The Shepherd's Crown (7 page)

But is that
enough
? her First Thoughts butted in. After . . . after we have
done what we need to do, I could just put on my number-two drawers and go home on my broomstick. I have to go anyway, even if I take on the steading. I have to tell my parents. And I’m going to need help on the Chalk . . . it’s going to be a nightmare if I have to be in two places at once. I’m not like a cat . . .

And as she thought that, she looked down, and there was You looking at her, but
not just looking – a penetrating stare of the kind that only cats can achieve, and it seemed to Tiffany that this meant: Get on with your job, there is a lot of work to be doing. Don’t think of yourself. Think for all.

Then tiredness was finally her friend, and Tiffany Aching had a few hours’ sleep.

The clacks rattled as the news of Granny Weatherwax went down the lines in the morning, and people
who got the message faced it in their various ways.

In the study of her manor house, Mrs Earwig
^fn4
got the news while she was writing her next book on ‘Flower Magick’ and there was a sudden sense of wrongness, of the world going askew. She put the right expression of grief on her face and went to tell her husband, an elderly wizard, trying to keep her joy hidden as she realized what this could
mean: she, Mrs Earwig, was going to be one of the most senior witches in Lancre. Perhaps she could get her latest girl into that old cottage in the woods? Her sharp face went even sharper as she thought how
magickal
she could make it look with the help of a few curse-nets, charms, runic symbols, silver stars, black velvet drapes and – oh yes, the
essential
crystal ball.

She called to her latest
young trainee to fetch her cape and broomstick, and pulled on her very best pair of black lacy gloves, the ones with the silver symbols stitched over each fingertip. She would need to Make an Entrance . . .

In Boffo’s Novelty and Joke Emporium, 4 Tenth Egg Street, Ankh-Morpork – ‘
Everything for the Hag in a Hurry
’ – Mrs Proust said, ‘What a shame, but the old girl had a good innings.’

Witches
don’t have leaders, of course, but everyone knew that Granny Weatherwax had been the best leader they didn’t have, so now someone else would need to step forward to generally
steer
the witches. And to keep an eye too on anyone prone to a bit of cackling.

Mrs Proust put down an imitation cackle she had taken from her
Compare the Cackle
display, and looked towards her son Derek and said, ‘There’s
going to be an argument now, or my name’s not Eunice Proust. But it will surely be young Tiffany Aching who gets that steading. We all saw what she can do. My word, we did!’ And in her mind, she said, Go to it, Tiffany, before somebody else does.

In the palace, Drumknott the clerk hurried with the
Ankh-Morpork Times
to the Oblong Office where Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of the city, had been
waiting for his daily crossword to arrive.

But Vetinari already knew the news that mattered. ‘There will be some trouble. Mark my words, I expect squabbling on the distaff side.’ He sighed. ‘Any ideas, Drumknott? Who will rise to the top of the brew, do you think?’ He tapped the top of his ebony cane as he considered his own question.

‘Well, my lord,’ said Drumknott, ‘the rumour on the clacks
is that it’s likely to be Tiffany Aching. Quite young.’

‘Quite young, yes. And any good?’ asked Vetinari.

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘What about this woman called Mrs Earwig?’

Drumknott made a face. ‘All show, my lord, doesn’t get her hands dirty. Lot of jewellery, black lace, you know the type. Well-connected, but that’s about all I can say.’

‘Ah yes, now you tell me, I’ve seen her. Pushy and
full of herself. She’s the kind who goes to soirees.’

‘So do you, my lord.’

‘Yes, but I am the tyrant, so it’s the job I have to do, alas. Now, this Aching young lady – what else do we know about her? Wasn’t there some bother the last time she was in the city?’

‘My lord, the Nac Mac Feegles are very fond of her and she of them. They consider themselves an honour guard to her on occasions.’

‘Drumknott.’

‘Yes, my lord?’

‘I’m going to use a word I’ve not used before. Crivens! We don’t want Feegles around here again. We can’t afford it!’

‘Unlikely, my lord. Mistress Aching has them in hand and she’s unlikely to want to repeat the events of her last visit, which after all had no long-lasting damage.’

‘Didn’t the King’s Head become the King’s Neck?’
^fn5

‘Yes indeed, my lord, but it
has in fact proved a welcome change to many, most of all to the publican, who is still getting wealthy because of the tourists. It’s in the guide books.’

‘If she has the Nac Mac Feegles on her side, she is a force to be reckoned with,’ Vetinari mused.

‘The young lady is also known to be thoughtful, helpful and clever.’

‘Without being insufferable? I wish I could say the same of Mrs Earwig.
Hmm,’ said Vetinari, ‘we should keep a careful eye on her . . .’

Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University, stared at his bedroom wall, and cried again, and once he’d pulled himself together he sent for Ponder Stibbons, his right-hand wizard.

‘The clacks confirms what Hex told you, Mr Stibbons,’ he said sadly. ‘The witch Esme Weatherwax of Lancre, known to many as Granny Weatherwax,
has died.’ The Archchancellor looked slightly embarrassed. There was a bundle of letters on his lap, which he was turning over and over. ‘There was a bond, you see, when we were both young, but she wanted to be the best of all witches and I hoped one day to be Archchancellor. Alas for us, our dreams came true.’
^fn6

‘Oh dear, sir. Would you like me to arrange your schedule so that you can attend
the funeral? There will
be
a funeral, I assume . . .’

‘Mr Stibbons, schedules be damned. I am leaving now. Right now.’

‘With respect, Archchancellor, I must tell you, sir, that you promised to go to a meeting with the Guild of Accountants and Usurers.’

‘Those penny-pinchers! Tell them that I have got an urgent matter of international affairs to deal with.’

Ponder hesitated. ‘That is not strictly
true, is it, Archchancellor.’

Ridcully riposted with, ‘Oh yes, it is!’ Rules were for other people. Not for him. Nor, he thought with a pang, had they been for Esme Weatherwax . . . ‘How long have you been working for the University, young man?’ he boomed at Stibbons. ‘Dissembling is our stock in trade. Now I am going to get on my broomstick, Mr Stibbons, and I will leave the place in your very
capable hands.’

And in that . . . other world, that parasite with its evil little hooks in the gateways of stone, an elf was hatching his plans. Plotting to seize Fairyland from the control of a Queen who had never fully recovered her powers after her humiliating defeat at the hands of a young girl named Tiffany Aching. Plotting to pounce, to spring through a gateway that – for a time, at least
– would be gossamer-thin. For a powerful hag no longer stood in their way. And those in that world would be vulnerable.

The Lord Peaseblossom’s eyes gleamed and his mind filled with glorious images of victims, of the pleasures of cruelty, the splendours of a land where the elves could toy once more with new playthings.

When the moment was right . . .

^fn1
She did not know it, but a keen young philosopher in Ephebe had pondered exactly that same conundrum, until he was found one morning – most of him, anyway – surrounded by a number of purring, and very well fed, cats. No one had seemed keen to continue his experiments after that.

^fn2
And its meals. It’s amazing how a night as an owl, snacking on voles, can
really
leave a nasty taste in your mouth.

^fn3
She hadn’t ever needed to. Granny Weatherwax was like the prow of a ship. Seas parted when she turned up.

^fn4
Pronounced Ah-wij.

^fn5
The only known instance of the Feegles rebuilding a pub they had drunk dry and demolished. The rebuilt version, however, turned out back to front. Complete with a big ripe boil on the neck in question.

^fn6
Thus proving that dreams that come true are not always the
right
dreams. Does wearing a glass slipper lead to a comfortable life? If everything you touch turns into marshmallows, won’t that make things a bit . . . sticky?

CHAPTER 4

A Farewell – and a Welcome

GETTING GRANNY WEATHERWAX’S
corpse down the winding stair with its tiny little steps in the tiny little cottage the following morning was not helped by the big jug of cider which Nanny Ogg was emptying speedily, but nevertheless they got it done without a bump.

They laid Granny’s body carefully in the wicker casket, and Tiffany went out to the barn to fetch
the wheelbarrow and shovels while Nanny Ogg caught her breath. Then, together, they gently lifted the basket into the wheelbarrow, and placed the shovels on either side of her.

Tiffany picked up the handles of the barrow. ‘Ye stay here now, Rob,’ she said to the Feegle as he and his little band appeared from their varied hiding places and lined up behind her. ‘This is a hag thing, ye ken. Ye
cannot help me.’

Rob Anybody shuffled his feet. ‘But ye are oor hag, and ye ken that Jeannie—’ he began.

‘Rob Anybody.’ Tiffany’s steely gaze pinned him to the ground. ‘Ye remember the chief hag? Granny Weatherwax? Do ye want her shade to come back and . . .
tell ye what tae do for ever and ever?
’ There was a group moan and Daft Wullie backed away, whimpering. ‘Then
understand this
: this is
something we hags must do by ourselves.’ She turned to Nanny Ogg, resolute. ‘Where are we going, Nanny?’

‘Esme marked a spot in the woods, Tiff, where she wanted to be planted,’ Nanny replied. ‘Follow me, I know where it is.’

Granny Weatherwax’s garden was cheek by jowl with the woodland beyond, but the journey felt a long way to Tiffany before they arrived at the heart of the forest where a
stick was pushed into the ground, a red ribbon tied to the top of it.

Nanny passed Tiffany a shovel and the two of them started digging in the cool early morning air. It was hard work, but Granny had chosen her place well and the soil was soft and friable.

The hole finally dug – mostly, it has to be said, by Tiffany – Nanny Ogg, sweating cobs (according to her), rested on the handle of her shovel
and took a swig from her flagon as Tiffany brought the wheelbarrow over. They laid the wicker basket gently in the hole and then stood back for a moment.

Without a word being said, together, solemnly, they bowed to Granny’s grave. And then they picked up the shovels again and started to fill it back in.
Ker-thunk! Ker-thunk!
The earth built up over the wicker until all that could be seen was
soil, and Tiffany watched it flow in until the last crumb had stopped moving.

As they smoothed the fresh mound of earth, Nanny told Tiffany that Granny had said she wanted no urns, no shrines and definitely no gravestone.

‘Surely there should be a stone,’ said Tiffany. ‘You know how badgers and mice and other creatures can lift the earth. Even though we know the bones are not her, I for one
would want to be sure that nothing is dug up until . . .’ She hesitated.

‘The ends of time?’ said Nanny. ‘Look, Tiff, Esme tol’ me to say, if you wants to see Esmerelda Weatherwax, then just you look around. She is here. Us witches don’t mourn for very long. We are satisfied with happy memories – they’re there to be cherished.’

The memory of Granny Aching suddenly shone in Tiffany’s mind. Her
own granny had been no witch – though Weatherwax had been very interested in hearing about her – but when Granny Aching had died, her shepherding hut had been burned and her bones had gone down into the hills, six feet deep in the chalk. Then the turf had been put back with the spot marked only by the iron wheels of the hut. But it was a
sacred
spot now, a place for memories. And not only for
Tiffany. No shepherd ever passed without a glance at the skies and a thought for Granny Aching, who had tramped those hills night after night, her light zigzagging in the darkness. Her nod of approval had meant the world on the Chalk.

This spot in the woods, Tiffany realized, would be the same. Blessed. It had been a nice day for it, she thought, if there ever was such a thing as a good day to
die, a good day to be buried.

And now the birds were singing overhead, and there was a soft rustling in the undergrowth, and all the sounds of the forest which showed that life was still being lived blended with the souls of the dead in a woodland requiem.