Wyrd Sisters (15 page)

Nanny Ogg considered this. ‘Apart from these stocks, you mean?' she said.

‘I am impervious to your foul blandishments,' said the duke. ‘I scorn your devious wiles. You are to be tortured, I'll have you know.'

This didn't appear to have the required effect. Nanny was staring around the dungeon with the vaguely interested gaze of a sightseer.

‘And then you will be burned,' said the duchess.

‘OK,' said Nanny.

‘
OK
?'

‘Well, it's bloody freezing down here. What's that big wardrobe thing with the spikes?'

The duke was trembling. ‘Aha,' he said. ‘Now you realize, eh? That, my dear lady, is an Iron Maiden. It's the latest thing. Well may you—'

‘Can I have a go in it?'

‘Your pleas fall on deaf . . .' The duke's voice trailed off. His twitch started up.

The duchess leaned forward until her big red face was inches away from Nanny's nose.

‘This insouciance gives you pleasure,' she hissed, ‘but soon you will laugh on the other side of your face!'

‘It's only got this side,' said Nanny.

The duchess fingered a tray of implements lovingly. ‘We shall see,' she said, picking up a pair of pliers.

‘And you need not think any others of your people will come to your aid,' said the duke, who was sweating despite the chill. ‘We alone hold the keys to this dungeon. Ha ha. You will be an example to all
those who have been spreading malicious rumours about me. Do not protest your innocence! I hear the voices all the time, lying . . .'

The duchess gripped him ferociously by the arm. ‘Enough,' she rasped. ‘Come, Leonal. We will let her reflect on her fate for a while.'

‘. . . the faces . . . wicked lies . . . I wasn't there, and anyway he fell . . . my porridge, all salty . . .' murmured the duke, swaying.

The door slammed behind them. There was a click of locks and a thudding of bolts.

Nanny was left alone in the gloom. A flickering torch high on the wall only made the surrounding darkness more forbidding. Strange metal shapes, designed for no more exalted purpose than the destruct-testing of the human body, cast unpleasant shadows. Nanny Ogg stirred in her chains.

‘All right,' she said. ‘I can see you. Who are you?'

King Verence stepped forward.

‘I saw you making faces behind him,' said Nanny Ogg. ‘All I could do to keep a straight face myself.'

‘I wasn't making faces, woman, I was scowling.'

Nanny squinted. ‘'Ere, I know you,' she said. ‘You're dead.'

‘I prefer the term “passed over”,' said the king.

‘I'd bow,
¹²
' said Nanny. ‘Only there's all these chains and things. You haven't seen a cat around here, have you?'

‘Yes. He's in the room upstairs, asleep.'

Nanny appeared to relax. ‘That's all right, then,' she said. ‘I was beginning to worry.' She stared around the dungeon again. ‘What's that big bed thing over there?'

‘The rack,' said the king, and explained its use. Nanny Ogg nodded.

‘What a busy little mind he's got,' she said.

‘I fear, madam, that I may be responsible for your present predicament,' said Verence, sitting down on or at least just above a handy anvil. ‘I wished to attract a witch.'

‘I suppose you're no good at locks?'

‘I fear they would be beyond my capabilities as yet . . . but surely—' the ghost of the king waved a hand in a vague gesture which encompassed the dungeon, Nanny and the manacles – ‘to a witch all this is just so much—'

‘Solid iron,' said Nanny. ‘You might be able to walk through it, but I can't.'

‘I didn't realize,' said Verence. ‘I thought witches could do magic.'

‘Young man,' said Nanny, ‘you will oblige me by shutting up.'

‘Madam! I am a king!'

‘You are also dead, so I wouldn't aspire to hold any opinions if I was you. Now just be quiet and wait, like a good boy.'

Against all his instincts, the king found himself obeying. There was no gainsaying that tone of voice. It spoke to him across the years, from his days in the nursery. Its echoes told him that if he didn't eat it all up he would be sent straight to bed.

Nanny Ogg stirred in her chains. She hoped they would turn up soon.

‘Er,' said the king uneasily. ‘I feel I owe you an explanation . . .'

* * *

‘Thank you,' said Granny Weatherwax, and because Shawn seemed to be expecting it, added, ‘You've been a good boy.'

‘Yes'm,' said Shawn. ‘M'm?'

‘Was there something else?'

Shawn twisted the end of his chain-mail vest out of embarrassment. ‘It's not true what everyone's been saying about our mam, is it, m'm?' he said. ‘She doesn't go round putting evil curses on folk. Except for Daviss the butcher. And old Cakebread, after he kicked her cat. But they wasn't what you'd call real curses, was they, m'm?'

‘You can stop calling me m'm.'

‘Yes, m'm.'

‘They've been saying that, have they?'

‘Yes, m'm.'

‘Well, your mam does upset people sometimes.'

Shawn hopped from one leg to another.

‘Yes, m'm, but they says terrible things about you, m'm, savin' your presence, m'm.'

Granny stiffened.

‘What things?'

‘Don't like to say, m'm.'

‘
What things?
'

Shawn considered his next move. There weren't many choices.

‘A lot of things what aren't true, m'm,' he said, establishing his credentials as early as possible. ‘All sorts of things. Like, old Verence was a bad king and you helped him on the throne, and you caused that bad winter the other year, and old Norbut's cow dint give no milk after you looked at it. Lot of lies, m'm,' he added, loyally.

‘Right,' said Granny.

She shut the door in his panting face, stood in thought for a moment, and retired to her rocking chair.

Eventually she said, once more, ‘Right.'

A little later she added, ‘She's a daft old besom, but we can't have people going round doing things to witches. Once you've lost your respect, you ain't got a thing. I don't remember looking at old Norbut's cow. Who's old Norbut?'

She stood up, took her pointed hat from its hook behind the door and, glaring into the mirror, skewered it in place with a number of ferocious hatpins. They slid on one by one, as unstoppable as the wrath of God.

She vanished into the outhouse for a moment and came back with her witch's cloak, which served as a blanket for sick goats when not otherwise employed.

Once upon a time it had been black velvet; now it was just black. It was carefully and slowly fastened by a tarnished silver brooch.

No samurai, no questing knight, was ever dressed with as much ceremony.

Finally Granny drew herself up, surveyed her dark reflection in the glass, gave a thin little smile of approval, and left via the back door.

The air of menace was only slightly dispelled by the sound of her running up and down outside, trying to get her broomstick started.

Magrat was also regarding herself in the mirror.

She'd dug out a startlingly green dress that was designed to be both revealing and clinging, and would have been if Magrat had anything to display or cling to, so she'd shoved a couple of rolled-up stockings down the front in an effort to make good the more
obvious deficiencies. She had also tried a spell on her hair, but it was naturally magic-resistant and already the natural shape was beginning to assert itself (a dandelion clock at about 2 p.m.).

Magrat had also tried make-up. This wasn't an unqualified success. She didn't have much practice. She was beginning to wonder if she'd overdone the eyeshadow.

Her neck, fingers and arms between them carried enough silverware to make a full-sized dinner service, and over everything she had thrown a black cloak lined with red silk.

In a certain light and from a carefully chosen angle, Magrat was not unattractive. Whether any of these preparations did anything for her is debatable, but they did mean that a thin veneer of confidence overlaid her trembling heart.

She drew herself up and turned this way and that. The clusters of amulets, magical jewellery and occult bangles on various parts of her body jingled together; any enemy wouldn't only have to be blind to fail to notice that a witch was approaching, he'd have to be deaf as well.

She turned to her worktable and examined what she rather self-consciously, and never in Granny's hearing, called her Tools of the Craft. There was the white-handled knife, used in the preparation of magical ingredients. There was the black-handled knife, used in the magical workings themselves; Magrat had carved so many runes into its handle it was in constant danger of falling in half. They were undoubtedly powerful, but . . .

Magrat shook her head regretfully, went over to the kitchen dresser and took out the breadknife. Something
told her that at times like these a good sharp breadknife was probably the best friend a girl could have.

‘I spy, with my little eye,' said Nanny Ogg, ‘something beginning with P.'

The ghost of the king stared wearily around the dungeons.

‘Pliers,' he suggested.

‘No.'

‘Pilliwinks?'

‘That's a pretty name. What is it?'

‘It's a kind of thumbscrew. Look,' said the king.

‘It's not that,' said Nanny.

‘Choke-pear?' he said desperately.

‘That's a C, and anyway I don't know what it is,' said Nanny Ogg. The king obligingly indicated it on the tray, and explained its use.

‘Definitely not,' said Nanny.

‘Smouldering Boot of Punishment?' said the king.

‘You're a bit too good at these names,' said Nanny sharply. ‘You sure you didn't use them when you were alive?'

‘Absolutely, Nanny,' said the ghost.

‘Boys that tell lies go to a bad place,' warned Nanny.

‘Lady Felmet had most of them installed herself, it's the truth,' said the king desperately; he felt his position to be precarious enough without having any bad places to worry about.

Nanny sniffed. ‘Right, then,' she said, slightly mollified. ‘It was “pinchers”.'

‘But pinchers is just another name for pl—' the king began, and stopped himself in time. During his adult life he'd been afraid of no man, beast or combination
of the two, but Nanny's voice brought back old memories of schoolroom and nursery, of life under strict orders given by stern ladies in long skirts, and nursery food – mostly grey and brown – which seemed indigestible at the time but now appeared a distant ambrosia.

‘That's five to me,' said Nanny happily.

‘They'll be back soon,' said the king. ‘Are you sure you'll be all right?'

‘If I'm not, precisely how much help can you be?' said Nanny.

There was the sound of bolts sliding back.

There was already a crowd outside the castle as Granny's broomstick wobbled uncertainly towards the ground. They went quiet as she strode forward, and parted to let her pass. She had a basket of apples under her arm.

‘There's a witch in the dungeons,' someone whispered to Granny. ‘And foul tortures, they say!'

‘Nonsense,' said Granny. ‘It couldn't be. I expect Nanny Ogg has just gone to advise the king, or something.'

‘They say Jason Ogg's gone to fetch his brothers,' said a stallholder, in awe.

‘I really advise you all to return home,' said Granny Weatherwax. ‘There has probably been a misunderstanding. Everyone knows a witch cannot be held against her will.'

‘It's gone too far this time,' said a peasant. ‘All this burning and taxing and now this. I blame you witches. It's got to stop. I know my rights.'

‘What rights are they?' said Granny.

‘Dunnage, cowhage-in-ordinary, badinage, leftovers,
scrommidge, clary and spunt,' said the peasant promptly. ‘And acornage, every other year, and the right to keep two-thirds of a goat on the common. Until he set fire to it. It was a bloody good goat, too.'

‘A man could go far, knowing his rights like you do,' said Granny. ‘But right now he should go home.'

She turned and looked at the gates. There were two extremely apprehensive guards on duty. She walked up to them, and fixed one of them with a look.

‘I am a harmless old seller of apples,' she said, in a voice more appropriate for the opening of hostilities in a middle-range war. ‘Pray let me past, dearie.' The last word had knives in it.

‘No-one must enter the castle,' said one of the guards. ‘Orders of the duke.'

Granny shrugged. The apple-seller gambit had never worked more than once in the entire history of witchcraft, as far as she knew, but it was traditional.

‘I know you, Champett Poldy,' she said. ‘I recall I laid out your grandad and I brought you into the world.' She glanced at the crowds, which had regathered a little way off, and turned back to the guard, whose face was already a mask of terror. She leaned a little closer, and said, ‘I gave you your first good hiding in this valley of tears and by all the gods if you cross me now I will give you your last.'

There was a soft metallic noise as the spear fell out of the man's fearful fingers. Granny reached and gave the trembling man a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

‘But don't worry about it,' she added. ‘Have an apple.'

She made to step forward, and a second spear barred her way. She looked up with interest.

The other guard was not a Ramtopper, but a
city-bred mercenary brought up to swell the ranks depleted in recent years. His face was a patchwork of scar tissue. Several of the scars rearranged themselves into what was possibly a sneer.

‘So that's witches' magic, is it?' said the guard. ‘Pretty poor stuff. Maybe it frightens these country idiots, woman, but it doesn't frighten me.'