Part 21 (1/2)
”...and now it's started on the Nougat Whirls!”
Granny s.n.a.t.c.hed at her hat and did a crabwise run along the row, crus.h.i.+ng some of the finest footwear in Ankh-Morpork under her thick Lancre soles.
Nanny hung back reluctantly. She'd quite enjoyed the song, and she wanted to applaud. But her pair of hands wasn't necessary. The audience had exploded as soon as the last note had died away.
Nanny Ogg looked at the stage, and took note of something, and smiled. ”Like that, eh?”
”Gytha!”
She sighed. ”Coming, Esme. 'Scuse me. 'Scuse me. Sorry. 'Scuse me...”
Granny Weatherwax was out in the red plush corridor, leaning with her forehead against the wall.
”This is a bad one, Gytha,” she muttered. ”It's all twisted up. I ain't at all sure I can make it happen right. The poor soul...”
She straightened up. ”Look at me, Gytha, will you?”
Gytha obediently opened her eyes wide. She winced a little as a fragment of Granny Weatherwax's consciousness crept behind her eyes.
Granny put her hat on, tucking in the occasional errant wisp of gray hair and then taking, one by one, the eight hat pins and ramming them home with the same frowning deliberation with which a mercenary might check his weapons.
”All right,” she said at last.
Nanny Ogg relaxed. ”It's not that I mind, Esme,” she said, ”but I wish you'd use a mirror.”
”Waste of money,” said Granny.
Now fully armored, she strode off along the corridor.
”Glad to see you didn't lose your temper with the man who went on about your hat,” said Nanny, running along behind.
”No point. He's going to be dead tomorrow.”
”Oh, dear. What of?”
”Run over by a cart, I think.”
”Why didn't you tell him?”
”I could be wrong.”
Granny reached the stairs and thundered down them.
”Where're we going?”
”I want to see who's behind those curtains.”
The applause, distant but still thunderous, filled the stairwell.
”They certainly like Agnes's voice,” said Nanny.
”Yes. I hopes we're in time.”
”Oh, b.u.g.g.e.r!”
”What?”
”I left Greebo up there!”
”Well, he likes meeting new people. Good grief, this place is a maze maze.”
Granny stepped out into a curved corridor, rather plusher than the one they had left. There was a series of doors along it.
”Ah. Now, then...”
She walked along the row, counting, and then tried a handle.
”Can I help you, ladies?”
They turned. A little old woman had come up softly behind them, carrying a tray of drinks.
Granny smiled at her. Nanny Ogg smiled at the tray.
”We were just wondering,” said Granny, ”which person in these Boxes likes to sit with the curtains nearly shut?”
The tray began to shake.
”Here, shall I hold that for you?” said Nanny. ”You'll spill something if you're not careful.”
”What do you know about Box Eight?” said the old lady.
”Ah. Box Eight,” said Granny. ”That'd be the one, yes. That's this one over here, isn't it...?”
”No, please...”
Granny strode forward and grasped the handle.
The door was locked.
The tray was thrust into Nanny's welcoming hands. ”Well, thank you, I don't mind if I do...” she said.
The woman pulled at Granny's arm. ”Don't! It'll bring terrible bad luck!”
Granny thrust out her hand. ”The key, madam!” Behind her, Nanny inspected a gla.s.s of champagne.
”Don't make him angry! It's bad enough as it is!” The woman was clearly terrified.
”Iron,” said Granny, rattling the handle. ”Can't magic iron...”