‘Stop this at once!’ Magrat shouted. ‘And how dare you smoke in my castle! That can have a very serious effect on people around you!’
‘Is anyone going to say, “You’ll never get away with it”?’ said the Count, ignoring her. He walked up the steps. They bobbed helplessly along ahead of him, like so many balloons. The hall doors slammed shut after him.
‘Oh, someone must,’ he said.
‘You won’t get away with this!’
The Count beamed. ‘And I didn’t even see your lips move-‘
‘Depart from here and return to the grave whence thou camest, unrighteous revenant!’
‘Where the hell did he come from?’ said Nanny, as Mightily Oats dropped to the ground in front of the vampires.
He was creeping along the minstrel gallery, said Perdita to Agnes. Sometimes you just don’t pay attention.
The priest’s coat was covered with dust and his collar was torn, but his eyes blazed with holy zeal.
He thrust something in front of the vampire’s face. Agnes saw him glance down hurriedly at a small book in his other hand.
‘Er. . . “Get thee hence, thou worm of Rheum, and vex not “‘
‘Excuse me?’ said the Count.
‘”-trouble not more the-”
‘Could I just make a point?’
‘ “-thou spirit that troubles thee, thou’ . . . What?’
The Count took the notebook out of Oats’s suddenly unresisting hand.
‘This is from Ossory’s Malleus Maleficarum,’ he said. ‘Why do you look so surprised? I helped write it, you silly little man!’
‘But. . . you . . . but that was hundreds of years ago!’ Oats managed.
‘So? And I contributed to Auriga Clavorum Maleficarum, Torquus Simiae Maleficarum . . . the whole damn Arca Instrumentorum, in fact. None of those stupid fictions work on vampires, didn’t you even know that?’ The Count almost growled. ‘Oh, I remember your prophets. They were mad bearded old men with the sanitary habits of a stoat but, by all that’s crazed, they had passion! They didn’t have holy little minds full of worry and fretfulness. They spoke the idiot words as though they believed them, with specks of holy foam bubbling away in the corners of their mouths. Now they were real priests, bellies full of fire and bile! You are a joke.’
He tossed the notebook aside and took the pendant. ‘And this is the holy turtle of Om, which I believe should make me cringe back in fear. My, my. Not even a very good replica. Cheaply made.’
Oats found a reserve of strength. He managed to say, ‘And how would you know, foul fiend?’
‘No, no, that’s for demons,’ sighed the Count.
He handed the turtle back to Oats.
‘A commendable effort, none the less,’ he said. ‘If I ever want a nice cup of tea and a bun and possibly also a cheery sing-song, I will be sure to patronize your mission. But, at the moment, you are in my way.’
He hit the priest so hard that he slid under the long table.
‘So much for piety,’ he said. ‘All that remains is for Granny Weatherwax to turn up. It should be any minute now. After all, did you think she’d trust you to get it right?’
The sound of the huge iron doorknocker reverberated through the hall.
The Count nodded happily. ‘And that will be her,’ he said. ‘Of course it will. Timing is everything.’
The wind roared in when the doors were opened, swirling twigs and rain and Granny Weatherwax, blown like a leaf. She was soaked and covered in mud, her dress torn in several places.
Agnes realized that she’d never actually seen Granny Weatherwax wet before, even after the worst storm, but now she was drenched. Water poured off her and left a trail on the floor.
‘Mistress Weatherwax! So good of you to come,’ said the Count. ‘Such a long walk on a dark night. Do sit by the fire for a while and rest.’
‘I’ll not rest here,’ said Granny.
‘At least have a drink or something to eat, then.’
‘I’ll not eat nor drink here.’
‘Then what will you do?’
‘You know well why I’ve come.’
She looks small, said Perdita. And tired, too.
‘Ah, yes. The set-piece battle. The great gamble. The Weatherwax trademark. And . . . let me see . . . your shopping list today will be. . . “if I win I will expect you to free everyone and go back to Uberwald,’ am I right?’
‘No. I will expect you to die,’ said Granny.
To her horror, Agnes saw that the old woman was swaying slightly.
The Count smiled. ‘Excellent! But . . . I know how you think, Mistress Weatherwax. You always have more than one plan. You’re standing there, clearly one step away from collapse, and yet . . . I’m not entirely certain that I believe what I’m seeing.’
‘I couldn’t give a damn what you’re certain of,’ said Granny. ‘But you daren’t let me walk out of here, I do know that. ‘Cos you can’t be sure of where I’ll go, or what I’ll do. I could be watching you from any pair of eyes. I might be behind any door. I have a few favours I might call in. I could come from any direction, at any time. An’ I’m good at malice.’
‘So? If I was so impolite, I could kill you right now. A simple arrow would suffice. Corporal Svitz?’
The mercenary gave a wave that was as good as he’d ever get to a salute, and raised his crossbow.
‘Are you sure?’ said Granny. ‘Is your ape sure he’d have time for a second shot? That I’d still be here?’
‘You’re not a shape-changer, Mistress Weatherwax. And by the look of it you’re in no position to run.’
‘She’s talking about moving her self into someone else’s head,’ said Vlad.
The witches looked at one another.
‘Sorry, Esme,’ said Nanny Ogg, at last. ‘I couldn’t stop meself thinking. I don’t think I drunk quite enough.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the Count. ‘The famous Borrowing trick.’
‘But you don’t know where, you don’t know how far,’ said Granny wearily. ‘You don’t even know what kind of head. You don’t know if it has to be a head. All you know about me is what you can get out of other people’s minds, and they don’t know all about me. Not by a long way.’
‘And so your self is put elsewhere,’ said the Count. ‘Primitive. I’ve met them, you know, on my travels. Strange old men in beads and feathers who could put their inner self into a fish, an insect . . . even a tree. And as if it mattered. Wood burns. I’m sorry, Mistress Weatherwax. As King Verence is so fond of saying, there’s a new world order. We are it. You are history-‘
He flinched. The three witches dropped to the ground.
‘Well done,’ he said. ‘A shot across my bows. I felt that. I actually felt it. No one in Uberwald has ever managed to get through.’
‘I can do better’n that,’ said Granny.
‘I don’t think you can,’ said the Count. ‘Because if you could you would have done so. No mercy for the vampire, eh? The cry of the mob throughout the ages!’
He strolled towards her. ‘Do you really think we’re like some inbred elves or gormless humans and can be cowed by a firm manner and a bit of trickery? We’re out of the casket now, Mistress Weatherwax. I have tried to be understanding towards you, because really we do have a lot in common, but now-‘
Granny’s body jerked back like a paper doll caught by a gust of wind.
The Count was halfway towards her, hands in the pockets of his jacket. He broke his step momentarily.
‘Oh dear, I hardly felt that one,’ he said. ‘Was that your best?’
Granny staggered, but raised a hand. A heavy chair by the wall was picked up and tumbled across the room.
‘For a human that was quite good,’ said the Count. ‘But I don’t think you can keep on sending it away.’
Granny flinched and raised her other hand. A huge chandelier began to swing.
‘Oh dear,’ said the Count. ‘Still not good enough. Not nearly good enough.’
Granny backed away.
‘But I will promise you this,’ said the Count. ‘I won’t kill you. On the contrary-‘
Invisible hands picked her up and slammed her against the wall.
Agnes went to step forward, but Magrat squeezed her arm.
‘Don’t think of it as losing, Granny Weatherwax,’ said the Count. ‘You will live for ever. I would call that a bargain, wouldn’t you?’
Granny managed a sniff of disapproval.
‘I’d call that unambitious,’ she said. Her face screwed up in pain.
‘Goodbye,’ said the Count.
The witches felt the mental blow. The hall wavered.
But there was something else, in a realm outside normal space. Something bright and silvery, slipping like a fish . . .