Wyrd Sisters - Страница 22

She drew herself up and turned this way and that. The clusters of amulets, magical jewellery and occult bangles on various parts of her body jingled together; any enemy wouldn’t only have to be blind to fail to notice that a witch was approaching, he’d have to be deaf as well.

She turned to her worktable and examined what she rather self-consciously, and never in Granny’s hearing, called her Tools of the Craft. There was the white-handled knife, used in the preparation of magical ingredients. There was the black-handled knife, used in the magical workings themselves; Magrat had carved so many runes into its handle it was in constant danger of falling in half. They were undoubtedly powerful, but …

Magrat shook her head regretfully, went over to the kitchen dresser and took out the breadknife. Something told her that at times like these a good sharp breadknife was probably the best friend a girl could have.

——

‘I spy, with my little eye,’ said Nanny Ogg, ‘something beginning with P.’

The ghost of the king stared wearily around the dungeons.

‘Pliers,’ he suggested.

‘No.’

‘Pilliwinks?’

‘That’s a pretty name. What is it?’

‘It’s a kind of thumbscrew. Look,’ said the king.

‘It’s not that,’ said Nanny.

‘Choke-pear?’ he said desperately.

‘That’s a C, and anyway I don’t know what it is,’ said Nanny Ogg. The king obligingly indicated it on the tray, and explained its use.

‘Definitely not,’ said Nanny.

‘Smouldering Boot of Punishment?’ said the king.

‘You’re a bit too good at these names,’ said Nanny sharply. ‘You sure you didn’t use them when you were alive?’

‘Absolutely, Nanny,’ said the ghost.

‘Boys that tell lies go to a bad place,’ warned Nanny.

‘Lady Felmet had most of them installed herself, it’s the truth,’ said the king desperately; he felt his position to be precarious enough without having any bad places to worry about.

Nanny sniffed. ‘Right, then,’ she said, slightly mollified. ‘It was “pinchers”.’

‘But pinchers is just another name for pl—’ the king began, and stopped himself in time. During his adult life he’d been afraid of no man, beast or combination of the two, but Nanny’s voice brought back old memories of schoolroom and nursery, of life under strict orders given by stern ladies in long skirts, and nursery food—mostly grey and brown—which seemed indigestible at the time but now appeared a distant ambrosia.

‘That’s five to me,’ said Nanny happily.

‘They’ll be back soon,’ said the king. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

‘If I’m not, precisely how much help can you be?’ said Nanny.

There was the sound of bolts sliding back.

——

There was already a crowd outside the castle as Granny’s broomstick wobbled uncertainly towards the ground. They went quiet as she strode forward, and parted to let her pass. She had a basket of apples under her arm.

‘There’s a witch in the dungeons,’ someone whispered to Granny. ‘And foul tortures, they say!’

‘Nonsense,’ said Granny. ‘It couldn’t be. I expect Nanny Ogg has just gone to advise the king, or something.’

‘They say Jason Ogg’s gone to fetch his brothers,’ said a stallholder, in awe.

‘I really advise you all to return home,’ said Granny Weatherwax. ‘There has probably been a misunderstanding. Everyone knows a witch cannot be held against her will.’

‘It’s gone too far this time,’ said a peasant. ‘All this burning and taxing and now this. I blame you witches. It’s got to stop. I know my rights.’

‘What rights are they?’ said Granny.

‘Dunnage, cowhage-in-ordinary, badinage, leftovers, scrommidge, clary and spunt,’ said the peasant promptly. ‘And acornage, every other year, and the right to keep two-thirds of a goat on the common. Until he set fire to it. It was a bloody good goat, too.’

‘A man could go far, knowing his rights like you do,’ said Granny. ‘But right now he should go home.’

She turned and looked at the gates. There were two extremely apprehensive guards on duty. She walked up to them, and fixed one of them with a look.

‘I am a harmless old seller of apples,’ she said, in a voice more appropriate for the opening of hostilities in a middle-range war. ‘Pray let me past, dearie.’ The last word had knives in it.

‘No-one must enter the castle,’ said one of the guards. ‘Orders of the duke.’

Granny shrugged. The apple-seller gambit had never worked more than once in the entire history of witchcraft, as far as she knew, but it was traditional.

‘I know you, Champett Poldy,’ she said. ‘I recall I laid out your grandad and I brought you into the world.’ She glanced at the crowds, which had regathered a little way off, and turned back to the guard, whose face was already a mask of terror. She leaned a little closer, and said, ‘I gave you your first good hiding in this valley of tears and by all the gods if you cross me now I will give you your last.’

There was a soft metallic noise as the spear fell out of the man’s fearful fingers. Granny reached and gave the trembling man a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

‘But don’t worry about it,’ she added. ‘Have an apple.’

She made to step forward, and a second spear barred her way. She looked up with interest.

The other guard was not a Ramtopper, but a city-bred mercenary brought up to swell the ranks depleted in recent years. His face was a patchwork of scar tissue. Several of the scars rearranged themselves into what was possibly a sneer.

‘So that’s witches’ magic, is it?’ said the guard. ‘Pretty poor stuff. Maybe it frightens these country idiots, woman, but it doesn’t frighten me.’

‘I imagine it takes a lot to frighten a big strong lad like you,’ said Granny, reaching up to her hat.

‘And don’t you try to put the wind up me, neither.’ The guard stared straight ahead, and rocked gently on the balls of his feet. ‘Old ladies like you, twisting people around. It shouldn’t be stood for, like they say.’

‘Just as you like,’ said Granny, pushing the spear aside.

‘Listen, I said—’ the guard began, and grabbed Granny’s shoulder. Her hand moved so quickly it hardly seemed to move at all, but suddenly he was clutching at his arm and moaning.

Granny replaced the hatpin in her hat and ran for it.

——

‘We will begin,’ said the duchess, leering, ‘with the Showing of the Implements.’

‘Seen ‘em,’ said Nanny. ‘Leastways, all the ones beginning with P, S, I, T and W.’

‘Then let us see how long you can keep that light conversational tone. Light the brazier, Felmet,’ snapped the duchess.

‘Light the brazier, Fool,’ said the duke.

The Fool moved slowly. He hadn’t expected any of this. Torturing people hadn’t been on his mental agenda. Hurting old ladies in cold blood wasn’t his cup of tea, and actually hurting witches in blood of any temperature whatsoever failed to be an entire twelve-course banquet. Words, he’d said. All this probably came under the heading of sticks and stones.

‘I don’t like doing this,’ he murmured under his breath.

‘Fine,’ said Nanny Ogg, whose hearing was superb. ‘I’ll remember that you didn’t like it.’

‘What’s that?’ said the duke sharply.

‘Nothing,’ said Nanny. ‘Is this going to take long? I haven’t had breakfast.’

The Fool lit a match. There was the faintest disturbance in the air beside him, and it went out. He swore, and tried another. This time his shaking hands managed to get it as far as the brazier before it, too, flared and darkened.

‘Hurry up, man!’ said the duchess, laying out a tray of tools.

‘Doesn’t seem to want to light—’ muttered the Fool, as another match became a fluttering streak of flame and then went out.

The duke snatched the box from his trembling fingers and caught him across the cheek with a handful of rings.

‘Can no orders of mine be obeyed?’ he screamed. ‘Infirm of purpose! Weak! Give me the box!’

The Fool backed away. Someone he couldn’t see was whispering things he couldn’t quite make out in his ear.

‘Go outside,’ hissed the duke, ‘and see that we are not disturbed!’

The Fool tripped over the bottom step, turned and, with a last imploring look at Nanny, scampered through the door. He capered a little bit, out of force of habit.

‘The fire isn’t completely necessary,’ said the duchess. ‘It merely assists. Now, woman, will you confess?’

‘What to?’ said Nanny.

‘It’s common knowledge. Treason. Malicious witchcraft. Harbouring the king’s enemies. Theft of the crown—’

A tinkling noise made them look down. A blood-stained dagger had fallen off the bench, as though someone had tried to pick it up but just couldn’t get the strength together. Nanny heard the king’s ghost swear under its breath, or what would have been its breath.

‘—and spreading false rumours,’ finished the duchess.

‘—salt in my food—’ said the duke, nervously, staring at the bandages on his hand. He kept getting the feeling that there was a fourth person in the dungeon.

‘If you do confess,’ said the duchess, ‘you will merely be burned at the stake. And, please, no humorous remarks.’

‘What false rumours?’