The Shepherd's Crown (20 page)

‘Oh no,’ said Tiffany. ‘He’s working with the Igors
^fn4
and he said that he didn’t fancy the Igor girls because he likes a girl who stays the same shape every day. The Igorinas like to experiment.’

Geoffrey came back late with Derek,
singing a song worthy of Nanny Ogg, but Tiffany got a good night’s sleep – a rare treat! – and then a breakfast of ham and eggs courtesy of Mrs Proust. While Geoffrey and Derek still slept, Tiffany decided to go and visit Preston. Mrs Proust’s words had got her thinking.

She headed for the Lady Sybil Hospital over in Goose Gate, but paused at the door, strangely uncertain. She hadn’t told Preston
she would be in the city. Would her visit be a good one, or . . .?

It was a free hospital, so there was a queue of people waiting, all hoping for the happy result of seeing a doctor
before
old Boney turned up with his scythe. It looked like nobody would be moving for some time, so Tiffany did something she knew she shouldn’t.

She stepped outside her body, leaving it standing demurely by the
gates. It was an easy trick for a witch, but still dangerous, and she had no real reason to take the risk. Except . . . the Igor girls? They were beautiful . . . once you looked past the discreet stitches, anyway.

She slid silently through the crowd, doing her best to ignore her First Thoughts, Second Thoughts and even her Third Thoughts, and drifted into the hospital itself, floating along the
corridors until she found Preston.

He was in his element, his gaze focused on a patient with a rather unsettling hole in the stomach – and when Preston looked at anything, it
knew
it was being looked at and was liable to stand up and salute. This was especially true of some of the spare parts the Igors used – a most unsettling experience – and Preston was indeed surrounded by Igors. And yes,
that included girls. But, happy sight, he was paying them
no attention
.

Tiffany sighed with relief, and then – allowing herself to listen to her Second Thoughts, which were telling her off in a style uncomfortably like the voice of Granny Weatherwax – whisked herself back into her body, which wobbled slightly as she took control again.

The queue had moved a few inches. But the pointy hat took
her to its head and the porter let her through immediately. She waved away his offer of directions and marched confidently off down the corridor, leaving the porter to mutter, ‘I didn’t even need to tell her where he was. That’s a proper witch, that is.’ For at the hospital it was all too easy to set off confidently for one place but find yourself in the basement – which these days was home to goblins,
who maintained the huge boilers and had set up a workshop manufacturing the very finest surgical instruments. Still, most people eventually made it out of the hospital and the record seemed to be improving.

Preston was very glad to see Tiffany, saying, ‘I heard about Granny Weatherwax. Well done for being the top witch, it couldn’t happen to a better person; are you allowed to tell all the other
witches what to do now?’

‘What!’ Tiffany laughed. ‘It’s like herding goblins. No! Goblins are easier. Anyway, it works like this: I don’t tell them what to do, and they allow me to work hard – just as I like it.’

‘Just like me and the Igors,’ said Preston. ‘But I’ve got good news too. Doctor Lawn is getting on now and he has promoted me to be a surgeon; usually only Igors can be surgeons, so
that’s a real feather in my hat.’

Tiffany kissed him, and said, ‘That is good news; I am so proud of you! But I do wish he would give you more time off – and you could come and see me. Letters can only say so much . . .’ Her voice faltered. ‘Though I do so love the way you write.’

‘And I like your letters too,’ Preston said, ‘and I wish I could visit home more. But I do enjoy the work here,
Tiffany. And people need me. Every day. I’ve got a talent and it would be criminal not to use it.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Tiffany. ‘That’s the story of my life as well. Our skills, you will find, could be our gaolers.’ And it struck her that just as Preston was looking into people in one way – he knew the names of all the bones now, and could even say hello to a few of them – she was learning to
look into people another way: into their heads, their minds. ‘But I couldn’t do anything else,’ she finished, a touch wistfully.

Preston said, ‘No. Me neither.’

Then the time for talking was over, and it was just Tiffany and Preston, together, snatching the moment and saying more with their eyes than any words could convey.

And it was magic; a different kind of magic.

Mrs Proust went with
them to pick up Geoffrey’s broomstick – Granny Weatherwax’s stick had been a
legend
, and she was curious to see if the dwarfs had managed to make it work.

Dave greeted them and said, ‘Well, here it is. It’s a good stick, it really is. I reckon Mistress Weatherwax never took any care of it at all, no matter what we dwarfs did to fix it up.’

‘All she did was curse it,’ Shrucker put in a bit sourly.
It was clear that, to him, a broomstick was almost like a living creature.

The stick gleamed. It shone. It looked almost alive, and the bristles were sleek. It was
almost
Granny Weatherwax’s old stick, if you discounted the new shell for the staff and new bristles.
^fn5
Tiffany and Geoffrey stared at it in amazement while the two dwarfs looked on, smiling.

‘It’s the best we ever made – I mean,
mended,’ Shrucker added. ‘But please, use it gently and keep it oiled. Nothing but the best for Mistress Aching.’ He straightened up proudly, a dwarf who could stand tall to his full four foot once again.

Mrs Proust ran her fingers against the stick and nodded. ‘This is an excellent stick,’ she said. ‘Look, it’s even got a little cup to hold your drink.’

Shrucker gave her a funny look. ‘And
special today, for our good customers,’ he said instead, ‘those who
don’t
bring . . . trouble’ – with a sideways glance at Tiffany – ‘we have a bonus little gift.’ He proudly presented Geoffrey with two furry white cubes covered in assorted spots. ‘You can tie them on the strap,’ he said. ‘Very popular with the lads for their carriages, these. Some lads also keep birds in a little cage to sing
as they go along. They call it in-carriage entertainment.’

Geoffrey shuddered at the thought. A bird, in a cage? His heart felt sorrow for them. But the broomstick, well, he could barely wait to have a go on it.

Dave sniffed and said, ‘There you go, young man. So, do you want to give it a test drive then?’ He handed him the stick, and said, ‘Go on. Go to the end of the arches and give it a whirl.’

Tiffany was about to speak, but already Geoffrey was sparkling with excitement. She looked at his glowing eyes and said, ‘Well, all right, Geoffrey. You’ve been on my stick with me, and watched the broomsticks going past overhead. Go up slowly, just a bit at a time.’

She might as well have talked to the wall. Geoffrey straddled his broomstick, ran past the neighbouring arch, jumped – and went
skywards very fast. A series of nightmares flashed through Tiffany’s mind. There was a distant
boom!
Then a little dot in the sky got bigger, and there was Geoffrey, coming back down, grinning from ear to ear.

Tiffany almost squealed. ‘Look, Mrs Proust. He’s picked it up already. It took me
ages
to learn how to fly.’

‘But of course,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘That’s this here technology.’

And Shrucker
said, ‘Wow! He’s a natural. Not even the goblins can do that.’ For Geoffrey had just looped the loop, then got off his stick, leaving it hovering a few feet above the cobbles.

‘How did you do
that
?’ asked Tiffany, genuinely impressed.

‘I don’t know,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Just a knack, I suppose.’

And Tiffany thought: When Geoffrey’s not anxious, he radiates calmness, which probably means he sees
more things and finds more things than other people do. It makes him open to new things too. Yes, it’s a knack all right.

Waving a goodbye to the dwarfs and Mrs Proust, Tiffany and Geoffrey took off together and floated back towards Lancre and the distant mountains, Geoffrey getting the feel of his stick immediately and disappearing into the sky ahead of Tiffany.

She caught him up just outside
the outskirts of Ankh-Morpork – he was soaring and swooping at a ferocious speed. ‘You do know your trousers are smouldering, don’t you?’ she said with a laugh.

Geoffrey patted the smoke away with a sudden anxiety that made the stick wobble, saying, ‘Please don’t tell Nanny about this when we get back! She’ll laugh at me!’

But after they had travelled back to Lancre – quite a bit faster than
on the outward journey – and before she set off back to the Chalk, Tiffany did of course tell Nanny Ogg. And the older witch did indeed laugh.

‘It was amazing, though,’ Tiffany said. ‘Flying seemed so natural to him.’

‘Ha!’ said Nanny. ‘Every man has a broomstick in the house, but they just don’t often know how to use ’em!’

^fn1
The Feegles had, in fact, accidentally set fire to Tiffany’s broomstick, creating a need for new bristles.

^fn2
There are
some
advantages to wearing layers needing double figures to count. Dwarfs like lots of layers of chainmail, jackets and – of course – the traditional woolly vest which actually makes the chainmail unnecessary.

^fn3
‘River’ as a term doesn’t quite describe the sludge of the river Ankh in its course through the city, though it is of course a decent torrent up in Lancre.

^fn4
Uberwald servants, usually working as doctors, or assistants to mad scientists, who believe a stitch in time saves a lot of bother later. They like to swap body parts from an early age, often within the same family, such that an Igor saying ‘He’s got his uncle’s nose’ really
means
something.

^fn5
So a new stick, really. As new as the famous nine-hundred-year-old family mining axe owned by the King of the Dwarfs was anyway.

CHAPTER 12

An Elf among the Feegles

THERE WAS THUNDER
and there was lightning. It was raining and there was water everywhere, running down the chalk hills.

The Queen screamed as she was thrown out of Fairyland, her wings torn from her body, her blood staining her shoulders. A scream with a life of its own, which ended in a dew pond on the Chalk, surprising a stoat on the prowl.

And Tiffany
Aching woke up.

Her heart was thumping, a sudden chill making her shiver in the dark of the night. She looked over at the window. What had made her wake? Where was she needed?

She sat up and reached wearily for her clothes . . .

Up on the downs, the Feegle mound was still its usual hive of activity and song, a Feegle mound being very like a beehive but without the honey, and to be sure a Feegle
could sting much worse than a bee. But when something was being celebrated – and they didn’t need much to pick a reason for a celebration – the Nac Mac Feegles always made sure that it went on happily for a long time.

A short time past midnight, however, the revels that night were interrupted by Big Yan, the Feegle nightwatchman, as he ran in from the storm raging outside.
^fn1

He kicked the helmet
of his chief, the Big Man of the clan, and shouted, ‘There’s elves here! I can smell it, ye ken!’

And from every hole in turn, the clan of the Nac Mac Feegle poured out in their hundreds to deal with the ancient enemy, waving claymores and swords, yodelling their war cries:

‘Ach, stickit yer trakkans!’

‘Nac Mac Feegle wha hae!’

‘Gae awa’ wi’ ye, yer bogle!’

‘Gi’e you sich a guid kickin’!’

‘Nae king! Nae quin! We willnae be fooled agin!’

There is a concept known as a hustle and bustle, and the Feegles were very good at it, cheerfully getting in one another’s way in the drive to be the first into battle, and it seemed as if each small warrior had a battle cry of his own – and he was very ready to fight anyone who tried to take it away from him.

‘How many elves?’ asked Rob Anybody,
trying to adjust his spog.

There was a pause.

‘One,’ said Big Yan sheepishly.

‘Are ye sure?’ said Rob Anybody, as his sons and brothers flowed around him and hurried past to the mouth of the mound. Ach, the embarrassment. The whole Feegle colony bristling with weaponry, full of alcohol and bravado and apparently nothing to do with it. Of course, they were always itching for a fight but most
Feegles itched all the time, especially in the spog.

They rushed about on the sodden hilltop looking for the enemy, while Big Yan led Rob to the dew pond on the top of the hill. The storm had passed and the water gleamed under the stars. There, half in, half out of the pond, the battered body of an elf lay groaning.