Wyrd Sisters tds-6

by Terry David John Pratchett

  'Run!' she yelled.

  They grabbed the Fool and scurried into the shelter of a convenient buttress.

  The door gave a warning creak. Several of its planks twisted in vegetable agony and there was a shower of rock splinters when nails were expelled like thorns from a wound, ricocheting off the stonework. The Fool ducked as part of the lock whirred over his head and smashed into the opposite wall.

  The lower parts of the planks extended questing white roots, which slithered across the damp stone to the nearest crack and began to auger in. Knotholes bulged, burst and thrust out branches which hit the stones of the doorway and tumbled them aside. And all the time there was a low groan, the sound of the cells of the wood trying to contain the surge of raw life pounding through them.

  'If it had been me,' said Granny Weatherwax, as part of the ceiling caved in further along the passage, 'I wouldn't have done it like that. Not that I'm objecting, mind you,' she said, as Magrat opened her mouth. 'It's a reasonable job. I think you might have overdone it a bit, that's all.'

  'Excuse me,' said the Fool.

  'I can't do rocks,' said Magrat.

  'Well, no, rocks is an acquired taste—'

  'Excuse me.'

  The two witches stared at him, and he backed away.

  'Weren't you supposed to be rescuing someone?' he said.

  'Oh,' said Granny. 'Yes. Come on, Magrat. We'd better see what she's been getting up to.'

  'There were screams,' said the Fool, who couldn't help feeling they weren't taking things seriously enough.

  'I daresay,' said Granny, pushing him aside and stepping over a writhing taproot. 'If anyone locked me in a dungeon, there'd be screams.'

  There was a lot of dust inside the dungeon, and by the nimbus of light around its one torch Magrat could dimly make out two figures cowering in the furthest corner. Most of the furniture had been overturned and scattered across the floor; it didn't look as though any of it had been designed to be the last word in comfort. Nanny Ogg was sitting quite calmly in what appeared to be a sort of stocks.

  'Took your time,' she observed. 'Let me out of this, will you? I'm getting cramp.'

  And there was the dagger.

  It spun gently in the middle of the room, glinting when the turning blade caught the light.

  'My own dagger!' said the ghost of the king, in a voice only the witches could hear. 'All this time and I never knew it! My own dagger! They bloody well did me in with my own bloody knife!'

  He took another step towards the royal couple, waving the dagger. A faint gurgle escaped from the lips of the duke, glad to be out of there.

  'He's doing well, isn't he,' said Nanny, as Magrat helped her out of her prison.

  'Isn't that the old king? Can they see him?'

  'Shouldn't think so.'

  King Verence staggered slightly under the weight. He was too old for such poltergeist activity; you had to be an adolescent for this . . .

  'Let me just get a grip on this thing,' he said. 'Oh, damn . . .'

  The knife dropped from the ghost's tenuous grasp and clattered to the floor. Granny Weatherwax stepped forward smartly and put her foot on it.

  'The dead shouldn't kill the living,' she said. 'It could be a dangerous wossname, precedent. We'd all be outnumbered for one thing.'

  The duchess surfaced from her terror first. There had been knives swooping through the air and exploding doors, and now these women were defying her in her own dungeons. She couldn't be sure how she was supposed to react to the supernatural items, but she had very firm ideas about how she should tackle the last one.

  Her mouth opened like the gateway to a red hell. 'Guards!' she yelled, and spotted the Fool hovering near the door. 'Fool! Fetch the guards!'

  'They're busy. We were just leaving,' said Granny. 'Which one of you is the duke?'

  Felmet stared pink-eyed up at her from his half-crouch in the corner. A thin dribble of saliva escaped from the corner of his mouth, and he giggled.

  Granny looked closer. In the centre of those streaming eyes something else looked back at her.

  'I'm going to give you no cause,' she said quietly. 'But it would be better for you if you left this country. Abdicate, or whatever.'

  'In favour of whom?' said the duchess icily. 'A witch?'

  'I won't,' said the duke.

  'What did you say?'

  The duke pulled himself upright, brushed some of the dust off his clothes, and looked Granny full in the face. The coldness in the centre of his eyes was larger.

  'I said I won't,' he said. 'Do you think a bit of simple conjuring would frighten me? I am the king by right of conquest, and you cannot change it. It is as simple as that, witch.'

  He moved closer.

  Granny stared at him. She hadn't faced anything like this before. The man was clearly mad, but at the heart of his madness was a dreadful cold sanity, a core of pure interstellar ice in the centre of the furnace. She'd thought him weak under a thin shell of strength, but it went a lot further than that. Somewhere deep inside his mind, somewhere beyond the event horizon of rationality, the sheer pressure of insanity had hammered his madness into something harder than diamond.

  'If you defeat me by magic, magic will rule,' said the duke. 'And you can't do it. And any king raised with your help would be under your power. Hag-ridden, I might say. That which magic rules, magic destroys. It would destroy you, too. You know it. Ha. Ha.'

  Granny's knuckles whitened as he moved closer.

  'You could strike me down,' he said. 'And perhaps you could find someone to replace me. But he would have to be a fool indeed, because he would know he was under your evil eye, and if he mispleased you, why, his life would be instantly forfeit. You could protest all you wished, but he'd know he ruled with your permission. And that would make him no king at all. Is this not true?'

  Granny looked away. The other witches hung back, ready to duck.

  'I said, is this not true?'

  'Yes,' said Granny. 'It is true . . .'

  'Yes.'

  '. . . but there is one who could defeat you,' said Granny slowly.

  'The child? Let him come when he is grown. A young man with a sword, seeking his destiny.' The duke sneered. 'Very romantic. But I have many years to prepare. Let him try.'

  Beside him King Verence's fist smashed through the air and quite failed to connect.

  The duke leaned closer until his nose was an inch from Granny's face.

  'Get back to your cauldrons, wyrd sisters,' he said softly.

  Granny Weatherwax stalked through the passages of Lancre Castle like a large, angry bat, the duke's laughter echoing around her head.

  'You could give him boils or something,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Haemorrhoids are good. That's allowed. It won't stop him ruling, it just means he'll have to rule standing up. Always good for a laugh, that. Or piles.'

  Granny Weatherwax said nothing. If fury were heat, her hat would have caught fire.

  'Mind you, that'd probably make him worse,' said Nanny, running to keep up. 'Same with toothache.' She gave a sideways glance at Granny's twitching features.

  'You needn't fret,' she said. They didn't do anything much. But thanks, anyway.'

  'I ain't worried about you, Gytha Ogg,' snapped Granny. 'I only come along 'cos Magrat was fretting. What I say is, if a witch can't look after herself, she's got no business calling herself a witch.'

  'Magrat done well with the woodwork, I thought.'

  Even in the grip of her sullen fury, Granny Weatherwax spared a nod.

  'She's coming along,' she said. She looked up and down the corridor, and then leaned closer to Nanny Ogg's ear.

  'I ain't going to give him the pleasure of saying it,' she said, 'but he's got us beaten.'

  'Well, I don't know,' said Nanny. 'Our Jason and a few sharp lads could soon—'

  'You saw some of his guards. These aren't the old sort. These are a tough kind.'

  'We could give the boys just a bit of help—'

  'It wou
ldn't work. People have to sort this sort of thing out for themselves.'

  'If you say so, Esme,' said Nanny meekly.

  'I do. Magic's there to be ruled, not for ruling.'

  Nanny nodded and then, remembering a promise, reached down and picked up a fragment of stone from the rubble on the tunnel floor.

  'I thought you'd forgotten,' said the ghost of the king, by her ear.

  Further down the passage the Fool was capering after Magrat.

  'Can I see you again?' he said.

  'Well . . . I don't know,' said Magrat, her heart singing a smug song.

  'How about tonight?' said the Fool.

  'Oh, no,' said Magrat. 'I'm very busy tonight.' She had intended to curl up with a hot milk drink and Goodie Whemper's notebooks on experimental astrology, but instinct told her that any suitor should have an uphill struggle put in front of him, just to make him keener.

  'Tomorrow night, then?' the Fool persisted.

  'I think I should be washing my hair.'

  'I could get Friday night free.'

  'We do a lot of work at night, you see—'

  'The afternoon, then.'

  Magrat hesitated. Perhaps instinct had got it wrong. 'Well—' she said.

  'About two o'clock. In the meadow by the pond, all right?'

  'Well—'

  'See you there, then. All right?' said the Fool desperately.

  'Fool!' The duchess's voice echoed along the passage, and a look of terror crossed his face.

  'I've got to go,' he said. 'The meadow, okay? I'll wear something so you recognise me. All right?'

  'All right,' echoed Magrat, hypnotised by the sheer pressure of his persistence. She turned and ran after the other witches.

  There was pandemonium outside the castle. The crowd that had been there at Granny's arrival had grown considerably, and had flowed in through the now unguarded gateway and lapped around the keep. Civil disobedience was new to Lancre, but its inhabitants had already mastered some of its more elementary manifestations, viz, the jerking of rakes and sickles in the air with simple up-and-down motions accompanied by grimaces and cries of 'Gerrh!', although a few citizens, who hadn't quite grasped the idea, were waving flags and cheering. Advanced students were already eyeing the more combustible buildings inside the walls. Several sellers of hot meat pies and sausages in a bun had appeared from nowhere[13] and were doing a brisk trade. Pretty soon someone was going to throw something.

  The three witches stood at the top of the steps that led to the keep's main door and surveyed the seas of faces.

  'There's our Jason,' said Nanny happily. 'And Wane and Darron and Kev and Trev and Nev—'

  'I will remember their faces,' said Lord Felmet, emerging between them and putting a hand on their shoulders. 'And do you see my archers, on the wails?'

  'I see 'em,' said Granny grimly.

  'Then smile and wave,' said the duke. 'So that the people may know that all is well. After all, have you not been to see me today on matters of state?'

  He leaned closer to Granny.

  'Yes, there are a hundred things you could do,' he said. 'But the ending would always be the same.' He drew back. 'I'm not an unreasonable man, I hope,' he added, in cheerful tones. 'Perhaps, if you persuade the people to be calm, I may be prevailed upon to moderate my rule somewhat. I make no promises, of course.'

  Granny said nothing.

  'Smile and wave,' commanded the duke.

  Granny raised one hand in a vague motion and produced a brief rictus that had nothing whatsoever to do with humour. Then she scowled and nudged Nanny Ogg, who was waving and mugging like a maniac.

  'No need to get carried away,' she hissed.

  'But there's our Reel and our Sharleen and their babbies,' said Nanny. 'Coo-eee!'

  'Will you shut up, you daft old besom!' snapped Granny. 'And pull yourself together!'

  'Jolly good, well done,' said the duke. He raised his hands, or at least his hand. The other still ached. He'd tried the grater again last night, but it hadn't worked.

  'People of Lancre,' he cried, 'do not be afeared! I am your friend. I will protect you from the witches! They have agreed to leave you in peace!'

  Granny stared at him as he spoke. He's one of these here maniac depressives, she said. Up and down like a woss-name. Kill you one minute and ask you how you're feeling the next.

  She became aware that he was looking at her expectantly.

  'What?'

  'I said, I'll now call upon the respected Granny Weatherwax to say a few words, ha ha,' he said.

  'You said that, did you?'

  'Yes!'

  'You've gone a long way too far,' said Granny.

  'I have, haven't I!' The duke giggled.

  Granny turned to the expectant crowds, which went silent.

  'Go home,' she said.

  There was a further long silence.

  'Is that all?' said the duke.

  'Yes.'

  'What about pledges of eternal allegiance?'

  'What about them? Gytha, will you stop waving at people!'

  'Sorry.'

  'And now we are going to go, too,' said Granny.

  'But we were getting on so well,' said the duke.

  'Come, Gytha,' said Granny icily. 'And where's Magrat got to?'

  Magrat looked up guiltily. She had been deep in conversation with the Fool, although it was the kind of conversation where both parties spend a lot of time looking at their feet and picking at their fingernails. Ninety per cent of true love is acute, ear-burning embarrassment.

  'We're leaving,' said Granny.

  'Friday afternoon, remember,' hissed the Fool.

  'Well, if I can,' said Magrat.

  Nanny Ogg leered.

  And so Granny Weatherwax swept down the steps and through the crowds, with the other two running behind her. Several of the grinning guards caught her eye and wished they hadn't, but here and there, among the watching crowd, was a barely suppressed snigger. She hurtled through the gateway, across the drawbridge and through the town. Granny walking fast could beat most other people at a run.

  Behind them the duke, who had crested the latest maniac peak on the switchback of his madness and was coasting speedily towards the watersplash of despair, laughed.

  'Ha ha.'

  Granny didn't stop until she was outside the town and under the welcoming eaves of the forest. She turned off the road and flumped down on a log, her face in her hands.

  The other two approached her carefully. Magrat patted her on the back.

  'Don't despair,' she said. 'You handled it very well, we thought.'

  'I ain't despairing, I'm thinking,' said Granny. 'Go away.'

  Nanny Ogg raised her eyebrows at Magrat in a warning fashion. They backed off to a suitable distance although, with Granny in her present mood, the next universe might not be far enough, and sat down on a moss-grown stone.

  'Are you all right?' said Magrat. 'They didn't do anything, did they?'

  'Never laid a finger on me,' said Nanny. She sniffed. 'They're not your real royalty,' she added. 'Old King Gruneweld, for one, he wouldn't have wasted time waving things around and menacing people. It'd been bang, needles right under the fingernails from the word go, and no messing. None of this evil laughter stuff. He was a real king. Very gracious.'

  'He was threatening to burn you.'

  'Oh, I wouldn't of stood for it. I see you've got a follower,' said Nanny.

  'Sorry?' said Magrat.

  The young fellow with the bells,' said Nanny. 'And the face like a spaniel what's just been kicked.'

  'Oh, him.' Magrat blushed hotly under her pale makeup. 'Really, he's just this man. He just follows me around.'

  'Can be difficult, can that,' said Nanny sagely.

  'Besides, he's so small. And he capers all over the place,' said Magrat.

  'Looked at him carefully, have you?' said the old witch.

  'Pardon?'

  'You haven't, have you? I thought not. He's a very clever man, t
hat Fool. He ought to have been one of them actor men.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Next time you have a look at him like a witch, not like a woman,' said Nanny, and gave Magrat a conspiratorial nudge. 'Good bit of work with the door back there,' she added. 'Coming on well, you are. I hope you told him about Greebo.'

  'He said he'd let him out directly, Nanny.'

  There was a snort from Granny Weatherwax.

  'Did you hear the sniggering in the crowd?' she said. 'Someone sniggered!'

  Nanny Ogg sat down beside her.

  'And a couple of them pointed,' she said. 'I know.'

  'It's not to be borne!'

  Magrat sat down on the other end of the log.

  'There's other witches,' she said. 'There's lots of witches further up the Ramtops. Maybe they can help.'

  The other two looked at her in pained surprise.

  'I don't think we need go that far,' sniffed Granny. 'Asking for help.'

  'Very bad practice,' nodded Nanny Ogg.

  'But you asked a demon to help you,' said Magrat.

  'No, we didn't,' said Granny.

  'Right. We didn't.'

  'We ordered it to assist.'

  'S'right.'

  Granny Weatherwax stretched out her legs and looked at her boots. They were good strong boots, with hobnails and crescent-shaped scads; you couldn't believe a cobbler had made them, someone had laid down a sole and built up from there.

  'I mean, there's that witch over Skund way,' she said. 'Sister Whosis, wossname, her son went off to be a sailor – you know, Gytha, her who sniffs and puts them antimassacres on the backs of chairs soon as you sits down—'

  'Grodley,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Sticks her little finger out when she drinks her tea and drops her Haitches all the time.'

  'Yes. Hwell. I haven't hlowered myself to talk to her hever since that business with the gibbet, you recall. I daresay she'd just love to come snooping haround here, running her fingers over heverything and sniffing, telling us how to do things. Oh. yes. Help. We'd all be in a fine to-do if we went around helping all the time.'

  'Yes, and over Skund way the trees talk to you and walk around of night,' said Nanny. 'Without even asking permission. Very poor organisation.'

  'Not really good organisation, like we've got here?' said Magrat.

  Granny stood up purposefully.

  'I'm going home,' she said.