Witches Abroad (25 page)

Magrat shook herself. She felt a long way from home.

‘I think perhaps I might need a bit of help with this one,' she said.

‘You've got a wand,' said Ella.

‘I think there's times when you need more than a wand,' said Magrat. She stood up.

‘But I'll tell you this,' she said. ‘I don't like this house. I don't like this city. Emberella?'

‘Yes?'

‘You
won't
go to the ball. I'll make sure of that—'

She turned around.

‘I told you,' murmured Ella, looking down. ‘You can't even hear them.'

One of the sisters was at the top of the steps leading into the kitchen. Her gaze was fixed immovably on Magrat.

They say that everyone has the attributes of some kind of animal. Magrat possibly had a direct mental link to some small furry creature. She felt the terror of all small rodents in the face of unblinking death. Modulated over the menace of the gaze were all sorts of messages: the uselessness of flight, the stupidity of resistance, the inevitability of oblivion.

She knew she could do nothing. Her legs weren't under her control. It was as if commands were coming straight down that stare and into her spinal cord. The sense of helplessness was almost peaceful . . .

‘Blessings be upon this house.'

The sister spun around much faster than any human should be able to move.

Granny Weatherwax pushed open the door. ‘Oh deary me,' she thundered, ‘and lawks.'

‘Yeah,' said Nanny Ogg, crowding through the doorway behind her. ‘Lawks too.'

‘We're just a couple of old beggar women,' said Granny, striding across the floor.

‘Begging from house to house,' said Nanny Ogg. ‘Not coming directly here by any manner o' means.'

They each caught one of Magrat's elbows and lifted her off her feet.

Granny turned her head.

‘What about you, Miss?'

Ella shook her head without looking up.

‘No,' she said, ‘I mustn't come.'

Granny's eyes narrowed. ‘I suppose not,' she said. ‘We all have our path to walk, or so it is said, although not by me. Come, Gytha.'

‘We're just off,' said Nanny Ogg, brightly.

They turned.

Another sister appeared in the doorway.

‘Ye gods,' said Nanny Ogg. ‘I never saw her move!'

‘We was just going out,' said Granny Weatherwax loudly. ‘If it's all the same with you, m'lady?'

She met the stare head-on.

The air tingled.

Then Granny Weatherwax said, between gritted teeth, ‘When I say run, Gytha—'

‘I hear you,' said Nanny.

Granny groped behind her and found the teapot Magrat had just used. She weighed it in her hands, keeping the movements slow and gentle.

‘Ready, Gytha?'

‘Waitin', Esme.'

‘Run!'

Granny hurled the teapot high into the air. The heads of both sisters snapped around.

Nanny Ogg helped the stumbling Magrat out of the door. Granny slammed it shut as the nearer sister darted forward, mouth open, too late.

‘We're leaving the girl in there!' shouted Nanny, as they ran down the drive.

‘They're guarding her,' said Granny. ‘They're not going to harm her!'

‘I ain't seen teeth like those on anyone before!' said Nanny.

‘That's 'cos they ain't anyone! They're snakes!'

They reached the comparative security of the roadway and leaned against the wall.

‘Snakes?' Nanny wheezed. Magrat opened her eyes.

‘It's Lily's doing,' said Granny. ‘She was good at that kind of thing, I remember.'

‘
Really
snakes?'

‘Yeah,' said Granny darkly. ‘She made friends easily.'

‘Blimey!
I
couldn't do that.'

‘She didn't used to be able to either, for more'n a few seconds. That's what using mirrors does for you.'

‘I—I—' Magrat stuttered.

‘You're all
right
,' said Nanny. She looked up at Esme Weatherwax.

‘We shouldn't leave the girl, whatever you say. In a house with snakes walking around thinking they're human,' she said.

‘It's worse than that. They're walking around thinking they're snakes,' said Granny.

‘Well, whatever.
You
never do that sort of thing. The worst you ever did was make people a bit confused about what they was.'

‘That's because I'm the good one,' said Granny bitterly.

Magrat shuddered.

‘So are we going to get her out?' said Nanny.

‘Not yet. There's going to be a proper time,' said Granny. ‘Can you hear me, Magrat Garlick?'

‘Yes, Granny,' said Magrat.

‘We've got to go somewhere and talk,' said Granny. ‘About stories.'

‘What about stories?' said Magrat.

‘Lily is using them,' said Granny. ‘Don't you see that? You can feel it in this whole country. The stories collect round here because here's where they find a way out. She
feeds
'em. Look, she don't want your Ella to marry that Duc man just because of politics or something. That's just an . . . explanation. 'S not a
reason
. She wants the girl to marry the prince because that's what the story demands.'

‘What's in it for her?' said Nanny.

‘In the middle of 'em all, the fairy godmother or the wicked witch . . . you remember? That's where Lily is putting herself, like . . . like . . .' she paused, trying to find the right word. ‘Remember that time last year when the circus thing came to Lancre?'

‘I remember,' said Nanny. ‘Them girls in the spangly tights and the fellows pourin' whitewash down their trousers. Never saw a elephant, though. They said there'd be elephants and there wasn't any. It had elephants on the posters. I spent a whole tuppence and there wasn't a single ele—'

‘Yes, but what I'm
sayin
',' said Granny, as they hurried along the street, ‘is there was that man in the middle, you remember. With the moustache and the big hat?'

‘Him? But he didn't do anything much,' said Nanny. ‘He just stood in the middle of the tent and sometimes he cracked his whip and all the acts just went on round him.'

‘That's why he was the most important one there,' said Granny. ‘It was the things going on around him that made him important.'

‘What's Lily feeding the stories?' said Magrat.

‘People,' said Granny. She frowned.

‘Stories!' she said. ‘Well, we'll have to see about that . . .'

Green twilight covered Genua. The mists curled up from the swamp.

Torches flared in the streets. In dozens of yards shadowy figures moved, pulling the covers off floats. In the darkness there was a flash of sequins and a jingle of bells.

All year the people of Genua were nice and quiet. But history has always allowed the downtrodden one night somewhere in any calendar to restore temporarily the balance of the world. It might be called the Feast of Fools, or the King of the Bean. Or even Samedi Nuit Mort, when even those with the most taxing and responsible of duties can kick back and have fun.

Most of them, anyway . . .

The coachmen and the footmen were sitting in their shed at one side of the stable yard, eating their dinner and complaining about having to work on Dead Night. They were also engaging in the time-honoured rituals that go therewith, which largely consist of finding out what their wives have packed for them today and envying the other men whose wives obviously cared more.

The head footman raised a crust cautiously.

‘I've got chicken neck and pickle,' he said. ‘Anyone got any cheese?'

The second coachman inspected his box. ‘It's boiled bacon again,' he complained. ‘She always gives me boiled bacon. She knows I don't like it. She don't even cut the fat off.'

‘Is it thick white fat?' said the first coachman.

‘Yeah. Horrible. Is this right for a holiday feast or what?'

‘I'll swap you a lettuce and tomato.'

‘Right. What
you
got, Jimmy?'

The underfootman shyly opened his perfect package. There were four sandwiches, crusts cut off. There was a sprig of parsley. There was even a napkin.

‘Smoked salmon and cream cheese,' he said.

‘
And
still a bit of the wedding cake,' said the first coachman. ‘Ain't you et that all up yet?'

‘We have it every night,' said the underfootman.

The shed shook with the ensuing laughter. It is a universal fact that any innocent comment made by any recently-married young member of any workforce is an instant trigger for coarse merriment among his or her older and more cynical colleagues. This happens even if everyone concerned has nine legs and lives at the bottom of an ocean of ammonia on a huge cold planet. It's just one of those things.

‘You make the most of it,' said the second coachman gloomily, when they'd settled down again. ‘It starts off kisses and cake and them cutting the crusts off, and next thing you know it's down to tongue pie, cold bum and the copper stick.'

‘The way I see it,' the first coachman began, ‘it's all about the way you—'

There was a knocking at the door.

The underfootman, being the junior member, got up and opened it.

‘It's an old crone,' he said. ‘What do you want, old crone?'

‘Fancy a drink?' said Nanny Ogg. She held up a jug over which hung a perceptible haze of evaporating alcohol, and blew a paper squeaker.

‘What?' said the footman.

‘Shame for you lads to be working. It's a holiday! Whoopee!'

‘What's going on?' the senior coachman began, and then he entered the cloud of alcohol. ‘Gods! What is that
stuff
?'

‘Smells like rum, Mr Travis.'

The senior coachman hesitated. From the streets came music and laughter as the first of the processions got under way. Fireworks popped across the sky. It wasn't a night to be without just a sip of alcohol.

‘What a nice old lady,' he said.

Nanny Ogg waved the jug again. ‘Up your eye!' she said. ‘Mud in your bottom!'

What might be called the
classical
witch comes in two basic varieties, the complicated and the simple, or, to put it another way, the ones that have a room full of regalia and the ones that don't. Magrat was by inclination one of the former sort. For example, take magical knives. She had a complete collection of magical knives, all with the appropriate coloured handles and complicated runes all over them.

It had taken many years under the tutelage of Granny Weatherwax for Magrat to learn that the common kitchen breadknife was better than the most ornate of magic knives. It could do all that the magical knife could do, plus you could also use it to cut bread.

Every established kitchen has one ancient knife, its handle worn thin, its blade curved like a banana, and so inexplicably sharp that reaching into the drawer at night is like bobbing for apples in a piranha tank.

Magrat had hers stuck in her belt. Currently she was thirty feet above the ground, one hand holding on to her broomstick, the other on to a drainpipe, both legs dangling. Housebreaking ought to be easy, when you had a broomstick. But this did not appear to be the case.

Finally she got both legs around the pipe and a firm grip on a timely gargoyle. She waggled the knife in between the two halves of the window and lifted the latch. After a certain amount of grunting, she was inside, leaning against the wall and panting. Blue lights flashed in front of her eyes, echoing the fireworks that laced the night outside.

Granny had kept on asking her if she was sure she wanted to do this. And she was amazed to find that she
was
sure. Even if the snake women were already wandering around the house. Being a witch meant going into places you didn't want to go.

She opened her eyes.

There was the dress, in the middle of the floor, on a dressmaker's dummy.

A Klatchian Candle burst over Genua. Green and red stars exploded in the velvet darkness, and lit up the gems and silks in front of Magrat.

It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She crept forward, her mouth dry.

Warm mists rolled through the swamp.

Mrs Gogol stirred the cauldron.

‘What are they doing?' said Saturday.

‘Stopping the story,' she said. ‘Or . . . maybe not . . .'

She stood up.

‘One way or another, it's our time now. Let's go to the clearing.'

She looked at Saturday's face.

‘Are you frightened?'

‘I . . . know what will happen afterwards,' said the zombie. ‘Even if we win.'

‘We both do. But we've had twelve years.'

‘Yes. We've had twelve years.'

‘And Ella will rule the city.'

‘Yes.'

In the coachmen's shed Nanny Ogg and the coachmen were getting along, as she put it, like a maison en flambé.

The underfootman smiled vaguely at the wall, and slumped forward.

‘That's youngpipple today,' said the head coachmen, trying to fish his wig out of his mug. ‘Can't hold their drin . . . their drine . . . stuff . . .'

‘Have a hair of the dog, Mr Travis?' said Nanny, filling the mug. ‘Or scale of the alligator or whatever you call it in these parts.'