Wyrd Sisters (13 page)

Then he'd started out small, with dust motes. The first one had nearly killed him,
⁹
but he'd persevered and progressed to sand grains, then whole dried peas; he still didn't dare venture into the kitchens, but he had amused himself by oversalting Felmet's food a pinch at a time until he pulled himself together and told himself that poisoning wasn't honourable, even against vermin.

Now he leaned all his weight on the door, and with every microgramme of his being forced himself to become as heavy as possible. The sweat of autosuggestion dripped off his nose and vanished before it hit the floor. Greebo watched with interest as ghostly muscles moved on the king's arms like footballs mating.

The door began to move, creaked, then accelerated and hit the doorway with a thump. The latch clicked into place.

It bloody well had to work now, Verence told himself. He'd never be able to lift the latch by himself. But a witch would certainly come looking for her cat – wouldn't she?

In the hills beyond the castle the Fool lay on his stomach and stared into the depths of a little lake. A couple of trout stared back at him.

Somewhere on the Disc, reason told him, there must be someone more miserable than he was. He wondered who it was.

He hadn't asked to be a Fool, but it wouldn't have mattered if he had, because he couldn't recall anyone in his family ever listening to anything he said after Dad ran away.

Certainly not Grandad. His earliest memory was of Grandad standing over him making him repeat the jokes by rote, and hammering home every punchline with his belt; it was thick leather, and the fact that it had bells on didn't improve things much.

Grandad was credited with seven official new jokes. He'd won the honorary cap and bells of the Grand Prix des Idiots Blithering at Ankh-Morpork four years in a row, which no-one else had ever done, and presumably they made him the funniest man who ever lived. He had worked hard at it, you had to give him that.

The Fool recalled with a shudder how, at the age of six, he'd timidly approached the old man after supper with a joke he'd made up. It was about a duck.

It had earned him the biggest thrashing of his life, which even then must have presented the old joker with a bit of a challenge.

‘You will learn, my lad—' he recalled, with every
sentence punctuated by jingling cracks – ‘that there is nothing more serious than jesting. From now on you will never—' the old man paused to change hands – ‘never, never, ever utter a joke that has not been approved by the Guild. Who are you to decide what is amusing? Marry, let the untutored giggle at unskilled banter; it is the laughter of the ignorant. Never. Never. Never let me catch you joculating again.'

After that he'd gone back to learning the three hundred and eighty-three Guild-approved jokes, which was bad enough, and the glossary, which was a lot bigger and much worse.

And then he'd been sent to Ankh, and there, in the bare, severe rooms, he'd found there were books other than the great heavy brass-bound
Monster Fun Book
. There was a whole circular world out there, full of weird places and people doing interesting things, like . . .

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 Wormseed, 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 other witches, but she still held to one of the most fundamental 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 major 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 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.