Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [26]
Footsteps went away in the distance.
“—Indicame la strada… to go home.” Splash, splash. “Good eeeeevening, frieeeends…”
“Well, well, well,” said Granny, more or less to herself. “It seems once again that our Mr. Slugg is a secret polyglot.”
“Fancy! And you haven’t even looked through the knothole,” said Nanny.
“Gytha, is there anything in the whole world you can’t make sound grubby?”
“Not found it yet, Esme,” said Nanny brightly.
“I meant that when he mutters in his sleep and sings in his bath he talks just like us, but when he thinks people are listening he comes over all foreign.”
“That’s probably to throw that Basilica person off the scent,” Nanny said.
“Oh, I reckon Mr. Basilica is very close to Henry Slugg,” said Granny. “In fact, I reckon that they’re one and—”
There was a gentle knock at the door.
“Who’s there?” Granny demanded.
“It’s me, ma’am. Mr. Slot. This is my tavern.”
The witches pushed the bed aside and Granny opened the door a fraction.
“Yes?” she said suspiciously.
“Er…the coachman said you were…witches?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe you could…help us?”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s my boy…”
Granny opened the door farther and saw the woman standing behind Mr. Slot. One look at her face was enough. There was a bundle in her arms.
Granny stepped back. “Bring him in and let me have a look at him.”
She took the baby from the woman, sat down on the room’s one chair, and pulled back the blanket. Nanny Ogg peered over her shoulder.
“Hmm,” said Granny, after a while. She glanced at Nanny, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
“There’s a curse on this house, that’s what it is,” said Slot. “My best cow’s been taken mortally sick, too.”
“Oh? You have a cowshed?” said Granny. “Very good place for a sickroom, a cowshed. It’s the warmth. You better show me where it is.”
“You want to take the boy down there?”
“Right now.”
The man looked at his wife, and shrugged. “Well, I’m sure you know your business best,” he said. “It’s this way.”
He led the witches down some back stairs and across a yard and into the fetid sweet air of the byre. A cow was stretched out on the straw. It rolled an eye madly as they entered, and tried to moo.
Granny took in the scene and stood looking thoughtful for a moment.
Then she said, “This will do.”
“What do you need?” said Slot.
“Just peace and quiet.”
The man scratched his head. “I thought you did a chant or made up some potion or something,” he said.
“Sometimes.”
“I mean, I know where there’s a toad…”
“All I shall require is a candle,” said Granny. “A new one, for preference.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Slot looked a little put out. Despite his distraction, something about his manner suggested that Granny Weatherwax was possibly not that much of a witch if she didn’t want a toad.
“And some matches,” said Granny, noting this. “A pack of cards might be useful, too.”
“And I’ll need three cold lamb chops and exactly two pints of beer,” said Nanny Ogg.
The man nodded. This didn’t sound too toadlike, but it was better than nothing.
“What’d you ask for that for?” hissed Granny, as the man bustled off. “Can’t imagine what good those’d do! Anyway, you already had a big dinner.”
“Well, I’m always prepared to go that extra meal. You won’t want me around and I’ll get bored,” said Nanny.
“Did I say I didn’t want you around?”
“Well…even I can see that boy is in a coma, and the cow has the Red Bugge if I’m any judge. That’s bad, too. So I reckon you’re planning some…direct action.”
Granny shrugged.
“Time like that, a witch needs to be alone,” said Nanny. “But you just mind what you’re doing, Esme Weatherwax.”
The child was brought down in a blanket and made as comfortable as possible. The man followed behind his wife with a tray.
“Mrs. Ogg will do her necessary procedures with the tray in her room,” said Granny haughtily. “You just leave me in here tonight. And no one is to come in, right? No matter what.”
The mother gave a worried curtsy. “But I thought I might look in about midn—”
“No one. Now, off you go.”
When