Part 16 (1/2)
She shut the door in his panting face, stood in thought for a moment, and retired to her rocking chair.
Eventually she said, once more, ”Right.”
A little later she added, ”She's a daft old besom, but we can't have people going around doing things to witches. Once you've lost your respect, you ain't got a thing. I don't remember looking at old Norbut's cow. Who's old Norbut?”
She stood up, took her pointed hat from its hook behind the door and, glaring into the mirror, skewered it in place with a number of ferocious hatpins. They slid on one by one, as unstoppable as the wrath of G.o.d.
She vanished into the outhouse for a moment and came back with her witch's cloak, which served as a blanket for sick goats when not otherwise employed.
Once upon a time it had been black velvet; now it was just black. It was carefully and slowly fastened by a tarnished silver brooch.
No samurai, no questing knight, was ever dressed with as much ceremony.
Finally Granny drew herself up, surveyed her dark reflection in the gla.s.s, gave a thin little smile of approval, and left via the back door.
The air of menace was only slightly dispelled by the sound of her running up and down outside, trying to get her broomstick started.
Magrat was also regarding herself in the mirror.
She'd dug out a startlingly green dress that was designed to be both revealing and clinging, and would have been if Magrat had anything to display or cling to, so she'd shoved a couple of rolled-up stockings down the front in an effort to make good the more obvious deficiencies. She had also tried a spell on her hair, but it was naturally magic-resistant and already the natural shape was beginning to a.s.sert itself (a dandelion clock at about 2 p.m.).
Magrat had also tried makeup. This wasn't an unqualified success. She didn't have much practice. She was beginning to wonder if she'd overdone the eyeshadow.
Her neck, fingers and arms between them carried enough silverware to make a full-sized dinner service, and over everything she had thrown a black cloak lined with red silk.
In a certain light and from a carefully chosen angle, Magrat was not unattractive. Whether any of these preparations did anything for her is debatable, but they did mean that a thin veneer of confidence overlaid her trembling heart.
She drew herself up and turned this way and that. The cl.u.s.ters of amulets, magical jewelry and occult bangles on various parts of her body jingled together; any enemy wouldn't only have to be blind to fail to notice that a witch was approaching, he'd have to be deaf as well.
She turned to her worktable and examined what she rather self-consciously, and never in Granny's hearing, called her Tools of the Craft. There was the white-handled knife, used in the preparation of magical ingredients. There was the black-handled knife, used in the magical workings themselves; Magrat had carved so many runes into its handle it was in constant danger of falling in half. They were undoubtedly powerful, but...
Magrat shook her head regretfully, went over to the kitchen dresser and took out the breadknife. Something told her that at times like these a good sharp breadknife was probably the best friend a girl could have.
”I spy, with my little eye,” said Nanny Ogg, ”something beginning with P.”
The ghost of the king stared wearily around the dungeons.
”Pliers,” he suggested.
”No.”
”Pilliwinks?”
”That's a pretty name. What is it?”
”It's a kind of thumbscrew. Look,” said the king.
”It's not that,” said Nanny.
”Choke-pear?” he said desperately.
”That's a C, and anyway I don't know what it is,” said Nanny Ogg. The king obligingly indicated it on the tray, and explained its use.
”Definitely not,” said Nanny.
”Smouldering Boot of Punishment?” said the king.
”You're a bit too good at these names,” said Nanny sharply. ”You sure you didn't use them when you were alive?”
”Absolutely, Nanny,” said the ghost.
”Boys that tell lies go to a bad place,” warned Nanny.
”Lady Felmet had most of them installed herself, it's the truth,” said the king desperately; he felt his position to be precarious enough without having any bad places to worry about.
Nanny sniffed. ”Right, then,” she said, slightly mollified. ”It was 'pinchers.'”
”But pinchers is just another name for pl-” the king began, and stopped himself in time. During his adult life he'd been afraid of no man, beast or combination of the two, but Nanny's voice brought back old memories of schoolroom and nursery, of life under strict orders given by stern ladies in long skirts, and nursery food-mostly gray and brown-which seemed indigestible at the time but now appeared a distant ambrosia.
”That's five to me,” said Nanny happily.
”They'll be back soon,” said the king. ”Are you sure you'll be all right?”
”If I'm not, precisely how much help can you be?” said Nanny.
There was the sound of bolts sliding back.
There was already a crowd outside the castle as Granny's broomstick wobbled uncertainly toward the ground. They went quiet as she strode forward, and parted to let her pa.s.s. She had a basket of apples under her arm.
”There's a witch in the dungeons,” someone whispered to Granny. ”And foul tortures, they say!”
”Nonsense,” said Granny. ”It couldn't be. I expect Nanny Ogg has just gone to advize the king, or something.”
”They say Jason Ogg's gone to fetch his brothers,” said a stallholder, in awe.
”I really advize you all to return home,” said Granny Weatherwax. ”There has probably been a misunderstanding. Everyone knows a witch cannot be held against her will.”
”It's gone too far this time,” said a peasant. ”All this burning and taxing and now this. I blame you witches. It's got to stop. I know my rights.”
”What rights are they?” said Granny.
”Dunnage, cowhage-in-ordinary, badinage, leftovers, scrommidge, clary and spunt,” said the peasant promptly. ”And acornage, every other year, and the right to keep two-thirds of a goat on the common. Until he set fire to it. It was a b.l.o.o.d.y good goat, too.”