Carpe Jugulum - Terry Pratchett [82]
“Mistress Weatherwax a bit poorly, is she?” said Hodgesaargh, coming in.
“I think you could certainly say that, yes.”
“Oh dear. Want some tea?”
“What?”
“It’s a nasty night. If we’re stopping up I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Do you realize, man, that she might get up from there a blood-thirsty vampire?”
“Oh.” The falconer looked down at the still figure and the smoking anvil. “Good idea to face her with a cup of tea inside you, then,” he said.
“Do you understand what’s going on here?”
Hodgesaargh took another slow look at the scene. “No,” he said.
“In that case—”
“’s not my job to understand this sort of thing,” said the falconer. “I wasn’t trained. Probably takes a lot of training, understanding this. That’s your job. And her job. Can you understand what’s going on when a bird’s been trained and’ll make a kill and still came back to the wrist?”
“Well, no—”
“There you are, then. So that’s all right. Cup of tea, was it?”
Oats gave up. “Yes, please. Thank you.”
Hodgesaargh bustled off.
The priest sat down. If the truth were known, he wasn’t sure he understood what was happening. The old woman had been burning up and in pain, and now…the iron was getting hot, as if the pain and the heat had been moved away. Could anyone do that? Well, of course, the prophets could, he told himself conscientiously, but that was because Om had given them the power. But by all accounts the old woman didn’t believe in anything.
She was very still now.
The others had talked about her as though she was some great magician, but the figure he’d seen in the hall had been just a tired, worn-out old woman. He’d seen people down in the hospice in Aby Dyal, stiff and withdrawn until the pain was too great and all they had left was a prayer and then…not even that. That seemed to be where she was now.
She was really still. Oats had only seen stillness like that when movement was no longer an option. Up the airy mountain and down the rushy glen ran the Nac mac Feegle, who seemed to have no concept of stealth. Progress was a little slower now, because some of the party broke away occasionally to have a fight amongst themselves or an impromptu hunt, and in addition to the King of Lancre there was now, bobbing through the heather, the fox, a stunned stag, a wild boar, and a weasel who’d been suspected of looking at a Nac mac Feegle in a funny way.
Verence saw, muzzily, that they were heading for a bank at the edge of a field, long deserted and overgrown, topped with some ancient thorn trees.
The pixies stopped with a jolt when the King’s head was a few inches away from a large rabbit hole.
“Danna fittit!”
“G’shovitt, s’yust!”
Verence’s head was banged hopefully against the wet soil once or twice.
“Hakkis lugs awa’!”
“Bigjobs!”
One of the pixies shook his head. “Canna’ do’t, ken? Els’ y’ole carlin’ll hae oor guts fae garters…”
Unusually, the Nac mac Feegle fell silent for a moment. Then one of them said, “Na one’s got tha’ much guts, right eno’.”
“An’ b’side, she’ll gi’us uskabarch muckell. We oathit. Y’canna’ cross a hag.”
“Al’ at it noo, then…”
Verence was dropped on the ground. There was a brief sound of digging, and mud showered over him. Then he was picked up again and carried through a much enlarged hole, his nose brushing tree roots in the ceiling. Behind him there was the sound of a tunnel being rapidly filled in.
Then there was just a bank where rabbits obviously lived, topped with thorn trees. Unseen in the wild night, the occasional wisp of smoke drifted among the trunks.
Agnes leaned against the castle wall, which was streaming with water, and fought for breath. Granny hadn’t just told her to go away. The command had hit her brain like a bucket of ice. Even Perdita had felt it. There was no question of not obeying.
Where would Nanny have gone? Agnes felt a pressing desire to be near her. Nanny Ogg radiated a perpetual field of It’ll-be-all-rightness. If they’d got out through the kitchens she could be anywhere…
She heard the coach rattle out through