Wyrd Sisters - Page 40/41

The castle up above was full of hubbub and general rejoicing, and there was no-one to hear the polite and frantic voices that echoed along the dungeon passages, getting politer and more frantic with each passing hour.

'Um, I say? Excuse me? Billem's got this terrible thing about rats, if you don't mind. Cooeee!'

Let the camera of the mind's eye pan slowly back along the dim, ancient corridors, taking in the dripping fungi, the rusting ehains, the damp, the shadows . . .

'Can anyone hear us? Look, it's really too much. There's been some laughable mistake, look, the wigs come right off. . .'

Let the plaintive echoes dwindle among the cobwebbed corners and rodent-haunted tunnels, until they're no more than a reedy whisper on the cusp of hearing.

'I say? I say, excuse me, help?'

Someone is bound to come down here again one of these days.

Some time afterwards Magrat asked Hwel if he believed in long engagements. The dwarf paused in the task of loading up the latty.[22]

'About a week, maximum,' he said at last. 'With matinees, of course.'

A month went past. The early damp-earth odours of autumn drifted over the velvety-dark moors, where the watery starlight was echoed by one spark of a fire.

The standing stone was back in its normal place, but still poised to run if any auditors came into view.

The witches sat in careful silence. This was not going to rate among the hundred most exciting coven meetings of all time. If Mussorgsky had seen them, the night on the bare mountain would have been over by teatime.

Then Granny Weatherwax said, 'It was a good banquet, I thought.'

'I was nearly sick,' said Nanny Ogg proudly. 'And my Shirl helped out in the kitchen and brought me home some scraps.'

'I heard,' said Granny coldly. 'Haifa pig and three bottles of fizzy wine went missing, they say.'

'It's nice that some people think of the old folk,' said Nanny Ogg, completely unabashed. 'I got a coronation mug, too.' She produced it. 'It says “Viva Verence II Rex”. Fancy him being called Rex. I can't say it's a good likeness, mind you. I don't recall him having a handle sticking out of his ear.'

There was another long, terribly polite pause. Then Granny said, 'We were a bit surprised you weren't there, Magrat.'

'We thought you'd be up at the top of the table, kind of thing,' said Nanny. 'We thought you'd have moved in up there.'

Magrat stared fixedly at her feet.

'I wasn't invited,' she said meekly.

'Well, I don't know about invited,' said Granny. 'We weren't invited. People don't have to invite witches, they just know we'll turn up if we want to. They soon find room for us,' she added, with some satisfaction.

'You see, he's been very busy,' said Magrat to her feet. 'Sorting everything out, you know. He's very clever, you know. Underneath.'

'Very sober lad,' said Nanny.

'Anyway, it's full moon,' said Magrat quickly. 'You've got to go to coven meetings at full moon, no matter what other pressing engagements there may be.'

'Have y—?' Nanny Ogg began, but Granny nudged her sharply in the ribs.

'It's a very good thing he's paying so much attention to getting the kingdom working again,' said Granny, soothingly. 'It shows proper consideration. I daresay he'll get around to everything, sooner or later. It's very demanding, being a king.'

'Yes,' said Magrat, her voice barely audible.

The silence that followed was almost solid. It was broken by Nanny, in a voice as bright and brittle as ice.

'Well, I brought a bottle of that fizzy wine with me,' she said. 'In case he'd . . . in case . . . in case we felt like a drink,' she rallied, and waved it at the other two.

'I don't want any,' said Magrat sullenly.

'You drink up, girl,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'It's a chilly night. It'd be good for your chest.'

She squinted at Magrat as the moon drifted out from behind its cloud.

'Here,' she said. 'Your hair looks a bit grubby. It looks as though you haven't washed it for a month.'

Magrat burst into tears.

The same moon shone down on the otherwise unremarkable town of Rham Nitz, some ninety miles from Lancre.

Tomjon left the stage to thunderous applause at the concluding act of The Troll ofAnkh. A hundred people would go home tonight wondering whether trolls were really as bad as they had hitherto thought although, of course, this wouldn't actually stop them disliking them in any way whatsoever.

Hwel patted him on the back as he sat down at the makeup table and started scraping off the thick grey sludge that was intended to make him look like a walking rock.

'Well done,' he said. 'The love scene – just right. And when you turned around and roared at the wizard I shouldn't think there was a dry seat in the house.'

'I know.'

Hwel rubbed his hands together.

'We can afford a tavern tonight,' he said. 'So if we just—'

'We'll sleep in the carts,' said Tomjon firmly, squinting at himself in the shard of mirror.

'But you know how much the Fo – the king gave us! It could be feather beds all the way home!'

'It's straw mattresses and a good profit for us,' said Tomjon. 'And that'll buy you gods from heaven and demons from hell and the wind and the waves and more trapdoors than you can count, my lawn ornament.'

Hwel's hand rested on Tomjon's shoulder for a moment. Then he said, 'You're right, boss.'

'Certainly I am. How's the play going?'

'Hmm? What play?' said Hwel, innocently.

Tomjon carefully removed a plaster brow ridge.

'You know,' he said. 'That one. The Lancre King.'

'Oh. Coming along. Coming along, you know. I'll get it right one of these days.' Hwel changed the subject with speed. 'You know, we could work our way down to the river and take a boat home. That would be nice, wouldn't it?'

'But we could work our way home over land and pick up some more cash. That would be better, wouldn't it?' Tomjon grinned. 'We took one hundred and three pence tonight; I counted heads during the Judgement speech. That's nearly one silver piece after expenses.'

'You're your father's son, and no mistake,' said Hwel.

Tomjon sat back and looked at himself in the mirror.

'Yes,' he said, 'I thought I had better be.'

Magrat didn't like cats and hated the idea of mousetraps. She'd always felt that it should be possible to come to some sort of arrangement with creatures like mice so that all available food was rationed in the best interest of all parties. This was a very humanitarian outlook, which is to say that it was not a view shared by mice, and therefore her moonlit kitchen was alive.

When there was a knocking at the door the entire floor appeared to rush towards the walls.

After a few seconds the knocking came again.

There was another pause. Then the knocking rattled the door on its hinges, and a voice cried, 'Open in the name of the king!'

A second voice said, in hurt tones, 'You don't have to shout like that. Why did you shout like that? I didn't order you to shout like that. It's enough to frighten anybody, shouting like that.'

'Sorry, sire! It goes with the job, sire!'

'Just knock again. A bit more gently, please.'

The knocking might have been a bit softer. Magrat's apron dropped off its hook on the back of the door.

'Are you sure I can't do it myself?'

'It's not done, sire, kings knocking at humble cottage doors. Best leave it to me. OPEN IN THE—'

'Sergeant!'

'Sorry, sire. Forgot myself.'

'Try the latch.'

There was the sound of someone being extremely hesitant.

'Don't like the sound of that, sire,' said the invisible sergeant. 'Could be dangerous. If you want my advice, sire, I'd set fire to the thatch.'

'Set fire?'

'Yessire. We always do that if they don't answer the door. Brings them out a treat.'

'I don't think that would be appropriate, sergeant. I think I'll try the latch, if it's all the same to you.'

'Breaks my heart to see you do it, sire.'

'Well, I'm sorry.'

'You could at least let me buff it up for you.'

'No!'

'Well, couldn't I just set fire to the privy—?'

'Absolutely not!'

'That chicken house over there looks as if it would go up like-'

'Sergeant!'

'Sire!'

'Go back to the castle!'

'What, and leave you all alone, sire?'

'This is a matter of extreme delicacy, sergeant. I am sure you are a man of sterling qualities, but there are times when even a king needs to be alone. It concerns a young woman, you understand.'

'Ah. Point taken, sire,'

'Thank you. Help me dismount, please.'

'Sorry about all that, sire. Tactless of me.'

'Don't mention it.'

'If you need any help getting her alight—'

'Please go back to the castle, sergeant.'

'Yes, sire. If you're sure, sire. Thank you, sire.'

'Sergeant?'

'Yes, sire?'

'I shall need someone to take my cap and bells back to the Fools' Guild in Ankh-Morpork now I'm leaving. It seems to me you're the ideal man.'

'Thank you, sire. Much obliged.'

'It's your, ah, burning desire to be of service.'

'Yes, sire?'

'Make sure they put you up in one of the guest rooms.'

'Yes, sire. Thank you, sire.'

There was the sound of a horse trotting away. A few seconds later the latch clonked and the Fool crept in.

It takes considerable courage to enter a witch's kitchen in the dark, but probably no more than it takes to wear a purple shirt with velvet sleeves and scalloped edges. It had this in its favour, though. There were no bells on it.

He had brought a bottle of sparkling wine and a bouquet of flowers, both of which had gone flat during the journey. He laid them on the table, and sat down by the embers of the fire.

He rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day. He wasn't, he felt, a good king, but he'd had a lifetime of working hard at being something he wasn't cut out to be, and he was persevering. As far as he could see, none of his predecessors had tried at all. So much to do, so much to repair, so much to organise . . .

On top of it all there was the problem with the duchess. Somehow he'd felt moved to put her in a decent cell in an airy tower. She was a widow, after all. He felt he ought to be kind to widows. But being kind to the duchess didn't seem to achieve much, she didn't understand it, she thought it was just weakness. He was dreadfully afraid that he might have to have her head cut off.

No, being a king was no laughing matter. He brightened up at the thought. There was that to be said about it.

And, after a while, he fell asleep.

The duchess was not asleep. She was currently halfway down the castle wall on a rope of knotted sheets, having spent the previous day gradually chipping away the mortar around the bars of her window although, in truth, you could hack your way out of the average Lancre Castle wall with a piece of cheese. The fool! He'd given her cutlery, and plenty of bedclothes! That was how these people reacted. They let their fear do their thinking for them. They were scared of her, even when they thought they had her in their power (and the weak never had the strong in their power, never truly in their power). If she'd thrown herself in prison, she would have found considerable satisfaction in making herself regret she'd ever been born. But they'd just given her blankets, and worried about her.

Well, she'd be back. There was a big world out there, and she knew how to pull the levers that made people do what she wanted. She wouldn't burden herself with a husband this time, either. Weak! He was the worst of them, no courage in him to be as bad as he knew he was, inside.

She landed heavily on the moss, paused to catch her breath and then, with the knife ready in her hand, slipped away along the castle walls and into the forest.