs. Magrat said, “Oh, I must have le—” “Blow, I left my pipe back there,” said Nanny, so quickly that the sentence overtook the one in front. Five seconds, said Perdita. “I didn’t see you take it out,” said Agnes. Nanny gave her a piercing look. “Really? Then I’d better go and leave it there, hadn’t I. Was there something you’d left too, Magrat? Never mind, I’ll be sure to look for it, whatever it was going to be. ” “Well!” said Magrat, as Nanny darted back. “Granny was certainly not telling the truth,” said Agnes. “Of course she wasn’t, she never does,” said Magrat. “She expects you to work it out for yourself. ” “But she’s right about us being three witches. ” “Yes, but I never intended to come back to it, I’ve got other things to do. Oh, perhaps when Esme’s older I thought, maybe, a bit of part-time aromatherapy or something, but not serious full time witching. This power-of-three business is…well, it’s very old-fashioned…” And what have we got now? Perdita chimed in. The knowing but technically inexperienced young woman, the harassed young mother and the silver-haired golden ager…doesn’t exactly sound mythic, does it? But Magrat just bundled up her little baby as soon as she heard Granny was in trouble and she didn’t even stop to worry about her husband… “Wait a moment…listen,” said Agnes. “What for?” “Just listen…the sound echoes in these caves…” Nanny Ogg sat down on the sand and wriggled slightly to settle in firmly. She took out her pipe. “So,” she said to the recumbent figure, “apart from all that, how are you feeling?” There was no reply. “Saw Mrs. Patternoster this morning,” Nanny went on chattily. “Her from over in Slice. Just passed the time of day. Mrs. Ivy is bearing up well, she says. ” She blew out a cloud of smoke. “I put her right about a few things,” she said. There was still silence from the shadowy figure. “The Naming went off all right. The priest’s as wet as a snow omelet, though. ” “I can’t beat ’em, Gytha,” said Granny. “I can’t beat ’em, and that’s a fact. ” One of Nanny Ogg’s hidden talents was knowing when to say nothing. It left a hole in the conversation that the other person felt obliged to fill. “They’ve got minds like steel. I can’t touch ’em. I’ve been tryin’ everything. Every trick I’ve got! They’ve been searching for me but they can’t focus right when I’m in here. The best one nearly got to me at the cottage. My cottage !” Nanny Ogg understood the horror. A witch’s cottage was her fortress. “I’ve never felt anything like it, Gytha. He’s had hundreds of years to get good. You noticed the magpies? He’s using ’em as eyes. And he’s clever, too. He’s not going to fall to a garlic sandwich, that one. I can pick up that much. These vampires has learned. That’s what they’ve never done before. I can’t find a way into ’em anywhere. They’re more powerful, stronger, they think quick…I tell you, going mind to mind with him’s like spittin’ at a thunderstorm. ” “So what’re you going to do?” “Nothing! There’s nothing I can do! Can’t you understand what I’ve been tellin’ you? Don’t you know I’ve been lying here all day tryin’ to think of something? They know all about magic, Borrowing’s second nature to them, they’re fast, they think we’re like cattle that can talk…I never expected anything like this, Gytha. I’ve thought about it round and round and there’s not a thing I can see to do. ” “There’s always a way,” said Nanny.
“I can’t see it,” said Granny. “This is it, Gytha. I might as well lie here until the water drips on me and I go into stone like the ol’ witch at the door. ” “You’ll find a way,” said Nanny. “Weatherwaxes don’t let ’em-selves get beaten. It’s something in the blood, like I’ve always said. ” “I am beaten, Gytha. Even before I start. Maybe someone else has a way, but I haven’t. I’m up against a mind that’s better’n mine. I just about keep it away from me but I can’t get in. I can’t fight back. ” The chilly feeling crept over Nanny Ogg that Granny Weather-wax meant it. “I never thought I’d hear you say that,” she muttered. “Off you go. No sense in keepin’ the baby out in the cold. ” “And what are you going to do?” “Maybe I shall move on. Maybe I’ll just stop here. ” “Can’t stop here forever, Esme. ” “Ask her that is by the door. ” That seemed to be all there was going to be. Nanny walked out, found the others looking slightly too innocent in the next cave, and led the way to the open air. “Found your pipe, then,” said Magrat. “Yes, thank you. ” “What’s she going to do?” said Agnes. “You tell me,” said Nanny. “I knows you was listenin’. You wouldn’t be witches if you wasn’t listenin’ somehow. ” “Well, what can we do that she can’t? If she’s beaten, then so are we, aren’t we?” “What did Granny mean, ‘from can to can’t’?” said Magrat. “Oh, from the first moment in the morning when you can see to the last moment in the evenin’ when you can’t,” said Nanny. “She’s really feeling low, isn’t she?” Nanny paused by the stone witch. Her pipe had gone out. She struck a match on the hooked nose. “There’s three of us,” she said. “The right number. So we’ll start by having a proper coven meetin’…” “Aren’t you worried ?” said Agnes. “She’s…giving up…” “Then it’s up to us to carry on, isn’t it?” said Nanny. Nanny had placed the cauldron in the middle of the floor for the look of the thing, although an indoor coven meeting didn’t feel right, and one without Granny Weatherwax felt worse. Perdita said it made them look like soppy girls playing at it. The only fire in the room was in the huge black iron range, the very latest model, recently installed for Nanny by her loving sons. On it, the kettle began to boil. “I’ll make the tea, shall I?” said Magrat, getting up. “No, you sit down. It’s Agnes’s job to make the tea,” said Nanny. “You’re the mother, so it’s your job to pour. ” “What’s your job, Nanny?” said Agnes. “I drinks it,” said Nanny promptly. “Right. We’ve got to find out more while they’re still actin’ friendly. Agnes, you go back to the castle with Magrat and the baby. She needs extra help anyway. ” “What good will that do?” “You told me yourself,” said Nanny. “Vampires don’t affect you. As soon as they try to see Agnes’s mind it sinks down and up pops Perdita like a seesaw. Just when they’re looking at Perdita, here comes Agnes again. Young Vlad’s definitely got his eye on you, ain’t he?” “Certainly not!” “Yeah, right,” said Nanny. “Men always like women that’ve got a bit of mystery to ’em. They like a challenge, see? And while he’s got his eye on you keeping your eye on Magrat, you’ve got your other eye on him, understand? Everyone’s got a weakness. Maybe we’ll not see the back of these vampires by going over to the curtains and saying ‘my, isn’t it stuffy in here,’ but there’s got to be some other way. ” “And if there isn’t?” “Marry him,” said Nanny firmly. Magrat gasped. The teapot rattled in her hand. “That’s horrible!” she said. “I’d rather kill myself,” said Agnes. In the morning, said Perdita. “Dun’t have to be a long marriage,” said Nanny. “Put a pointy stake in your garter and our lad’ll be getting cold even before they’ve finished cutting up the wedding cake. ” “Nanny!” “Or maybe you could just sort of…make him change his ways a bit,” Nanny went on. “It’s amazing what a wife can do if she knows her own mind, or minds in your case, o’course. Take King Verence the First, for one. He used to toss all his meat bones over his shoulder until he was married and the Queen made him leave them on the side of the plate. I’d only bin married to the first Mr. Ogg for a month before he was getting out of the bath if he needed to pee. You can refine a husband. Maybe you could point him in the direction of blutwurst and black puddings and underdone steak. ” “You really haven’t got any scruples, have you, Nanny,” said Agnes. “No,” said Nanny, simply. “This is Lancre we’re talkin’ about. If we was men, we’d be talking about layin’ down our lives for the country. As women, we can talk about laying down. ” “I just don’t want to hear this,” said Magrat. “I ain’t asking her to do what I wouldn’t do,” said Nanny. “Really? Then why—” “Because no one wants me to do it,” said Nanny. “But if I was fifty years younger I reckon I could have Sonny Jim bitin’ turnips by midsummer. ” “You mean just because she’s a woman she should use sexual wiles on him?” said Magrat. “This is so…so…well, it’s so Nanny Ogg, that’s all I can say. ” “She should use any wile she can lay her hands on,” said Nanny. “I don’t care what Granny said, there’s always a way. Like the hero in Tsort or wherever it was, who was completely invincible except for his heel and someone stuck a spear in it and killed him…” “What are you expecting her to do, prod him all over?” “I never understood that story, anyway,” said Nanny. “I mean, if I knew I’d got a heel that would kill me if someone stuck a spear in it, I’d go into battle wearing very heavy boots—” “You don’t know what he’s like,” said Agnes, ignoring the diversion. “He looks at me as if he’s undressing me with his eyes. ” “Eyes is allowed,” said Nanny. “And he’s laughing at me all the time! As if he knows I don’t like him and that adds to the fun!” “Now you get into that castle!” Nanny growled. “For Lancre! For the King! For everyone in the country! And if he gets too much, let Perdita take over, ’cos I reckon there’s some things she’s better at!” In the shocked silence, there was a faint clinking noise from Nanny’s sideboard. Magrat coughed. “J-just like a the old days,” she said. “Arguing all the time. ” Nanny stood up and unhooked a cast iron saucepan from the beam over the kitchen range. “You can’t treat people like this,” said Agnes, sullenly. “I can,” said Nanny, tiptoeing in the direction of the sideboard. “I’m the other one now, see?” Ornaments flew and shattered as she brought the saucepan down hard, bottom upward. “Got you, you little blue devil!” she shouted. “Don’t think I didn’t see you!” The saucepan rose. Nanny leaned her weight on the handle but it still moved slowly along the dresser, rocking slightly from side to side, until it reached the edge. Something red and blue dropped onto the floor and started moving toward the closed door. At the same time Greebo shot past Agnes, accelerating. And then, just as he was about to spring, he changed his mind. All four feet extended their claws at the same time and bit into the floorboards. He rolled, sprang onto his feet, stopped, and started to wash himself. The red and blue blur hit the door and picked itself up, becoming a blue man, six inches tall, with red hair. He carried a sword about the same size as himself. “Ach, hins tak yer scaggie, yer dank yowl callyake!” he screamed. “Oh, it’s you ,” said Nanny, relaxing. “Do you want a drink?” The sword was lowered slightly, but with a definite hint that it could be raised again at a moment’s notice. “’tazit?” Nanny reached down to the crate by her chair and sorted through the bottles. “Scumble? My best. Vintage,” she said. The wee man’s tiny eyes lit up. “Las’ Tuesda ?” “Right. Agnes, open that sewing box and pass me a thimble, will you? Come away here, man,” said Nanny, uncorking the bottle well away from the fire and filling up the thimble. “Ladies, this here’s…let’s see them tattoos…yeah, this here’s one of the Nac mac Feegle. The little bastards comes down and raids my still about once a year. ” “Yings, yow graley yin! Suz ae rikt dheu,” said the blue man, taking the thimble. “What is he?” said Magrat. “They’re gnomes,” said Nanny.
The man lowered the thimble. “Pictsies!” “Pixies, if you insist,” said Nanny. “They live up on the high moors over toward Uberwald—” “Ach! Bae, yon snae rikt speel, y’ol behennit! Feggers! Yon ken sweal boggin bludsuckers owl dhu tae—” Nanny nodded while she listened. Halfway through the little man’s rant she topped up his thimble. “Ah, right,” she said, when he seemed to have finished. “Well, he says the Nac mac Feegle have been forced out by the vampires, see? They’ve been driving all the…” her lips moved as she tried out various translations, “…old people…” “That’s very cruel!” said Magrat. “No…I mean…old races. The people that live in…the corners. You know, the ones you don’t see around a lot…centaurs, bogeys, gnomes—” “Pictsies!” “Yeah, right…driving ’em out of the country. ” “Why should they do that?” “Probably not fashionable anymore,” said Nanny. Agnes looked hard at the pixie. On a scale of ethereal from one to ten he looked as if he was on some other scale, probably one buried in deep ocean sludge. The blueness of his skin, she could see now, was made up of tattoos and paint. His red hair stuck out at all angles. His sole concession to the temperature was a leather loincloth. He saw her looking at him. “Yist, awa’ fra’ yeeks, ye stawking gowt that’ya! Bigjobs!” “Er, sorry,” said Agnes. “Good language, ain’t it?” said Nanny. “A hint o’ heather and midden. But when you’ve got the Nac mac Feegle on your side, you’re doing okay. ” The pixie waved the empty thimble at Nanny. “Ghail o’ bludy ‘lemonade,’ callyake!” “Ah, no foolin’ you, you want the real stuff,” said Nanny. She pulled back a chair cushion, and produced a black glass bottle with its cork held on by wire. “You’re not giving him that , are you?” said Magrat. “That’s your medicinal whisky!” “And you always tell people it’s strictly for external use only,” said Agnes. “Ah, the Nac mac Feegle are a hardheaded race,” said Nanny, handing it down to the tiny man. To Agnes’s amazement, he grasped a bottle bigger than himself with insolent ease. “There you go, man. Share it with your mates, ’cos I know they’re around here somewhere. ” There was a clink from the dresser. The witches looked up. Hundreds of pixies had simply appeared among the ornaments. Most of them wore pointed hats that curved so that the point was practically pointing down, and they all carried swords. “Amazin’ how they can just fade into the foreground like that,” said Nanny. “That’s what’s kept ’em so safe all these years. That and killin’ most people who saw ’em, of course. ” Greebo, very quietly, went and sat under her chair. “So…you gentlemen have been turned out by the vampires, have ye?” said Nanny, as the bottle bobbed through the throng. A roar went up. “Blaznet!” “Ach, yon weezit fash’ deveel!” “Arnoch, a hard tickut!” “Bigjobs!” “I daresay you can stop in Lancre,” said Nanny, above the din. “Just a moment, Nanny—” Magrat began. Nanny waved a hand at her hurriedly. “There’s that island up on the lake,” she went on, raising her voice. “It’s where the herons nest. Just the place, eh? Lots of fish, lots of hunting up the valley. ” The blue pixies went into a huddle. Then one of them looked up. “Priznae? Yowl’s nae brennit, moy ghail!” “Oh, you’d be left to yourself,” said Nanny. “But no stealing cattle, eh?” “ These steal cattle ?” said Agnes. “Full-size cattle? How many of them does it take?” “Four. ” “Four?” “One under each foot. Seen ’em do it. You see a cow in a field, mindin’ its own business, next minute the grass is rustlin’, some little bugger shouts ‘hup, hup, hup’ and the poor beast goes past voom! without its legs movin’,” said Nanny. “They’re stronger’n cockroaches. You step on a pixie, you’d better be wearing good thick soles. ” “Nanny, you can’t give them the island! It doesn’t belong to you!” said Magrat. “It doesn’t belong to anyone,” said Nanny. “It belongs to the King!” “Ah. Well, what’s his is yours, so give ’em the island and Verence can sign a bit o’ paper later on. It’s worth it,” Nanny added. “A rent of not stealing our cows is well worth it. Otherwise you’ll see cows zippin’ around very fast. Backward, sometimes. ” “Without their legs moving?” said Agnes. “Right!” “Well—” Magrat began. “And they’ll be useful,” Nanny added, lowering her voice. “Fighting’s what they like best. ” “Whist, yon fellaight fra’ aquesbore!” “Drinkin’s what they like best,” Nanny corrected herself. “Nae, hoon a scullen!” “Drinkin’ and fightin’s what they like best,” said Nanny. “An’ snaflin’ coobeastie. ” “And stealing cows,” said Nanny. “Drinkin’, fightin’ and stealin’ cows is what they like best. Listen, Magrat, I’d rather have ’em in here pissin’ out than outside pissin’ in. There’s more of them and they’ll make your ankles all wet. ” “But what can they do ?” said Magrat. “Well…Greebo’s frightened of ’em,” said Nanny. Greebo was two worried eyes, one yellow, one pearly white, in the shadows. The witches were impressed. Greebo had once brought down an elk. There was practically nothing that he wouldn’t attack, including architecture. “I’d have thought they’d have no trouble with vampires, then,” said Agnes. “Ach, c’na flitty-flitty! Ye think we’re flowers o’ the forest fairies?” sneered a blue man. “They can’t fly,” said Nanny. “It’s quite a nice island, even so…” Magrat mumbled. “Gel, your husband was messin’ around with politics, which is why we’re in this trouble, and to get you’ve got to give. Now he’s ill and you’re Queen so you can do as you like, right? There’s no one who can tell you what to do, isn’t that so?” “Yes, I suppos—” “So damn well give ’em the island and then they’ve got somethin’ here to fight for. Otherwise they’ll just push on through anyway and nick all our livestock on the way. Dress that up in fancy talk, and you’ve got politics. ” “Nanny?” said Agnes. “Yup?” “Don’t get angry, but you don’t think Granny’s doing this on purpose, do you? Keeping back, I mean, so that we have to form a three and work together?” “Why’d she do that?” “So we develop insights and pull together and learn valuable lessons,” said Magrat. Nanny paused with his pipe halfway to her lips. “No,” she said, “I don’t reckon Granny’d be thinking like that, because that’s soppy garbage. Here, you blokes…here’s the key to the drinks cupboard in the scullery. Bugger off and have fun, don’t touch the stuff in the green bottles, because it’s—Oh, I expect you’ll be all right. ” There was a blue blur, and the room was cleared. “We got things Granny ain’t got,” said Nanny. “Yes?” said Agnes. “Magrat’s got a baby. I’ve got no scruples. And we’ve both got you. ” “What good will I be?” “Well, for one thing…you’re in two minds about everything—” There was a tinkle of glass from the scullery, and a scream of “Ach, ya skivens! Yez lukin’ at a faceful o’ heid!” “Crives! Sezu? Helweit! Summun hol’ me cote! Gude! Now, summun hol’ his arms!” “Stitch this, f’ra ma brinnit goggel!” Some more glass broke. “We’ll all go back into the castle,” said Nanny. “On our terms. Face this count down. And we’ll take garlic and lemons and all the other stuff. And some of Mr. Oats’s holy water. You can’t tell me all that stuff together won’t work. ” “And they’ll let us in, will they?” said Agnes. “They’ll have a lot to think about,” said Nanny. “What with a mob at the gates. We can nip in round the back. ” “What mob?” said Magrat. “We’ll organize one,” said Nanny. “You don’t organize a mob, Nanny,” said Agnes. “A mob is something that happens spontaneously. ” Nanny Ogg’s eyes gleamed. “There’s seventy-nine Oggs in these parts,” she said. “Spon-taneous it is, then. ” Her gaze fell for a moment on the forest of familial pictures, and then she removed a boot and hammered on the wall beside her. After a few seconds they heard a door bang and footsteps pass in front of the window. Jason Ogg, blacksmith and head male of the Ogg clan, poked his head around the front door. “Yes, Mum?” “There’s going to be a spontaneous mob stormin’ the castle in, oh, half an hour,” said Nanny. “Put the word out. ” “Yes, Mum.
” “Tell every one I said it ain’t compuls’ry for them to be there, of course,” Nanny added. Jason glanced at the hierarchy of Oggs. Nanny didn’t have to add anything more to that sentence. Everyone knew the cat’s box sometimes needed lining. “Yes, mum. I’II tell ’em you said they didn’t have to come if they don’t want to. ” “Good boy. ” “Is it flaming torches or, you know, scythes and stuff?” “That’s always tricky,” said Nanny. “But I’d say both. ” “Battering ram, Mum?” “Er…no, I don’t think so. ” “Good! It is my door, after all,” said Magrat. “Anythin’ special for people to yell, Mum?” “Oh, general yellin’, I think. ” “Anything to throw?” “Just rocks on this occasion,” said Nanny. “Not large ones!” said Magrat. “Some of the stonework around the main gate is quite fragile. ” “Okay, nothin’ harder than sandstone, understand? And tell our Kev roll out a barrel of my Number Three beer,” said Nanny. “Better pour a bottle of brandy in it to keep out the chill. It can really strike right through your coat when you’re hanging around outside a castle chantin’ and wavin’. And get our Nev to run up to Poorchick’s and say Mrs. Ogg presents her compliments and we want half a dozen big cheeses and ten dozen eggs, and tell Mrs. Carter will she be so good as to let us have a big jar of those pickled onions she does so well. It’s a shame that we have not time to roast something, but I suppose you have to put up with that sort of inconvenience when you’re being spontaneous. ” Nanny Ogg winked at Agnes “Yes, Mum. ” “Nanny?” said Magrat, when Jason had hurried away. “Yes, dear?” “A couple of months ago, when Verence suggested that tax on liquor exports, there was a big crowd protesting in the courtyard and he said, ‘oh well, if that’s the will of the people…’” “Well, it was the will of the people,” said Nanny. “Oh. Right. Good. ” “Only sometimes they temp’ry forget what their will is,” said Nanny. “Now, you can leave young Esme next door with Jason’s wife…” “I’m keeping her with me,” said Magrat. “She’s happy enough on my back. ” “You can’t do that!” said Agnes. “Don’t you dare argue with me, Agnes Nitt,” said Magrat, drawing herself up. “And not a word out of you, Nanny. ” “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Nanny. “The Nac mac Feegle always take their babies into battle, too. Mind you, for use as a weapon if it comes to it. ” Magrat relaxed a little. “She said her first word this morning,” she said, looking proud. “What, at fourteen days?” said Nanny doubtfully. “Yes. It was ‘blup. ’” “Blup?” “Yes. It was…more of a bubble than a word, I suppose. ” “Let’s get the stuff together,” said Nanny, standing up. “We’re a coven, ladies. We’re a trio. I miss Granny as much as you do, but we’ve got to deal with things as she would. ” She took a few deep breaths. “I can’t be having with this. ” “It sounds better the way she says it,” said Agnes. “I know. ” Hodgesaargh ate his meal in the servants’ dining room off the kitchen, and ate alone. There were new people around, but Hodge-saargh generally didn’t pay much attention to non-falconers. There were always other people in the castle, and they had jobs to do, and if pressed Hodgesaargh would vaguely acknowledge the fact that if he left his laundry in a sack by the kitchen door every week, it’d be washed and dried two days later. There were his meals. The game he left on the cold slab in the long pantry got dealt with. And so on. He was returning to the mews when one of the shadows pulled him into the darkness, with a hand clamped over his mouth. “Mph?” “It’s me. Mrs. Ogg,” said Nanny. “You all right, Hodgesaargh?” “Mph,” and by this, Hodgesaargh contrived to indicate that he was fine except for someone’s thumb blocking his breathing. “Where are the vampires?” “Mph?” Nanny released her grip. “Vampires?” the falconer panted. “They the ones that walk around slowly?” “No, that’s the…food,” said Nanny. “Any swish-looking buggers about as well? Any soldiers?” There was a soft thud from somewhere in the shadows, and someone said “Blast, I’ve dropped the nappy bag. Did you see where it rolled?” “Er, there’s some new ladies and gentlemen,” said Hodge-saargh. “They’re hanging around the kitchens. There’s some men in chain mail, too. ” “Damn!” said Nanny. “There’s the little door off the main hall,” said Magrat. “But that’s always locked on the inside. ” Agnes swallowed. “All right. I’ll go in and unlock it, then. ” Nanny tapped her on the shoulder. “You’ll be all right?” “Well, they can’t control me…” “They can grab you, though. ” Vlad won’t want you hurt, said Perdita. You saw the way he looked at us… “I…think I’ll be all right,” said Agnes. “You know your own minds best, I’m sure,” said Nanny. “Got the holy water?” “Let’s hope it works better than the garlic,” said Agnes. “Good luck. ” Nanny cocked her head. “Sounds like the mob is spontaneously arriving at the gate. Go!” Agnes ran off into the rain, around the castle to the doors of the kitchen. They were wide open. She made it to the corridor beyond the kitchens when a hand grabbed her shoulder, and then in a blur of speed two young men were standing in front of her. They were dressed something like the young opera-goers she’d seen in Ankh-Morpork, except that their fancy waistcoats would have been considered far too fast by the staider members of the community, and they wore their hair long like a poet who hopes that romantically flowing locks will make up for a wretched inability to find a rhyme for “daffodil. ” “Why are you in such a hurry, girl?” one said. Agnes sagged. “Look,” she said, “I’m very busy. Can we speed this up? Can we dispense with all the leers and ‘I like a girl with spirit’ stuff? Can we get right to the bit where I twist out of your grip and kick you in the—” One of them struck her hard across the face. “No,” he said. “I’ll tell Vlad of you!” Perdita screamed in Agnes’s voice. The other vampire hesitated. “Hah! Yes, he knows me!” said Agnes and Perdita together. “Hah!” One of the vampires looked her up and down. “What, you ?” he said. “Yes, her,” said a voice. Vlad strolled toward them, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his waistcoat. “Demone? Crimson? To me, please?” The two went and stood meekly in front of him. There was a blur, and then his thumbs were back in his waistcoat and the two vampires were in mid-crumple and sinking to the floor. “This is the kind of thing we don’t do to our guests,” said Vlad, stepping over Demone’s twitching body and holding out his hands to Agnes. “Did they hurt you? Say the word, and I’ll turn them over to Lacrimosa. She’s just discovered you have a torture chamber here. And to think we thought Lancre was backward!” “Oh, that old thing,” said Agnes, weakly. Crimson was making bubbling noises. I didn’t even see his hands move, said Perdita. “Er…it’s been there for centuries…” “Oh really? She did say there weren’t enough straps and buckles. Still, she is…inventive. Just say the word. ” Say the word, Perdita prompted, That’d be two less of them. “Er…no,” said Agnes. Ah…moral cowardice from the fat girl. “Er…who are they?” “Oh, we brought some of the clan in on the carts. They can make themselves useful, Father said. ” “Oh? They’re relatives?” Granny Weatherwax would’ve said yes, Perdita whispered. Vlad coughed gently. “By blood,” he said. “Yes. In a way. But…subservient. Do come this way. ” He gently took her arm and led her back up the passage, treading heavily on Crimson’s twitching hand as he did do. “You mean vampirism is like…pyramid selling?” said Agnes. She was alone with Vlad. Admittedly, this had the edge over being alone with the other two, but somehow at a time like this it seemed vital to hear the sound of her own voice, if only to remind herself that she was alive. “I’m sorry?” said Vlad. “Who sells pyramids?” “No, I mean…you bite five necks, and in two months’ time you get a lake of blood of your very own?” He smiled, but a little cautiously. “I can see we will have a lot to learn,” he said. “I understood every word in that sentence, but not the sentence itself. I’m sure there is a lot you could teach me.
And, indeed, I could teach you…” “No,” said Agnes, flatly. “But when we—Oh, what is that moron doing now?” A cloud of dust was advancing from the direction of the kitchens. In the middle of it, holding a bucket and a shovel, was Igor. “Igor!” “Yeth, marthter?” “You’re putting down dust again, aren’t you…” “Yeth, marthter. ” “And why are you putting down dust, Igor?” said Vlad icily. “You’ve got to have dutht, marthter. It’th tradi— “Igor, Mother told you. We don’t want dust. We don’t want huge candlesticks. We don’t want eyeholes cut in all the pictures, and we certainly don’t want your wretched box of damn spiders and your stupid little whip!” In the ringing, red-hot silence Igor looked down at his feet. “…thpiderth webth ith what people ecthpect, marthter…” he mumbled. “We don’t want them!” “…the old Count liked my thpiderth…” said Igor, his voice like some little insect that would nevertheless not be squashed. “It’s ridiculous , Igor. ” “…he uthed to thay, ‘good webth today, Igor…’” “Look, just…just go away , will you? See if you can’t sort out that dreadful smell from the garderobe. Mother says it makes her eyes water. And stand up straight and walk properly!” Vlad called after him. “No one’s impressed by the limp!” Agnes saw Igor’s retreating back pause for a moment, and she expected him to say something. But then he continued his wobbly walk. “He’s such a big baby,” said Vlad, shaking his head. “I’m sorry you had to see that. ” “Yes, I think I’m sorry too,” said Agnes. “He’s going to be replaced. Father’s only been keeping him on out of sentiment. I’m afraid he came with the old castle, along with the creaking roof and the strange smell halfway up the main stairs which, I have to say, is not as bad as the one we’ve noticed here. Oh dear…look at this, will you? We turn our back for five minutes…” There was a huge and very dribbly candle burning in a tall black candlestick. “King Verence had all those oil lamps put in, a lovely modern light, and Igor’s been going around replacing them with candles again! We don’t even know where he gets them from. Lacci thinks he saves his earwax…” They were in the long room beside the great hall now. Vlad lifted the candlestick up so that the flame’s glow lit the wall. “Ah, they’ve put the pictures up. You ought to get to know the family…” The light fell on a portrait of a tall, thin, gray-haired man in evening dress and a red-lined cloak. He looked quite distinguished in a distant, aloof sort of way. There was the glimmer of a lengthened canine on his lower lip. “My great-uncle,” said Vlad. “The last…incumbent. ” “What’s the sash and star he’s wearing?” said Agnes. She could hear the sounds of the mob, far off but growing louder. “The Order of Gvot. He built our family home. Don’tgonearthe Castle, we call it. I don’t know whether you’ve heard of it?” “It’s a strange name. ” “Oh, he used to laugh about it. The local coachmen used to warn visitors, you see. ‘Don’t go near the castle,’ they’d say. ‘Even if it means spending a night up a tree, never go up there to the castle,’ they’d tell people. ‘Whatever you do, don’t set foot in that castle. ’ He said it was marvelous publicity. Sometimes he had every bedroom full by nine P. M. and people would be hammering on the door to get in. Travelers would go miles out of their way to see what all the fuss was about. We won’t see his like again, with any luck. He did rather play to the crowd, I’m afraid. Rose from the grave so often that he had a coffin with a revolving lid. Ah…Aunt Carmilla…” Agnes stared at a very severe woman in a figure-hugging black dress and deep-plum lipstick. “She was said to bathe in the blood of up to two hundred virgins at a time,” Vlad said. “I don’t believe that. Use more than eighty virgins and even quite a large bath will overflow, Lacrimosa tells me. ” “These little details are important,” said Agnes, buoyed up by the excitement of terror. “And, of course, it is so hard to find the soap. ” “Killed by a mob, I’m afraid. ” “People can be so ungrateful. ” “And this …” the light passed along the hall “…is my grandfather…” A bald head. Dark-rimmed, staring eyes. Two teeth like needles, two ears like batwings, fingernails that hadn’t been trimmed for years… “But half the picture’s just bare canvas,” said Agnes. “The family story is that old Magyrato got hungry,” said Vlad. “A very direct approach to things, my grandfather. See the reddish-brown stains just here? Very much in the old style. And here…well, some distant ancestor, that’s all I know. ” This picture was mostly dark varnish. There was a suggestion of a beak on a hunched figure. Vlad turned away, quickly. “We’ve come a long way, of course,” he said. “Evolution, Father says. ” “They look very…powerful,” said Agnes. “Oh yes. So very powerful, and yet so very, very dumb,” said Vlad. “My father thinks stupidity is somehow built into vampirism, as if the desire for fresh blood is linked to being as thick as a plank. Father is a very unusual vampire. He and Mother raised us…differently. ” “Differently,” said Agnes. “Vampires aren’t very family orientated. Father says that’s natural. Humans are raising their successors, you see, but we live for a very long time so a vampire is raising competitors. There’s not a lot of family feeling, you could say. ” “Really. ” In the depths of her pocket, Agnes’s fingers closed around the bottle of holy water. “But Father said self-help was the only way out. Break the cycle of stupidity, he said. Little traces of garlic were put into our food to get us used to it. He tried early exposure to various religious symbols—oh dear, we must have had the oddest nursery wallpaper in the world, never mind the jolly frieze of Gertie the Dancing Garlic—and I have to say that their efficacy isn’t that good in any case. He even made us go out and play during the day. That which does not kill us, he’d say, makes us strong—” Agnes’s arm whirled out. The holy water spiraled out of the bottle and hit Vlad full in the chest. He threw his arms wide and screamed as water cascaded down and poured into his shoes. She’d never expected it to be this easy. He raised his head and winked at her. “ Look at this waistcoat! Will you look at this waistcoat? Do you know what water does to silk? You just never get it out! No matter what you do, there’s always a mark. ” He looked at her frozen expression, and sighed. “I suppose we’d better get some things off our chest, hadn’t we?” he said. He looked up at the wall, and took down a very large and spiky ax. He thrust it at her. “Take this and cut my head off, will you?” he said. “Look, I’ll loosen my cravat. Don’t want blood on it, do we? There. See?” “Are you trying to tell me that you were brought up with this, too?” she said hotly. “What was it, a little light hatchet practice after breakfast? Cut your head off a little bit every day and the real thing won’t hurt?” Vlad rolled his eyes. “ Everyone knows that cutting off a vampire’s head is internationally acceptable,” he said. “I’m sure Nanny Ogg would be swinging right now. Come along, there’s a lot of muscle in those rather thick arms, I’m—” She swung. He reached around from behind her and whisked the ax out of her arms. “—sure,” he finished. “We are also very, very fast. ” He tested the blade with his thumb. “Blunt, I notice. My dear Miss Nitt, it may just be more trouble than it’s worth to try to get rid of us, do you see? Now, old Magyrato there would not have made the kind of offer we are making to Lancre. Dear me, no. Are we ravaging across the country? No? Forcing our way into bedrooms? Certainly not. What’s a little blood, for the good of the community? Of course Verence will have to be demoted a little but, let’s face it, the man is rather more of a clerk than a king. And…our friends may find us grateful. What is the point of resisting?” “Are vampires ever grateful?” “We can learn. ” “You’re just saying that in exchange for not actually being evil you’ll simply be bad, is that it?” “What we are saying, my dear, is that our time has come,” said a voice behind them.
They both turned. The Count had stepped into the gallery. He was wearing a smoking jacket. There was an armed man strolling on either side of him. “Oh dear, Vlad…playing with your food? Good evening, Miss Nitt. We appear to have a mob at the gates, Vlad. ” “Really? That’s exciting. I’ve never seen a real mob. ” “I wish your first could have been a better one,” said the Count, and sniffed. “There’s no passion in it. Still, it’d be too tiresome to let it go on all through dinner. I shall tell them to go away. ” The doors of the hall swung open without apparent aid. “Shall we go and watch?” said Vlad. “Er, I think I’ll go and powder my, I’ll just go and…I’ll just be a minute,” said Agnes, backing away. She darted down the little corridor that led to the small door, and drew the bolts. “About time,” said Nanny, hurrying in. “It’s really clammy out here. ” “They’ve gone to look at the mob. But there’s other vampires here, not just the guards! The rest must’ve come in on the carts! They’re like…not quite servants but they take orders. ” “How many are there?” said Magrat. “I haven’t found out! Vlad is trying to get to know me better!” “Good plan,” said Nanny. “See if he talks in his sleep. ” “Nanny!” “Let’s see his lordship in action, shall we?” said Nanny. “We can nip into the old guardroom alongside the door and look through the squint. ” “I want to get Verence!” said Magrat. “He’s not going anywhere,” said Nanny, striding into the little room by the door. “And I don’t reckon they’re planning to kill him. Anyway, he’s got some protection now. ” “I think these really are new vampires,” said Agnes. “They really aren’t like the old sort. ” “Then we face ’em here and now,” said Nanny. “That’s what Esme would do, sure enough. ” “But are we strong enough?” said Agnes. Granny wouldn’t have asked, said Perdita. “There’s three of us, isn’t there?” said Nanny. She produced a flask, and uncorked it. “And a bit of help. Anyone else want some?” “That’s brandy , Nanny!” said Magrat. “Do you want to face the vampires drunk ?” “Sounds a whole lot better than facin’ them sober,” said Nanny, taking a gulp and shuddering. “Only sensible bit of advice Agnes got from Mister Oats, I reckon. Vampire hunters need to be a little bit tipsy, he said. Well, I always listen to good advice…” Even inside Mightily Oats’s tent the candle streamed in the wind. He sat gingerly on his camp bed, because sudden movements made it fold up with nail-blackening viciousness, and leafed through his notebooks in a state of growing panic. He hadn’t come here to be a vampire expert. “Revenants and Ungodly Creatures” had been a one hour lecture from deaf Deacon Thrope every fortnight, for Om’s sake! It hadn’t even counted toward the final examination score! They’d spent twenty times that on Comparative Theology, and right now he wished, he really wished that they’d found time to tell him, for example, exactly where the heart was and how much force you needed to drive a stake through it. Ah…here they were, a few pages of scribble, saved only because the notes for his essay on Thrum’s Lives of the Prophets were on the other side. “…The blood is the life…vampires are subservient to the one who turned them into a vampire…allyl disulphide, active ingredient in garlic…porphyria, lack of? Learned reaction?…native soil v. important…as many as possible will drink of a victim so that he is the slave of all…‘clustersuck’…blood as an unholy sacrament…Vampire controls: bats, rats, creatures of the night, weather…contrary to legend, most victims merely become passive, NOT vampires…intended vampire suffers terrible torments & craving for blood…socks…Garlic, holy icons…sunlight—deadly?…kill vampire, release all victims…physical strength &…” Why hadn’t anyone told them this was important ? He’d covered half the page with a drawing of Deacon Thrope, which was practically a still life. Oats dropped the book into his pocket and grasped his medallion hopefully. After four years of theological college he wasn’t at all certain of what he believed, and this was partly because the Church had schismed so often that occasionally the entire curriculum would alter in the space of one afternoon. But also— They had been warned about it. Don’t expect it, they’d said. It doesn’t happen to anyone except the prophets. Om doesn’t work like that. Om works from inside. —but he’d hoped that, just once, that Om would make himself known in some obvious and unequivocal way that couldn’t be mistaken for wind or a guilty conscience. Just once, he’d like the clouds to part for the space of ten seconds and a voice to cry out, “YES, MIGHTILY-PRAISEWORTHY-ARE-YE-WHO-EXALTETH-OM OATS! IT’S ALL COMPLETELY TRUE! INCIDENTALLY, THAT WAS A VERY THOUGHTFUL PAPER YOU WROTE ON THE CRISIS OF RELIGION IN A PLURALISTIC SOCIETY!” It wasn’t that he’d lacked faith. But faith wasn’t enough. He’d wanted knowledge. Right now he’d settle for a reliable manual of vampire disposal. He stood up. Behind him, unheeded, the terrible camp bed sprang shut. He’d found knowledge, and knowledge hadn’t helped. Had not Jotto caused the Leviathan of Terror to throw itself onto the land and the seas to turn red with blood? Had not Orda, strong in his faith, caused a sudden famine throughout the land of Smale? They certainly had. He believed it utterly. But a part of him also couldn’t forget reading about the tiny little creatures that caused the rare red tides off the coast of Urt and the effect this apparently had on local sea life, and about the odd wind cycle that sometimes kept rainclouds away from Smale for years at a time. This had been…worrying. It was because he was so very good at old languages that he’d been allowed to study in the new libraries that were springing up around the Citadel, and this had been fresh ground for worry, because the seeker after truth had found truths instead. The Third Journey of the Prophet Cena, for example, seemed remarkably like a retranslation of the Testament of Sand in the Laotan Book of the Whole. On one shelf alone he found forty-three remarkably similar accounts of a great flood, and in every single one of them a man very much like Bishop Horn had saved the elect of mankind by building a magical boat. Details varied, of course. Sometimes the boat was made of wood, sometimes of banana leaves. Sometimes the news of the emerging dry land was brought by a swan, sometimes by an iguana. Of course these stories in the chronicles of other religions were mere folktales and myth, while the voyage detailed in the Book of Cena was holy truth. But, nevertheless… Oats had gone on to be fully ordained, but he’d progressed from Slight Reverend to Quite Reverend a troubled young man. He’d wanted to discuss his findings with someone, but there were so many schisms going on that no one would stand still long enough to listen. The hammering of clerics as they nailed their own versions of the truth of Om on the temple doors was deafening, and for a brief while he’d even contemplated buying a roll of paper and a hammer of his own and putting his name on the waiting list for the doors, but he’d overruled himself. Because he was, he knew, in two minds about everything. At one point he’d considered asking to be exorcised but had drawn back from this because the Church traditionally used fairly terminal methods for this and in any case serious men who seldom smiled would not be amused to hear that the invasive spirit he wanted exorcised was his own. He called the voices the Good Oats and the Bad Oats. The trouble was, each of them agreed with the terminology but applied it in different ways. Even when he was small there’d been a part of him that thought the temple was a silly boring place, and tried to make him laugh when he was supposed to be listening to sermons. It had grown up with him. It was the Oats that read avidly and always remembered those passages which cast doubt on the literal truth of the Book of Om —and nudged him and said, if this isn’t true, what can you believe? And the other half of him would say: there must be other kinds of truth.
And he’d reply: other kinds than the kind that is actually true , you mean? And he’d say: define actually ! And he’d shout: well, actually Omnians would have tortured you to death, not long ago, for even thinking like this. Remember that? Remember how many died for using the brain which, you seem to think, their god gave them? What kind of truth excuses all that pain? He’d never quite worked out how to put the answer into words. And then the headaches would start, and the sleepless nights. The Church schismed all the time these days, and this was surely the ultimate one, starting a war inside one’s head. To think he’d been sent here for his health, because Brother Melchio had got worried about his shaky hands and the way he talked to himself! He did not gird his loins, because he wasn’t certain how you did that and had never dared ask, but he adjusted his hat and stepped out into the wild night under the thick, uncommunicative clouds. The castle gates swung open, and Count Magpyr stepped out, flanked by his soldiers. This was not according to the proper narrative tradition. Although the people of Lancre were technically new to all this, down at genetic level they knew that when the mob is at the gate the mobee should be screaming defiance in a burning laboratory or engaged in a cliffhanger struggle with some hero on the battlements. He shouldn’t be lighting a cigar. They fell silent, scythes and pitchforks hovering in mid-shake. The only sound was the cracking of the torches. The Count blew a smoke ring. “Good evening,” he said, as it drifted away. “You must be the mob. ” Someone at the back of the crowd, who hadn’t been keeping up to date, threw a stone. Count Magpyr caught it without looking. “The pitchforks are good,” he said. “I like the pitchforks. As pitchforks they certainly pass muster. And the torches, well, that goes without saying. But the scythes…no, no, I’m afraid not. They simply will not do. Not a good mob weapon, I have to tell you. Take it from me. A simple sickle is much better. Start waving scythes around and someone could lose an ear. Do try to learn. ” He ambled over to a very large man who was holding a pitchfork. “And what is your name, young man?” “Er…Jason Ogg, sir. ” “The blacksmith?” “Yessir?” “Wife and family doing well?” “Yessir. ” “Well done. Got everything you need?” “Er…yessir. ” “Good man. Carry on. If you could keep the noise down over dinner, I would be grateful, but of course I appreciate you have a vital traditional role to play. I’ll have the servants bring out some mugs of hot toddy shortly. ” He knocked the ash off his cigar. “Oh, and may I introduce you to Sergeant Kraput, known to his friends as ‘Bent Bill,’ I believe, and this gentlemen here picking his teeth with his knife is Corporal Svitz, who I understand has no friends at all. I suppose it is faintly possible that he will make some here. They and their men, who I suppose could be called soldiers in a sort of informal, easy-come easy-go, cut-and-thrust sort of way”—here Corporal Svitz leered and flicked a gobbet of anonymous rations from a yellowing molar—“will be going on duty in, oh, about an hour. Purely for reasons of security, you understand. ” “An’ then we’ll gut yer like a clam and stuff yer with straw,” said Corporal Svitz. “Ah. This is technical military language of which I know little,” said the Count. “I do so hope there is no unpleasantness. ” “I don’t,” said Sergeant Kraput. “What scamps they are,” said the Count. “Good evening to you all. Come, gentlemen. ” He stepped back into the courtyard. The gates, their wood so heavy and toughened with age that it was like iron, swung shut. On the other side of it was silence, followed by the puzzled mumbling of players who have had their ball confiscated. The Count nodded at Vlad and flung out his hands theatrically. “Ta-da! And that is how we do it—” “And d’you think you’d do it twice?” said a voice from the steps. The vampires looked up at the three witches. “Ah, Mrs. Ogg,” said the Count, waving the soldiers away impatiently. “And your majesty. And Agnes…Now…was it three for a girl. Or three for a funeral?” The stone cracked under Nanny’s feet as Magpyr walked forward. “Do you think I’m stupid, dear ladies?” he said. “Did you really think I’d let you run around if there was the least chance that you could harm us?” Lightning crackled across the sky. “I can control the weather,” said the Count. “And lesser creatures which, let me tell you, includes humans. And yet you plot away and think you can have some kind of…of duel ? What a lovely image. However…” The witches were lifted off their feet. Hot air curled around them. A rising wind outside made the torches of the mob stream flames like flags. “What happened to us harnessing the power of all three of us together?” hissed Magrat. “That rather depended on him standing still!” said Nanny. “Stop this at once!” Magrat shouted. “And how dare you smoke in my castle! That can have a very serious effect on people around you!” “Is anyone going to say ‘You’ll never get away with it’?” said the Count, ignoring her. He walked up the steps. They bobbed helplessly along ahead of him, like so many balloons. The hall doors slammed shut after him. “Oh, someone must,” he said. “You won’t get away with this!” The Count beamed. “And I didn’t even see your lips move—” “Depart from here and return to the grave whence thou camest, unrighteous revenant!” “Where the hell did he come from?” said Nanny, as Mightily Oats dropped to the ground in front of the vampires. He was creeping along the minstrel gallery, said Perdita to Agnes. Sometimes you just don’t pay attention. The priest’s coat was covered with dust and his collar was torn, but his eyes blazed with holy zeal. He thrust something in front of the vampire’s face. Agnes saw him glance down hurriedly at a small book in his other hand. “Er…‘Get thee hence, thou worm of Rheum, and vex not—’” “Excuse me?” said the Count. “‘—trouble no more the—’” “Could I just make a point?” “‘—thou spirit that troubles thee, thou’…what?” The Count took the notebook out of Oats’s suddenly unresisting hand. “This is from Ossory’s Malleus Malificarum ,” he said. “Why do you looked so surprised? I helped write it, you silly little man!” “But…you…but that was hundreds of years ago!” Oats managed. “So? And I contributed to Auriga Clavorum Maleficarum , Torquus Simiae Malificarium… the whole damn Arca Instru-mentorum , in fact. None of those stupid fictions work on vampires, didn’t you even know that?” The Count almost growled. “Oh, I remember your prophets. They were mad bearded old men with the sanitary habits of a stoat but, by all that’s crazed, they had passion ! They didn’t have holy little minds full of worry and fretfulness. They spoke the idiot words as though they believed them, with specks of holy foam bubbling away in the corners of their mouth. Now they were real priests, bellies full of fire and bile! You are a joke. ” He tossed the notebook aside and took the pendant. “And this is the holy turtle of Om, which I believe should make me cringe back in fear. My, my. Not even a very good replica. Cheaply made. ” Oats found a reserve of strength. He managed to say “And how would you know, foul fiend?” “No, no, that’s for demons,” sighed the Count. He handed the turtle back to Oats. “A commendable effort, none the less,” he said. “If I ever want a nice cup of tea and a bun and possibly also a cheery singsong, I will be sure to patronize your mission. But, at the moment, you are in my way. ” He hit the priest so hard that Oats slid under the long table. “So much for piety,” the Count said. “All that remains now is for Granny Weatherwax to turn up. It should be any minute now. After all, did you think she’d trust you to get it right ?” The sound of the huge iron doorknocker reverberated through the hall. The Count nodded happily. “And that will be her,” he said. “Of course it will. Timing is everything. ” The wind roared in when the doors were opened, swirling twigs and rain and Granny Weatherwax, blown like a leaf.
She was soaked and covered in mud, her dress torn in several places. Agnes realized that she’d never actually seen Granny Weath-erwax wet before, even after the worst storm, but now she was drenched. Water poured off her and left a trail on the floor. “Mistress Weatherwax! So good of you to come,” said the Count. “Such a long walk on a dark night. Do sit by the fire for a while and rest. ” “I’ll not rest here,” said Granny. “At least have a drink or something to eat, then. ” “I’ll not eat nor drink here. ” “Then what will you do?” “You know well why I’ve come. ” She looks small, said Perdita. And tired, too. “Ah, yes. The set-piece battle. The great gamble. The Weath-erwax trademark. And…let me see…your shopping list today will be…‘If I win I will expect you to free everyone and go back to Uberwald,’ am I right?” “No. I will expect you to die,” said Granny. To her horror, Agnes saw the old woman was swaying slightly. The Count smiled. “Excellent! But…I know how you think, Mistress Weatherwax. You always have more than one plan. You’re standing there, clearly one step away from collapse, and yet…I’m not entirely certain that I believe what I’m seeing. ” “I couldn’t give a damn what you’re certain of,” said Granny. “But you daren’t let me walk out of here, I do know that. ’Cos you can’t be sure of where I’ll go, or what I’ll do. I could be watching you from any pair of eyes. I might be behind any door. I have a few favors I might call in. I could come from any direction, at any time. An’ I’m good at malice. ” “So? If I was so impolite, I could kill you right now. A simple arrow would suffice. Corporal Svitz?” The mercenary gave the wave that was as good as he’d ever get to a salute, and raised his crossbow. “Are you sure ?” said Granny. “Is your ape sure he’d have time for a second shot? That I’d still be here?” “You’re not a shape-changer, Mistress Weatherwax. And by the look of it you’re in no position to run. ” “She’s talking about moving her self into someone else’s head,” said Vlad. The witches looked at one another. “Sorry, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg, at last. “I couldn’t stop meself thinking. I don’t think I drunk quite enough. ” “Oh yes,” said the Count. “The famous Borrowing trick. ” “But you don’t know where, you don’t know how far,” said Granny wearily. “You don’t even know what kind of head. You don’t know if it has to be a head. All you know about me is what you can get out of other people’s minds, and they don’t know all about me. Not by a long way. ” “And so your self is put elsewhere,” said the Count. “Primitive. I’ve met them, you know, on my travels. Strange old men in beads and feathers who could put their inner self into a fish, an insect…even a tree. And as if it mattered. Wood burns. I’m sorry, Mistress Weatherwax. As King Verence is so fond of saying, there’s a new world order. We are it. You are history—” He flinched. The three witches dropped to the ground. “Well done ,” he said. “A shot across my bows. I felt that. I actually felt it. No one in Uberwald has ever managed to get through. ” “I can do better’n that,” said Granny. “I don’t think you can,” said the Count. “Because if you could you would have done so. No mercy for the vampire, eh? The cry of the mob throughout the ages!” He strolled toward her. “Do you really think we’re like some inbred elves or gormless humans and can be cowed by a firm manner and a bit of trickery? We’re out of the casket now, Mistress Weatherwax. I have tried to be understanding toward you, because really we do have a lot in common, but now—” Granny’s body jerked back like a paper doll caught by a gust of wind. The Count was halfway toward her, hands in the pockets of his jacket. He broke his step momentarily. “Oh dear, I hardly felt that one,” he said. “ Was that your best?” Granny staggered, but raised a hand. A heavy chair by the wall was picked up and tumbled across the room. “For a human that was quite good,” said the Count. “But I don’t think you can keep on sending it away. ” Granny flinched, and raised her other hand. A huge chandelier began to swing. “Oh dear,” said the Count. “Still not good enough. Not nearly good enough. ” Granny backed away. “But I will promise you this,” said the Count. “I won’t kill you. On the contrary—” Invisible hands picked her up and slammed her against the wall. Agnes went to step forward, but Magrat squeezed her arm. “Don’t think of it as losing, Granny Weatherwax,” said the Count. “You will live forever. I would call that a bargain, wouldn’t you?” Granny managed a sniff of disapproval. “ I ’d call that unambitious,” she said. Her face screwed up in pain. “Goodbye,” said the Count. The witches felt the mental blow. The hall wavered. But there was something else, on a realm outside normal space. Something bright and silvery, slipping like a fish… “She’s gone,” whispered Nanny. “She sent her self some-where…” “Where? Where?” hissed Magrat. “Don’t think about it!” said Nanny. Magrat’s expression froze. “Oh no …” she began. “Don’t think it! Don’t think it!” said Nanny urgently. “Pink elephants! Pink elephants!” “She wouldn’t—” “Lalalala! Ee-ie-ee-ie-oh!” shouted Nanny, dragging her toward the kitchen door. “Come on, let’s go! Agnes, it’s up to you two!” The door slammed behind them. Agnes heard the bolts slide home. It was a thick door and they were big bolts; the builders of Lancre Castle hadn’t understood the concept of planks less than three inches thick or locks that couldn’t withstand a battering ram. The situation would, to an outsider, have seemed very selfish. But logically, three witches in danger had been reduced to one witch in danger. Three witches would have spent too much time worrying about one another and what they were going to do. One witch was her own boss. Agnes knew all this, and it still seemed selfish. The Count was walking toward Granny. Out of the corner of her eye Agnes could see Vlad and his sister approaching her. There was a solid door behind her. Perdita wasn’t coming up with any ideas. So she screamed. That was a talent. Being in two minds wasn’t a talent, it was merely an affliction. But Agnes’s vocal range could melt earwax at the top of the scale. She started high and saw that she’d judged right. Just after the point where bats and woodworm fell out of the rafters, and dogs barked down in the town, Vlad clapped his hands over his ears. Agnes gulped for breath. “Another step and I’ll do it louder!” she shouted. The Count picked up Granny Weatherwax as though she were a toy. “I’m sure you will,” he said. “And sooner or later you will run out of breath. Vlad, she followed you home, you may keep her, but she’s your responsibility. You have to feed her and clean out her cage. ” The younger vampire approached cautiously. “Look, you’re really not being sensible,” he hissed. “Good!” And then he was beside her. But Perdita had been expecting this even if Agnes hadn’t, and as he arrived her elbow was already well into its thrust and caught him in the stomach before he could stop it. She strode forward as he doubled up, noting that inability to learn was a vampire trait that was hard to shake off. The Count laid Granny Weatherwax on the table. “Igor!” he shouted. “Where are you, you stupid— “Yeth, marthter?” The Count spun around. “Why do you always turn up behind me like that!” “The old Count alwayth…ecthpected it of me, marthter. It’th a profethional thing. ” “Well, stop it. ” “Yeth, marthter. ” “And the ridiculous voice, too. Go and ring the dinner gong. ” “Yeth, marrrtthhter. ” “And I’ve told you before about that walk!” the Count shouted, as Igor limped across the hall. “It’s not even amusing!” Igor walked past Agnes lisping nastily under his breath. Vlad caught up with Agnes as she strode toward the table, and she was slightly glad because she didn’t know what she’d do when she got there. “You must go,” he panted. “I wouldn’t have let him hurt you, of course, but father can get…testy. ” “Not without Granny. ” A faint voice in her head said: Leave…me… That wasn’t me, Perdita volunteered. I think that was her.
Agnes stared at the prone body. Granny Weatherwax looked a lot smaller when she was unconscious. “Would you like to stay to dinner?” said the Count. “You’re going to…after all this talk, you’re going to…suck her blood?” “We are vampires, Miss Nitt. It’s a vampire thing. A little…sacrament, shall we say. ” ” “How can you? She’s an old lady!” He spun around and was suddenly standing too close to her. “The idea of a younger aperitif is attractive, believe me,” he said. “But Vlad would sulk. Anyway, blood develops…character, just like your old wines. She won’t be killed. Not as such. At her time of life I should welcome a little immortality. ” “But she hates vampires!” “This may present her with a problem when she comes around, since she will be a rather subservient one. Oh dear…” The Count reached down and picked up Oats from under the table by one arm. “What a bloodless performance. I remember Omnians when they were full of certainty and fire and led by men who were courageous and unforgiving, albeit quite unbelievably insane. How they would despair of all this milk and water stuff. Take him away with you, please. ” “Shall I see you again tomorrow?” said Vlad, proving to Agnes that males of every species could possess a stupidity gene. “You won’t be able to turn her into a vampire!” she said, ignoring him. “She won’t be able to help it,” said the Count. “It’s in the blood, if we choose to put it there. ” “She’ll resist. ” “That would be worth seeing. ” The Count dropped Oats onto the floor again. “Now go away, Miss Nitt. Take your soggy priest. Tomorrow, well, you can have your old witch back. But she’ll be ours. There’s a hierarchy. Everyone knows that…who knows anything about vampires. ” Behind him Oats was being sick. Agnes thought of the hollow-eyed people now working in the castle. No one deserved that. She grabbed the priest by the back of his jacket and held him like a bag. “ Goodbye , Miss Nitt,” said the Count. She hauled the limp Oats to the main doors. Now it was raining hard outside, great heavy unmerciful rain slanting out of the sky like steel rods. She kept close to the wall for the slight shelter that this gave and propped him up under the gush from a gargoyle. He shuddered. “Oh, that poor old woman,” he moaned, slumping forward so that a flattened star of rain poured off his head. “Yes,” said Agnes. The other two had run off. They’d shared a thought—and Perdita had too. They’d all felt the shock as Granny set her mind free and…well, the baby was even called Esme, wasn’t she? But…she couldn’t have imagined Granny’s voice in her head. She had to be somewhere close… “I really made a terrible mess of it, didn’t I,” said Oats. “Yes,” said Agnes, vaguely. No, lending her self to the baby did have a sort of rightness to it, a folklore touch, a romantic ring, and that’s why Nanny and Magrat would probably believe it and that was why Granny wouldn’t do it. Granny had no romance in her soul, Agnes thought. But she did have a very good idea of how to manipulate the romance in other people. So…where else was she? Something had happened. She’d put the essence of herself somewhere for safety, and no matter what she’d told the Count she couldn’t have put it very far away. It had to be in something alive, but if it was in a human the owner wouldn’t even know it— “If only I’d used the right exorcism—” Oats mumbled. “Wouldn’t have worked,” said Agnes sharply. “I don’t think they’re very religious vampires. ” “It’s probably only once in his life that a priest gets a chance like this…” “You were just the wrong person,” said Agnes. “If a pamphlet had been the right thing to scare them away, then you’d have been the very best man for the job. ” She stared down at Oats. So did Perdita. “Brother Melchio is going to get very abrupt about this,” he said, pulling himself to his feet. “Oh, look at me, all covered in mud. Er…why are you looking at me like that?” “Oh…just an odd thought. The vampires still don’t affect your head?” “What do you mean?” “They don’t affect your mind? They don’t know what you’re thinking?” “Hah! Most of the time even I don’t know what I’m thinking,” said Oats miserably. “Really?” said Agnes. Really? said Perdita. “He was right,” mumbled Oats, not listening. “I’ve let everyone down, haven’t I? I should have stayed in the college and taken that translating post. ” There wasn’t even any thunder and lightning with the rain. It was just hard and steady and grim. “But I’m…ready to have another go,” said Oats. “You are? Why?” “Did not Kazrin return three times into the valley of Mahag, and wrest the cup of Hiread from the soldiers of the Oolites while they slept?” “Did he?” “Yes. I’m…I’m sure of it. And did not Om say to the Prophet Brutha, ‘I will be with you in dark places’?” “I imagine he did. ” “Yes, he did. He must have done. ” “And,” said Agnes, “on that basis you’d go back in?” “Yes. ” “Why?” “Because if I didn’t, what use am I? What use am I anyway?” “I don’t think we’d survive a second time,” said Agnes. “They let us go this time because it was the cruel thing to do. Dang! I’ve got to decide what to do now, and it shouldn’t be me. I’m the maiden, for goodness’ sake!” She saw his expression and added, for reasons she’d find hard to explain at the moment, “A technical term for the junior member of a trio of witches. I shouldn’t have to decide things. Yes, I know it’s better than making the tea!” “Er…I didn’t say anything about making the tea—” “No, sorry, that was someone else. What is it she wants me to do ?” Especially since now you think you know where she’s hiding, said Perdita. There was a creak, and they heard the hall doors open. Light spilled out, shadows danced in the mist raised by the driving rain, there was a splash and the doors shut again. As they closed, there was the sound of laughter. Agnes hurried to the bottom of the steps, with the priest squelching along beside her. There was already a wide and muddy puddle at this end of the courtyard. Granny Weatherwax lay in it, her dress torn, her hair uncoiling from its rock-hard bun. There was blood on her neck. “They didn’t even lock her in a cell or something,” said Agnes, steaming with rage. “They just threw her like…like a meat bone!” “I suppose they think she is locked up now, the poor soul,” said Oats. “Let’s get her undercover, at least…” “Oh…yes…of course. ” Agnes took hold of Granny’s legs, and was amazed that someone so thin could be so heavy. “Perhaps there’d be someone in the village?” said Oats, staggering under his end of the load. “Not a good idea,” said Agnes. “Oh, but surely—” “What would you say to them? ‘This is Granny, can we leave her here, oh, and when she wakes up she’ll be a vampire’?” “Ah. ” “It’s not as though people are that happy to see her anyway, unless they’re ill…” Agnes peered around through the rain. “Come on, let’s go around to the stables and the mews, there’s sheds and things…” King Verence opened his eyes. Water was pouring down the window of his bedroom. There was no light but that which crept in under the door, and he could just make out the shapes of his two guards, nodding in their seats. A windowpane tinkled. One of the Uberwaldians went and opened the window, looked out into the wild night, found nothing of interest and shuffled back to his seat. Everything felt very…pleasant. It seemed to Verence that he was lying in a nice warm bath, which was very relaxing and comfortable. The cares of the world belonged to someone else. He bobbed like happy flotsam on the warm sea of life. He could hear very faint voices, apparently coming from somewhere below his pillow. “Rikt, gi’ tae yon helan bigjobs?” “Ach, fashit keel!” “Hyup?” “Nach oona whiel ta’ tethra…yin, tan, TETRA!” “Hyup! Hyup!” Something rustled on the floor. The chair of one man jerked up into the air and bobbed at speed to the window. “Hyup!” The chair and its occupant crashed through the glass. The other guard managed to get to his feet, but something was growing in the air in front of him.
To Verence, an alumnus of the Fools’ Guild, it looked very much like a very tall human pyramid made up of very small acrobats. “Hup! Hup!” “Hyup!” “Hup!” It grew level with the guard’s face. The single figure at the top yelled: “What ya lookin’ a’, chymie? Ha’ a wee tastie!” and launched itself directly at a point between the man’s eyes. There was a little cracking noise, and the man keeled over backward. “Hup! Hup!” “Hyup!” The living pyramid dissolved to floor level. Verence heard tiny pattering feet and suddenly there was a small heavily tattooed man, in a blue pointy hat, standing on his chin. “Seyou, kingie! Awa’ echt ta’ branoch, eh?” “Well done,” Verence murmured. “How long have you been a hallucination? Jolly good. ” “Ken ye na’ saggie, ye spargit?” “That’s the way,” said Verence dreamily. “Auchtahelweit!” “Hyup! Hyup!” Verence felt himself lifted off the bed. Hundreds of little hands passed him from one to the other and he was glided through the window and out into the void. It was a sheer wall and, he told himself dreamily, he had no business drifting down it so slowly, to cries of “Ta ya! Ta me! Hyup!” Tiny hands caught his collar, his nightshirt, his bed-socks… “Good show,” he murmured, as he slid gently to the ground and then, six inches above ground level, was carried off into the night. There was a light burning in the rain. Agnes hammered on the door, and the wet wood gave away to the slightly better vision of Hodgesaargh the falconer. “We’ve got to come in!” she said. “Yes, Miss Nitt. ” He stood back obediently as they carried Granny into the little room. “She been hurt, miss?” “You do know there’s vampires in the castle?” said Agnes. “Yes, miss?” said Hodgesaargh. His voice suggested that he’d just been told a fact, and he was waiting with polite interest to be told whether this was a good fact or a bad fact. “They bit Granny Weatherwax. We need to let her lie down somewhere. ” “There’s my bed, miss. ” It was small and narrow, designed for people who went to sleep because they were tired. “She might bleed on it a bit,” said Agnes. “Oh, I bleed on it all the time,” said Hodgesaargh cheerfully. “And on the floor. I’ve got any amount of bandages and ointment, if that will be any help. ” “Well, it won’t do any harm,” said Agnes. “Er…Hodgesaargh, you do know vampires suck people’s blood, do you?” “Yes, miss? They’ll have to queue up behind the birds for mine, then. ” “It doesn’t worry you?” “Mrs. Ogg made me a huge tub of ointment, miss. ” That seemed to be that. Provided they didn’t touch his birds, Hodgesaargh didn’t much mind who ran the castle. For hundreds of years the falconers had simply got on with the important things, like falconry, which needed a lot of training, and left the kinging to amateurs. “She’s soaking wet,” said Oats. “At least let’s wrap her up in a blanket or something. ” “And you’ll need some rope, said Agnes. “Rope?” “She’ll wake up. ” “You mean…we ought to tie her up?” “If a vampire wants to turn you into a vampire, what happens?” Oats’s hands clasped his turtle pendant for comfort as he tried to remember. “I…think they put something in the blood,” he said. “I think if they want to turn you into a vampire you get turned. That’s all there is to it. I don’t think you can fight it when it’s in the blood. You can’t say you don’t want to join. I don’t think it’s a power you can resist. ” “She’s good at resisting,” said Agnes. “That good?” said Oats. One of the Uberwald people shuffled along the corridor. It stopped when it heard a sound, looked around, saw nothing that had apparently made a noise, and plodded on again. Nanny Ogg stepped out of the shadows, and then beckoned Magrat to follow her. “Sorry, Nanny, it’s very hard to keep a baby quiet—” “Shh! There’s quite a bit of noise coming from the kitchens. What could vampires want to cook?” “It’s those people they’ve brought with them,” hissed Magrat. “They’ve been moving in new furniture. They’ve got to be fed, I suppose. ” “Yeah, like cattle. I reckon our best bet is to walk out bold as brass,” said Nanny. “These folk don’t look like they’re big on original thinkin’. Ready?” She absentmindedly took a swig from the bottle she was carrying. “You just follow me. ” “But look, what about Verence! I can’t just leave him. He’s my husband!” “What will they do to him that you could prevent if you was here?” said Nanny. “Keep the baby safe, that’s the important thing. It always has been. Anyway…I told you, he’s got protection. I saw to that. ” “What, magic?” “Much better’n that. Now, you just follow me and act snooty. You must’ve learned that, bein’ a queen. Never let ’em even think you haven’t got a right to be where you are. ” She strode out into the kitchen. The shabbily dressed people there gave her a dull-eyed look, like dogs waiting to see if a whipping was in prospect. On the huge stove, in place of Mrs. Scorbic’s usual array of scoured-clean pots, was a large, blackened cauldron. The contents were a basic gray. Nanny wouldn’t have stirred it for a thousand dollars. “Just passing through,” she said, sharply. “Get on with whatever you were doing. ” The heads all turned to watch them. But toward the back of the kitchen a figure unfolded from the old armchair where Mrs. Scorbic sometimes held court and ambled toward them. “Oh blast, it’s one of the bloody hangers-on,” said Nanny. “He’s between us and the door…” “Ladies!” said the vampire, bowing. “May I be of assistance?” “We were just leaving,” said Magrat haughtily. “Possibly not,” said the vampire. “’Scuse me, young man,” said Nanny, in her soft old biddy voice, “but where are you from?” “Uberwald, madam. ” Nanny nodded, and referred to a piece of paper she’d pulled out of her pocket. “That’s nice. What part?” “Klotz. ” “Really? That’s nice. ’Scuse me. ” She turned her back and there was a brief twanging of elastic before she turned around again, all smiles. “I just likes to take an interest in people,” she said. “Klotz, eh? What’s the name of that river there? The Um? The Eh?” “The Ah,” said the vampire. Nanny’s hand shot forward and wedged something yellow between the vampire’s teeth. He grabbed her, but, as she was dragged forward, she hit him on the top of the head. He fell to his knees, clutching at his mouth and trying to scream through the lemon he’d just bitten into. “Seems an odd superstition, but there you are,” said Nanny, as he started to foam around the lips. “You have to cut their heads off, too,” said Magrat. “Really? Well, I saw a cleaver back there—” “Shall we just go?” Magrat suggested. “Before someone else comes, perhaps?” “All right. He’s not a high-up vampire, anyway,” said Nanny dismissively. “He’s not even wearing a very interestin’ waistcoat. ” The night was silver with rain. Heads down, the witches dashed through the murk. “I’ve got to change the baby!” “For a raincoat’d be favorite,” muttered Nanny. “Now?” “It’s a bit urgent…” “All right, then, in here…” They ducked into the stables. Nanny peered back into the night, and shut the door quietly. “It’s very dark,” whispered Magrat. “I could always change babies by feel when I was young. ” “I’d prefer not to have to. Hey…there’s a light…” The weak glow of a candle was just visible at the far end of the loose boxes. Igor was brushing the horses until they shone. His muttering kept time with the strokes of the brush. Something seemed to be on his mind. “Thilly voithe, eh? Thilly walk? What the hell doth he know? Jumped-up whipper-thnapper! Igor thtop thith, Igor thtop that…all thethe kidth thwanning around, trying to puth me around…there’th a covenant in thethe thingth. The old marthter knew that! A thervant ith not a thlave…” He glanced around. A piece of straw drifted to the ground. He began brushing again. “Huh! Fetch thith, fetch that…never a morthel of rethpect, oh no…” Igor stopped and pulled another piece of straw off his sleeve. “…and another thing…” There was a creak, a rush of air, the horse reared in its stall and Igor was borne to the ground, his head feeling as though it were caught in a vice.
“Now, if I brings my knees together,” said a cheerful female voice above him, “it’s very probable I could make your brains come right down your nose, But I know that ain’t going to happen, because I’m sure we’re all friends here. Say yes. ” “’th. ” “That’s the best we’re going to get, I expect. ” Nanny Ogg got up and flicked straw off her dress. “I’ve been in cleaner haylofts,” she said. “Up you get, Mr. Igor. And if you’re thinking of anything clever, my colleague over there is holdin’ a pitchfork and she ain’t much good at aiming so who knows what part of you she might hit?” “Ith that a baby thee’th carrying?” “We’re very modern,” said Nanny. “We’ve got hedge money and everything. And now we’ll have your coach, Igor. ” “Will we?” said Magrat. “Where’re we going?” “It’s a wicked night. I don’t want to keep the babby out, and I don’t know where we’d be safe near here. Maybe we can get down onto the plains before morning. ” “I won’t leave Lancre!” “Save the child,” said Nanny. “Make sure there’s going to be a future. Besides…” She mouthed something at Magrat which Igor did not catch. “We can’t be sure of that,” said Magrat. “You know the way Granny thinks,” said Nanny. “She’ll want us to keep the baby safe,” she added, loudly. “So hitch up the horses, Mr. Igor. ” “Yeth, mithtreth,” said Igor meekly. “Are you kicking my bucket, Igor?” * “No, it’th a pleathure to be commanded in a clear, firm authoritative voithe, mithtreth,” said Igor, lurching over to the bridles. “None of this ‘Would you mind…’ rubbith. An Igor liketh to know where he thtandth. ” “Slightly lopsidedly?” said Magrat. “The old marthter uthed to whip me every day!” said Igor proudly. “You liked that?” said Magrat. “Of courthe not! But it’th proper ! He wath a gentleman , whothe bootth I wath not fit to lick clean…” “But you did, though?” said Nanny. Igor nodded. “Every morning. Uthed to get a lovely thine, too. ” “Well, help us out and I’ll see you’re flogged with a scented bootlace,” said Nanny. “Thankth all the thame, but I’m leathing anyway,” said Igor, tightening a strap. “I’m thick up to here with thith lot. They thouldn’t be doing thith! They’re a dithgrathe to the thpethieth!” Nanny wiped her face. “I like a man who speaks his mind,” she said, “and is always prepared to lend a towel—did I say towel? I mean hand. ” “Are you going to trust him?” said Magrat. “I’m a good judge of character, me,” said Nanny. “And you can always rely a man with stitches all around his head. ” “Waley, waley, waley!” “Ta’ can onlie be one t’ousan!” “Bigjobs!” A fox peered cautiously around a tree. Through the rain-swept woods a man was moving at speed, while apparently lying down. He wore a nightcap, the bobble of which bounced on the ground. By the time the fox realized what was going on, it was too late. A small blue figure leapt out from under the rushing man and landed on its nose, smaking it between the eyes with his head. “Seeyu? Grich’ ta’ bones outa t’is yan!” The Nac mac Feegle leapt down as the fox collapsed, grabbed its tail with one hand and ran after the others, punching the air triumphantly. “Obhoy! We ’gan eat t’nicht!” They’d pulled the bed out into the middle of the room. Now Agnes and Oats sat on either side of it, listening to the distant sounds of Hodgesaargh feeding the birds. There was the rattle of tins and the occasional yelp as he tried to remove a bird from his nose. “Sorry?” said Agnes. “Pardon?” “I thought you whispered something,” said Agnes. “I was, er, saying a short prayer,” said Oats. “Will that help?” said Agnes. “Er…it helps me. The Prophet Brutha said that Om helps those who help one another. ” “And does he?” “To be honest, there are a number of opinions of what was meant. ” “How many?” “About one hundred and sixty, since the Schism of ten-thirty A. M. , February twenty-third. That was when the Re-United Free Chelonianists (Hubward Convocation) split from the Re-United Free Chelonianists (Rimward Convocation). It was rather serious. ” “Blood spilled?” said Agnes. She wasn’t really interested, but it took her mind off whatever might be waking up in a minute. “No, but there were fisticuffs and a deacon had ink spilled on him. ” “I can see that was pretty bad. ” “There was some serious pulling of beards as well. ” “Gosh. ” Sects maniacs, said Perdita. “You’re making fun of me,” said Oats solemnly. “Well, it does sound a little…trivial. You’re always arguing?” “The Prophet Brutha said ‘Let there be ten thousand voices,’” said the priest. “Sometimes I think he meant that it was better to argue amongst ourselves than go out putting unbelievers to fire and the sword. It’s all very complicated. ” He sighed. “There are a hundred pathways to Om. Unfortunately, I sometimes think someone left a rake lying across a lot of them. The vampire was right. We’ve lost the fire…” “But you used to burn people with it. ” “I know…I know…” Agnes saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. Steam was rising from under the blanket they’d pulled over Granny Weatherwax. As Agnes looked down, Granny’s eyes sprang open and swiv-eled from side to side. Her mouth moved once or twice. “And how are you, Miss Weatherwax?” said Mightily Oats in a cheerful voice. “She was bitten by a vampire! What sort of question is that?” Agnes hissed. “One that’s better than ‘ what are you’?” Oats whispered. Granny’s hand twitched. She opened her mouth again, arched her body against the rope and then slumped back against the pillow. Agnes touched her forehead, and drew her hand back sharply. “She’s burning up! Hodgesaargh! Bring some water!” “Coming, miss!” “Oh no…” whispered Oats. He pointed to the ropes. They were unknotting themselves, stealthily moving across one another like snakes. Granny half rolled, half fell out of the bed, landing on her hands and knees. Agnes went to pick her up and received a blow from an elbow that sent her across the room. The old witch dragged the door open and crawled out into the rain. She paused, panting, as the drops hit her. Agnes swore that some of them sizzled. Granny’s hands slipped. She landed in the mud and struggled to push herself upright. Blue-green light spilled out from the mews’s open door. Agnes looked back inside. Hodgesaargh was staring at a jamjar, in which a point of white light was surrounded by a pale blue flame that stretched well beyond the jar, and curled and pulsed. “What’s that ?” “My phoenix feather, miss! It’s burning the air!” Outside, Oats had pulled Granny upright and had got his shoulder under one of her arms. “She said something,” he said. “‘I am,’ I think…” “She might be a vampire !” “She just said it again. Didn’t you hear?” Agnes moved closer, and Granny’s limp hand was suddenly gripping her shoulder. She could feel the heat of it through her sodden dress and made out the word in the hiss of the rain. “Iron?” said Oats. “Did she say iron?” “There’s the castle forge next door,” said Agnes. “Let’s get her in there. ” The forge was dark and cold, its fire only lit when there was occasional work to be done. They pulled Granny inside, and she slipped out of their grip and landed on hands and knees on the flagstones. “But iron’s no good against vampires, is it?” said Agnes. “I’ve never heard of people using iron—” Granny made a noise somewhere between a snort and a growl. She pulled herself across the floor, leaving a trail of mud, until she reached the anvil. It was simply a great long lump of iron to accommodate the half-skilled metal-bashing occasionally needed to keep the castle running. Still kneeling, Granny grabbed at it with both hands and laid her forehead against it. “Granny, what can—” Agnes began. “Go where the others…are,” Granny Weatherwax croaked. “It’ll need three…witches if this goes…wrong…you’ll have to face…something terrible…” “What terrible thing?” “ Me. Do it now. ” Agnes backed away. On the black iron, by Granny’s fingers, little flecks of rust were spitting and jumping. “I’d better go! Keep an eye on her!” “But what if—” Oats began. Granny flung her head back, her eyes screwed shut. “Get away!” she screamed. Agnes went white.
“You heard what she said!” she shouted, and ran out into the rain. Granny’s head slumped forward against the iron again. Around her fingers red sparks danced on the metal. “Mister priest,” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “Somewhere in this place is an ax. Fetch it here!” Oats looked around desperately. There was an ax, a small double-headed one, lying by a grindstone. “Er, I’ve found one,” he ventured. Granny’s head jerked back. Her teeth were gritted, but she managed to say, “Sharpen it!” Oats glanced at the grindstone and licked his lips nervously. “Sharpen it right now, I said!” He pulled off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, took up the ax and put a foot on the wheel’s treadle. Sparks leapt off the blade as the wheel spun. “Then find some wood an’…cut a point on it. And find…a hammer…” The hammer was easy. There was a rack of tools by the wheel. A few seconds’ desperate rummaging in the debris by the wall produced a fence post. “Madam, what are you wanting me to—” “Something…will get up…presently,” Granny panted. “Make sure…you know well…what it is…” “But you’re not expecting me to behead—” “I’m commandin’ you, religious man! What do you really…believe? What did you…think it was all about? Singing songs? Sooner or later…it’s all down to…the blood…” Her head lolled against the anvil. Oats looked at her hands again. Around them the iron was black, but just a little way from her fingers there was a faint glow to the metal, and the rust sizzled. He touched the anvil gingerly, then pulled his hand away and sucked at his fingers. “Mistress Weatherwax a bit poorly, is she?” said Hodgesaargh, coming in. “I think you could certainly say that, yes. ” “Oh dear. Want some tea?” “What?” “It’s a nasty night. If we’re stopping up I’ll put the kettle on. ” “Do you realize, man, that she might get up from there a blood-thirsty vampire?” “Oh. ” The falconer looked down at the still figure and the smoking anvil. “Good idea to face her with a cup of tea inside you, then,” he said. “Do you understand what’s going on here?” Hodgesaargh took another slow look at the scene. “No,” he said. “In that case—” “’s not my job to understand this sort of thing,” said the falconer. “I wasn’t trained. Probably takes a lot of training, understanding this. That’s your job. And her job. Can you understand what’s going on when a bird’s been trained and’ll make a kill and still came back to the wrist?” “Well, no—” “There you are, then. So that’s all right. Cup of tea, was it?” Oats gave up. “Yes, please. Thank you. ” Hodgesaargh bustled off. The priest sat down. If the truth were known, he wasn’t sure he understood what was happening. The old woman had been burning up and in pain, and now…the iron was getting hot, as if the pain and the heat had been moved away. Could anyone do that? Well, of course, the prophets could, he told himself conscientiously, but that was because Om had given them the power. But by all accounts the old woman didn’t believe in anything. She was very still now. The others had talked about her as though she was some great magician, but the figure he’d seen in the hall had been just a tired, worn-out old woman. He’d seen people down in the hospice in Aby Dyal, stiff and withdrawn until the pain was too great and all they had left was a prayer and then…not even that. That seemed to be where she was now. She was really still. Oats had only seen stillness like that when movement was no longer an option. Up the airy mountain and down the rushy glen ran the Nac mac Feegle, who seemed to have no concept of stealth. Progress was a little slower now, because some of the party broke away occasionally to have a fight amongst themselves or an impromptu hunt, and in addition to the King of Lancre there was now, bobbing through the heather, the fox, a stunned stag, a wild boar, and a weasel who’d been suspected of looking at a Nac mac Feegle in a funny way. Verence saw, muzzily, that they were heading for a bank at the edge of a field, long deserted and overgrown, topped with some ancient thorn trees. The pixies stopped with a jolt when the King’s head was a few inches away from a large rabbit hole. “Danna fittit!” “G’shovitt, s’yust!” Verence’s head was banged hopefully against the wet soil once or twice. “Hakkis lugs awa’!” “Bigjobs!” One of the pixies shook his head. “Canna’ do’t, ken? Els’ y’ole carlin’ll hae oor guts fae garters…” Unusually, the Nac mac Feegle fell silent for a moment. Then one of them said, “Na one’s got tha’ much guts, right eno’. ” “An’ b’side, she’ll gi’us uskabarch muckell. We oathit. Y’canna’ cross a hag. ” “Al’ at it noo, then…” Verence was dropped on the ground. There was a brief sound of digging, and mud showered over him. Then he was picked up again and carried through a much enlarged hole, his nose brushing tree roots in the ceiling. Behind him there was the sound of a tunnel being rapidly filled in. Then there was just a bank where rabbits obviously lived, topped with thorn trees. Unseen in the wild night, the occasional wisp of smoke drifted among the trunks. Agnes leaned against the castle wall, which was streaming with water, and fought for breath. Granny hadn’t just told her to go away. The command had hit her brain like a bucket of ice. Even Perdita had felt it. There was no question of not obeying. Where would Nanny have gone? Agnes felt a pressing desire to be near her. Nanny Ogg radiated a perpetual field of It’ll-be-all-rightness. If they’d got out through the kitchens she could be anywhere … She heard the coach rattle out through the arch that led to the stables. It was just a looming shape, shrouded in spray from the rain, as it bounced across the cobbles of the courtyard. A figure by the driver, holding a sack over its head against the wind and rain, might have been Nanny. It hardly mattered. No one would have seen Agnes running through the puddles and waving. She trooped back to the arch as the coach disappeared down the hill. Well, they had been trying to get away, hadn’t they? And stealing a vampire’s coach had a certain Nanny Ogg style… Someone gripped both her arms from behind. Instinctively she tried to thrust back with her elbows. It was like trying to move against rock. “Why, Miss Agnes Nitt,” said Vlad, coldly. “A pleasant stroll to take in a little rain?” “They’ve got away from you!” she snapped. “You think so? Father could send that coach right into the gorge in a moment if he wanted to,” said the vampire. “But he won’t. We much prefer the personal touch. ” “The in-your-neck approach,” said Agnes. “Hah, yes. But he really is trying to be reasonable. So I can’t persuade you to become one of us, Agnes?” “What, someone who lives by taking life from other people?” “We don’t usually go as far as that anymore,” said Vlad, dragging her forward. “And when we do…well, we make sure that we only kill people who deserve to die. ” “Oh well, that’s all right then, isn’t it,” said Agnes. “I’m sure I’d trust a vampire’s judgment. ” “My sister can be a bit too…rigorous at times, I admit. ” “I’ve seen the people you brought with you! They practically moo!” “Oh, them. The domestics. Well? It’s not much different from the lives they would have had in any case. Better, in fact. They are well fed, sheltered—” “—milked. ” “And is that bad?” Agnes tried to twist out of his grip. Just here, there was no castle wall. There hadn’t been any need. Lancre Gorge was all the wall anyone could need, and Vlad was walking her right to the sheer drop. “What a stupid thing to say!” she said. “Is it? I understand you’ve traveled, Agnes,” said Vlad, as she struggled. “So you’ll know that so many people lead little lives, always under the whip of some king or ruler or master who won’t hesitate to sacrifice them in battle or turn them out when they can’t work anymore. ” But they can run away, Perdita prompted. “But they can run away!” “Really? On foot? With a family? And no money? Mostly they never even try. Most people put up with most things, Agnes. ” “That’s the most unpleasant, cynical—” Accurate, Perdita said.

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