The Shepherd's Crown (19 page)

The dwarfs Shrucker and Dave had relocated their established broomstick business to the second arch in the row, just after an arch where a passer-by’s ears were assaulted by the weird noises of musical instruments, and before one where the tang of a harness-maker’s fresh leather made its own happy raid on the nose.

It was Dave who rushed towards Tiffany when
she came in with Geoffrey in tow. He recognized her immediately – he had had a bad moment when she’d called in a year or two back and let slip she knew the Feegles.
^fn1
Once a dwarf workshop gets the Feegles, well, they might as well just pack up and go back to the mountains. Taking a big axe with them.

Tiffany noticed how Dave’s eyes were everywhere. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t got any Nac Mac Feegles
with me,’ she said, though she knew that this might not be quite accurate, for although she had told Rob Anybody that this was hag’s business and he and the Feegles had a geas to stay behind, there was no knowing if one hadn’t crept into the bristles of her stick somehow and would suddenly pop up waving a big stick and shouting ‘Crivens!’ But when she said they weren’t with her, she heard a
sigh, and the dwarf almost grinned. Tiffany dodged a drip that fell merrily from the top of the arch, and added, ‘This is Geoffrey, and we’ve come to get him a stick.’ She looked along the row of arches. ‘Took a bit of finding you, actually. Your new workshop.’

Dave was eyeing Geoffrey up and down. ‘Good for us here,’ he said. ‘We gets our supplies quicker. And it’s easier to go see my old mum.
Long journey though.’ A belch of smoke from a train steaming over the arches almost enveloped both the dwarf and Geoffrey, and when Tiffany could see them again, Dave – who now had bits of smut sticking to his face – had decided
exactly
what the lad would need. ‘A number three, I think,’ he said. ‘Reckon we’ve got just the one in stock. Top-of-the-range, you know. Wood all the way from the Ramtops.
Special
wizard
wood.’ He stroked his beard, flicked the cinders off his nose, and walked around Geoffrey. ‘Training to be a wizard then, lad?’

Geoffrey didn’t quite know what to say. He looked over at Tiffany. Should he tell these men that he wanted to be a witch?

‘No,’ said Tiffany, the witch in her making her answer for Geoffrey. ‘My friend here is a calm-weaver.’

The dwarf scratched his
iron helmet, stared at Geoffrey and said, ‘Oh, and what do
they
do, miss?’

Tiffany thought, then said, ‘At the moment, Geoffrey just helps me. And for that, gentlemen, he needs a broomstick.’ She had been holding two broomsticks, her own and one other, and now she held out the spare. ‘But we don’t want a new stick,’ she said. ‘You know how we witches hand our sticks down one to the other. Well,
I’ve got this one, and I think it would do my friend very well with a bit of repair work on it.’

At the word ‘repair’ Shrucker loomed out of the workshop. He looked almost affronted. ‘
Repair?
’ he groaned, as though anyone choosing to reject the new sticks on offer was missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime. ‘You want the lad to begin his career on a used broomstick?’ And then he saw the
stick, and reeled back on his heels, grimacing and clutching at his back. ‘That’s . . . Granny Weatherwax’s stick,’ he said. ‘That’s famous, that is.’

‘A challenge, then,’ said Tiffany smartly. ‘Or aren’t you gentlemen up to the task? I expect I can find someone else . . .’

‘Oh, there’s no need to be hasty,’ said Shrucker, taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead with a woolly cloth. He
lit his pipe, giving himself time to think, and examined the stick in front of him.

‘I would be much obliged,’ said Tiffany.

Shrucker made the usual sucking noise through his teeth. ‘Well,’ he said slowly at last, ‘I could take the shell off. Perhaps a new staff?’

‘One of our gentlemen’s staffs,’ Dave added. He tapped his nose. ‘You know, with the . . . special indentation for the . . . delicate
parts. A much smoother ride for the lad.’

‘Always wanted to get my hands on this stick,’ Shrucker said. ‘Do some proper work on it. But the dwarfs up there in the mountains said as Mistress Weatherwax always wanted, well . . .’

‘A
bodge
,’ Dave put in, his forehead creasing as if the word caused him actual pain.

‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘I am not that witch, but it’s always useful to be friends
with any witch.’ She smiled sweetly and added, ‘I’m feeling friendly at the moment . . . but I might not later.’

This fell into a very handy pause as an almighty roar announced another train shooting overhead, smoke and smut billowing in the air.

‘Mistress Weatherwax was a powerful lady indeed,’ Shrucker said carefully once the noise had died down.

‘And I heard that she never paid her bills,’
Dave added grumpily.

‘I’ve got the money,’ said Geoffrey. He had been silent so far, allowing Tiffany to speak up for him, but after all, it was going to be his broomstick.

Tiffany saw the dwarfs look up with a smile, Shrucker only just managing to stop himself rubbing his hands together.

‘
Some
money,’ she said sharply, ‘but I don’t want my friend to have to use it – I promised him I would
arrange this for him. Now, I will tell you what I will do. I will pay in obs.’ Obs were the unspoken currency of the dwarfs. Why waste gold? Humans would call it favours, and the currency was negotiable. The obligation of a witch was particularly valuable, and Tiffany knew that. ‘Look,’ she added, ‘the stick isn’t
that
bad.’

Shrucker sat down heavily on a chest brimming with bristles.
^fn2
‘It’s
funny you should suggest obs,’ he said slowly. ‘My lumbago is giving me gyp. Comes with the job, you know. Can you do something about that?’

‘All right, then,’ said Tiffany. ‘Just stay there.’ And she walked behind him. He shifted around a bit, then sat up straight with a look of amazement on his face.

‘Oh my, how did you do that?’

‘I’ve taken away your pain,’ Tiffany explained. ‘So now it’s
my pain. And I have to congratulate you for dealing with it, for it is, I must say, very bad. And now I’ve got it hovering in the air, like a dog on a leash.’ The dwarfs automatically looked over her head, just in case there was some kind of big bubble up there marked ‘pain’, but all that happened was that a big drop of some oily substance fell right into Dave’s beard.

‘Is there a stonemason
in these arches?’ Tiffany asked, watching the dwarf whip off his helmet and rummage through the beard. ‘If he needs some rocks split, I can use this pain to break them up!’ She looked appreciatively at the helmet. ‘But that would do,’ she added, and as Dave put it down on the ground, she shot the pain into the iron, which to the dwarf’s horror actually buckled, steam shooting up to mingle with the
steam from the railways above.

The obs were paid. So, his pain gone, Shrucker – a new, upright, lively Shrucker – was now whipping out his measures. He eyed up both Geoffrey and the old stick as he worked his own form of magic.

‘How do you dress, sir?’ he asked at one point.

Geoffrey was puzzled. ‘I usually dress looking out of the window,’ he said.

There was a little hiatus as the dwarfs
told Geoffrey what ‘dressing’ meant in the circumstances.

‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘I never thought about it before.’

Shrucker laughed and said, ‘Well, that’s about it. All down to me now, but I daresay that if you come back sometime tomorrow, I will have it working a treat.’

They left the dwarfs and Tiffany told Geoffrey they would now be visiting Mrs Proust, a witch who loved living in the city.
She headed for the elderly witch’s shop, Boffo’s Novelty and Joke Emporium on Tenth Egg Street. It would be an education for Geoffrey anyway, Tiffany thought. If he decided to follow the witching path, well, he might also need Boffo’s at some point – a lot of the younger witches liked Mrs Proust’s artificial skulls, cauldrons and warts to give them the right
image
for the job. To someone in need,
someone punched so far down that it might seem there was no getting up again, well, a witch with the right look could make all the difference. It helped them to
believe
.

Mrs Proust – a witch who had no need to add nasty witch accessories to her everyday look, given that she had been naturally blessed with the right kind of hooked nose, messy hair and blackened teeth – heard the novelty graveyard
groan of the door opening and came over to greet them.

Tiffany laughed. ‘That’s a new one,’ she said.

‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Can’t keep them on the shelves. Nice to see you, Mistress Aching, and who’s this young man, may I ask?’

‘This is Geoffrey, Mrs Proust, and we’re in the city to fit him up for a witch’s broomstick.’

‘Are you indeed? A boy? A witch? On a broomstick?’

‘Well,’ said
Tiffany, ‘the Archchancellor uses a broomstick sometimes.’

‘I know,’ said Mrs Proust, ‘but there might be trouble.’

‘Well, if there is,’ said Tiffany, ‘the trouble will come to me. I am the chosen successor to Granny Weatherwax, and I think it could be time for a few little changes.’

‘Well done,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘That’s the spirit!’ She looked at Geoffrey, who was engrossed in the display
of naughty doggy-dos. And then and there she loomed close to him, put a clawed hand on his shoulder, and said to him, ‘So you want to be a witch, do you?’

Geoffrey stood his ground well, and Tiffany was impressed. So was Mrs Proust.

‘Well, mistress,’ he said, ‘I think I can help witches anyway.’

‘Do you?’ said Mrs Proust with a glint in her eye. ‘We shall see, young man, won’t we?’ She turned
back to Tiffany. ‘I am sure there will be some witches who will hate the idea,’ she said, ‘but it is your way, Tiffany, your time. And Esme Weatherwax was no fool. She could see the future coming.’

‘We’re staying in Ankh-Morpork until the dwarfs have finished with Geoffrey’s stick,’ Tiffany said. ‘Can we stop here? We might need to stay overnight.’

Mrs Proust grinned. ‘Well, there is plenty
of space in my spare room, and it would be good to have a chinwag while you are here.’ She looked at Geoffrey. ‘Have you been to the city before, young man?’

‘No, Mrs Proust,’ he replied quietly. ‘We lived in the Shires, and my father was the only one to travel.’

‘Well then, my son Derek will show you around,’ Mrs Proust said, sounding satisfied. She followed this up with a shout for the lad,
and Derek – the sort of lad you wouldn’t notice in a crowd of two, meaning that he shared very little in common with his mother’s looks – came stumbling up the stairs from the workshop below.

Ankh-Morpork, Tiffany thought, would
definitely
be an education.

As the two lads left, Mrs Proust said, ‘So how are things going with your young man then, Tiffany?’

Tiffany sighed. Why were elderly witches
so
nosy
? But then she thought: Actually,
all
witches are nosy. It’s part of what being a witch
is
. And she relaxed. At least Mrs Proust wasn’t trying to push her Derek at her again.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I do like Preston and he likes me – he’s my best friend – but I’m not sure either of us are ready for, well . . . anything
more
. You see, he does a lot of wonderful work at the hospital and we write
to each other and even meet up sometimes.’ She paused. ‘I think we are married to our jobs.’ She swallowed, a lump suddenly appearing in her throat. ‘It’s not that we don’t want to be together . . . I mean, I . . . but . . .’ The words trailed off and Tiffany just looked totally miserable now.

Mrs Proust did her best to look sympathetic. ‘You’re not the first witch to have that problem, my dear,’
she said. ‘Nor will you be the last.’

Tiffany could feel the tears beginning. She said, ‘But why do I feel like this? I know a part of me does want to be with Preston – and it would make my family so happy! – but I also want to be a witch. And I’m
good
at it – I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I measure myself against the other witches and I know I’m better than most of them when it comes
to witchcraft. I can’t
not
do it.’ A tear threatened to trickle down her cheek. ‘Just like Preston can’t not be a doctor,’ she finished sadly.

‘Oh, I understand all that,’ Mrs Proust said. ‘But this is today. It’s soon going to be tomorrow and things can change. Things are changing, especially for you young people, when you both want to do different things. Just do the work you find in front
of you and enjoy yourself. After all, you are both still young, so you still have options for the future. Just like my Derek.’

‘But that’s the difficulty,’ said Tiffany. ‘I don’t really
want
options. I know what I want to do. I enjoy my work, I really do.’ This last word came out as a squeal. ‘I just wish Preston could be with me,’ she added quietly. ‘Not here in the city.’

‘But you tell me
he is training to be a doctor,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘And he loves his work. You wouldn’t want him to give that up for you, now would you? So don’t worry so much. Think yourself lucky and don’t run ahead of the world. There is a saying, Don’t push the river. Although, of course, in
Ankh-Morpork
you can push very hard,’ she added with a cackle.
^fn3
More encouragingly, she continued, ‘Maybe in a year
or two your young man can be a doctor in the same place where you are a witch. I had my Mr Proust. You can have your Preston. Just not yet.’

‘When I go around the houses,’ Tiffany said quietly, ‘I also see how some of the marriages, well, they’re not really . . .’ That hung in the air.

‘There
are
happy marriages,’ Mrs Proust said. ‘Think of your parents, maybe? Isn’t that a happy marriage? Now,
let your Auntie Eunice give you some help. Go and see your boy and have a chat to him.’ She paused and added shrewdly, ‘He’s not interested in anyone
else
, is he?’