Witches Abroad - Terry Pratchett [59]
“You should’ve let me make him believe he was a frog,” muttered Granny.
“You can’t do that, Esme. You can’t go around making people believe they’re things just because they’ve been cheeky and don’t know who you are,” said Gytha. “Otherwise we’d be up to here in people hopping about.”
Despite many threats, Granny Weatherwax had never turned anyone into a frog. The way she saw it, there was a technically less cruel but cheaper and much more satisfying thing you could do. You could leave them human and make them think they were a frog, which also provided much innocent entertainment for passers-by.
“I always felt sorry for Mr. Wilkins,” said Magrat, staring moodily at the table top. “It was so sad watching him try to catch flies on his tongue.”
“He shouldn’t have said what he said,” said Granny.
“What, that you were a domineering old busybody?” said Nanny innocently.
“I don’t mind criticism,” said Granny. “You know me. I’ve never been one to take offense at criticism. No one could say I’m the sort to take offense at criticism—”
“Not twice, anyway,” said Nanny. “Not without blowing bubbles.”
“It’s just that I can’t stand unfairness,” said Granny. “And you stop that grinning! Anyway, I don’t see why you’re making a fuss about it. It wore off after a couple of days.”
“Mrs. Wilkins says he still goes out swimming a lot,” said Magrat. “It’s given him a whole new interest, she said.”
“Perhaps they have a different kind of witch in the city,” said Magrat hopelessly. “Perhaps they wear different sort of clothes.”
“There’s only one kind of witch,” said Granny. “And we’re it.”
She looked around the room. Of course, she thought, if someone was keeping witches out, people wouldn’t know about them. Someone who didn’t want anyone else meddling here. But she let us in…
“Oh, well, at least we’re in the dry,” said Nanny. A drinker standing in a crowd behind her threw back his head to laugh and spilled beer down her back.
She muttered something under her breath.
Magrat saw the man look down to take another swig and stare, wide-eyed, into the mug. Then he dropped it and fought his way out of the room, clutching at his throat.
“What did you do to his drink?” she said.
“You ain’t old enough to be tole,” said Nanny.
At home, if a witch wanted a table to herself it…just happened. The sight of the pointy hat was enough. People kept a polite distance, occasionally sending free drinks to her. Even Magrat got respect, not particularly because anyone was in awe of her, but because a slight to one witch was a slight to all witches and no one wanted Granny Weatherwax coming around to explain this to them. Here they were being jostled, as if they were ordinary. Only Nanny Ogg’s warning hand on Granny Weatherwax’s arm was keeping a dozen jovial drinkers from unnatural amphibianhood, and even Nanny’s usually very elastic temper was beginning to twang. She always prided herself on being as ordinary as muck, but there was ordinary and there was ordinary. It was like being that Prince Whatsisname, in the nursery story, who liked to wander around his kingdom dressed up as a commoner; she’d always had a shrewd suspicion that the little pervert made sure people knew who he was beforehand, just in case anyone tried to get too common. It was like getting muddy. Getting muddy when you had a nice hot tub to look forward to was fun; getting muddy when all you had to look forward to was more mud was no fun at all. She reached a conclusion.
“Hey, why don’t we have a drink?” said Nanny Ogg brightly. “We’d all feel better for a drink.”
“Oh no,” said Granny. “You caught me with that herbal drink last time. I’m sure there was alcohol in that. I def’nitely felt a bit woozy after the sixth glass. I ain’t drinking any more foreign muck.”
“You’ve got to drink something,” said Magrat soothingly. “I’m thirsty, anyway.” She looked vaguely at the crowded bar. “Perhaps they do some kind of fruit cup, or something.”
“Bound to,” said Nanny Ogg. She stood up, glanced at the bar, and surreptitiously removed a hatpin from her hat. “Shan