Once upon a time it had been black velvet; now it was just black. It was carefully and slowly fastened by a tarnished silver brooch.
No samurai, no questing knight, was ever dressed with as much ceremony.
Finally Granny drew herself up, surveyed her dark reflection in the glass, gave a thin little smile of approval, and left via the back door.
The air of menace was only slightly dispelled by the sound of her running up and down outside, trying to get her broomstick started.
Magrat was also regarding herself in the mirror.
She’d dug out a startlingly green dress that was designed to be both revealing and clinging, and would have been if Magrat had anything to display or cling to, so she’d shoved a couple of rolled-up stockings down the front in an effort to make good the more obvious deficiencies. She had also tried a spell on her hair, but it was naturally magic-resistant and already the natural shape was beginning to assert itself (a dandelion clock at about 2 p.m.).
Magrat had also tried make-up. This wasn’t an unqualified success. She didn’t have much practice. She was beginning to wonder if she’d overdone the eyeshadow.
Her neck, fingers and arms between them carried enough silverware to make a full-sized dinner service, and over everything she had thrown a black cloak lined with red silk.
In a certain light and from a carefully chosen angle, Magrat was not unattractive. Whether any of these preparations did anything for her is debatable, but they did mean that a thin veneer of confidence overlaid her trembling heart.
She drew herself up and turned this way and that. The clusters of amulets, magical jewellery and occult bangles on various parts of her body jingled together; any enemy wouldn’t only have to be blind to fail to notice that a witch was approaching, he’d have to be deaf as well.
She turned to her worktable and examined what she rather self-consciously, and never in Granny’s hearing, called her Tools of the Craft. There was the white-handled knife, used in the preparation of magical ingredients. There was the black-handled knife, used in the magical workings themselves; Magrat had carved so many runes into its handle it was in constant danger of falling in half. They were undoubtedly powerful, but . . .
Magrat shook her head regretfully, went over to the kitchen dresser and took out the breadknife. Something told her that at times like these a good sharp breadknife was probably the best friend a girl could have.
‘I spy, with my little eye,’ said Nanny Ogg, ‘something beginning with P.’
The ghost of the king stared wearily around the dungeons.
‘Pliers,’ he suggested.
‘No.’
‘Pilliwinks?’
‘That’s a pretty name. What is it?’
‘It’s a kind of thumbscrew. Look,’ said the king.
‘It’s not that,’ said Nanny.
‘Choke-pear?’ he said desperately.
‘That’s a C, and anyway I don’t know what it is,’ said Nanny Ogg. The king obligingly indicated it on the tray, and explained its use.
‘Definitely not,’ said Nanny.
‘Smouldering Boot of Punishment?’ said the king.
‘You’re a bit too good at these names,’ said Nanny sharply. ‘You sure you didn’t use them when you were alive?’
‘Absolutely, Nanny,’ said the ghost.
‘Boys that tell lies go to a bad place,’ warned Nanny.
‘Lady Felmet had most of them installed herself, it’s the truth,’ said the king desperately; he felt his position to be precarious enough without having any bad places to worry about.
Nanny sniffed. ‘Right, then,’ she said, slightly mollified. ‘It was “pinchers”.’
‘But pinchers is just another name for pl—’ the king began, and stopped himself in time. During his adult life he’d been afraid of no man, beast or combination of the two, but Nanny’s voice brought back old memories of schoolroom and nursery, of life under strict orders given by stern ladies in long skirts, and nursery food – mostly grey and brown – which seemed indigestible at the time but now appeared a distant ambrosia.
‘That’s five to me,’ said Nanny happily.
‘They’ll be back soon,’ said the king. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’
‘If I’m not, precisely how much help can you be?’ said Nanny.
There was the sound of bolts sliding back.
There was already a crowd outside the castle as Granny’s broomstick wobbled uncertainly towards the ground. They went quiet as she strode forward, and parted to let her pass. She had a basket of apples under her arm.
‘There’s a witch in the dungeons,’ someone whispered to Granny. ‘And foul tortures, they say!’
‘Nonsense,’ said Granny. ‘It couldn’t be. I expect Nanny Ogg has just gone to advise the king, or something.’
‘They say Jason Ogg’s gone to fetch his brothers,’ said a stallholder, in awe.
‘I really advise you all to return home,’ said Granny Weatherwax. ‘There has probably been a misunderstanding. Everyone knows a witch cannot be held against her will.’
‘It’s gone too far this time,’ said a peasant. ‘All this burning and taxing and now this. I blame you witches. It’s got to stop. I know my rights.’
‘What rights are they?’ said Granny.
‘Dunnage, cowhage-in-ordinary, badinage, leftovers, scrommidge, clary and spunt,’ said the peasant promptly. ‘And acornage, every other year, and the right to keep two-thirds of a goat on the common. Until he set fire to it. It was a bloody good goat, too.’
‘A man could go far, knowing his rights like you do,’ said Granny. ‘But right now he should go home.’
She turned and looked at the gates. There were two extremely apprehensive guards on duty. She walked up to them, and fixed one of them with a look.
‘I am a harmless old seller of apples,’ she said, in a voice more appropriate for the opening of hostilities in a middle-range war. ‘Pray let me past, dearie.’ The last word had knives in it.
‘No-one must enter the castle,’ said one of the guards. ‘Orders of the duke.’
Granny shrugged. The apple-seller gambit had never worked more than once in the entire history of witchcraft, as far as she knew, but it was traditional.
‘I know you, Champett Poldy,’ she said. ‘I recall I laid out your grandad and I brought you into the world.’ She glanced at the crowds, which had regathered a little way off, and turned back to the guard, whose face was already a mask of terror. She leaned a little closer, and said, ‘I gave you your first good hiding in this valley of tears and by all the gods if you cross me now I will give you your last.’
There was a soft metallic noise as the spear fell out of the man’s fearful fingers. Granny reached and gave the trembling man a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
‘But don’t worry about it,’ she added. ‘Have an apple.’
She made to step forward, and a second spear barred her way. She looked up with interest.
The other guard was not a Ramtopper, but a city-bred mercenary brought up to swell the ranks depleted in recent years. His face was a patchwork of scar tissue. Several of the scars rearranged themselves into what was possibly a sneer.
‘So that’s witches’ magic, is it?’ said the guard. ‘Pretty poor stuff. Maybe it frightens these country idiots, woman, but it doesn’t frighten me.’
‘I imagine it takes a lot to frighten a big strong lad like you,’ said Granny, reaching up to her hat.
‘And don’t you try to put the wind up me, neither.’ The guard stared straight ahead, and rocked gently on the balls of his feet. ‘Old ladies like you, twisting people around. It shouldn’t be stood for, like they say.’
‘Just as you like,’ said Granny, pushing the spear aside.
‘Listen, I said—’ the guard began, and grabbed Granny’s shoulder. Her hand moved so quickly it hardly seemed to move at all, but suddenly he was clutching at his arm and moaning.
Granny replaced the hatp
in in her hat and ran for it.
‘We will begin,’ said the duchess, leering, ‘with the Showing of the Implements.’
‘Seen ‘em,’ said Nanny. ‘Leastways, all the ones beginning with P, S, I, T and W.’
‘Then let us see how long you can keep that light conversational tone. Light the brazier, Felmet,’ snapped the duchess.
‘Light the brazier, Fool,’ said the duke.
The Fool moved slowly. He hadn’t expected any of this. Torturing people hadn’t been on his mental agenda. Hurting old ladies in cold blood wasn’t his cup of tea, and actually hurting witches in blood of any temperature whatsoever failed to be an entire twelve-course banquet. Words, he’d said. All this probably came under the heading of sticks and stones.
‘I don’t like doing this,’ he murmured under his breath.
‘Fine,’ said Nanny Ogg, whose hearing was superb. ‘I’ll remember that you didn’t like it.’
‘What’s that?’ said the duke sharply.
‘Nothing,’ said Nanny. ‘Is this going to take long? I haven’t had breakfast.’
The Fool lit a match. There was the faintest disturbance in the air beside him, and it went out. He swore, and tried another. This time his shaking hands managed to get it as far as the brazier before it, too, flared and darkened.
‘Hurry up, man!’ said the duchess, laying out a tray of tools.
‘Doesn’t seem to want to light—’ muttered the Fool, as another match became a fluttering streak of flame and then went out.
The duke snatched the box from his trembling fingers and caught him across the cheek with a handful of rings.
‘Can no orders of mine be obeyed?’ he screamed. ‘Infirm of purpose! Weak! Give me the box!’
The Fool backed away. Someone he couldn’t see was whispering things he couldn’t quite make out in his ear.
‘Go outside,’ hissed the duke, ‘and see that we are not disturbed!’
The Fool tripped over the bottom step, turned and, with a last imploring look at Nanny, scampered through the door. He capered a little bit, out of force of habit.
‘The fire isn’t completely necessary,’ said the duchess. ‘It merely assists. Now, woman, will you confess?’
‘What to?’ said Nanny.
‘It’s common knowledge. Treason. Malicious witchcraft. Harbouring the king’s enemies. Theft of the crown—’
A tinkling noise made them look down. A blood-stained dagger had fallen off the bench, as though someone had tried to pick it up but just couldn’t get the strength together. Nanny heard the king’s ghost swear under its breath, or what would have been its breath.
‘—and spreading false rumours,’ finished the duchess.
‘—salt in my food—’ said the duke, nervously, staring at the bandages on his hand. He kept getting the feeling that there was a fourth person in the dungeon.
‘If you do confess,’ said the duchess, ‘you will merely be burned at the stake. And, please, no humorous remarks.’
‘What false rumours?’
The duke closed his eyes, but the visions were still there. ‘Concerning the accidental death of the late King Verence,’ he whispered hoarsely. The air swirled again.
Nanny sat with her head cocked to one side, as though listening to a voice only she could hear. Except that the duke was certain that he could hear something too, not exactly a voice, something like the distant sighing of the wind.
‘Oh, I don’t know nothing false,’ she said. ‘I know you stabbed him, and you gave him the dagger. It was at the top of the stairs.’ She paused, head cocked, nodded, and added, ‘Just by the suit of armour with the pike, and you said, “If it’s to be done, it’s better if it’s done quickly”, or something, and then you snatched the king’s own dagger, the very same what is now lying on the floor, out of his belt and—’
‘You lie! There were no witnesses. We made . . . there was nothing to witness! I heard someone in the dark, but there was no-one there! There couldn’t have been anyone seeing anything!’ screamed the duke. His wife scowled at him.
‘Do shut up, Leonal,’ she said. ‘I think within these four walls we can dispense with that sort of thing.’
‘Who told her? Did you tell her?’
‘And calm down. No-one told her. She’s a witch, for goodness sake, they find out about these things. Second glance, or something.’
‘Sight,’ said Nanny.
‘Which you will not possess much longer, my good woman, unless you tell us who else knows and indeed, assist us on a number of other matters,’ said the duchess grimly. ‘And you will do so, believe me. I am skilled in these things.’
Granny glanced around the dungeon. It was beginning to get crowded. King Verence was bursting with such angry vitality that he was very nearly apparent, and was furiously trying to get a grip on a knife. But there were others behind – wavering, broken shapes, not exactly ghosts but memories, implanted in the very substances of the walls themselves by sheer pain and terror.
‘My own dagger! The bastards! They killed me with my own dagger,’ said the ghost of King Verence silently, raising his transparent arms and imploring the netherworld in general to witness this ultimate humiliation. ‘Give me strength . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Nanny. ‘It’s worth a try.’
‘And now we will commence,’ said the duchess.
‘What?’ said the guard.
‘I SAID,’ said Magrat, ‘I’ve come to sell my lovely apples. Don’t you listen?’
‘There’s not a sale on, is there?’ The guard was extremely nervous since his colleague had been taken off to the infirmary. He hadn’t taken the job in order to deal with this sort of thing.
It dawned on him.
‘You’re not a witch, are you?’ he said, fumbling awkwardly with his pike.
‘Of course not. Do I look like one?’
The guard looked at her occult bangles, her lined cloak, her trembling hands and her face. The face was particularly worrying. Magrat had used a lot of powder to make her face pale and interesting. It combined with the lavishly applied mascara to give the guard the impression that he was looking at two flies that had crashed into a sugar bowl. He found his fingers wanted to make a sign to ward off the evil eyeshadow.
‘Right,’ he said uncertainly. His mind was grinding through the problem. She was a witch. Just lately there’d been a lot of gossip about witches being bad for your health. He’d been told not to let witches pass, but no-one had said anything about apple sellers. Apple sellers were not a problem. It was witches that were the problem. She’d said she was an apple seller and he wasn’t about to doubt a witch’s word.
Feeling happy with this application of logic, he stood to one side and gave an expansive wave.
‘Pass, apple seller,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Magrat sweetly. ‘Would you like an apple?’
‘No, thanks. I haven’t finished the one the other witch gave me.’ His eyes rolled. ‘Not a witch. Not a witch, an apple seller. An apple seller. She ought to know.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Just a few minutes . . .’
Granny Weatherwax was not lost. She wasn’t the kind of person who ever became lost. It was just that, at the moment, while she knew exactly where SHE was, she didn’t know the position of anywhere else. Currently she had arrived in the kitchens again, precipitating a breakdown in the cook, who was trying to roast some celery. The fact that several people had tried to buy apples from her wasn’t improving her temper.
Magrat found her way to the Great Hall, empty and deserted at this time of day except for a couple of guards who were playing dice. They wore the tabards of Felmet’s own personal bodyguard, and stopped their game as soon as she appeared.
‘Well, well,’ said one, leering. ‘Come to keep us company, have you, my pretty.13’
‘I was looking for the dungeons,’ said Magrat, to whom the words ‘sexual harassment’ were a mere collection of syllables.
> ‘Just fancy,’ said one of the guards, winking at the other. ‘I reckon we can help you there.’ They got up and stood either side of her; she was aware of two chins you could strike matches on and an overpowering smell of stale beer. Frantic signals from outlying portions of her mind began to break down her iron-hard conviction that bad things only happened to bad people.
They escorted her down several flights of steps into a maze of dank, arched passageways as she sought hurriedly for some polite way of disengaging herself.
‘I should warn you,’ she said, ‘I am not, as I may appear, a simple apple seller.’
‘Fancy that.’
‘I am, in fact, a witch.’
This did not make the impression she had hoped. The guards exchanged glances.
‘Fair enough,’ said one. ‘I’ve always wondered what it was like to kiss a witch. Around here they do say you gets turned into a frog.’
The other guard nudged him. ‘I reckon, then,’ he said, in the slow, ripe tones of one who thinks that what he is about to say next is going to be incredibly funny, ‘you kissed one years ago.’
The brief guffaw was suddenly interrupted when Magrat was flung against the wall and treated to a close up view of the guard’s nostrils.
‘Now listen to me, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘You ain’t the first witch we’ve had down here, if witch you be, but you could be lucky and walk out again. If you are nice to us, d’you see?’
There was a shrill, short scream from somewhere nearby.
‘That, you see,’ said the guard, ‘was a witch having it the hard way. You could do us all a favour, see? Lucky you met us, really.’
His questing hand stopped its wandering. ‘What’s this?’ he said to Magrat’s pale face. ‘A knife? A knife? I reckon we’ve got to take that very seriously, don’t you, Hron?’
‘You got to tie her hands and gag her,’ said Hron hurriedly. ‘They can’t do no magic if they can’t speak or wave their hands about . . .’
‘You can take your hands off her!’
All three stared down the passage at the Fool. He was jingling with rage.
‘Let her go this minute!’ he shouted. ‘Or I’ll report you!’
Wyrd Sisters Page 12
