Singing. He could hear singing.
He raised his head cautiously, and jumped at the tinkle of the bells on his cap. He gripped the hated things hurriedly.
The singing went on. The Fool peeped cautiously through the drift of meadowsweet that was providing him with perfect concealment.
The singing wasn't particularly good. The only word the singer appeared to know was 'la', but she was making it work hard. The general tune gave the impression that the singer believed that people were supposed to sing 'lalala' in certain circumstances, and was determined to do what the world expected of her.
The Fool risked raising his head a little further, and saw Magrat for the first time.
She had stopped dancing rather self-consciously through the narrow meadow and was trying to plait some daisies in her hair, without much success.
The Fool held his breath. On long nights on the hard flagstones he had dreamed of women like her. Although, if he really thought about it, not much like her; they were better endowed around the chest, their noses weren't so red and pointed, and their hair tended to flow more. But the Fool's libido was bright enough to tell the difference between the impossible and the conceivably attainable, and hurriedly cut in some filter circuits.
Magrat was picking flowers and talking to them. The Fool strained to hear.
'Here's Woolly Fellwort,' she said. 'And Treacle Worm-seed, which is for inflammation of the ears . . .'
Even Nanny Ogg, who took a fairly cheerful view of the world, would have been hard put to say anything complimentary about Magrat's voice. But it fell on the Fool's ears like blossom.
'... and Five-leaved False Mandrake, sovereign against fluxes of the bladder. Ah, and here's Old Man's Frogbit. That's for constipation.'
The Fool stood up sheepishly, in a carillon of jingles. To Magrat it was as if the meadow, hitherto supporting nothing more hazardous than clouds of pale blue butterflies and a few self-employed bumblebees, had sprouted a large red-and-yellow demon.
It was opening and shutting its mouth. It had three menacing horns.
An urgent voice at the back of her mind said: You should run away now, like a timid gazelle; this is the accepted action in these circumstances.
Common sense intervened. In her most optimistic moments Magrat would not have compared herself to a gazelle, timid or otherwise. Besides, it added, the basic snag about running away like a timid gazelle was that in all probability she would easily outdistance him.
'Er,' said the apparition.
Uncommon sense, which, despite Granny Weatherwax's general belief that Magrat was several sticks short of a bundle, she still had in sufficiency, pointed out that few demons tinkled pathetically and appeared to be quite so breathless.
'Hallo,' she said.
The Fool's mind was also working hard. He was beginning to panic.
Magrat shunned the traditional pointed hat, as worn by the older witches, but she still held to one of the most iundamental rules of witchcraft. It's not much use being a witch unless you look like one. In her case this meant lots of silver jewellery with octograms, bats, spiders, dragons and other symbols of everyday mysticism; Magrat would have painted her fingernails black, except that she didn't think she would be able to face Granny's withering scorn.
It was dawning on the Fool that he had surprised a witch.
'Whoops,' he said, and turned to run for it.
'Don't—' Magrat began, but the Fool was already pounding down the forest path that led back to the castle.
Magrat stood and stared at the wilting posy in her hands. She ran her fingers through her hair and a shower of wilted petals fell out.
She felt that an important moment had been allowed to slip out of her grasp as fast as a greased pig in a narrow passageway.
She felt an overpowering urge to curse. She knew a great many curses. Goodie Whemper had been really imaginative in that department; even the creatures of the forest used to go past her cottage at a dead run.
She couldn't find a single one that fully expressed her feelings.
'Oh, bugger,' she said.
It was a full moon again that night, and most unusually all three witches arrived at the standing stone early; it was so embarrassed by this that it went and hid in some gorse bushes.
'Greebo hasn't been home for two days/ said Nanny Ogg, as soon as she arrived. 'It's not like him. I can't find him anywhere.'
'Cats can look after themselves,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'Countries can't. I have intelligence to report. Light the fire, Magrat.'
'Mmm?'
'I said, light the fire, Magrat.'
'Mmm? Oh. Yes.'
The two old women watched her drift vaguely across the moorland, tugging absently at dried-up whin clumps. Magrat seemed to have her mind on something.
'Doesn't seem to be her normal self,' said Nanny Ogg.
'Yes. Could be an improvement,' said Granny shortly, and sat down on a rock. 'She should of got it lit before we arrived. It's her job.'
'She means well,' said Nanny Ogg, studying Magrat's back reflectively.
'I used to mean well when I was a girl, but that didn't stop the sharp end of Goodie Filter's tongue. Youngest witch serves her time, you know how it is. We had it tougher, too. Look at her. Doesn't even wear the pointy hat. How's anyone going to know?'
'You got something on your mind, Esme?' said Nanny.
Granny nodded gloomily.
'Had a visit yesterday,' she said.
'Me too.'
Despite her worries, Granny was slightly annoyed at this. 'Who from?' she said.
'The mayor of Lancre and a bunch of burghers. They're not happy about the king. They want a king they can trust.'
'I wouldn't trust any king a burgher could trust,' said Granny.
'Yes, but it's not good for anyone, all this taxing and killing folk. The new sergeant they've got is a keen man when it comes to setting fire to cottages, too. Old Verence used to do it too, mind, but . . . well . . .'
'I know, I know. It was more personal,' said Granny. 'You felt he meant it. People like to feel they're valued.'
'This Felmet hates the kingdom,' Nanny went on. 'They all say it. They say when they go to talk to him he just stares at them and giggles and rubs his hand and twitches a bit.'
Granny scratched her chin. 'The old king used to shout at them and kick them out of the castle, mind. He used to say he didn't have no time for shopkeepers and such,' she added, with a note of personal approval.
'But he was always very gracious about it,' said Nanny Ogg. 'And he—'
'The kingdom is worried,' said Granny.
'Yes, I already said.'
'I didn't mean the people, I meant the kingdom.'
Granny explained. Nanny interrupted a few times with brief questions. It didn't occur to her to doubt anything she heard. Granny Weatherwax never made things up.
At the end of it she said, 'Well.'
'My feelings exactly.'
'Fancy that.'
'Quite so.'
'And what did the animals do then?'
'Went away. It had brought them there, it let them go.'
'No one et anyone else?'
'Not where I saw.'
'Funny thing.'
'Right enough.'
Nanny Ogg stared at the setting sun.
'I don't reckon a lot of kingdoms do that sort of thing,' she said. 'You saw the theatre. Kings and such are killing one another the whole time. Their kingdoms just make the best of it. How come this one takes offence all of a sudden?'
'It's been here a long time,' said Granny.
'So's everywhere,' said Nanny, and added, with the air of a lifetime student, 'Everywhere's been where it is ever since it was first put there. It's called geography.'
'That's just about land,' said Granny. 'It's not the same as a kingdom. A kingdom is made up of-all sorts of things. Ideas. Loyalties. Memories, It all sort of exists together. And then all these things create some kind of life. Not a body kind of
life, more like a living idea. Made up of everything that's alive and what they're thinking. And what the people before them thought.'
Magrat reappeared and began to lay the fire with the air of one in a trance.
'I can see you've been thinking about this a lot,' said Nanny, speaking very slowly and carefully. 'And this kingdom wants a better king, is that it?'
'No! That is, yes. Look—' she leaned forward – 'it doesn't have the same kind of likes and dislikes as people, right?'
Nanny Ogg leaned back. 'Well, it wouldn't, would it,' she ventured.
'It doesn't care if people are good or bad. I don't think it could even tell, any more than you could tell if an ant was a good ant. But it expects the king to care for it.'
'Yes, but,' said Nanny wretchedly. She was becoming a bit afraid of the gleam in Granny's eye. 'Lots of people have killed each other to become king of Lancre. They've done all kinds of murder.'
'Don't matter! Don't matter!' said Granny, waving her arms. She started counting on her fingers. 'For why,' she said. 'One, kings go round killing each other because it's all part of destiny and such and doesn't count as murder, and two, they killed for the kingdom. That's the important bit. But this new man just wants the power. He hates the kingdom.'
'It's a bit like a dog, really,' said Magrat. Granny looked at her with her mouth open to frame some suitable retort, and then her face softened.
'Very much like,' she said. 'A dog doesn't care if its master's good or bad, just so long as it likes the dog.'
'Well, then,' said Nanny. 'No-one and nothing likes Felmet. What are we going to do about it?'
'Nothing. You know we can't meddle.'
'You saved that baby,' said Nanny.
'That's not meddling!'
'Have it your way,' said Nanny. 'But maybe one day he'll come back. Destiny again. And you said we should hide the crown. It'll all come back, mark my words. Hurry up with that tea, Magrat.'
'What are you going to do about the burghers?' said Granny.
'I told them they'll have to sort it out themselves. Once we use magic, I said, it'd never stop. You know that.'
'Right,' said Granny, but there was a hint of wistfulness in her voice.
'I'll tell you this, though,' said Nanny. 'They didn't like it much. They was muttering when they left.'
Magrat blurted out, 'You know the Fool, who lives up at the castle?'
'Little man with runny eyes?' said Nanny, relieved that the conversation had returned to more normal matters.
'Not that little,' said Magrat. 'What's his name, do you happen to know?'
'He's just called Fool,' said Granny. 'No job for a man, that. Running around with bells on.'
'His mother was a Beldame, from over Blackglass way,' said Nanny Ogg, whose knowledge of the genealogy of Lancre was legendary. 'Bit of a beauty when she was younger. Broke many a heart, she did. Bit of a scandal there, I did hear. Granny's right, though. At the end of the day, a Fool's a Fool.'
'Why d'you want to know, Magrat?' said Granny Weather-wax.
'Oh ... one of the girls in the village was asking me,' said Magrat, crimson to the ears.
Nanny cleared her throat, and grinned at Granny Weatherwax, who sniffed aloofly.
'It's a steady job,' said Nanny. 'I'll grant you that.'
'Huh,' said Granny. 'A man who tinkles all day. No kind of husband for anyone, I'd say.'
'You – she'd always know where he was,' said Nanny, who was enjoying this. 'You'd just have to listen.'
'Never trust a man with horns on his hat,' said Granny flatly.
Magrat stood up and pulled herself together, giving the impression that some bits had to come quite a long way.
'You're a pair of silly old women,' she said quietly. 'And I'm going home.'
She marched off down the path to her village without another word.
The old witches stared at one another.
'Well!' said Nanny.
'It's all these books they read today,' said Granny. 'It overheats the brain. You haven't been putting ideas in her head, have you?'
'What do you mean?'
'You know what I mean.'
Nanny stood up. 'I certainly don't see why a girl should have to be single her whole life just because you think it's the right thing,' she said. 'Anyway, if people didn't have children, where would we be?'
'None of your girls is a witch,' said Granny, also standing up.
'They could have been,' said Nanny defensively.
'Yes, if you'd let them work it out for themselves, instead of encouragin' them to throw themselves at men.'
'They're good-lookin'. You can't stand in the way of human nature. You'd know that if you'd ever—'
'If I'd ever what?' said Granny Weatherwax, quietly.
They stared at one another in shocked silence. They could both feel it, the tension creeping into their bodies from the ground itself, the hot, aching feeling that they'd started something they must finish, no matter what.
'I knew you when you were a gel,' said Nanny sullenly. 'Stuck-up, you were.'
'At least I spent most of the time upright,' said Granny. 'Disgustin', that was. Everyone thought so.'
'How would you know?' snapped Nanny.
'You were the talk of the whole village,' said Granny.
'And you were, too! They called you the Ice Maiden. Never knew that, did you?' sneered Nanny.
'I wouldn't sully my lips by sayin' what they called you,' shouted Granny.
'Oh yes?' shrieked Nanny. 'Well, let me tell you, my good woman—'
'Don't you dare talk to me in that tone of voice! I'm not anyone's good woman—'
'Right!'
There was another silence while they stared at one another, nose to nose, but this silence was a whole quantum level of animosity higher than the last one; you could have roasted a turkey in the heat of this silence. There was no more shouting. Things had got far too bad for shouting. Now the voices came in low and full of menace.
'I should have known better than to listen to Magrat,' growled Granny. 'This coven business is ridiculous. It attracts entirely the wrong sort of people.'
'I'm very glad we had this little talk,' hissed Nanny Ogg. 'Cleared the air.'
She looked down.
'And you're in my territory, madam.'
'Madam!'
Thunder rolled in the distance. The permanent Lancre storm, after a trip through the foothills, had drifted back towards the mountains for a one-night stand. The last rays of sunset shone livid through the clouds, and fat drops of water began to thud on the witches' pointed hats.
'I really don't have time for all this,' snapped Granny, trembling. 'I have far more important things to do.'
'And me,' said Nanny.
'Good night to you.'
'And you.'
They turned their backs on one another and strode away into the downpour.
The midnight rain drummed on Magrat's curtained windows as she thumbed her way purposefully through Goodie Whemper's books of what, for want of any better word, could be called natural magic.
The old woman had been a great collector of such things and, most unusually, had written them down; witches didn't normally have much use for literacy. But book after book was filled with tiny, meticulous handwriting detailing the results of patient experiments in applied magic. Goodie Whemper had, in fact, been a research witch[10].
Magrat was looking up love spells. Every time she shut her eyes she saw a red-and-yellow figure on the darkness inside. Something had to be done about it.
She shut the book with a snap and looked at her notes. First, she had to find out his name. The old peel-the-apple trick should do that. You just peeled an apple, getting one length of peel, and threw the peel behind you; it'd land in the shape of his name. Millions of girls had tried it and had inevitably been disappointed, unless the loved one was called Scscs. That was because they hadn't used an unripe Sunset Wonder picked three minutes before noon on the first frosty day in the
autumn and peeled left-handedly using a silver knife with a blade less than half an inch wide; Goodie had done a lot of experimenting and was quite explicit on the subject. Magrat always kept a few by for emergencies, and this probably was one.
She took a deep breath, and threw the peel over her shoulder.
She turned slowly.
I'm a witch, she told herself. This is just another spell. There's nothing to be frightened of. Get a grip of yourself, girl. Woman.
She looked down, and bit the back of her hand out of nervousness and embarrassment.
'Who'd have thought it?' she said aloud.
It had worked.
She turned back to her notes, her heart fluttering. What was next? Ah, yes – gathering fern seed in a silk handkerchief at dawn. Goodie Whemper's tiny handwriting went on for two pages of detailed botanical instructions which, if carefully followed, resulted in the kind of love potion that had to be kept in a tightly-stoppered jar at the bottom of a bucket of iced water.
Magrat pulled open her back door. The thunder had passed, but now the first grey light of the new day was drowned in a steady drizzle. But it still qualified as dawn, and Magrat was determined.
Brambles tugging at her dress, her hair plastered against her head by the rain, she set out into the dripping forest.
The trees shook, even without a breeze.
Nanny Ogg was also out early. She hadn't been able to get any sleep anyway, and besides, she was worried about Greebo. Greebo was one of her few blind spots. While intellectually she would concede that he was indeed a fat, cunning, evil-smelling multiple rapist, she nevertheless instinctively pictured him as the small fluffy kitten he had been decades before. The fact that he had once chased a female wolf up a tree and seriously surprised a she-bear who had been innocently digging for roots didn't stop her worrying that something bad might happen to him. It was generally considered by everyone else in the kingdom that the only thing that might slow Greebo down was a direct meteorite strike. Now she was using a bit of elementary magic to follow his trail, although anyone with a sense of smell could have managed it. It had led her through the damp streets and to the open gates of the castle.
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