Wyrd Sisters - Terry Pratchett [69]
“The other witches being those two old ladies?” he said, relapsing into his usual gloom.
“Yes.”
“Very strong characters, I imagine.”
“Very,” said Magrat, with feeling.
“I wonder if they ever met my grandad,” said the Fool.
Magrat looked at her feet.
“They’re quite nice really,” she said. “It’s just that, well, when you’re a witch you don’t think about other people. I mean, you think about them, but you don’t actually think about their feelings, if you see what I mean. At least, not unless you think about it.” She looked at her feet again.
“You’re not like that,” said the Fool.
“Look, I wish you’d stop working for the duke,” said Magrat desperately. “You know what he’s like. Torturing people and setting fire to their cottages and everything.”
“But I’m his Fool,” said the Fool. “A Fool has to be loyal to his master. Right up until he dies. I’m afraid it’s tradition. Tradition is very important.”
“But you don’t even like being a Fool!”
“I hate it. But that’s got nothing to do with it. If I’ve got to be a Fool, I’ll do it properly.”
“That’s really stupid,” said Magrat.
“Foolish, I’d prefer.”
The Fool had been edging along the log. “If I kiss you,” he added carefully, “do I turn into a frog?”
Magrat looked down at her feet again. They shuffled themselves under her dress, embarrassed at all this attention.
She could sense the shades of Gytha Ogg and Esme Weatherwax on either side of her. Granny’s specter glared at her. A witch is master of every situation, it said.
Mistress, said the vision of Nanny Ogg, and made a brief gesture involving much grinning and waving of forearms.
“We shall have to see,” she said.
It was destined to be the most impressive kiss in the history of foreplay.
Time, as Granny Weatherwax had pointed out, is a subjective experience. The Fool’s years in the Guild had been an eternity whereas the hours with Magrat on the hilltop passed like a couple of minutes. And, high above Lancre, a double handful of seconds extended like taffy into hours of screaming terror.
“Ice!” screamed Granny. “It’s iced up!”
Nanny Ogg came alongside, trying vainly to match courses with the tumbling, bucking broomstick. Octarine fire crackled over the frozen bristles, shorting them out at random. She leaned over and snatched a handful of Granny’s skirt.
“I tole you it was daft!” she shouted. “You went all through all that wet mist and then up into the cold air, you daft besom!”
“You let go of my skirt, Gytha Ogg!”
“Come on, grab hold o’mine. You’re on fire at the back there!”
They shot through the bottom of the cloud bank and screamed in unison as the shrub-covered ground emerged from nowhere and aimed itself directly at them.
And went past.
Nanny looked down a black perspective at the bottom of which a boil of white water was dimly visible. They had flown over the edge of Lancre Gorge.
Blue smoke was pouring out of Granny’s broomstick but she hung on, determined, and forced it around.
“What the hell you doing?” roared Nanny.
“I can follow the river,” Granny Weatherwax screamed, above the crackle of flames. “Don’t you worry!”
“You come aboard, d’you hear? It’s all over, you can’t do it…”
There was a small explosion behind Granny and several handfuls of burning bristles broke off and whirled away into the booming depths of the gorge. Her stick jerked sideways and Nanny grabbed her around the shoulders as a gout of fire snapped another binding.
The blazing broomstick shot from between her legs, twisted in the air, and went straight upward, trailing sparks and making a noise like a wet finger dragged around the top of a wineglass.
This left Nanny flying upside down, supporting Granny Weatherwax at arm’s length. They stared into one another’s face and screamed.
“I can’t pull you up!”
“Well I can’t climb up, can I? Act your age, Gytha!”
Nanny considered this. Then she let go.
Three marriages and an adventurous girlhood had left Nanny Ogg with thigh muscles that could crack coconuts, and the G-forces sucked at her as she forced the speeding stick down and around in