“Money gets put in, money gets taken out…” said Salzella vaguely. “Is it important?”
Bucket's jaw dropped. “Is it important?”
“Because,” Salzella went on, smoothly, “opera doesn't make money. Opera never makes money.”
“Good grief, man! Important? What'd I ever have achieved in the cheese business, I'd like to know, if I'd said that money wasn't important?”
Salzella smiled humourlessly. “There are people out on the stage right now, sir,” he said, “who'd say that you would probably have made better cheeses.” He sighed, and leaned over the desk. “You see,” he said, “cheese does make money. And opera doesn't. Opera's what you spend money on.”
“But… what do you get out of it?”
“You get opera. You put money in, you see, and opera comes out,” said Salzella wearily.
“There's no profit?”
“Profit… profit,” murmured the director of music, Scratching his forehead. “No, I don't believe I've come across the word.”
“Then how do we manage?”
“We seem to rub along.”
Bucket put his head in his hands. “I mean,” he muttered, half to himself, “I knew the place wasn't making much, but I thought that was just because it was run badly. We have big audiences! We charge a mint for tickets! Now I'm told that a Ghost runs around killing people and we don't even make any money!”
Salzella beamed. “Ah, opera,” he said.
Greebo stalked over the inn's rooftops.
Most cats are nervous and ill at ease when taken out of their territory, which is why cat books go on about putting butter on their paws and so on, presumably because constantly skidding into the walls will take the animal's mind off where the walls actually are.
But Greebo travelled well, purely because he took it for granted that the whole world was his dirtbox.
He dropped heavily on to an outhouse roof and padded towards a small open window.
Greebo also had a cat's approach to possessions, which was simply that nothing edible had a right to belong to other people.
From the window came a variety of smells which included pork pies and cream. He squeezed through and dropped on to the pantry shelf.
Of course, sometimes he got caught. At least, sometimes he got discovered…
There was cream. He settled down.
He was halfway down the bowl when the door opened.
Greebo's ears flattened. His one good eye sought desperately for an escape route. The window was too high, the person opening the door was wearing a long dress that militated against the old 'through the legs' routine and… and… and… there was no escape…
His claws scrabbled on the floor…
Oh no… here it came…
Something flipped in his body's morphogenic field. Here was a problem a cat shape couldn't deal with. Oh, well, we know another one…
Crockery crashed around him. Shelves erupted as his head rose. A bag of flour exploded outwards to make room for his broadening shoulders.
The cook stared up at him. Then she looked down. And then up. And then, her gaze dragged as though it were on a winch, down again.
She screamed.
Greebo screamed.
He grabbed desperately at a bowl to cover that part which, as a cat, he never had to worry about exposing.
He screamed again, this time because he'd just poured lukewarm pork dripping all over himself.
His groping fingers found a large copper jellymould. Clasping it to his groinal areas, he barrelled forward and fled out of the pantry and out of the kitchen and out of the dining‑room and out of the inn and into the night.
The spy, who was dining with the travelling salesman, put down his knife.
“That's something you don't often see,” he said.
“What?” said the salesman, who'd had his back to the excitement.
“One of those old copper jelly‑moulds. They're worth quite a lot now. My aunt had a very good one.”
The hysterical cook was given a big drink and several members of staff went out into the darkness to investigate.
All they found was a jelly‑mould, lying forlornly in the yard.
At home Granny Weatherwax slept with open windows and an unlocked door, secure in the knowledge that the Ramtops' various creatures of the night would rather eat their own ears than break in. In dangerously civilized lands, however, she took a different view.
“I really don't think we need to shove the bed in front of the door, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg, heaving on her end.
“You can't be too careful,” said Granny. “Supposing some man started rattlin' the knob in the middle of the night?”
“Not at our time of life,” said Nanny sadly.
“Gytha Ogg, you are the most—”
Granny was interrupted by a watery sound. It came from behind the wall and went on for some time.
It stopped, and then started again — a steady splashing that gradually became a trickle. Nanny started to grin.
“Someone fillin' a bath?” said Granny.
“…or I suppose it could be someone fillin' a bath,” Nanny conceded.
There was the sound of a third jug being emptied. Footsteps left the room. A few seconds later a door opened and there was a rather heavier tread, followed after a brief interval by a few splashes and a grunt.
“Yes, a man gettin' into a bath,” said Granny. “What're you doin', Gytha?”
“Seem' if there's a knothole in this wood somewhere,” said Nanny. “Ah, here's one—”
“Come back here!”
“Sorry, Esme.”
And then the singing started. It was a very pleasant tenor voice, given added timbre by the bath itself.
“Show me the way to go home, I'm tired and I want to go to bed—”
“Someone's enjoyin' themselves, anyway,” said Nanny.
“‑wherever I may roam—”
There was a knock at the distant bathroom door, upon which the singer slipped smoothly into another language:
“— per via di terra, mare o schiuma—”
The witches looked at one another.
A muffled voice said, “I've brought you your hotwater bottle, sir.”
“Thank you verr' mucha,” said the bather, his voice dripping with accent.
Footsteps went away in the distance.
“—Indicame la strada… togo home.” Splash, Splash. “Good eeeeevening, frieeeends…”
“Well, well, well,” said Granny, more or less to herself. “It seems once again that our Mr Slugg is a secret polyglot.”
“Fancy! And you haven't even looked through the knothole,” said Nanny.
“Gytha, is there anything in the whole world you can't make sound grubby?”
“Not found it yet, Esme,” said Nanny brightly.
“I meant that when he mutters in his sleep and sings in his bath he talks just like us, but when he thinks people are listening he comes over all foreign.”
“That's probably to throw that Basilica person off the scent,” Nanny said.
“Oh, I reckon Mr Basilica is very close to Henry Slugg,” said Granny. “In fact, I reckon that they're one and—”
There was a gentle knock at the door.
“Who's there?” Granny demanded.
“It's me, ma'am. Mr Slot. This is my tavern.”
The witches pushed the bed aside and Granny opened the door a fraction.
“Yes?” she said suspiciously.
“Er… the coachman said you were… witches?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe you could… help us?”
“What's wrong?”
“It's my boy…”
Granny opened the door further and saw the woman standing behind Mr Slot. One look at her face was enough. There was a bundle in her arms.
Granny stepped back. “Bring him in and let me have a look at him.”
She took the baby from the woman, sat down on the room's one chair, and pulled
back the blanket. Nanny Ogg peered over her shoulder.
“Hmm,” said Granny, after awhile. She glanced at Nanny, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
“There's a curse on this house, that's what it is,” said Slot. “My best cow's been taken mortally sick, too.”
“Oh? You have a cowshed?” said Granny. “Very good place for a sickroom, a cowshed. It's the warmth. You better show me where it is.”
“You want to take the boy down there?”
“Right now.”
The man looked at his wife, and shrugged. “Well, I'm sure you know your business best,” he said. “It's this way.”
He led the witches down some back stairs and across a yard and into the foetid sweet air of the byre. A cow was stretched out on the straw. It rolled an eye madly as‑they entered, and tried to moo.
Granny took in the scene and stood looking thoughtful for a moment.
Then she said, “This will do.”
“What do you need?” said Slot.
“Just peace and quiet.”
The man scratched his head. “I thought you did a chant or made up some potion or something,” he said.
“Sometimes.”
“I mean, I know where there's a toad…”
“All I shall require is a candle,” said Granny. “A new one, for preference.”
“That's all?”
“Yes.”
Mr Slot looked a little put out. Despite his distraction, something about his manner suggested that Granny Weatherwax was possibly not that much of a witch if she didn't want a toad.
“And some matches,” said Granny, noting this. “A pack of cards might be useful, too.”
“And I'll need three cold lamb chops and exactly two pints of beer,” said Nanny Ogg.
The man nodded. This didn't sound too toad‑like, but it was better than nothing.
“What'd you ask for that for?” hissed Granny, as the man bustled off. “Can't imagine what good those'd do! Anyway, you already had a big dinner.”
“Well, I'm always prepared to go that extra meal. You won't want me around and I'll get bored,” said Nanny.
“Did I say I didn't want you around?”
“Well… even I can see that boy is in a coma, and the cow has the Red Bugge if I'm any judge. That's bad, too. So I reckon you're planning some… direct action.”
Granny shrugged.
“Time like that, a witch needs to be alone,” said Nanny. “But you just mind what you're doing, Esme Weatherwax.”
The child was brought down in a blanket and made as comfortable as possible. The man followed behind his wife with a tray.
“Mrs Ogg will do her necessary procedures with the tray in her room,” said Granny haughtily. “You just leave me in here tonight. And no one is to come in, right? No matter what.”
The mother gave a worried curtsey. “But I thought I might look in about midn—”
“No one. Now, off you go.”
When they'd been gently but firmly ushered out, Nanny Ogg stuck her head around the door. “What exactly are you planning, Esme?”
“You've sat up with the dyin' often enough, Gytha.”
“Oh, yes, it's…” Nanny's face fell. “Oh, Esme… you're not going to…”
“Enjoy your supper, Gytha.”
Granny closed the door.
She spent some time arranging boxes and barrels so that she had a crude table and something to sit on. The air was warm and smelled of bovine flatulence. Periodically she checked the health of both patients, although there was little enough to check.
In the distance the sounds of the inn gradually subsided. The last one was the clink of the innkeeper's keys as he locked the doors. Granny heard him walk across to the cowshed door and hesitate. Then he went away, and began to climb the stairs.
She waited a little longer and then lit the candle. Its cheery flame gave the place a warm and comforting glow.
On the plank table she laid out the cards and attempted to play Patience, a game she'd never been able to master.
The candle burned down. She pushed the cards away, and sat watching the flame.
After some immeasurable piece of time the flame flickered. It would have passed unnoticed by anyone who hadn't been concentrating on it for some while.
She took a deep breath and–
“Good morning,” said Granny Weatherwax.
GOOD MORNING, said a voice by her ear.
Nanny Ogg had long ago polished off the chops and the beer, but she hadn't got into bed. She lay on it, fully clothed, with her arms behind her head, staring at the dark ceiling.
After a while there was a scratching on the shutters. She got up and opened them.
A huge figure leapt into the room. For a moment the moonlight lit a glistening torso and a mane of black hair. Then the creature dived under the bed.
“Oh, deary deary me,” said Nanny.
She waited for a while, and then fished a chop bone off her tray. There was still a bit of meat on it. She lowered it towards the floor.
A hand shot out and grabbed it.
Nanny sat back.
“Poor little man,” she said.
It was only on the subject of Greebo that Nanny's otherwise keen sense of reality found itself all twisted. To Nanny Ogg he was merely a larger version of the little fluffy kitten he had once been. To everyone else he was a scarred ball of inventive malignancy.
But now he had to deal with a problem seldom encountered by cats. The witches had, a year ago, turned him into a human, for reasons that had seemed quite necessary at the time. It had taken a lot of effort, and his morphogenic field had reasserted itself after a few hours, much to everyone's relief.
But magic is never as simple as people think. It has to obey certain universal laws. And one is that, no matter how hard a thing is to do, once it has been done it'll become a whole lot easier and will therefore be done a lot. A huge mountain might be scaled by strong men only after many centuries of failed attempts, but a few decades later grandmothers will be strolling up it for tea 'and then wandering back afterwards to see where they left their glasses.
In accordance with this law, Greebo's soul had noted that there was one extra option for use in a tight corner (in addition to the usual cat assortment of run, fight, crap or all three together) and that was: Become Human.
It tended to wear off after a short time, most of which he spent searching desperately for a pair of pants.
There were snores from under the bed. Gradually, to Nanny's relief, they turned into a purr.
Then she sat bolt upright. She was some way from the cowshed but…
“He's here,” she said.
Granny breathed out, slowly.
“Come and sit where I can see you. That's good manners. And let me tell you right now that I ain't at all afraid of you.”
The tall, black‑robed figure walked across the floor and sat down on a handy barrel, leaning its scythe against the wall. Then it pushed back its hood. Granny folded her arms and stared calmly at the visitor, meeting his gaze eye‑to‑socket.
I AM IMPRESSED.
“I have faith.”
REALLY? IN WHAT PARTICULAR DEITY?
“Oh, none of them.”
THEN FAITH IN WHAT?
“Just faith, you know. In general.”
Death leaned forward. The candlelight raised new shadows on his skull.
COURAGE IS EASY BY CANDLELIGHT. YOUR FAITH, I SUSPECT, IS IN THE FLAME.
Death grinned.
Granny leaned forward, and blew out the candle. Then she folded her arms again and stared fiercely ahead of her.
After some length of time a voice said, ALL RIGHT, YOU'VE MADE YOUR POINT.
Granny lit a match. Its flare illuminated the skull opposite, which hadn't moved.
“Fair enough,” she said, as she relit the candle. “We don't want to be sitting here all night, do we? How many have you come for?”
ONE.
“The cow?”
Death shook his head.
“It could be the cow.”
NO. THAT WOULD BE CHANGING HISTORY.
“History is about things changing.”
NO.
Granny sat back.
“Then I challenge you to a game. That's traditional. That's allowed.”
Death was silent for a moment.
THIS IS TRUE.
“Good.”
CHALLENGING ME BY MEANS OF A GAME IS ALLOWABLE.
“Yes.”
HOWEVER… YOU UNDERSTAND THAT TO WIN ALL YOU MUST GAMBLE ALL?
“Double or quits? Yes, I know.”
BUT NOT CHESS.
“Can't abide chess.”
OR CRIPPLE MR ONION. I'VE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO UNDERSTAND THE RULES.
“Very well. How about one hand of poker? Five cards each, no draws? Sudden death, as they say.”
Death thought about this, too.
YOU KNOW THIS FAMILY?
No.
THEN WHY?
“Are we talking or are we playing?”
OH, VERY WELL.
Granny picked up the pack of cards and shuffled it, not looking at her hands, and smiling at Death all the time. She dealt five cards each, and reached down…
A bony hand grasped hers.
BUT FIRST, MISTRESS WEATHERWAX — WE WILL EXCHANGE CARDS.
He picked up the two piles and transposed them, and then nodded at Granny.
MADAM?
Granny looked at her cards, and threw them down.
FOUR QUEENS. HMM. THAT IS VERY HIGH.
Death looked down at his cards, and then up into Granny's steady, blue‑eyed gaze.
Neither moved for some time.
Then Death laid the hand on the table.
I LOSE, he said. ALL I HAVE IS FOUR ONES.
He looked back into Granny's eyes for a moment. There was a blue glow in the depth of his eye sockets. Maybe, for the merest fraction of a second, barely noticeable even to the closest observation, one winked off.
Granny nodded, and extended a hand.
She prided herself on the ability to judge people by their gaze and their handshake, which in this case was a rather chilly one.
“Take the cow,” she said.
IT IS A VALUABLE CREATURE.
“Who knows what the child will become?”
Death stood up, and reached for his scythe.
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