A clawed hand snatched at her dress …
And three figures fell, rolling over and over in the summer bracken.
The elf was first to its feet, looking around in dazed triumph. It already had a long copper knife in its hand.
It focused on Granny, who had landed on her back. She could smell the rankness of it as it raised the knife, and she sought desperately for a way into its head …
Something flashed past her vision.
A length of rope had caught the elf’s neck, and went tight as something swished through the air. The creature stared in horror as a flatiron whirred a few feet away from its face and swung past its ear, winding around and around with increasing speed but a decreasing orbital radius until it connected heavily with the back of the elf’s head, lifting it off its feet and dropping it heavily on the turf.
Nanny Ogg appeared in Granny’s vision.
‘Cor, it doesn’t half whiff, don’t it?’ she said. ‘You can smell elves a mile off.’
Granny scrambled upright.
There was nothing but grass inside the circle. No snow, no elves.
She turned to Diamanda. So did Nanny. The girl was lying unconscious.
‘Elf-shot,’ said Granny.
‘Oh, bugger.’
‘The point’s still in there.’
Nanny scratched her head.
‘I could probably get the point out, no problem,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know about the poison … we could tie a tourniquet around the affected part.’
‘Hah! Her neck’d be favourite, then.’
Granny sat down with her chin on her knees. Her shoulders ached.
‘Got to get me breath back,’ she said.
Images swam in the forefront of her mind. Here it came again. She knew there were such things as alternative futures, after all, that’s what the future meant. But she’d never heard of alternative pasts. She could remember having just gone through the stones, if she concentrated. But she could remember other things. She could remember being in bed in her own house, but that was it, it was a house, not a cottage, but she was her, they were her own memories … she had a nagging feeling that she was asleep, right now …
Dully, she tried to focus on Nanny Ogg. There was something comfortingly solid about Gytha Ogg.
Nanny had produced a penknife.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Going to put it out of its misery, Esme.’
‘Doesn’t look miserable to me.’
Nanny Ogg’s eyes gleamed speculatively.
‘Could soon arrange that, Esme.’
‘Don’t go torturing it just because it’s lying down, Gytha.’
‘Damn well ain’t waiting for it to stand up again, Esme.’
‘Gytha.’
‘Well, they used to carry off babbies. I ain’t having that again. The thought of someone carrying off our Pewsey—’
‘Even elves ain’t that daft. Never seen such a sticky child in all my life.’
Granny pulled gently at Diamanda’s eyelid.
‘Out cold,’ she said. ‘Off playing with the fairies.’
She picked the girl up. ‘Come on. I’ll carry her, you bring Mr Tinkerbell.’
‘That was brave of you, carrying her over your shoulder,’ said Nanny. ‘With them elves firing arrows, too.’
‘And it meant less chance of one hitting me, too,’ said Granny.
Nanny Ogg was shocked.
‘What? You never thought that, did you?’
‘Well, she’d been hit already. If I’d been hit too, neither of us’d get out,’ said Granny, simply.
‘But that’s – that’s a bit heartless, Esme.’
‘Heartless it may be, but headless it ain’t. I’ve never claimed to be nice, just to be sensible. No need to look like that. Now, are you coming or are you going to stand there with your mouth open all day?’
Nanny closed her mouth, and then opened it again to say:
‘What’re you going to do?’
‘Well, do you know how to cure her?’
‘Me? No!’
‘Right! Me neither. But I know someone who might know,’ she said. ‘And we can shove him in the dungeons for now. Lots of iron bars down there. That should keep him quiet.’
‘How’d he get through?’
‘He was holding on to me. I don’t know how it works. Maybe the stone … force opens to let humans through, or something. Just so long as his friends stay inside, that’s all I’m bothered about.’
Nanny heaved the unconscious elf on to her shoulders without much effort.20
‘Smells worse than the bottom of a goat’s bed,’ she said. ‘It’s a bath for me when I get home.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Granny. ‘It gets worse, don’t it?’
* * *
What is magic?
Then there is the witches’ explanation, which comes in two forms, depending on the age of the witch. Older witches hardly put words to it at all, but may suspect in their hearts that the universe really doesn’t know what the hell is going on and consists of a zillion trillion billion possibilities, and could become any one of them if a trained mind rigid with quantum certainty was inserted in the crack and twisted; that, if you really had to make someone’s hat explode, all you needed to do was twist into that universe where a large number of hat molecules all decide at the same time to bounce off in different directions.
Younger witches, on the other hand, talk about it all the time and believe it involves crystals, mystic forces, and dancing about without yer drawers on.
Everyone may be right, all at the same time. That’s the thing about quantum.
It was early morning. Shawn Ogg was on guard on the battlements of Lancre castle, all that stood between the inmates and any mighty barbarian hordes that might be in the area.
He enjoyed the military life. Sometimes he wished a small horde would attack, just so’s he could Save the Day. He daydreamed of leading an army into battle, and wished the king would get one.
A brief scream indicated that Hodgesaargh was giving his charges their morning finger.
Shawn ignored the noise. It was part of the background hum of the castle. He was passing the time by seeing how long he could hold his breath.
He had any amount of ways of passing the time, since guard duty in Lancre involved such an awful lot of it. There was Getting The Nostrils Really Clean, that was a good one. Or Farting Tunes. Or Standing On One Leg. Holding His Breath and Counting was something he fell back on when he couldn’t think of anything else and his meals hadn’t been too rich in carbohydrates.
There were a couple of loud creaks from the door knocker, far below. There was so much rust on it now that the only way it could be coaxed into making any sound was to lift it up, which made it squeak, and then force it mightily downward, which caused another squeak and, if the visitor was lucky, a faint thud.
Shawn took a deep breath and leaned over the battlements.
‘Halt! Who Goes There?’ he said.
A ringing voice came up from below.
‘It’s me, Shawn. Your mum.’
‘Oh, hello, Mum. Hello, Mistress Weatherwax.’
‘Let us in, there’s a good boy.’
‘Friend or Foe?’
‘What?’
‘It’s what I’ve got to say, Mum. It’s official. And then you’ve got to say Friend.’
‘I’m your mum.’
‘You’ve got to do it properly, Mum,’ said Shawn, in the wretched tones of one who knows he’s going to lose no matter what happens next, ‘otherwise what’s the point?’
‘It’s going to be Foe in a minute, my lad.’
‘Oooaaaww, Mum!’
‘Oh, all right. Friend, then.’
‘Yes, but you could just be saying that—’
‘Let us in right now, Shawn Ogg.’
Shawn saluted, slightly stunning himself with the butt of his spear.
‘Right you are, Mistress Weatherwax.’
&n
bsp; His round, honest face disappeared from view. After a minute or two they heard the creaking of the portcullis.
‘How did you do that?’ said Nanny Ogg.
‘Simple,’ said Granny. ‘He knows you wouldn’t make his daft head explode.’
‘Well, I know you wouldn’t, too.’
‘No you don’t. You just know I ain’t done it up to now.’
Magrat had thought this sort of thing was just a joke, but it was true. The castle’s Great Hall had one long, one very long dining table, and she and Verence sat at either end of it.
It was all to do with etiquette.
The king had to sit at the head of the table. That was obvious. But if she sat on one side of him it made them both uneasy, because they had to keep turning to talk to each other. Opposite ends and shouting was the only way.
Then there was the logistics of the sideboard. Again, the easy option – them just going over and helping themselves – was out of the question. If kings went round putting their own food on their own plate, the whole system of monarchy would come crashing down.
Unfortunately, this meant that service had to be by means of Mr Spriggins the butler, who had a bad memory, a nervous twitch and a rubber knee, and a sort of medieval elevator system that connected with the kitchen and sounded like the rattle of a tumbril. The elevator shaft was a kind of heat sink. Hot food was cold by the time it arrived. Cold food got colder. No-one knew what would happen to ice-cream, but it would probably involve some rewriting of the laws of thermodynamics.
Also, the cook couldn’t get the hang of vegetarianism. The traditional palace cuisine was heavy in artery-clogging dishes so full of saturated fats that they oozed out in great wobbly globules. Vegetables existed as things to soak up spare gravy, and were generally boiled to a uniform shade of yellow in any case. Magrat had tried explaining things to Mrs Scorbic the cook, but the woman’s three chins wobbled so menacingly at words like ‘vitamins’ that she’d made an excuse to back out of the kitchen.
At the moment she was making do with an apple. The cook knew about apples. They were big roasted floury things scooped out and filled with raisins and cream. So Magrat had resorted to stealing a raw one from the apple loft. She was also plotting to find out where the carrots were kept.
Verence was distantly visible behind the silver candlesticks and a pile of account books.
Occasionally they looked up and smiled at each other. At least, it looked like a smile but it was a little hard to be sure at this distance.
Apparently he’d just said something.
Magrat cupped her hands around her mouth.
‘Pardon?’
‘We need a—’
‘Sorry?’
‘What?’
‘What?’
Finally Magrat got up and waited while Spriggins, purple in the face with the effort, moved her chair down towards Verence. She could have done it herself, but it wasn’t what queens did.
‘We ought to have a Poet Laureate,’ said Verence, marking his place in a book. ‘Kingdoms have to have one. They write poems for special celebrations.’
‘Yes?’
‘I thought perhaps Mrs Ogg? I hear she’s quite an amusing songstress.’
Magrat kept a straight face.
‘I … er … I think she knows lots of rhymes for certain words,’ she said.
‘Apparently the going rate is fourpence a year and a butt of sack,’ said Verence, peering at the page. ‘Or it may be a sack of butt.’
‘What exactly will she have to do?’ said Magrat.
‘It says here the role of the Poet Laureate is to recite poems on State occasions,’ said Verence.
Magrat had witnessed some of Nanny Ogg’s humorous recitations, especially the ones with the gestures. She nodded gravely.
‘Provided,’ she said, ‘and I want to be absolutely sure you understand me on this, provided she takes up her post after the wedding.’
‘Oh, dear? Really?’
‘After the wedding.’
‘Oh.’
Trust me.’
‘Well, of course, if it makes you happy—’
There was a commotion outside the double doors, which were flung back. Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax stamped in, with Shawn trying to overtake them.
‘Oooaaww, Mum! I’m supposed to go in first to say who it is!’
‘We’ll tell them who we are. Wotcha, your majesties,’ said Nanny.
‘Blessing be upon this castle,’ said Granny. ‘Magrat, there’s some doctorin’ needs doing. Here.’
Granny swept a candlestick and some crockery on to the floor with a dramatic motion and laid Diamanda on the table. In fact there were several acres of table totally devoid of any obstruction, but there’s no sense in making an entrance unless you’re prepared to make a mess.
‘But I thought she was fighting you yesterday!’ said Magrat.
‘Makes no difference,’ said Granny. ‘Morning, your majesty.’
King Verence nodded. Some kings would have shouted for the guards at this point but Verence did not because he was sensible, this was Granny Weatherwax and in any case the only available guard was Shawn Ogg, who was trying to straighten out his trumpet.
Nanny Ogg had drifted over to the sideboard. It wasn’t that she was callous, but it had been a busy few hours and there was a lot of breakfast that no-one seemed to be interested in.
‘What happened to her?’ said Magrat, inspecting the girl carefully.
Granny looked around the room. Suits of armour, shields hanging on the walls, rusty old swords and pikes … probably enough iron here …
‘She was shot by an elf—’
‘But—’ said Magrat and Verence at the same time.
‘Don’t ask questions now, got no time. Shot by an elf. Them horrible arrows of theirs. They make the mind go wandering off all by itself. Now – can you do anything?’
Despite her better nature, Magrat felt a spark of righteous ire.
‘Oh, so suddenly I’m a witch again when you—’
Granny Weatherwax sighed.
‘No time for that, either,’ she said. ‘I’m just askin’. All you have to do is say no. Then I’ll take her away and won’t bother you again.’
The quietness of her voice was so unexpected that Magrat tripped over her own anger, and tried to right herself.
‘I wasn’t saying I wouldn’t, I was just—’
‘Good.’
There was a series of clangs as Nanny Ogg lifted the silver tureen lids.
‘Hey, they’ve got three kinds of eggs!’
‘Well, there’s no fever,’ said Magrat. ‘Slow pulse. Eyes unfocused. Shawn?’
‘Yes, Miss Queen?’
‘Boiled, scrambled and fried. That’s what I call posh.’
‘Run down to my cottage and bring back all the books you can find. I’m sure I read something about this once, Granny. Shawn?’
Shawn paused halfway to the door.
‘Yes, Miss Queen?’
‘On your way out, stop off in the kitchens and ask them to boil up a lot of water. We can start by getting the wound clean, at any rate. But look, elves—’
‘I’ll let you get on with it, then,’ said Granny, turning away. ‘Can I have a word with you, your majesty? There’s something downstairs you ought to see.’
‘I shall need some help,’ said Magrat.
‘Nanny’ll do it.’
‘That’s me,’ said Nanny indistinctly, spraying crumbs.
‘What are you eating?’
‘Fried egg and ketchup sandwich,’ said Nanny happily.
‘You better get the cook to boil you, too,’ said Magrat, rolling up her sleeves. ‘Go and see her.’ She looked at the wound. ‘And see if she’s got any mouldy bread …’
The basic unit of wizardry is the Order or the College or, of course, the University.
The basic unit of witchcraft is the witch, but the basic continuous unit, as has already been indicated, is the cottage.
A witch’s cottage is a very specific architectural item. It is not exactly built, but put together over the years as the areas of repair join up, like a sock made entirely of darns. The chimney twists like a corkscrew. The roof is thatch so old that small but flourishing trees are growing in it, the floors are switchbacks, it creaks at night like a tea clipper in a gale. If at least two walls aren’t shored up with balks of timber then it’s not a true witch’s cottage at all, but merely the home of some daft old bat who reads tea leaves and talks to her cat.
Cottages tend to attract similar kinds of witches. It’s natural. Every witch trains up one or two young witches in their life, and when in the course of mortal time the cottage becomes vacant it’s only sense for one of them to move in.
Magrat’s cottage traditionally housed thoughtful witches who noticed things and wrote things down. Which herbs were better than others for headaches, fragments of old stories, odds and ends like that.
There were a dozen books of tiny handwriting and drawings, the occasional interesting flower or unusual frog pressed carefully between the pages.
It was a cottage of questioning witches, research witches. Eye of what newt? What species of ravined salt-sea shark? It’s all very well a potion calling for Love-in-idleness, but which of the thirty-seven common plants called by that name in various parts of the continent was actually meant?
The reason that Granny Weatherwax was a better witch than Magrat was that she knew that in witchcraft it didn’t matter a damn which one it was, or even if it was a piece of grass.
The reason that Magrat was a better doctor than Granny was that she thought it did.
The coach slowed to a halt in front of the barricade across the road.
The bandit chieftain adjusted his eyepatch. He had two good eyes, but people respect uniforms. Then he strolled towards the coach.
‘Morning, Jim. What’ve we got today, then?’
‘Uh. This could be difficult,’ said the coachman. ‘Uh, there’s a handful of wizards. And a dwarf. And an ape.’ He rubbed his head, and winced. ‘Yes. Definitely an ape. Not, and I think I should make this clear, any other kind of man-shaped thing with hair on.’
‘You all right, Jim?’
‘I’ve had this lot ever since Ankh-Morpork. Don’t talk to me about dried frog pills.’
The bandit chief raised his eyebrows.
Lords And Ladies Page 12
