Part 4 (1/2)

Magrat was entranced, as usual. The theater was no more than some lengths of painted sacking, a plank stage laid over a few barrels, and half a dozen benches set out in the village square. But at the same time it had also managed to become The Castle, Another Part of the Castle, The Same Part A Little Later, The Battlefield and now it was A Road Outside the City. The afternoon would have been perfect if it wasn't for Granny Weatherwax.

After several piercing glares at the three-man orchestra to see if she could work out which instrument the theater was, the old witch had finally paid attention to the stage, and it was beginning to become apparent to Magrat that there were certain fundamental aspects of the theater that Granny had not yet grasped.

She was currently bouncing up and down on her stool with rage.

”He's killed him,” she hissed. ”Why isn't anyone doing anything about it? He's killed him! And right up there in front of everyone!”

Magrat held on desperately to her colleague's arm as she struggled to get to her feet.

”It's all right,” she whispered. ”He's not dead!”

”Are you calling me a liar, my girl?” snapped Granny. ”I saw it all!”

”Look, Granny, it's not really real, d'you see?”

Granny Weatherwax subsided a little, but still grumbled under her breath. She was beginning to feel that things were trying to make a fool of her.

Up on the stage a man in a sheet was giving a spirited monologue. Granny listened intently for some minutes, and then nudged Magrat in the ribs.

”What's he on about now?” she demanded.

”He's saying how sorry he was that the other man's dead,” said Magrat, and in an attempt to change the subject added hurriedly, ”There's a lot of crowns, isn't there?”

Granny was not to be distracted. ”What'd he go and kill him for, then?” she said.

”Well, it's a bit complicated-” said Magrat, weakly.

”It's shameful!” snapped Granny. ”And the poor dead thing still lying there!”

Magrat gave an imploring look to Nanny Ogg, who was masticating an apple and studying the stage with the glare of a research scientist.

”I reckon reckon,” she said slowly, ”I reckon it's all just pretendin'. Look, he's still breathing.”

The rest of the audience, who by now had already decided that this commentary was all part of the play, stared as one man at the corpse. It blushed.

”And look at his boots, too,” said Nanny critically. ”A real king'd be ashamed of boots like that.”

The corpse tried to shuffle its feet behind a cardboard bush.

Granny, feeling in some obscure way that they had scored a minor triumph over the purveyors of untruth and artifice, helped herself to an apple from the bag and began to take a fresh interest. Magrat's nerves started to unknot, and she began to settle down to enjoy the play. But not, as it turned out, for very long. Her willing suspension of disbelief was interrupted by a voice saying: ”What's this bit?”

Magrat sighed. ”Well,” she hazarded, ”he thinks that thinks that he he is the prince, but is the prince, but he's he's really the other king's daughter, dressed up as a man.” really the other king's daughter, dressed up as a man.”

Granny subjected the actor to a long a.n.a.lytical stare.

”He is is a man,” she said. ”In a straw wig. Making his voice squeaky.” a man,” she said. ”In a straw wig. Making his voice squeaky.”

Magrat shuddered. She knew a little about the conventions of the theater. She had been dreading this bit. Granny Weatherwax had Views.

”Yes, but,” she said wretchedly, ”it's the Theater, see. All the women are played by men.”

”Why?”

”They don't allow no women on the stage,” said Magrat in a small voice. She shut her eyes.

In fact, there was no outburst from the seat on her left. She risked a quick glance.

Granny was quietly chewing the same bit of apple over and over again, her eyes never leaving the action.

”Don't make a fuss, Esme,” said Nanny, who also knew about Granny's Views. ”This is a good bit. I reckon I'm getting the hang of it.”

Someone tapped Granny on the shoulder and a voice said, ”Madam, will you kindly remove your hat?”

Granny turned around very slowly on her stool, as though propelled by hidden motors, and subjected the interrupter to a hundred kilowatt diamond-blue stare. The man wilted under it and sagged back onto his stool, her face following him all the way down.

”No,” she said.

He considered the options. ”All right,” he said.

Granny turned back and nodded to the actors, who had paused to watch her.

”I don't know what you're staring at,” she growled. ”Get on with it.”

Nanny Ogg pa.s.sed her another bag.

”Have a humbug,” she said.

Silence again filled the makes.h.i.+ft theater except for the hesitant voices of the actors, who kept glancing at the bristling figure of Granny Weatherwax, and the sucking sounds of a couple of boiled humbugs being relentlessly churned from cheek to cheek.

Then Granny said, in a piercing voice that made one actor drop his wooden sword, ”There's a man over on the side there whispering to them!”

”He's a prompter,” said Magrat. ”He tells them what to say.”

”Don't they know?”

”I think they're forgetting,” said Magrat sourly. ”For some reason.”

Granny nudged Nanny Ogg.

”What's going on now?” she said. ”Why're all them kings and people up there?”

”It's a banquet, see,” said Nanny Ogg authoritatively. ”Because of the dead king, him in the boots, as was, only now if you look, you'll see he's pretending to be a soldier, and everyone's making speeches about how good he was and wondering who killed him.”

”Are they?” said Granny, grimly. She cast her eyes along the cast, looking for the murderer.

She was making up her mind.