Wyrd Sisters - Страница 47

The boy nodded, and launched into his main speech.

‘And now our domination is complete—’

Behind him on the stage the witches bent over the cauldron.

‘It’s just tin, this one,’ hissed Nanny. ‘And it’s full of all yuk.’

‘And the fire is just red paper,’ whispered Magrat. ‘It looked so real from up there, it’s just red paper! Look, you can poke it—’

‘Never mind,’ said Granny. ‘Just look busy, and wait until I say.’

As the Evil King and the Good Duke began the exchange that was going to lead to the exciting Duel Scene they became uncomfortably aware of activity behind them, and occasional chuckles from the audience. After a totally inappropriate burst of laughter Tomjon risked a sideways glance.

One of the witches was taking their fire to bits. Another one was trying to clean the cauldron. The third one was sitting with her arms folded, glaring at him.

‘The very soil cries out at tyranny—’ said Wimsloe, and then caught the expression on Tomjon’s face and followed his gaze. His voice trailed into silence.

‘“And calls me forth for vengeance”,’ prompted Tomjon helpfully.

‘B-but—’ whispered Wimsloe, trying to point surreptitiously with his dagger.

‘I wouldn’t be seen dead with a cauldron like this,’ said Nanny Ogg, in a whisper loud enough to carry to the back of the courtyard. ‘Two days’ work with a scourer and a bucket of sand, is this.’

‘“And calls me forth for vengeance”,‘ hissed Tomjon. Out of the tail of his eye he saw Hwel in the wings, frozen in an attitude of incoherent rage.

‘How do they make it flicker?’ said Magrat.

‘Be quiet, you two,’ said Granny. ‘You’re upsetting people.’ She raised her hat to Wimsloe. ‘Go ahead, young man. Don’t mind us.’

‘Wha?’ said Wimsloe.

‘Aha, it calls you forth for vengeance, does it?’ said Tomjon, in desperation. ‘And the heavens cry revenge, too, I expect.’

On cue, the storm produced a thunderbolt that blew the top off another tower …

The duke crouched in his seat, his face a panorama of fear. He extended what had once been a finger.

‘There they are,’ he breathed. ‘That’s them. What are they doing in my play? Who said they could be in my play?’

The duchess, who was less inclined to deal in rhetorical questions, beckoned to the nearest guard.

On stage Tomjon was sweating under the load of the script. Wimsloe was incoherent. Now Gumridge, who was playing the part of the Good Duchess in a wig of flax, had lost the thread as well.

‘Aha, thou callst me an evil king, though thou wisperest it so none save I may hear it,’ Tomjon croaked. ‘And thou hast summoned the guard, possibly by some most secret signal, owing nought to artifice of lips or tongue.’

A guard came on crabwise, still stumbling from Hwel’s shove. He stared at Granny Weatherwax.

‘Hwel says what the hell’s going on?’ he hissed.

‘What was that?’ said Tomjon. ‘Did I hear you say I come, my lady?’

‘Get these people off, he says!’

Tomjon advanced to the front of the stage.

‘Thou babblest, man. See how I dodge thy tortoise spear. I said, see how I dodge thy tortoise spear. Thy spear, man. You’re holding it in thy bloody hand, for goodness’ sake.’

The guard gave him a desperate, frozen grin.

Tomjon hesitated. Three other actors around him were staring fixedly at the witches. Looming up in front of him with all the inevitability of a tax demand was a sword fight during which, it was beginning to appear, he would have to parry his own wild thrusts and stab himself to death.

He turned to the three witches. His mouth opened.

For the first time in his life his awesome memory let him down. He could think of nothing to say.

Granny Weatherwax stood up. She advanced to the edge of the stage. The audience held its breath. She held up a hand.

‘Ghosts of the mind and all device away, I bid the Truth to have—’ she hesitated —’its tumpty-tumpty day.’

Tomjon felt the chill engulf him. The others, too, jolted into life.

Up from out of the depths of their blank minds new words rushed, words red with blood and revenge, words that had echoed among the castle’s stones, words stored in silicon, words that would have themselves heard, words that gripped their mouths so tightly that an attempt not to say them would result in a broken jaw.

‘Do you fear him now?’ said Gumridge. ‘And he so mazed with drink? Take his dagger, husband—you are a blade’s width from the kingdom.’

‘I dare not,’ Wimsloe said, trying to look in astonishment at his own lips.

‘Who will know?’ Gumridge waved a hand towards the audience. He’d never act so well again. ‘See, there is only eyeless night. Take the dagger now, take the kingdom tomorrow. Have a stab at it, man.’

Wimsloe’s hand shook.

‘I have it, wife,’ he said. ‘Is this a dagger I see before me?’

‘Of course it’s a bloody dagger. Come on, do it now. The weak deserve no mercy. We’ll say he fell down the stairs.’

‘But people will suspect!’

‘Are there no dungeons? Are there no pilliwinks? Possession is nine parts of the law, husband, when what you possess is a knife.’

Wimsloe drew his arm back.

‘I cannot! He has been kindness itself to me!’

‘And you can be Death itself to him …’

***

Dafe could hear the voices a long way off. He adjusted his mask, checked the deathliness of his appearance in the mirror, and peered at the script in the empty backstage gloom.

‘Cower Now, Brief Mortals,’ he said. ‘I Am Death, ‘Gainst Who— ‘Gainst Who—’

WHOM.

‘Oh, thanks,’ said the boy distractedly. ‘’Gainst Whom No Lock May Hold—’

WILL HOLD.

‘Will Hold Nor Fasten’d Portal Bar, Here To—to—to—’

HERE TO TAKE MY TALLY ON THIS NIGHT OF KINGS.

Dafe sagged.

‘You’re so much better at it,’ he moaned. ‘You’ve got the right voice and you can remember the words.’ He turned around. ‘It’s only three lines and Hwel will … have … my … guts … for.’

He froze. His eyes widened and became two saucers of fear as Death snapped his fingers in front of the boy’s rigid face.

FORGET, he commanded, and turned and stalked silently towards the wings.

His eyeless skull took in the line of costumes, the waxy debris of the make-up table. His empty nostrils snuffed up the mixed smells of mothballs, grease and sweat.

There was something here, he thought, that nearly belonged to the gods. Humans had built a world inside the world, which reflected it in pretty much the same way as a drop of water reflects the landscape. And yet … and yet …

Inside this little world they had taken pains to put all the things you might think they would want to escape from—hatred, fear, tyranny, and so forth. Death was intrigued. They thought they wanted to be taken out of themselves, and every art humans dreamt up took them further in. He was fascinated.

He was here for a very particular and precise purpose. There was a soul to be claimed. There was no time for inconsequentialities. But what was time, after all?

His feet did an involuntary little clicking dance across the stones. Alone, in the grey shadows, Death tapdanced.

— THE NEXT NIGHT IN YOUR DRESSING ROOM THEY HANG A STAR—

He pulled himself together, adjusted his scythe, and waited silently for his cue.

He’d never missed one yet.

He was going to get out there and slay them.

——

‘And you can be Death itself to him. Now!’

Death entered, his feet clicking across the stage.

COWER NOW, BRIEF MORTALS, he said, FOR I AM DEATH, ‘GAINST WHOM NO … NO … ‘GAINST WHOM …

He hesitated. He hesitated, for the very first time in the eternity of his existence.

For although the Death of the Discworld was used to dealing with people by the million, at the same time every death was intimate and personal.

Death was seldom seen except by those of an occult persuasion and his clients themselves. The reason that no-one else saw him was that the human brain is clever enough to edit sights too horrible for it to cope with, but the problem here was that several hundred people were in fact expecting to see Death at this point, and were therefore seeing him.

Death turned slowly and stared back at hundreds of watching eyes.

Even in the grip of the truth Tomjon recognized a fellow actor in distress, and fought for mastery of his lips.

‘“… lock will hold … ”’ he whispered, through teeth fixed in a grimace.

Death gave him a manic grin of stagefright.

WHAT? he whispered, in a voice like an anvil being hit with a small lead hammer.

‘“… lock will hold, nor fasten’d portal …”,’ said Tomjon encouragingly.

… LOCK WILL HOLD NOR FASTEN’D PORTAL … UH … repeated Death desperately, watching his lips.

‘“… bar!…”’

BAR.

‘No, I cannot do it!’ said Wimsloe. ‘I will be seen! Down there in the hall, someone watches!’

‘There is no-one!’

‘I feel the stare!’

‘Dithering idiot! Must I put it in for you? See, his foot is upon the top stair!’

Wimsloe’s face contorted with fear and uncertainty. He drew back his hand.

‘No!’

The scream came from the audience. The duke was half-risen from his seat, his tortured knuckles at his mouth. As they watched he lurched forward between the shocked people.