‘Greebo hasn’t been home for two days,’ said Nanny Ogg, as soon as she arrived. ‘It’s not like him. I can’t find him anywhere.’
‘Cats can look after themselves,’ said Granny Weatherwax. ‘Countries can’t. I have intelligence to report. Light the fire, Magrat.’
‘Mmm?’
‘I said, light the fire, Magrat.’
‘Mmm? Oh. Yes.’
The two old women watched her drift vaguely across the moorland, tugging absently at dried-up whin clumps. Magrat seemed to have her mind on something.
‘Doesn’t seem to be her normal self,’ said Nanny Ogg.
‘Yes. Could be an improvement,’ said Granny shortly, and sat down on a rock. ‘She should of got it lit before we arrived. It’s her job.’
‘She means well,’ said Nanny Ogg, studying Magrat’s back reflectively.
‘I used to mean well when I was a girl, but that didn’t stop the sharp end of Goodie Filter’s tongue. Youngest witch serves her time, you know how it is. We had it tougher, too. Look at her. Doesn’t even wear the pointy hat. How’s anyone going to
‘The major of Lancre and a bunch of burghers. They’re not happy about the king. They want a king they can trust.’
‘I wouldn’t trust any king a burgher could trust,’ said Granny.
‘Yes, but it’s not good for anyone, all this taxing and killing folk. The new sergeant they’ve got is a keen man when it comes to setting fire to cottages, too. Old Verence used to do it too, mind, but … well …’
‘I know, I know. It was more personal,’ said Granny. ‘You felt he
‘This Felmet hates the kingdom,’ Nanny went on. ‘They all say it. They say when they go to talk to him he just stares at them and giggles and rubs his hand and twitches a bit.’
Granny scratched her chin. ‘The old king used to shout at them and kick them out of the castle, mind. He used to say he didn’t have time for shopkeepers and such,’ she added, with a note of personal approval.
‘But he was always very gracious about it,’ said Nanny Ogg. ‘And he—’
‘The kingdom is worried,’ said Granny.
‘Yes, I already said.’
‘I didn’t mean the people, I meant the kingdom.’
Granny explained. Nanny interrupted a few times with brief questions. It didn’t occur to her to doubt anything she heard. Granny Weatherwax never made things up.
At the end of it she said, ‘Well.’
‘My feelings exactly.’
‘Fancy that.’
‘Quite so.’
‘And what did the animals do then?’
‘Went away.
‘That’s just about land,’ said Granny. ‘It’s not the same as a kingdom. A kingdom is made up of all sorts of things. Ideas. Loyalties. Memories. It all sort of exists together. And then all these things create some kind of life. Not a body kind of life, more like a living idea. Made up of everything that’s alive and what they’re thinking. And what the people
‘I can see you’ve been thinking about this a lot,’ said Nanny, speaking very slowly and carefully. ‘And this kingdom wants a better king, is that it?’
‘No! That is, yes. Look—’ she leaned forward —’it doesn’t have the same kind of likes and dislikes as people, right?’
Nanny Ogg leaned back. ‘Well, it wouldn’t, would it,’ she ventured.
‘It doesn’t care if people are good or bad. I don’t think it could even
‘Yes, but,’ said Nanny wretchedly. She was becoming a bit afraid of the gleam in Granny’s eye. ‘Lots of people have killed each other to become king of Lancre. They’ve done all kinds of murder.’
‘Don’t matter! Don’t matter!’ said Granny, waving her arms. She started counting on her fingers. ‘For why,’ she said. ‘One, kings go round killing each other because it’s all part of destiny and such and doesn’t count as murder, and two, they killed for the kingdom. That’s the important bit. But this new man just wants the power. He hates the kingdom.’
‘It’s a bit like a dog, really,’ said Magrat. Granny looked at her with her mouth open to frame some suitable retort, and then her face softened.
‘Very much like,’ she said. ‘A dog doesn’t care if its master’s good or bad, just so long as it likes the dog.’
‘Well, then,’ said Nanny. ‘No-one and nothing likes Felmet. What are we going to do about it?’
‘Nothing. You know we can’t meddle.’
‘You saved that baby,’ said Nanny.
‘That’s not meddling!’
‘Have it your way,’ said Nanny. ‘But maybe one day he’ll come back. Destiny again. And you said we should hide the crown. It’ll all come back, mark my words. Hurry up with that tea, Magrat.’
‘What are you going to do about the burghers?’ said Granny.
‘I told them they’ll have to sort it out themselves. Once we use magic, I said, it’d never stop. You know that.’
‘Right,’ said Granny, but there was a hint of wistfulness in her voice.
‘I’ll tell you this, though,’ said Nanny. ‘They didn’t like it much. They was muttering when they left.’
Magrat blurted out, ‘You know the Fool, who lives up at the castle?’
‘Little man with runny eyes?’ said Nanny, relieved that the conversation had returned to more normal matters.
‘Not that little,’ said Magrat. ‘What’s his name, do you happen to know?’
‘He’s just called Fool,’ said Granny. ‘No job for a man, that. Running around with bells on.’
‘His mother was a Beldame, from over Blackglass way,’ said Nanny Ogg, whose knowledge of the genealogy of Lancre was legendary. ‘Bit of a beauty when she was younger. Broke many a heart, she did. Bit of a scandal there, I did hear. Granny’s right, though. At the end of the day, a Fool’s a Fool.’
‘Why d’you want to know, Magrat?’ said Granny Weatherwax.
‘Oh … one of the girls in the village was asking me,’ said Magrat, crimson to the ears.
Nanny cleared her throat, and grinned at Granny Weatherwax, who sniffed aloofly.
‘It’s a steady job,’ said Nanny. ‘I’ll grant you that.’
‘Huh,’ said Granny. ‘A man who tinkles all day. No kind of husband for anyone, I’d say.’
‘You—she’d always know where he was,’ said Nanny, who was enjoying this. ‘You’d just have to listen.’
‘Never trust a man with horns on his hat,’ said Granny flatly.
Magrat stood up and pulled herself together, giving the impression that some bits had to come quite a long way.
‘You’re a pair of silly old women,’ she said quietly. ‘And I’m going home.’
She marched off down the path to her village without another word.
The old witches stared at one another.
‘Well!’ said Nanny.
‘It’s all these books they read today,’ said Granny. ‘It overheats the brain. You haven’t been putting ideas in her head, have you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You
‘None of your girls is a witch,’ said Granny, also standing up.
‘They
‘I knew you when you were a gel,’ said Nanny sullenly. ‘Stuck-up, you were.’
‘At least I spent most of the time upright,’ said Granny. ‘Disgustin’, that was. Everyone thought so.’
‘How would you know?’ snapped Nanny.
‘You were the talk of the whole village,’ said Granny.
‘And you were, too! They called you the Ice Maiden. Never knew that, did you?’ sneered Nanny.
‘I wouldn’t sully my lips by sayin’ what they called you,’ shouted Granny.
‘Oh yes?’ shrieked Nanny. ‘Well, let me tell you, my good woman—’
‘Don’t you dare talk to me in that tone of voice! I’m not anyone’s good woman—’
‘
‘I’m very glad we had this little talk,’ hissed Nanny Ogg. ‘Cleared the air.’
She looked down.
‘
‘I really don’t have time for all this,’ snapped Granny, trembling. ‘I have far more important things to do.’
‘And me,’ said Nanny.
‘Good night to you.’
‘And you.’
They turned their backs on one another and strode away into the downpour.
The old woman had been a great collector of such things and, most unusually, had written them down; witches didn’t normally have much use for literacy. But book after book was filled with tiny, meticulous handwriting detailing the results of patient experiments in applied magic. Goodie Whemper had, in fact, been a research witch.
Magrat was looking up love spells. Every time she shut her eyes she saw a red-and-yellow figure on the darkness inside. Something had to be done about it.
She shut the book with a snap and looked at her notes. First, she had to find out his name. The old peel-the-apple trick should do that. You just peeled an apple, getting one length of peel, and threw the peel behind you; it’d land in the shape of his name. Millions of girls had tried it and had inevitably been disappointed, unless the loved one was called Scscs. That was because they hadn’t used an unripe Sunset Wonder picked three minutes before noon on the first frosty day in the autumn and peeled left-handedly using a silver knife with a blade less than half an inch wide; Goodie had done a lot of experimenting and was quite explicit on the subject. Magrat always kept a few by for emergencies, and this probably was one.
She took a deep breath, and threw the peel over her shoulder.
She turned slowly.
I’m a witch, she told herself. This is just another spell. There’s nothing to be frightened of. Get a grip of yourself, girl.
Magrat pulled open her back door. The thunder had passed, but now the first grey light of the new day was drowned in a steady drizzle. But it still qualified as dawn, and Magrat was determined.
Brambles tugging at her dress, her hair plastered against her head by the rain, she set out into the dripping forest.
The trees shook, even without a breeze.
Now she was using a bit of elementary magic to follow his trail, although anyone with a sense of smell could have managed it. It had led her through the damp streets and to the open gates of the castle.
She gave the guards a nod as she went through. It didn’t occur to either of them to stop her because witches, like beekeepers and big gorillas, went where they liked. In any case, an elderly lady banging a bowl with a spoon was probably not the spearhead of an invasion force.
Life as a castle guard in Lancre was extremely boring. One of them, leaning on his spear as Nanny went past, wished there could be some excitement in his job. He will shortly learn the error of his ways. The other guard pulled himself together, and saluted.
‘Mornin’, Mum.’
‘Mornin’, our Shawn,’ said Nanny, and set off across the inner courtyard.
Like all witches Nanny Ogg had an aversion to front doors. She went around the back and entered the keep via the kitchens. A couple of maids curtsied to her. So did the head housekeeper, whom Nanny Ogg vaguely recognized as a daughter-in-law, although she couldn’t remember her name.
And so it was that when Lord Felmet came out of his bedroom he saw, coming along the passage towards him, a witch. There was no doubt about it. From the tip of her pointed hat to her boots, she was a witch. And she was coming for him.
A tree tipped a load of raindrops on to her. Magrat pushed her sodden hair out of her eyes and sat down heavily on a fallen log, from which grew great clusters of pale and embarrassing fungus.
It had seemed such a lovely idea. She’d had great hopes of the coven. She was sure it wasn’t right to be a witch alone, you could get funny ideas. She’d dreamed of wise discussions of natural energies while a huge moon hung in the sky, and then possibly they’d try a few of the old dances described in some of Goodie Whemper’s books. Not actually
What she hadn’t expected was a couple of crochety old women who were barely civil at the best of times and simply didn’t enter into the spirit of things. Oh, they’d been kind to the baby, in their own way, but she couldn’t help feeling that if a witch was kind to someone it was entirely for deeply selfish reasons.
And when they did magic, they made it look as ordinary as housekeeping. They didn’t wear any occult jewellery. Magrat was a great believer in occult jewellery.
It was all going wrong. And she was going home.
She stood up, wrapped her damp dress around her, and set off through the misty woods …
… and heard the running feet. Someone was coming through them at high speed, without caring who heard him, and over the top of the sound of breaking twigs was a curious dull jingling. Magrat sidled behind a dripping holly bush and peered cautiously through the leaves.
It was Shawn, the youngest of Nanny Ogg’s sons, and the metal noise was caused by his suit of chain mail, which was several sizes too big for him. Lancre is a poor kingdom, and over the centuries the chain mail of the palace guards has had to be handed down from one generation to another, often on the end of a long stick. This one made him look like a bullet-proof bloodhound.
She stepped out in front of him.
‘Is that you, Mss Magrat?’ said Shawn, raising the flap of mail that covered his eyes. ‘It’s mam!’
‘What’s happened to her?’
‘
‘Where were you going?’ demanded Magrat.
‘To fetch our Jason and our Wane and our Darron and our—’
‘Wait a moment.’
‘Oh, Mss Magrat, suppose they try to torture her? You know what a tongue she’s got on her when she gets angry—’
‘I’m thinking,’ said Magrat.
‘He’s put his own bodyguards on the gates and everything—’
‘Look, just shut up a minute, will you, Shawn?’