‘ – della della t’ozentro, audri t’dren vontarieeeeee – ‘
‘The shop, the shop, I have a lozenge, the sky is pink,’ said Nanny.
Granny and Magrat looked at one another.
‘ – guarunto del tart, bella pore di larientos – ‘
‘Rejoice, candlemaker, you have a great big – ‘
‘I don’t believe any of this,’ said Granny. ‘You’re making it up.’
‘Word for word translation,’ said Nanny. ‘I can speak foreign like a native, you know that.’
‘Mrs Ogg? Is that you, my love?’
They all looked up towards the barred window. There was a small face peering in.
‘Casanunda?’ said Nanny.
‘That’s me, Mrs Ogg.’
‘My love,’ muttered Granny.
‘How did you get up to the window?’ said Nanny, ignoring this.
‘I always know where I can get my hands on a step-ladder, Mrs Ogg.’
‘I suppose you don’t know where you can get your hands on a key?’
‘Wouldn’t do any good. There’s too many guards outside your door, Mrs Ogg. Even for a famous swordsman like me. Her ladyship gave strict orders. No-one’s to listen to you or look at you, even.’
‘How come you’re in the palace guard, Casanunda?’
‘Soldier of fortune takes whatever jobs are going, Mrs Ogg,’ said Casanunda earnestly.
‘But all the rest of ‘em are six foot tall and you’re – of the shorter persuasion.’
‘I lied about my height, Mrs Ogg. I’m a world-famous liar.’
‘Is that true?’
‘No.’
‘What about you being the world’s greatest lover?’
There was silence for a while.
‘Well, maybe I’m only No. 2,’ said Casanunda. ‘But I try harder.’
‘Can’t you go and find us a file or something, Mr Casanunda?’ said Magrat.
‘I’ll see what I can do, Miss.’
The face disappeared.
‘Maybe we could get people to visit us and then we could escape in their clothes?’ said Nanny Ogg.
‘Now I’ve gone and stuck the pin in my finger,’ muttered Granny Weatherwax.
‘Or maybe we could get Magrat to seduce one of the guards,’ said Nanny.
‘Why don’t you? said Magrat, as nastily as she could manage.
‘All right. I’m game.’
‘Shut up, the pair of you,’ said Granny. ‘I’m trying to think – ‘
There was another sound at the window.
It was Legba.
The black cockerel peered in between the bars for a moment, and then fluttered away.
‘Gives me the creeps, that one,’ said Nanny. ‘Can’t look at him without thinking wistfully of sage-and-onion and mashed potatoes.’
Her crinkled face crinkled further.
‘Greebo!’ she said. ‘Where’d we leave him?’
‘Oh, he’s only a cat,’ said Granny Weatherwax. ‘Cats know how to look after themselves.’
‘He’s really just a big softie – ‘ Nanny began, before someone started pulling down the wall.
A hole appeared. A grey hand appeared and grasped another stone. There was a strong smell of river mud.
Rock crumbled under heavy fingers.
‘Ladies?’ said a resonant voice.
‘Well, Mister Saturday,’ said Nanny, ‘as I live and breathe – saving your presence, o’course.’
Saturday grunted something and walked away.
There was a hammering on the door and someone started fumbling with keys.
‘We don’t want to hang around here,’ said Granny. ‘Come on.’
They helped one another out through the hole.
Saturday was on the other side of a small courtyard, striding towards the sound of the ball.
And there was something behind him, trailing out like the tail of a comet.
‘What’s that?’
‘Mrs Gogol’s doing,’ said Granny Weatherwax grimly.
Behind Saturday, widening as it snaked through the palace grounds to the gate, was a stream of deeper darkness in the air. At first sight it seemed to contain shapes, but closer inspection indicated that they weren’t shapes at all but a mere suggestion of shapes, forming and reforming. Eyes gleamed momentarily in the swirl. There was the cluttering of crickets and the whine of mosquitoes, the smell of moss and the stink of river mud.
‘It’s the swamp,’ said Magrat.
‘It’s the idea of the swamp,’ said Granny. ‘It’s what you have to have first, before you have the swamp.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Nanny. She shrugged. ‘Well, Ella’s got away and so have we, so this is the part where we escape, yes? That’s what we’re supposed to do.’
None of them moved.
‘They aren’t very nice people in there,’ said Magrat, after a while, ‘but they don’t deserve alligators.”
‘You witches stand right there,’ said a voice behind them. Half a dozen guards were crowded around the hole in the wall.
‘Life’s certainly busier in the city,’ said Nanny, pulling another hatpin from her hat.
‘They’ve got crossbows,’ warned Magrat. ‘There’s not much you can do against crossbows. Projectile weapons is Lesson Seven and I haven’t had that yet.’
‘They can’t pull triggers if they think they’ve got flippers,’ said Granny menacingly.
‘Now,’ said Nanny, ‘let’s not have any of that, eh? Everyone knows the good ones always win specially when they’re outnumbered.’
The guards emerged.
As they did so a tall black shape dropped noiselessly from the wall behind them.
‘There,’ said Nanny, ‘I said he wouldn’t go far from his mummy, didn’t I?’
One or two of the guards realized that she was staring proudly past them, and turned.
As far as they were concerned, they confronted a tall, broad-shouldered man with a mane of black hair, an eyepatch and a very wide grin.
He stood with his arms casually folded.
He waited until he had their full attention, and then Greebo let his lips part slowly.
Several of the men took a step backwards then.
One of them said, ‘Why worry? It’s not as if he’s got a weap – ‘
Greebo raised one hand.
Claws make no noise as they slide out, but they ought to. They ought to make a noise like ‘tzing’.
Greebo’s grin widened.
Ah! These still worked …
One of the men was bright enough to raise his crossbow but stupid enough to do it with Nanny Ogg standing behind him with a hatpin. Her hand moved so swiftly that any wisdom-seeking saffron-clad youth would have started the Way of Mrs Ogg there and then. The man screamed and dropped the bow.
‘Wrowwwl…’
Greebo leapt.
Cats are like witches. They don’t fight to kill, but to win. There is a difference. There’s no point in killing an opponent. That way, they won’t know they’ve lost, and to be a real winner you have to have an opponent who is beaten and knows it. There’s no triumph over a corpse, but a beaten opponent, who will remain beaten every day of the remainder of their sad and wretched life, is something to treasure.
Cats do not, of course, rationalize this far. They just like to send someone limping off minus a tail and a few square inches of fur.
Greebo’s technique was unscientific and wouldn’t have stood a chance against any decent swordsmanship, but on his side was the fact that it is almost impossible to develop decent swordsmanship when you seem to have run into a food mixer that is biting your ear off.
The witches watched with interest.
‘I think we can leave him now,’ said Nanny. ‘I think he’s having fun.’
They hurried towards the hall.
The orchestra was in the middle of a complicated number when the lead violinist happened to glance towards the door, and then dropped his bow. The cellist turned to see what had caused this, followed his colleague’s fixed stare, and in a moment of confusion tried to play his instrument backwards.
In a succession of squeaks and flats, the orchestra stopped playing. The dancers continued for a while out of sheer momentum, and then stopped and milled about in confusion. And then, one by one, they too looked up.
Saturday stood at the top of the steps.
In the silence came the drumming, making the music that had gone before seem as insignificant as the cluttering of crickets. This was the real blood music; every other music that had ever been written was merely a pitiful attempt to sing along.
It poured into the room, and with it came the heat and the warm, vegetable smell of the swamp. There was a suggestion of alligator in the air – not the presence of them, but the promise.
The drumming grew louder. There were complex counter-rhythms, much more felt than heard.
Saturday brushed a speck of dust off the shoulder of his ancient coat, and reached out an arm.
The tall hat appeared in his hand.
He reached out his other hand.
The black cane with the silver top whirred out of the empty air and was snatched up triumphantly.
He put the hat on his head. He twirled the cane.
The drums rolled. Except that … maybe it wasn’t drums now, maybe it was a beat in the floor itself, or in the walls, or in the air. It was fast and hot and people in the hall found their feet moving of their own accord, because the drumming seemed to reach the toes via the hindbrain without ever passing near the ears.