‘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 older witches, but she still held to one of the most iundamental 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 mayor 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 no 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.
‘Not that little,’ said Magrat. ‘What’s his name, do you happen to know?’
‘He’s just called Fool,’ said Granny. ‘No job for a man, that. Running around with bells on.’
‘His mother was a Beldame, from over Blackglass way,’ said Nanny Ogg, whose knowledge of the genealogy of Lancre was legendary. ‘Bit of a beauty when she was younger. Broke many a heart, she did. Bit of a scandal there, I did hear. Granny’s right, though. At the end of the day, a Fool’s a Fool.’
‘Why d’you want to know, Magrat?’ said Granny Weather-wax.
‘Oh . . . one of the girls in the village was asking me,’ said Magrat, crimson to the ears.
Nanny cleared her throat, and grinned at Granny Weatherwax, who sniffed aloofly.