There was yet another rattle of thunder, which ended with the kind of crash made, for example, by a sheet of tin escaping from someone’s hands and hitting the wall.
In the world outside the stage the heat pressed down like a pillow, squeezing the very life out of the air. Granny saw a footman bend down to the duke’s ear. No, he won’t stop the play. Of course he won’t. He wants it to run its course.
The duke must have felt the heat of her gaze on the back of his neck. He turned, focused on her, and gave her a strange little smile. Then he nudged his wife. They both laughed.
Granny Weatherwax was often angry. She considered it one of her strong points. Genuine anger was one of the world’s great creative forces. But you had to learn how to control it. That didn’t mean you let it trickle away. It meant you dammed it, carefully, let it develop a working head, let it drown whole valleys of the mind and then, just when the whole structure was about to collapse, opened a tiny pipeline at the base and let the iron-hard stream of wrath power the turbines of revenge.
She felt the land below her, even through several feet of foundations, flagstones, one thickness of leather and two thicknesses of sock. She felt it waiting.
She heard the king say, ‘My own flesh and blood? Why has he done this to me? I’m going to confront him!’
She gently took Nanny Ogg’s hand.
‘Come, Gytha,’ she said.
Lord Felmet sat back in his throne and beamed madly at the world, which was looking good right at the moment. Things were working out better than he had dared to hope. He could feel the past melting behind him, like ice in the spring thaw.
On an impulse he called the footman back.
‘Call the captain of the guard,’ he said, ‘and tell him to find the witches and arrest them.’
The duchess snorted.
‘Remember what happened last time, foolish man?’
‘We left two of them loose,’ said the duke. ‘This time . . . all three. The tide of public feeling is on our side. That sort of thing affects witches, depend upon it.’
The duchess cracked her knuckles to indicate her view of public opinion.
‘You must admit, my treasure, that the experiment seems to be working.’
‘It would appear so.’
‘Very well. Don’t just stand there, man. Before the play ends, tell him. Those witches are to be under lock and key.’
Death adjusted his cardboard skull in front of the mirror, twitched his cowl into a suitable shape, stood back and considered the general effect. It was going to be his first speaking part. He wanted to get it right.
‘Cower now, Brief Mortals,’ he said. ‘For I am Death, ‘Gainst Whom No . . . no . . . no . . . Hwel, ‘gainst whom no?’
‘Oh, good grief, Dafe. ” ‘Gainst whom no lock will hold nor fasten’d portal bar”, I really don’t see why you have difficulty with . . . not that way up, you idiots!’ Hwel strode off through the backstage melee in pursuit of a pair of importunate scene shifters.
‘Right,’ said Death, to no-one in particular. He turned back to the mirror.
‘ ‘Gainst Whom No . . . Tumpty-Tum . . . nor Tumpty-Tumpty bar,’ he said, uncertainly, and flourished his scythe. The end fell off.
‘Do you think I’m fearsome enough?’ he said, as he tried to fix it on again.
Tomjon, who was sitting on his hump and trying to drink some tea, gave him an encouraging nod.
‘No problem, my friend,’ he said. ‘Compared to a visit from you, even Death himself would hold no fears. But you could try a bit more hollowness.’
‘How d’you mean?’
Tomjon put down his cup. Shadows seemed to move across his face; his eyes sank, his lips drew back from his teeth, his skin stretched and paled.
‘I HAVE COME TO GET YOU, YOU TERRIBLE ACTOR,’ he intoned, each syllable falling into place like a coffin lid. His features sprang back into shape.
‘Like that,’ he said.
Dafe, who had flattened himself against the wall, relaxed a bit and gave a nervous giggle.
‘Gods, I don’t know how you do it,’ he said. ‘Honestly, I’ll never be as good as you.’
‘There really isn’t anything to it. Now run along, Hwel’s fit to be tied as it is.’
Dafe gave him a look of gratitude and ran off to help with the scene shifting.
Tomjon sipped his tea uneasily, the backstage noises whirring around him like so much fog. He was worried.
Hwel had said that everything about the play was fine, except for the play itself. And Tomjon kept thinking that the play itself was trying to force itself into a different shape. His mind had been hearing other words, just too faint for hearing. It was almost like eavesdropping on a conversation. He’d had to shout more to drown out the buzzing in his head.
This wasn’t right. Once a play was written it was, well, written. It shouldn’t come alive and start twisting itself around.
No wonder everyone needed prompting all the time. The play was writhing under their hands, trying to change itself.
Ye gods, he’d be glad to get out of this spooky castle, and away from this mad duke. He glanced around, decided that it would be some time before the next act was called, and wandered aimlessly in search of fresher air.
A door yielded to his touch and he stepped out on to the battlements. He pushed it shut behind him, cutting off the sounds of the stage and replacing them by a velvet hush. There was a livid sunset imprisoned behind bars of cloud, but the air was as still as a mill pond and as hot as a furnace. In the forest below some night bird screamed.
He walked to the other end of the battlements and peered down into the sheer depths of the gorge. Far beneath, the Lancre boiled in its eternal mists.
He turned, and walked into a draught of such icy coldness that he gasped.
Unusual breezes plucked at his clothing. There was a strange muttering in his ear, as though someone was-trying to talk to him but couldn’t get the speed right. He stood rigid for a moment, getting his breath, and then fled for the door.
‘But we’re not witches!’
‘Why do you look like them, then? Tie their hands, lads.’
‘Yes, excuse me, but we’re not really witches!’
The captain of the guard looked from face to face. His gaze took in the pointy hats, the disordered hair smelling of damp haystacks, the sickly green complexions and the herd of warts. Guard captain for the duke wasn’t a job that offered long-term prospects for those who used initiative. Three witches had been called for, and these seemed to fit the bill.
The captain never went to the theatre. When he was on the rack of adolescence he’d been badly frightened by a Punch and Judy show, and since then had taken pains to avoid any organised entertainment and had kept away from anywhere where crocodiles could conceivably be expected. He’d spent the last hour enjoying a quiet drink in the guardroom.
‘I said tie their hands, didn’t I?’ he snapped.
‘Shall we gag them as well, cap’n?’
‘But if you’d just listen, we’re with the theatre—’
‘Yes,’ said the captain, shuddering. ‘Gag them.’
‘Please . . .’
The captain leaned down and stared at three pairs of frightened eyes. He was trembling.
‘That,’ he said, ‘is the last time you’ll eat anyone’s sausage.’
He was aware that now the soldiers were giving him odd looks as well. He coughed and pulled himself together.
‘Very well then, my theatrical witches,’ he said. ‘You’ve done your show, and now it’s time for your applause.’ He nodded to his men.
‘Clap them in chains,’ he said.
Three other witches sat in the gloom behind the stage, staring vacantly into the darkness. Granny Weatherwax had picked up a copy of the script, which she peered at from time to time, as if seeking ideas.
‘ “Divers alarums and excursions”,’ she read, uncertainly.
‘That means lots of terrible happenings,’ said Magrat. ‘You always put that in plays.’
‘Alarums and what?’ said Nanny Ogg, who hadn’t been listening.
‘Excursions,’ said Magrat patiently.
‘Oh.’ Nanny Ogg brightened a bit. ‘The seaside would be nice,’ she said.
‘Do shut up, Gytha,’ said Granny Weatherwax. ‘They’re not for you. They’re only for divers, like it says. Probably so they can recover from all them alarums.’
‘We can’t let this happen,’ said Magrat, quickly and loudly. ‘If this gets about, witches’ll always be old hags with green blusher.’
‘And meddlin’ in the affairs of kings,’ said Nanny. ‘Which we never do, as is well known.’
‘It’s not the meddlin’ I object to,’ said Granny Weatherwax, her chin on her hand. ‘It’s the evil meddling.’