The Shepherd's Crown (9 page)

As the haunting tones of Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin’s mousepipes played a soft lament for the soul of the hag o’ hags, the other Feegles began raiding the tables for any leftovers the witches had missed.

‘Alas, poor Granny, I knew her well,’ sighed Big Yan, swigging from a bottle of Nanny’s
home-made hooch.

‘No you didn’t,’ Tiffany snapped. ‘Only Granny Weatherwax really knew Granny Weatherwax.’ The day was still too raw for her, and the witches outside were making her nervous.

‘Ha ha,’ laughed Daft Wullie. ‘It weren’t me, this time, Rob. Nae me what put my foot in it. I sez the hag were upset, Rob, didnae I?’

‘I’ll put my
boot
inta yer face if ye don’t shut up,’ Big Yan growled.
They’d had the drinkin’ and eatin’, postponed the dancin’, but wasn’t it time for a wee fight? He clenched his fists, but then had to suddenly retreat as Tiffany’s friends came into the scullery.

‘I think it’s going to be
you
, Tiffany,’ Dimity hissed, poking her in the back. ‘Nanny Ogg just stood up and asked for you. You’d better get out there.’

‘Go on, Tiff,’ Petulia urged. ‘Everyone knows,
um, what Granny Weatherwax thought of you . . .’

And so, pushed and pulled by her friends, Tiffany left the scullery, but she hovered by the back door of the cottage, unwilling to take that final step. To make a claim. This was
Granny’s
cottage, she still felt. Even though the not-Grannyness was beginning to feel like a huge hole in the air around her. Tiffany looked down at her feet; You was
twining around her legs, arching her back and rubbing her hard little head against Tiffany’s boot.

Outside, some of the witches were looking at Nanny Ogg, who was saying, ‘Yes, ladies, Esme did tell us who her successor was to be.’ She turned and gestured to Tiffany to come nearer. ‘I wish I’d been there,’ she added, ‘when Esme Weatherwax was made witch by Nanny Gripes. You think who makes you
a witch is the kind of witch you’re goin’ to become, but we all has to find our own way, as we go along like. Granny Weatherwax was always her own true witch self – never just another Nanny Gripes. And though I think we can all talk for ourselves, people like the Archchancellor, and Lord Vetinari, and indeed someone like the Low Queen of the dwarfs – well, they want to know sometimes that they can
talk to somebody who can speak, officially like, for all witches. And I’m pretty certain they looked on Esme as bein’ that voice of witchcraft. So we needs to listen to her voice too. And she
tol
’ me who her successor should be. Yes, and wrote it on this here card.’ Nanny brandished in the air the card Granny Weatherwax had left on her bedside chest.

Someone had clearly raised the idea of Mrs
Earwig taking over the steading – or Mrs Earwig had raised the prospect of her latest trainee getting the cottage. Nanny glared at her, and there was no trace of the jolly witch in her now, oh no.

‘Letice Earwig just makes shiny things for her would-be witches!’ she stated. She ignored the ‘Humph’ from Mrs Earwig as she continued, ‘But Tiffany Aching – yes, sisters,
Tiffany Aching
– we’ve all
seen what
she
can do. It’s not about shiny charms. Not about
books
. It’s about bein’ a witch to the bone in the darkness, an’ dealing with the lamentation an’ the tears! It’s about bein’
real
. Esme Weatherwax knew this, knew this with every bone in her body. And so does Tiffany Aching, and this steadin’ is
hers
.’

Tiffany gasped as the other witches turned to look at her. And as the muttering
began, she stepped forward hesitantly.

Then You meowed, the cry cutting through the murmuring in the crowd, and the white cat came again to Tiffany’s side. Suddenly there was a humming in the air, and the bees were there too. They flowed out of Granny Weatherwax’s hive, circling Tiffany like a halo, crowning her, and swarm and girl stood on the threshold of the cottage and Tiffany reached out
her arms and the bees settled along them, and welcomed her home.

And after that, on that terrible day when a farewell was said to the witch of witches, there was no more argument as Tiffany Aching became in all eyes the witch to follow.

^fn1
Pig-boring saved a lot of nasty squealing. A pig-borer, like Petulia, would talk to the pigs until they simply died of boredom.

CHAPTER 5

A Changing World

THE QUEEN OF
the Elves sat in state on a diamond throne in her palace, surrounded by her courtiers, foundlings and lost boys, and creeping creatures with no names – all the detritus of the fairy folk.

She had chosen to sparkle today. The everlasting sunlight shining through the exquisitely carved stone windows had been pitched exactly to strike the tiny gems on her
wings so that delicate rainbows of light danced around the audience chamber as she moved. The courtiers lounging about the place in lace-trimmed velvet and feathers were almost, but not quite, as beautifully dressed.

Her eyes slid sideways, ever alert to the actions of her lords and ladies. Was that Lord Lankin over there in the corner with Lord Mustardseed? Whispering . . . And where was Lord
Peaseblossom? One day, she thought, she would have
his
head on a pole! She didn’t trust him at all, and his glamour had been strong of late, almost as glorious as her own. Or, she reminded herself bitterly, as glorious as her own had been . . .
before
.

Before that young witch – Tiffany Aching – had come into Fairyland and humiliated
her
.

Lately she had felt shivers between their two worlds,
understood that things were shifting, the edges becoming more blurred. Softer. A few of the stronger elves had even been slipping through from time to time for a little mischief. Perhaps soon she could lead the elves on a proper raiding party . . . fetch another child to play with. Have her revenge on the Aching witch. The Queen smiled at the thought, licking her lips in anticipation of the fun ahead.

But for now there was other troubling news to deal with.
Goblins!
Mere worms, who should be grateful if an elvish lord or lady even looked their way, but who were now foolishly refusing to do her bidding. She would show them all, she thought. Lords Lankin, Mustardseed, Peaseblossom – they would all see how powerful she was again. They would see her strike down this goblin filth . . .

But where
was
Peaseblossom?

The goblin prisoner was brought into the audience chamber under guard. The whole effect was visually stunning, the goblin thought sourly. Exactly as a fairy court would look in a human child’s story book. Until you looked at the faces and realized that there was something not quite right about the eyes and the expressions of the beautiful creatures in the scene.

The Queen considered
the goblin for a while, resting her fine-boned chin on the fingers of one exquisitely thin hand. Her alabaster brow furrowed.

‘You, goblin, you call yourself Of the Dew the Sunlight, I believe. You and your kind have long enjoyed the protection of this court. Yet I hear talk of rebellion. A refusal to do my bidding. Before I hand you over to my guards for their . . . amusement, tell me why this
is.’

Her melodious voice was rich with charm as the words were spoken, but the goblin seemed unmoved. He should have fallen to his knees and begged for her forgiveness, hypnotized by the power of the Queen’s glamour, but instead he stood his ground stockily and grinned at her. Grinned at the Queen!

‘Well, Queenie, it’s like this, you see. Goblins is now treated as upright citizens in human world.
Humans say goblins useful. We likes being
useful
. We gets paid for being useful and finding out things and making things.’

The Queen’s beautiful visage slipped and she glared at the cheeky creature in front of her.

‘That’s impossible,’ she shouted. ‘You goblins are the dregs, everyone knows that!’

‘Ah ha!’ laughed the goblin. ‘Queenie not so clever as she thinks. Goblins riding on hog’s back
now. Goblins know how to drive the iron horses.’

There was a shiver in the court as the goblin uttered the word ‘iron’ and the magical glimmer dimmed. The Queen’s dress changed colour from silver gossamer to blood-red velvet and her blonde ringlets turned into straight, raven-black locks. Her courtiers followed suit as the pastel silks and lace made way for leather breeches, scarlet sashes and
scraps of fur over woad-covered torsos. Elven stone knives were drawn and sharp teeth bared.

The little goblin did not flinch.

‘I don’t believe you,’ said the Queen. ‘After all, you are just a goblin.’

‘Just a goblin, yess, your queeniness,’ he said quietly. ‘A goblin what understands iron
and
steel. Steel as goes round and round and chuffs. Takes people to faraway places. And a goblin what
is a citizen of Ankh-Morpork, and you know what
that
means, my lady. The dark one there gets upset when his citizens get killed.’

‘You are lying,’ said the Queen. ‘The Lord Vetinari would not care what happens to
you
. You goblins always lie, Of the Dew the Sunlight.’

‘Not my name any more. I am now Of the Lathe the Swarf,’ said the goblin proudly.

‘Swarf,’ said the Queen. ‘What is that?’

‘Itty bits of iron, they is, Queenie,’ said the goblin, his eyes hardening. ‘Of the Lathe the Swarf no liar. You talks to me like that again, your majisteriousness, I opens my pockets. Then we sees what swarf is!’

The Queen drew back, her eyes fixed on the goblin’s hands hovering near the pockets of his dark blue jacket, wooden toggles fastening it over his skinny chest.

‘You dare threaten me?’
she said. ‘Here in my own realm, you worm? When I could shrivel your heart within you with just a word? Or have you dropped where you stand?’ She gestured to the guards standing ready with their crossbows aimed at the goblin.

‘I is no worm for you, Queenie. I have the swarf. Tiny bits of steel that can float in the air. But I is here to bring news. A warning. Of the Lathe the Swarf still has
fancy for the old days. I likes to see humans squirm. Likes to see you fairy folk stirring things up, I does. Some goblins thinks as I does, but not so many now. Some goblins almost not goblins now. Almost human. I don’t likes it but they says the times they is a-changing. The money is good, see, Queenie.’

‘Money?’ sneered the Queen. ‘I give you goblins money, you wor—’ She paused as she saw
the goblin’s hand move into his pocket. Could the horrible little creature really be bringing
iron
into her world? Iron – a terrible substance for any of the fairy folk. Painful. Destructive. It blinded, deafened, made an elf feel more alone than any human could ever feel. She finished her sentence with gritted teeth. ‘Worthy creature.’

‘Gold as melts away as sun rises,’ said the goblin. ‘They
– we – gets real money now. I just wants goblins to remain goblins. Goblins with status.
Respect.
Not pushed around no more by you or anyone else.’ He glared at Peaseblossom, who had suddenly stepped to the side of the Queen.

‘I don’t believe you,’ said the Queen.

‘Your funeral, Queenie,’ said the goblin. ‘Don’t believe me. Go to gate. Not so much trouble now old witch gone. You sees for yourself.
World has changed, Queenie.’

And the Queen thought, Changed, yes. She had felt the tremors, known something momentous was afoot, but not known exactly what. So the old witch was gone. With no hag to stop them, why, she realized, we can ride through in splendour once more. Then her face fell. Except for this . . . swarf. This
iron
.

‘Bind this maggot’s arms behind him,’ she ordered her guards,
pointing at the goblin. ‘I wish to see if he speaks true. And he will ride with us . . .’ She smiled. ‘If he speaks false, we will tear out his tongue.’

Next morning, alone in Granny Weatherwax’s cottage –
her
cottage, now – Tiffany woke early knowing that her world had changed. You was watching her like a hawk.

She sighed. It was going to be a busy day. She had been in many houses where death
had recently visited, and always the lady of the house, if there was one, would be shining anything that shined and cleaning everything that could be cleaned. And so, with rags and polishing cloths, Tiffany Aching cleaned everything that was already spick and span clean: it was a kind of unspoken mantra – the world had gone bad, but at least the grate had been polished and now had a fire ready
to light in it.

All the time, like a statue, there was You, staring at her. Did cats know about death? she wondered. What about the cats of witches? Especially . . . what about
Granny Weatherwax’s cat
?

Tiffany tidied that thought away for now, and started on the kitchen, burnishing anything that could be burnished, and yes, it shone. She was cleaning things already clean, but the algebra of
mourning required the effort of getting all the death out of the house; and there was no shrinking from it: you cleaned everything, regardless.