Maskerade (38 page)

The coach pulled up. Nanny looked up at the driver, and smiled innocently. ‘Good morning, my good sir!'

He gave her a slightly frightened but mainly suspicious look. ‘Is it?'

‘We are desirous of travelling to Lancre but
unfortunately we find ourselves a bit embarrassed in the knicker department.'

‘You are?'

‘But we are witches and could prob'ly pay for our travel by, e.g., curing any embarrassing little ailments you may have.'

The coachman frowned. ‘I ain't carrying you for nothing, old crone. And I haven't got any embarrassing little ailments!'

Granny stepped forward.

‘How many would you like?' she said.

Rain rolled over the plains. It wasn't an impressive Ramtops thunderstorm but a lazy, persistent, low-cloud rain, like a fat fog. It had been following them all day.

The witches had the coach to themselves. Several people had opened the door while it had been waiting to leave, but for some reason had suddenly decided that today's travel plans didn't include a coach ride.

‘Making good time,' said Nanny, opening the curtains and peering out of the window.

‘I expect the driver's in a hurry.'

‘Yes, I 'spect he is.'

‘Shut the window, though. It's getting wet in here.'

‘Righty-ho.'

Nanny grabbed the strap and then suddenly poked her head out into the rain.

‘Stop! Stop! Tell the man to stop!'

The coach slewed to a halt in a sheet of mud.

Nanny threw open the door. ‘I don't know, trying to walk home, and in this weather too! You'll catch your death!'

Rain and fog rolled in through the open doorway. Then a bedraggled shape pulled itself over the sill and slunk under the seats, leaving small puddles behind it.

‘Tryin' to be independent,' said Nanny. ‘Bless 'im.'

The coach got under way again. Granny stared out at the endless darkening fields and the relentless drizzle, and saw another figure toiling along in the mud by the road that would, eventually, reach Lancre. As the coach swept past, it drenched the walker in thin slurry.

‘Yes, indeed. Being independent's a fine ambition,' she said, drawing the curtains.

The trees were bare when Granny Weatherwax got back to her cottage.

Twigs and seeds had blown in under the door. Soot had fallen down the chimney. Her home, always somewhat organic, had grown a little closer to its roots in the clay.

There were things to do, so she did them. There were leaves to be swept, and the woodpile to be built up under the eaves. The windsock behind the beehives, tattered by autumn storms, needed to be darned. Hay had to be got in for the goats. Apples had to be stored in the loft. The walls could do with another coat of whitewash.

But there was something that had to be done
first. It'd make the other jobs a bit more difficult, but there was no help for that. You couldn't magic iron. And you couldn't grab a sword without being hurt. If that wasn't true, the world'd be all over the place.

Granny made herself some tea, and then boiled up the kettle again. She took a handful of herbs out of a box on the dresser, and dropped them in a bowl with the steaming water. She took a length of clean bandage out of a drawer and set it carefully on the table beside the bowl. She threaded an extremely sharp needle and laid needle and thread beside the bandage. She scooped a fingerful of greenish ointment out of a small tin, and smeared it on a square of lint.

That seemed to be it.

She sat down, and rested her arm on the table palm-up.

‘Well,' she said, to no one in particular, ‘I reckon I've got time now.'

The privy had to be moved. It was a job Granny preferred to do for herself. There was something incredibly satisfying in digging a very deep hole. It was
uncomplicated
. You knew where you were with a hole in the ground. Dirt didn't get strange ideas, or believe that people were honest because they had a steady gaze and a firm handshake. It just lay there, waiting for you to move it. And, after you'd done it, you could sit there in the lovely warm knowledge that it'd be months before you had to do it again.

It was while she was at the bottom of the hole that a shadow fell across it.

‘Afternoon, Perdita,' she said without looking up.

She lifted another shovelful to head-height and flung it over the edge.

‘Come home for a visit, have you?' she said.

She rammed the shovel into the clay at the bottom of the hole again, winced, and forced it down with her foot.

‘Thought you were doing very well in the opera,' she went on. ‘'Course, I'm not an expert in these things. Good to see young people seeking their fortune in the big city, though.'

She looked up with a bright, friendly smile.

‘I see you've lost a bit of weight, too.' Innocence hung from her words like loops of toffee.

‘I've been … taking exercise,' said Agnes.

‘Exercise is a fine thing, certainly,' said Granny, getting back to her digging. ‘Though they do say you can have too much of it. When are you going back?'

‘I … haven't decided.'

‘Weeelll, it doesn't pay to be always planning. Don't tie yourself down the whole time, I've always said that. Staying with your ma, are you?'

‘Yes,' said Agnes.

‘Ah? Only Magrat's old cottage is still empty. You'd be doing everyone a favour if you aired it out a bit. You know … as long as you're here.'

Agnes said nothing. She couldn't think of anything to say.

‘Funny ole thing,' said Granny, hacking around a particularly troublesome tree root. ‘I wouldn't tell everyone, but I was only thinking the other
day, about when I was younger and called myself Endemonidia …'

‘You
did
? When?'

Granny rubbed her forehead with her bandaged hand, leaving a clay-red smudge.

‘Oh, for about three, four hours,' she said. ‘Some names don't have the stayin' power. Never pick yourself a name you can't scrub the floor in.'

She threw her shovel out of the hole. ‘Give me a hand up, will you?'

Agnes did so. Granny brushed the dirt and leaf-mould off her apron and tried to stamp the clay off her boots.

‘Time for a cup of tea, eh?' she said. ‘My, you
are
looking well. It's the fresh air. Too much
stuffy
air in that Opera House, I thought.'

Agnes tried in vain to detect anything in Granny Weatherwax's eyes other than transparent honesty and goodwill.

‘Yes. I thought so, too,' she said. ‘Er … you've hurt your hand?'

‘It'll heal. A lot of things do.'

She shouldered her shovel and headed towards the cottage; and then, halfway up the path, turned and looked back.

‘This is just me askin', you understand, in a kind neighbourly way, takin' an interest sort of thing, wouldn't be human if I didn't—'

Agnes sighed. ‘Yes?'

‘… you got much to do with your evenin's these days?'

There was just enough rebellion left in Agnes to
put a sarcastic edge on her voice. ‘Oh? Are you offering to teach me something?'

‘Teach? No,' said Granny. ‘Ain't got the patience for teaching. But I might let you learn.'

‘When shall we three meet again?'

‘We haven't met
once
, yet.'

‘O' course we have. I've person'ly known you for at least—'

‘I mean we
Three
haven't
Met
. You know … officially …'

‘All right … When shall we three meet?'

‘We're already here.'

‘All right. When shall—?'

‘Just shut up and get out the marshmallows. Agnes, give Nanny the marshmallows.'

‘Yes, Granny.'

‘And mind you don't burn mine.'

Granny sat back. It was a clear night, although clouds mounting towards the hub promised snow soon. A few sparks flew up towards the stars. She looked around proudly.

‘Isn't this
nice
,' she said.

THE END

¹
The people of Lancre thought that marriage was a very serious step that ought to be done properly, so they practised quite a lot.

²
Not that she sat looking out of the window. She'd been watching the fire when she picked up the approach of Jarge Weaver. But that wasn't the
point
.

³
Or, at least, dying for a chocolate.

⁴
Er. That is to say, they went to bed at the same time as the chickens went to bed, and got up at the same time as the cows got up. Loosely worded sayings can really cause misunderstandings.

⁵
Distillation of alcohol was illegal in Lancre. On the other hand, King Verence had long ago given up any idea of stopping a witch doing something she wanted to do, so merely required Nanny Ogg to keep her still somewhere it wasn't obvious. She thoroughly approved of the prohibition, since this gave her an unchallenged market for her own product, known wherever men fell backwards into a ditch as ‘suicider'.

⁶
Strictly speaking, this means being chased by photographers anxious to get a picture of you with your vest off.

⁷
Without regret, since she hadn't found any use for it.

⁸
Bergholt Stuttley (‘Bloody Stupid') Johnson was Ankh-Morpork's most famous, or rather most notorious, inventor. He was renowned for never letting his number-blindness, his lack of any skill whatsoever or his complete failure to grasp the essence of a problem stand in the way of his cheerful progress as the first Counter-Renaissance man. Shortly after building the famous Collapsed Tower of Quirm he turned his attention to the world of music, particularly large organs and mechanical orchestras. Examples of his handiwork still occasionally come to light in sales, auctions and, quite frequently, wreckage.

⁹
It was central to Nanny Ogg's soul that she never considered
herself
an old woman, while of course availing herself of every advantage that other people's perceptions of her as such would bring.

Terry Pratchett
is the acclaimed creator of the global bestselling Discworld® series, the first of which,
The Colour of Magic
, was published in 1983. His novels have been widely adapted for stage and screen, and he is the winner of multiple prizes, including the Carnegie Medal, as well as being awarded a knighthood for services to literature. Worldwide sales of his books now stand at 70 million, and they have been translated into thirty-seven languages.

For more information about Terry Pratchett and his books, please visit
www.terrypratchett.co.uk

1. THE COLOUR OF MAGIC

2. THE LIGHT FANTASTIC

3. EQUAL RITES

4. MORT

5. SOURCERY

6. WYRD SISTERS

7. PYRAMIDS

8. GUARDS! GUARDS!

9. ERIC

(illustrated by Josh Kirby)

10. MOVING PICTURES

11. REAPER MAN

12. WITCHES ABROAD

13. SMALL GODS

14. LORDS AND LADIES

15. MEN AT ARMS

16. SOUL MUSIC

17. INTERESTING TIMES

18. MASKERADE

19. FEET OF CLAY

20. HOGFATHER

21. JINGO

22. THE LAST CONTINENT

23. CARPE JUGULUM

24. THE FIFTH ELEPHANT

25. THE TRUTH

26. THIEF OF TIME

27. THE LAST HERO

(illustrated by Paul Kidby)

28. THE AMAZING MAURICE AND HIS EDUCATED RODENTS

(for young adults)

29. NIGHT WATCH

30. THE WEE FREE MEN

(for young adults)

31. MONSTROUS REGIMENT

32. A HAT FULL OF SKY

(for young adults)

33. GOING POSTAL

34. THUD

35. WINTERSMITH

(for young adults)

36. MAKING MONEY

37. UNSEEN ACADEMICALS

38. I SHALL WEAR MIDNIGHT

(for young adults)

39. SNUFF

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A complete list of Terry Pratchett ebooks and audio books as well as other books based on the Discworld series – illustrated screenplays, graphic novels, comics and plays – can be found on
www.terrypratchett.co.uk

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