'What's a Zen?' he said.
The Fool's bells tinkled as he sorted through his cards. Without thinking, he said: 'Oh, a sub-sect of the Turnwise Klatch philosophical system of Sumtin, noted for its simple austerity and the offer of personal tranquillity and wholeness achieved through meditation and breathing techniques; an interesting aspect is the asking of apparently nonsensical questions in order to widen the doors of perception.'
'How's that again?' said the cook suspiciously. He was on edge. When he'd taken the breakfast up to the Great Hall he'd kept getting the feeling that something was trying to take the tray out of his hands. And as if that wasn't bad enough, this new duke had sent him back for . . . He shuddered. Oatmeal! And a runny boiled egg! The cook was too old for this sort of thing. He was set in his ways. He was a cook in the real feudal tradition. If it didn't have an apple in its mouth and you couldn't roast it, he didn't want to serve it.
The Fool hesitated with a card in his hand, suppressed his panic and thought quickly.
'I'faith, nuncle,' he squeaked, 'thou't more full of questions than a martlebury is of mizzensails.'
The cook relaxed.
'Well, okay,' he said, not entirely satisfied. The Fool lost the next three hands, just to be on the safe side.
The porter, meanwhile, unfastened the hatch in the wicket gate and peered out.
'Who dost knock without?' he growled.
The soldier, drenched and terrified though he was, hesitated.
'Without? Without what?' he said.
'If you're going to bugger about, you can bloody well stay without all day,' said the porter calmly.
'No! I must see the duke upon the instant!' shouted the guard. 'Witches are abroad!'
The porter was about to come back with, 'Good time of year for it', or 'Wish I was, too', but stopped when he saw the man's face. It wasn't the face of a man who would enter into the spirit of the thing. It was the look of someone who had seen things a decent man shouldn't wot of . . .
'Witches?' said Lord Felmet. 'Witches!' said the duchess.
In the draughty corridors, a voice as faint as the wind in distant keyholes said, with a note of hope, 'Witches!'
The psychically inclined ...
'It's meddling, that's what it is,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'And no good will come of it.'
'It's very romantic,' said Magrat breathily, and heaved a sigh.
'Goochy goo,' said Nanny Ogg.
'Anyway,' said Magrat, 'you killed that horrid man!'
'I never did. I just encouraged . . . things to take their course.' Granny Weatherwax frowned. 'He didn't have no respect. Once people lose their respect, it means trouble.'
'Izzy wizzy wazzy, den.' ,
'That other man brought him out here to save him!' shouted Magrat. 'He wanted us to keep him safe! It's obvious! It's destiny!'
'Oh, obvious,' said Granny. 'I'll grant you it's obvious. Trouble is, just because things are obvious doesn't mean they're true.'
She weighed the crown in her hands. It felt very heavy, in a way that went beyond mere pounds and ounces.
'Yes, but the point is—' Magrat began.
'The point is,' said Granny, 'that people are going to come looking. Serious people. Serious looking. Pull-down-the-walls and burn-off-the-thatch looking. And—'
'Howsa boy, den?'
'—And, Gytha , I'm sure we'll all be a lot happier if you'd stop gurgling like that!' Granny snapped. She could feel her nerves coming on. Her nerves always played up when she was unsure about things. Besides, they had retired to Magrat's cottage, and the decor was getting to her, because Magrat believed in Nature's wisdom and elves and the healing power of colours and the cycle of the seasons and a lot of other things Granny Weatherwax didn't have any truck with.
'You're not after telling me how to look after a child,' snapped Nanny Ogg mildly. 'And me with fifteen of my own?'
'I'm just saying that we ought to think about it,' said Granny.
The other two watched her for some time. 'Well?' said Magrat.
Granny's fingers drummed on the edge of the crown. She frowned.
'First, we've got to take him away from here,' she said, and held up a hand. 'No, Gytha, I'm sure your cottage is ideal and everything, but it's not safe. He's got to be somewhere away from here, a long way away, where no-one knows who he is. And then there's this.' She tossed the crown from hand to hand.
'Oh, that's easy,' said Magrat. 'I mean, you just hide it under a stone or something. That's easy. Much easier than babies.'
'It ain't,' said Granny. The reason being, the country's full of babies and they all look the same, but I don't reckon there's many crowns. They have this way of being found, anyway. They kind of call out to people's minds. If you bunged it under a stone up here, in a week's time it'd get itself discovered by accident. You mark my words.'
'It's true, is that,' said Nanny Ogg, earnestly. 'How many times have you thrown a magic ring into the deepest depths of the ocean and then, when you get home and have a nice bit of turbot for your tea, there it is?'
They considered this in silence.
'Never,' said Granny irritably. 'And nor have you. Anyway, he might want it back. If it's rightfully his, that is. Kings set a lot of store by crowns. Really, Gytha, sometimes you say the most—'
'I'll just make some tea, shall I?' said Magrat brightly, and disappeared into the scullery.
The two elderly witches sat on either side of the table in polite and prickly silence. Finally Nanny Ogg said, 'She done it up nice, hasn't she? Flowers and everything. What are them things on the walls?'
'Sigils,' said Granny sourly. 'Or some such.'
'Fancy,' said Nanny Ogg, politely. 'And all them robes and wands and things too.'
'Modern,' said Granny Weatherwax, with a sniff. 'When I was a gel, we had a lump of wax and a couple of pins and had to be content. We had to make our own enchantment in them days.'
'Ah, well, we've all passed a lot of water since then,' said Nanny Ogg sagely. She gave the baby a comforting jiggle.
Granny Weatherwax sniffed. Nanny Ogg had been married three times and ruled a tribe of children and grandchildren all over the kingdom. Certainly, it was not actually forbidden for witches to get married. Granny had to concede that, but reluctantly. Very reluctantly. She sniffed again, disapprovingly; this was a mistake.
'What's that smell?' she snapped.
'Ah,' said Nanny Ogg, carefully repositioning the baby. 'I expect I'll just go and see if Magrat has any clean rags, shall I?'
And now Granny was left alone. She felt embarrassed, as one always does when left alone in someone else's room, and fought the urge to get up and inspect the books on the shelf over the sideboard or examine the mantelpiece for dust. She turned the crown round and round in her hands. Again, it gave the impression of being bigger and heavier than it actually was.
She caught sight of the mirror over the mantelpiece and looked down at the crown. It was tempting. It was practically begging her to try it for size. Well, and why not? She made sure that the others weren't around and then, in one movement, whipped off her hat and placed the crown on her head.
It seemed to fit. Granny drew herself up proudly, and waved a hand imperiously in the general direction of the hearth.
'Jolly well do this,' she said. She beckoned arrogantly at the grandfather clock. 'Chop his head off, what ho,' she commanded. She smiled grimly.
And froze as she heard the screams, and the thunder of horses, and the deadly whisper of arrows and the damp, solid sound of spears in flesh. Charge after charge echoed across her skull. Sword met shield, or sword, or bone -relentlessly. Years streamed across her mind in the space of a second. There were times when she lay among the dead, or hanging from the branch of a tree; but always there were hands that would pick her up again, and place her on a velvet cushion ...
Granny very carefully lifted the crown off her head – it was an effort, it didn't like it much – and laid it on the table.
'So that's being a kin
g for you, is it?' she said softly. 'I wonder why they all want the job?'
'Do you take sugar?' said Magrat, behind her.
'You'd have to be a born fool to be a king,' said Granny.
'Sorry?'
Granny turned. 'Didn't see you come in,' she said. 'What was it you said?'
'Sugar in your tea?'
'Three spoons,' said Granny promptly. It was one of the few sorrows of Granny Weatherwax's life that, despite all her efforts, she'd arrived at the peak of her career with a complexion like a rosy apple and all her teeth. No amount of charms could persuade a wart to take root on her handsome if slightly equine features, and vast intakes of sugar only served to give her boundless energy. A wizard she'd consulted had explained it was on account of her having a metabolism, which at least allowed her to feel vaguely superior to Nanny Ogg, who she suspected had never even seen one.
Magrat dutifully dug out three heaped ones. It would be nice, she thought wistfully, if someone could say 'thank you' occasionally.
She became aware that the crown was staring at her.
'You can feel it, can you?' said Granny. 'I said, didn't I? Crowns call out!'
'It's horrible.'
'No, no. It's just being what it is. It can't help it.'
'But it's magic!'
'It's just being what it is,' Granny repeated.
'It's trying to get me to try it on,' said Magrat, her hand hovering.
'It does that, yes.'
'But I shall be strong,' said Magrat.
'So I should think,' said Granny, her expression suddenly curiously wooden. 'What's Gytha doing?'
'She's giving the baby a wash in the sink,' said Magrat vaguely. 'How can we hide something like this? What'd happen if we buried it really deeply somewhere?'
'A badger'd dig it up,' said Granny wearily. 'Or someone'd go prospecting for gold or something. Or a tree'd tangle its roots around it and then be blown over in a storm, and then someone'd pick it up and put it on—'
'Unless they were as strong-minded as us,' Magrat pointed out.
'Unless that, of course,' said Granny, staring at her finger-nails. Though the thing with crowns is, it isn't the putting them on that's the problem, it's the taking them off.'
Magrat picked it up and turned it over in her hands.
'It's not as though it even looks much like a crown,' she said.
'You've seen a lot, I expect,' said Granny. 'You'd be an expert on them, naturally.'
'Seen a fair few. They've got a lot more jewels on them, and cloth bits in the middle,' said Magrat defiantly. 'This is just a thin little thing—'
'Magrat Garlick!'
'I have. When I was being trained up by Goodie Whemper—'
'—may sherestinpeace—'
'—maysherestinpeace, she used to take me over to Razorback or into Lancre whenever the strolling players were in town. She was very keen on the theatre. They've got more crowns than you can shake a stick at although, mind—' she paused – 'Goodie did say they're made of tin and paper and stuff. And just glass for the jewels. But they look more realler than this one. Do you think that's strange?'
'Things that try to look like things often do look more like things than things. Well-known fact,' said Granny. 'But I don't hold with encouraging it. What do they stroll about playing, then, in these crowns?'
'You don't know about the theatre?' said Magrat.
Granny Weatherwax, who never declared her ignorance of anything, didn't hesitate. 'Oh, yes,' she said. 'It's one of them style of things, then, is it?'
'Goodie Whemper said it held a mirror up to life,' said Magrat. 'She said it always cheered her up.'
'I expect it would,' said Granny, striking out. 'Played properly, at any rate. Good people, are they, these theatre players?'
'I think so.'
'And they stroll around the country, you say?' said Granny thoughtfully, looking towards the scullery door.
'All over the place. There's a troupe in Lancre now, I heard. I haven't been because, you know.' Magrat looked down. ' 'Tis not right, a woman going into such places by herself.'
Granny nodded. She thoroughly approved of such sentiments so long as there was, of course, no suggestion that they applied to her.
She drummed her fingers on Magrat's tablecloth.
'Right,' she said. 'And why not? Go and tell Gytha to wrap the baby up well. It's a long time since I heard a theatre played properly.'
Magrat was entranced, as usual. The theatre was no more than some lengths of painted sacking, a plank stage laid over a few barrels, and half a dozen benches set out in the village square. But at the same time it had also managed to become The Castle, Another Part of the Castle, The Same Part A Little Later, The Battlefield and now it was A Road Outside the City. The afternoon would have been perfect if it wasn't for Granny Weatherwax.
After several piercing glares at the three-man orchestra to see if she could work out which instrument the theatre was, the old witch had finally paid attention to the stage, and it was beginning to become apparent to Magrat that there were certain fundamental aspects of the theatre that Granny had not yet grasped.
She was currently bouncing up and down on her stool with rage.
'He's killed him,' she hissed. 'Why isn't anyone doing anything about it? He's killed him! And right up there in front of everyone!'
Magrat held on desperately to her colleague's arm as she struggled to get to her feet.
'It's all right,' she whispered. 'He's not dead!'
'Are you calling me a liar, my girl?' snapped Granny. 'I saw it all!'
'Look, Granny, it's not really real, d'you see?'
Granny Weatherwax subsided a little, but still grumbled under her breath. She was beginning to feel that things were trying to make a fool of her.
Up on the stage a man in a sheet was giving a spirited monologue. Granny listened intently for some minutes, and then nudged Magrat in the ribs.
'What's he on about now?' she demanded.
'He's saying how sorry he was that the other man's dead,' said Magrat, and in an attempt to change the subject added hurriedly, 'There's a lot of crowns, isn't there?'
Granny was not to be distracted. 'What'd he go and kill him for, then?' she said.
'Well, it's a bit complicated—' said Magrat, weakly.
'It's shameful!' snapped Granny. 'And the poor dead thing still lying there!'
Magrat gave an imploring look to Nanny Ogg, who was masticating an apple and studying the stage with the glare of a research scientist.
'I reckon,' she said slowly, 'I reckon it's all just pretendin'. Look, he's still breathing.'
The rest of the audience, who by now had already decided that this commentary was all part of the play, stared as one man at the corpse. It blushed.
'And look at his boots, too,' said Nanny critically. 'A real king'd be ashamed of boots like that.'
The corpse tried to shuffle its feet behind a cardboard bush.
Granny, feeling in some obscure way that they had scored a minor triumph over the purveyors of untruth and artifice, helped herself to an apple from the bag and began to take a fresh interest. Magrat's nerves started to unknot, and she began to settle down to enjoy the play. But not, as it turned out, for very long. Her willing suspension of disbelief was interrupted by a voice saying:
'What's this bit?'
Magrat sighed. 'Well,' she hazarded, 'he thinks that he is the prince, but he's really the other king's daughter, dressed up as a man.'
Granny subjected the actor to a long analytical stare.
'He is a man,' she said. 'In a straw wig. Making his voice squeaky.'
Magrat shuddered. She knew a little about the conventions of the theatre. She had been dreading this bit. Granny Weatherwax had Views.
'Yes, but,' she said wretchedly, 'it's the Theatre, see. All the women are played by men.'
'Why?'
'They don't allow no women on the stage,' said Magrat in a small voice. She shut her eyes.
Granny was quietly chewing the same bit of apple over and over again, her eyes never leaving the action.
'Don't make a fuss, Esme,' said Nanny, who also knew about Granny's Views. 'This is a good bit. I reckon I'm getting the hang of it.'
Someone tapped Granny on the shoulder and a voice said, 'Madam, will you kindly remove your hat?'
Granny turned around very slowly on her stool, as though propelled by hidden motors, and subjected the interrupter to a hundred kilowatt diamond-blue stare. The man wilted under it and sagged back on to his stool, her face following him all the way down.
'No,' she said.
He considered the options. 'All right,' he said.
Granny turned back and nodded to the actors, who had paused to watch her.
'I don't know what you're staring at,' she growled. 'Get on with it.'
Nanny Ogg passed her another bag.
'Have a humbug,' she said.
Silence again filled the makeshift theatre except for the hesitant voices of the actors, who kept glancing at the bristling figure of Granny Weatherwax, and the sucking sounds of a couple of boiled humbugs being relentlessly churned from cheek to cheek.
Then Granny said, in a piercing voice that made one actor drop his wooden sword, 'There's a man over on the side there whispering to them!'
'He's a prompter,' said Magrat. 'He tells them what to say.'
'Don't they know?'
'I think they're forgetting,' said Magrat sourly. 'For some reason.'
Granny nudged Nanny Ogg.
'What's going on now?' she said. 'Why're all them kings and people up there?'
'It's a banquet, see,' said Nanny Ogg authoritatively. 'Because of the dead king, him in the boots, as was, only now if you look, you'll see he's pretending to be a soldier, and everyone's making speeches about how good he was and wondering who killed him.'
'Are they?' said Granny, grimly. She cast her eyes along the cast, looking for the murderer.
She was making up her mind.
Then she stood up.
Her black shawl billowed around her like the wings of an avenging angel, come to rid the world of all that was foolishness and pretence and artifice and sham. She seemed somehow a lot bigger than normal. She pointed an angry finger at the guilty party.
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