Witches Abroad (19 page)

‘Very promising seam of coal down here,' mumbled the spokesdwarf, twiddling his hat.

‘Bet it's a long time since you've had proper dwarf bread, then,' said Granny.

The spokesdwarf's eyes misted over.

‘Baked from the finest stone-ground grit, just like mother used to jump up and down on it,' Granny went on.

A sort of collective sigh went up from the dwarfs.

‘You just can't get it down here,' said the spokesdwarf, to the ground. ‘It's the water, or something. It falls to bits after hardly any years at all.'

‘They puts
flour
in it,' said someone behind him, sourly.

‘It's worse'n that. The baker over in Genua puts dried fruit in it,' said another dwarf.

‘Well, now,' said Granny, rubbing her hands together, ‘I may be able to help you here. Could be I've got some dwarf bread to spare.'

‘Nah. Not proper dwarf bread,' said the spokesdwarf moodily. ‘Proper dwarf bread's got to be dropped in rivers and dried out and sat on and left and looked at every day and put away again. You just can't get it down here.'

‘This could be,' said Granny Weatherwax, ‘your lucky day.'

‘To be frank,' said Nanny Ogg, ‘I think the cat pissed on some of it.'

The spokesdwarf looked up, his eyes aglow.

‘Hot damn!'

Lilith stepped out from her room of mirrors. Shadowy images of herself trailed after her, fading.

Witches ought to be squashed when a farmhouse lands on them. Lilith knew that. All squashed, except for their boots sticking out.

Sometimes she despaired. People just didn't seem able to play their parts properly.

She wondered whether there was such a thing as the
opposite
of a fairy godmother. Most things had their opposite, after all. If so, she wouldn't be a
bad
fairy godmother, because that's just a good fairy godmother seen from a different viewpoint.

The opposite would be someone who was poison to stories and, thought Lilith, quite the most evil creature in the world.

Well, here in Genua was one story no-one could stop. It had momentum, this one. Try to stop it and it'd absorb you, make you part of its plot. She didn't have to do a thing. The story would do it for her. And she had the comfort of knowing that she couldn't lose. After all, she was the good one.

She strolled along the battlements and down the stairs to her own room, where the two sisters were waiting. They were good at waiting. They could sit for hours without blinking.

The Duc refused even to be in the same room as them.

Their heads turned as she came in.

She'd never given them voices. It wasn't necessary. It was enough that they were beautiful and could be made to understand.

‘Now you must go to the house,' she said. ‘And this is very important. Listen to me. Some people will be coming to see Ella tomorrow. You must let them do so, do you understand?'

They were watching her lips. They watched anything that moved.

‘We shall need them for the story. It won't work properly unless they try to stop it. And afterwards . . . perhaps I will give you voices. You'll like that, won't you?'

They looked at one another, and then at her. And then at the cage in the corner of the room.

Lilith smiled, and reached in, and took out two white mice.

‘The youngest witch might be just your type,' she said. ‘I shall have to see what I can do with her. And now . . . open . . .'

The broomsticks drifted through the afternoon air.

For once, the witches weren't arguing.

The dwarfs had been a taste of home. It would have done anyone's heart good to see the way they just sat and stared at the dwarf bread, as if consuming it with their eyes, which was the best way to consume dwarf bread. Whatever it was that had driven them to seek ruby-coloured boots seemed to wear off under its down-to-earth influence. As Granny said, you could look a long way before you found anything realer than dwarf bread.

Then she'd gone off alone to talk to the head dwarf.

She wouldn't tell the others what he'd told her, and they didn't feel bold enough to ask. Now she flew a little ahead of them.

Occasionally she'd mutter something like ‘Godmothers!' or ‘Practising!'

But even Magrat, who hadn't had as much experience, could
feel
Genua now, as a barometer feels the air pressure. In Genua, stories came to life. In Genua, someone set out to make dreams come true.

Remember some of your dreams?

Genua nestled on the delta of the Vieux river, which was the source of its wealth. And Genua was wealthy. Genua had once controlled the river mouth and taxed its traffic in a way that couldn't be called piracy because it was done by the city government, and therefore sound economics and perfectly all right. And the swamps and lakes back in the delta provided the crawling, swimming and flying ingredients of a cuisine that would have been world famous if, as has already been indicated, people travelled very much.

Genua was rich, lazy and unthreatened, and had once spent quite a lot of time involved in that special kind of civic politics that comes naturally to some city states. For example, once it had been able to afford the largest branch of the Assassins' Guild outside Ankh-Morpork, and its members were so busy that you sometimes had to wait for months.
¹⁶

But the Assassins had all left years ago. Some things sicken even jackals.

The city came as a shock. From a distance, it looked like a complicated white crystal growing out of the greens and browns of the swamp.

Closer to, it resolved into, firstly, an outer ring of smaller buildings, then an inner ring of large, impressive white houses and, finally, at the very centre, a palace. It was tall and pretty and multi-turreted, like a toy castle or some kind of confectionery extravaganza. Every slim tower looked designed to hold a captive princess.

Magrat shivered. But then she thought of the wand. A godmother had responsibilities.

‘Reminds me of another one of them Black Aliss stories,' said Granny Weatherwax. ‘I remember when she locked up that girl with the long pigtails in a tower just like one of them. Rumple-stiltzel or someone.'

‘But she got out,' said Magrat.

‘Yes, it does you good to let your hair down,' said Nanny.

‘Huh. Rural myths,' said Granny.

They drew nearer to the city walls. Then Magrat said, ‘There's guards on the gate. Are we going to fly over?'

Granny stared at the highest tower through narrowed eyes. ‘No,' she said. ‘We'll land and walk in. So's not to worry people.'

‘There's a nice flat green bit just behind those trees,' said Magrat.

Granny walked up and down experimentally. Her boots squeaked and gurgled in watery accusation.

‘Look, I
said
I'm sorry,' said Magrat. ‘It just looked so flat!'

‘Water gen'rally does,' said Nanny, sitting on a tree stump and wringing out her dress.

‘But even you couldn't tell it was water,' said Magrat. ‘It looks so . . . so
grassy
with all that weed and stuff floating on it.'

‘Seems to me the land and the water round here can't decide who is which,' said Nanny. She looked around at the miasmic landscape.

Trees grew out of the swamp. They had a jagged, foreign look and seemed to be rotting as they grew. Where the water was visible, it was black like ink. Occasionally a few bubbles would eructate to the surface like the ghosts of beans on bath night. And somewhere over in the distance was the river, if it was possible to be that sure in this land of thick water and ground that wobbled when you set foot on it.

She blinked.

‘That's odd,' she said.

‘What?' said Granny.

‘Thought I saw . . . something running . . .' muttered Nanny. ‘Over there. Between the trees.'

‘Must be a duck then, in this place.'

‘It was bigger'n a duck,' said Nanny. ‘Funny thing is, it looked a bit like a little house.'

‘Oh yes, running along with smoke coming out of the chimney, I expect,' said Granny witheringly.

Nanny brightened. ‘You saw it too?'

Granny rolled her eyes.

‘Come on,' she said, ‘let's get to the road.'

‘Er,' said Magrat, ‘how?'

They looked at the nominal ground between their reasonably dry refuge and the road. It had a yellowish appearance. There were floating branches and tufts of suspiciously green grass. Nanny pulled a branch off the fallen tree she was sitting on and tossed it a few yards. It struck damply, and sank with the noise of someone trying to get the last bit out of the milkshake.

‘We fly over to it, of course,' Nanny said.

‘You two can,' said Granny. ‘There's nowhere for me to run and get mine started.'

In the end Magrat ferried her across on her broom, Nanny bringing up the rear with Granny's erratic stick in tow.

‘I just' ope no-one saw us, that's all,' said Granny, when they'd reached the comparative safety of the road.

Other roads joined the swamp causeway as they got nearer to the city. They were crowded, and there was a long line at the gate.

From ground level, the city was even more impressive. Against the steam of the swamps it shone like a polished stone. Coloured flags flew over the walls.

‘Looks very jolly,' said Nanny.

‘Very
clean
,' said Magrat.

‘It just looks like that from outside,' said Granny, who had seen a city before. ‘When you get inside it'll be all beggars and noise and gutters full of I don't know what, you mark my words.'

‘They're turning quite a lot of people away,' said Nanny.

‘They said on the boat that lots of people come here for Fat Lunch time,' said Granny. ‘Probably you get lots of people who ain't the right sort.'

Half a dozen guards watched them approach.

‘Very smartly turned out,' said Granny. ‘That's what I like to see. Not like at home.'

There were only six suits of chain mail in the whole of Lancre, made on the basis of one-size-doesn't-quite-fit-all. Bits of string and wire had to be employed to take in the slack, since in Lancre the role of palace guard was generally taken by any citizen who hadn't got much to do at the moment.

These guards were all six-footers and, even Granny had to admit, quite impressive in their jolly red-and-blue uniforms. The only other
real
city guards she'd ever seen were those in Ankh-Morpork. The sight of Ankh-Morpork's city guard make thoughtful people wonder who could possibly attack that was worse. They certainly weren't anything to look at.

To her amazement, two pikes barred her way as she stepped under the arched gateway.

‘We're not attacking, you know,' she said.

A corporal gave her a salute.

‘No mâam,' he said. ‘But we have orders to stop borderline cases.'

‘Borderline?' said Nanny. ‘What's borderline about us?'

The corporal swallowed. Granny Weatherwax's gaze was a hard one to meet.

‘Well,' he said, ‘you're a bit . . . grubby.'

There was a ringing silence. Granny took a deep breath.

‘We had a bit of an accident in the swamp,' said Magrat quickly.

‘I'm sure it'll be all right,' said the corporal wretchedly. ‘The captain'll be here directly. Only there's all kinds of trouble if we let the wrong sort in. You'd be amazed at some of the people we get here.'

‘Can't go letting the wrong sort in,' said Nanny Ogg. ‘We wouldn't want you to let the wrong sort in. I daresay we wouldn't want to come into the kind of city that'd let the wrong sort in, would we, Esme?'

Magrat kicked her on the ankle.

‘Good thing we're the right sort,' said Nanny.

‘What's happening, corporal?'

The captain of the guard strolled out of a door in the archway and walked over to the witches.

‘These . . . ladies want to come in, sir,' said the corporal.

‘Well?'

‘They're a bit . . . you know, not one hundred per cent clean,' said the corporal, wilting under Granny's stare. ‘And one of them's got messy hair—'

‘Well!' snapped Magrat.

‘—and one of them looks like she uses bad language.'

‘What?' said Nanny, her grin evaporating. ‘I'll tan your hide, you little bugger!'

‘But, corporal, they have got brooms,' said the captain. ‘It's very hard for cleaning staff to look tidy all the time.'

‘Cleaning staff?' said Granny.

‘I'm sure they're as anxious as you are to get tidied up,' said the captain.

‘Excuse me,' said Granny, empowering the words with much the same undertones as are carried by words like ‘Charge!' and ‘Kill!', ‘Excuse me, but does this pointy hat I'm wearing mean anything to you?'