‘Just passing through,’ she said sharply. ‘Get on with whatever you were doing.’
The heads all turned to watch them. But towards the back of the kitchen a figure unfolded from the old armchair where Mrs Scorbic sometimes held court and ambled towards them.
‘Oh, blast, it’s one of the bloody hangers-on,’ said Nanny. ‘He’s between us and the door. . .’
‘Ladies!’ said the vampire, bowing. ‘May I be of assistance?’
‘We were just leaving,’ said Magrat haughtily.
‘Possibly not,’ said the vampire.
‘scuse me, young man,’ said Nanny, in her soft old biddy voice, ‘but where are you from?’
‘Uberwald, madam.’
Nanny nodded and referred to a piece of paper she’d pulled out of her pocket. ‘That’s nice. What part?’
‘Klotz.’
‘Really? That’s nice. ‘scuse me.’ She turned her back and there was a brief twanging of elastic before she turned round again, all smiles.
‘I just likes to take an interest in people,’ she
said. ‘Klotz, eh? What’s the name of that river there? The Um? The Eh?’
‘The Ah,’ said the vampire.
Nanny’s hand shot forward and wedged something yellow between the vampire’s teeth. He grabbed her but, as she was dragged forward, she hit him on the top of the head.
He fell to his knees, clutching at his mouth and trying to scream through the lemon he’d just bitten into.
‘Seems an odd superstition, but there you are,’ said Nanny, as he started to foam around the lips.
‘You have to cut their heads off, too,’ said Magrat.
‘Really? Well, I saw a cleaver back there-‘
‘Shall we just go?’ Magrat suggested. ‘Before someone else comes, perhaps?’
‘All right. He’s not a high-up vampire, anyway,’ said Nanny dismissively. ‘He’s not even wearing a very interestin’ waistcoat.’
The night was silver with rain. Heads down, the witches dashed through the murk.
‘I’ve got to change the baby!’
‘For a raincoat’d be favourite,’ muttered Nanny. ‘Now?’
‘It’s a bit urgent . . .’
‘All right, then, in here. . .’
They ducked into the stables. Nanny peered back into the night and shut the door quietly.
‘It’s very dark,’ whispered Magrat.
‘I could always change babies by feel when I was young.’
‘I’d prefer not to have to. Hey . . . there’s a light. . .’
The weak glow of a candle was just visible at the far end of the loose boxes.
Igor was brushing the horses until they shone. His muttering kept time with the strokes of the brush. Something seemed to be on his mind.
‘Thilly voithe, eh? Thilly walk? What the hell doth he know? Jumped-up whipper-thnapper! Igor thtop thith, Igor thtop that . . . all thethe kidth thwanning around, trying to puth me around . . . there’th a covenant in thethe thingth. The old marthter knew that! A thervant ith not a thlave . . .’
He glanced around. A piece of straw drifted to the ground.
He began brushing again. ‘Huh! Fetch thith, fetch that . . . never a morthel of rethpect, oh no. . .’
Igor stopped and pulled another piece of straw off his sleeve.
‘. . . and another thing. .
.’
There was a creak, a rush of air, the horse reared in its stall and Igor was borne to the ground, his head feeling as though it was caught in a vice.
‘Now, if I brings my knees together,’ said a cheerful female voice above him, ‘it’s very probable I could make your brains come right down your nose. But I know that ain’t going to happen, because I’m sure we’re all friends here. Say yes.’
‘th.’
‘That’s the best we’re going to get, I expect.’
Nanny Ogg got up and flicked straw off her dress.
‘I’ve been in cleaner haylofts,’ she said. ‘Up you get, Mr Igor. And if you’re thinking of anything clever, my colleague over there is holdin’ a pitchfork and she ain’t much good at aiming so who knows what part of you she might hit?’
‘Ith that a baby thee’th carrying?’
‘We’re very modern,’ said Nanny. ‘We’ve got hedge money and everything. And now we’ll have your coach, Igor.’
‘Will we?’ said Magrat. ‘Where’re we going?’
‘It’s a wicked night. I don’t want to keep the baby out, and I don’t know where we’d be safe near here. Maybe we can get down on to the plains before morning.’
‘I won’t leave Lancre I’
‘Save the child,’ said Nanny. ‘Make sure there’s going to be a future. Besides. . .’ She mouthed something at Magrat which Igor did not catch.
‘We can’t be sure of that,’ said Magrat.
‘You know the way Granny thinks,’ said Nanny. ‘She’ll want us to keep the baby safe,’ she added loudly. ‘So hitch up the horses, Mr Igor.’
‘Yeth, mithtreth,’ said Igor meekly.*
‘Are you kicking my bucket, Igor?'[12]
‘No, it’th a pleathure to be commanded in a clear, firm authoritative voithe, mithtreth,’ said Igor, lurching over to the bridles. ‘None of thith “Would you mind. . .” rubbith. An Igor liketh to know where he thtandth.’
‘Slightly lopsidedly?’ said Magrat.
‘The old marthter uthed to whip me every day!’ said Igor proudly.
‘You liked that?’ said Magrat.
‘Of courthe not! But it’th proper! He wath a gentleman, whothe bootth I wath not fit to lick clean. . .’
‘But you did, though?’ said Nanny.
Igor nodded. ‘Every morning. Uthed to get a lovely thine, too.’
‘Well, help us out and I’ll see you’re flogged with a scented bootlace,’ said Nanny.
‘Thankth all the thame, but I’m leaving anyway,’ said Igor, tightening a strap. ‘I’m thick up to here with thith lot. They thouldn’t be doing thith! They’re a dithgrathe to the thpethieth!’
Nanny wiped her face. ‘I like a man who speaks his mind,’ she said, ‘and is always prepared to lend a towel -did I say towel? I mean hand.’
‘Are you going to trust him?’ said Magrat.
‘I’m a good judge of character, me,’ said Nanny. ‘And you can always rely on a man with stitches all round his head.’
‘Waley, waley, waley!’
‘Ta’ can onlie be one t’ousan!’
‘Bigjobs!’
A fox peered cautiously around a tree.
Through the rain-swept woods a man was moving at speed, while apparently lying down. He wore a nightcap, the bobble of which bounced on the ground.
By the time the fox realized what was going on it was too late. A small blue figure leapt out from under the rushing man and landed on its nose, smacking it between the eyes with his head.
‘Seeyu? Grich’ ta’ bones outa t’is yan!’
The Nac mac Feegle leapt down as the fox collapsed, grabbed its tail with one hand and ran after the others, punching the air triumphantly.
‘Obhoy! We ‘gan eat t’nicht!’
They’d pulled the bed out into the middle of the room. Now Agnes and Oats sat on either side of it, listening to the distant sounds of Hodgesaargh feeding the birds. There was the rattle of tins and the occasional yelp as he tried to remove a bird from his nose.
‘Sorry?’ said Agnes.
‘Pardon?’
I thought you whispered something,’ said Agnes. ‘I was, er, saying a short prayer,’ said Oats.
‘Will that help?’ said Agnes.
‘Er . . . it helps me. The Prophet Brutha said that Om helps those who help one another.’
‘And does he?’
‘To be honest, there are a number of opinions of what was meant.’
‘How many?’
‘About one hundred and sixty, since the Schism of 10.30 a.m., February 23. That was when the Re-United Free Chelonianisis (Hubwards Convocation) schismed from the Re-United Free Chelonianists (Rimwards Convocation). It was rather serious.’
‘Blood spilled?’ said Agnes. She wasn’t really interested, but it took her mind off whatever might be waking up in a minute.
‘No, but there were fisticuffs and a deacon had ink spilled on him.’
‘I can see that was pretty bad.’
‘There was some serious pulling of beards as well.’
‘Gosh.’ Sects maniacs, said Perdita.
‘You’re making fun of me,’ said Oats solemnly.
‘Well, it does sound a little . . . trivial. You’re always arguing?’
‘The Prophet Brutha said, “Let there be ten thousand voices,”‘ said the priest. ‘Sometimes I think he meant that it was better to argue amongst ourselves than go out putting unbelievers to fire and the sword. It’s all very complicated.’ He sighed. ‘There are a hundred pathways to Om. Unfortunately I sometimes think someone left a rake lying across a lot of them. The vampire was right. We’ve lost the fire. . .’
‘But you used to burn people with it.’
‘I know. . . I know. . .’
Agnes saw a movement out of the corner of her eye.
Steam was rising from under the blanket they’d pulled over Granny Weatherwax.
As Agnes looked down Granny’s eyes sprang open and swivelled from side to side.
Her mouth moved once or twice.
‘And how are you, Miss Weatherwax?’ said Mightily Oats, in a cheerful voice.
‘She was bitten by a vampire! What sort of question is that?’ Agnes hissed.