Wyrd Sisters - Terry Pratchett [110]
“I don’t remember anyone! Hwel, I—”
There was another ferocious argument among the witches. And then Magrat was striding, striding across the hall, moving like a tidal wave, moving like a rush of blood to the head, shaking off Granny Weatherwax’s restraining hand, bearing down on the throne like a piston, and dragging the Fool behind her.
“I say?”
“Er. Halloee!”
“Er, I say, excuse me, can anyone hear us?”
The castle up above was full of hubbub and general rejoicing, and there was no one to hear the polite and frantic voices that echoed along the dungeon passages, getting politer and more frantic with each passing hour.
“Um, I say? Excuse me? Billem’s got this terrible thing about rats, if you don’t mind. Cooeee!”
Let the camera of the mind’s eye pan slowly back along the dim, ancient corridors, taking in the dripping fungi, the rusting chains, the damp, the shadows…
“Can anyone hear us? Look, it’s really too much. There’s been some laughable mistake, look, the wigs come right off…”
Let the plaintive echoes dwindle among the cobwebbed corners and rodent-haunted tunnels, until they’re no more than a reedy whisper on the cusp of hearing.
“I say? I say, excuse me, help?”
Someone is bound to come down here again one of these days.
Some time afterward Magrat asked Hwel if he believed in long engagements. The dwarf paused in the task of loading up the latty.*
“About a week, maximum,” he said at last. “With matinees, of course.”
A month went past. The early damp-earth odors of autumn drifted over the velvety-dark moors, where the watery starlight was echoed by one spark of a fire.
The standing stone was back in its normal place, but still poised to run if any auditors came into view.
The witches sat in careful silence. This was not going to rate among the hundred most exciting coven meetings of all time. If Mussorgsky had seen them, the night on the bare mountain would have been over by teatime.
Then Granny Weatherwax said, “It was a good banquet, I thought.”
“I was nearly sick,” said Nanny Ogg proudly. “And my Shirl helped out in the kitchen and brought me home some scraps.”
“I heard,” said Granny coldly. “Half a pig and three bottles of fizzy wine went missing, they say.”
“It’s nice that some people think of the old folk,” said Nanny Ogg, completely unabashed. “I got a coronation mug, too.” She produced it. “It says ‘Viva Verence II Rex.’ Fancy him being called Rex. I can’t say it’s a good likeness, mind you. I don’t recall him having a handle sticking out of his ear.”
There was another long, terribly polite pause. Then Granny said, “We were a bit surprised you weren’t there, Magrat.”
“We thought you’d be up at the top of the table, kind of thing,” said Nanny. “We thought you’d have moved in up there.”
Magrat stared fixedly at her feet.
“I wasn’t invited,” she said meekly.
“Well, I don’t know about invited,” said Granny. “We weren’t invited. People don’t have to invite witches, they just know we’ll turn up if we want to. They soon find room for us,” she added, with some satisfaction.
“You see, he’s been very busy,” said Magrat to her feet. “Sorting everything out, you know. He’s very clever, you know. Underneath.”
“Very sober lad,” said Nanny.
“Anyway, it’s full moon,” said Magrat quickly. “You’ve got to go to coven meetings at full moon, no matter what other pressing engagements there may be.”
“Have y—?” Nanny Ogg began, but Granny nudged her sharply in the ribs.
“It’s a very good thing he’s paying so much attention to getting the kingdom working again,” said Granny, soothingly. “It shows proper consideration. I daresay he’ll get around to everything, sooner or later. It’s very demanding, being a king.”
“Yes,” said Magrat, her voice barely audible.
The silence that followed was almost solid. It was broken by Nanny, in a voice as bright and brittle as ice.
“Well, I brought a bottle of that fizzy wine with me,” she said. “In case he’d…in case…in case we felt like a drink,