Wyrd Sisters - Terry Pratchett [85]
“A hundred and two.”
Vitoller nodded gloomily. He was sixty, and his arthritis was playing him up.
“You’ve been like a father to me, then,” he said.
“It evens out in the end,” said Hwel diffidently. “Half the height, twice the age. You could say that on the overall average we live about the same length of time as humans.”
The playmaster sighed. “Well, I don’t know what I will do without you and Tomjon around, and that’s a fact.”
“It’s only for the summer, and a lot of the lads are staying. In fact it’s mainly the apprentices that are going. You said yourself it’d be good experience.”
Vitoller looked wretched and, in the chilly air of the half-finished theater, a good deal smaller than usual, like a balloon two weeks after the party. He prodded some wood shavings distractedly with his stick.
“We grow old, Master Hwel. At least,” he corrected himself, “I grow old and you grow older. We have heard the gongs at midnight.”
“Aye. You don’t want him to go, do you?”
“I was all for it at first. You know. Then I thought, there’s destiny afoot. Just when things are going well, there’s always bloody destiny. I mean, that’s where he came from. Somewhere up in the mountains. Now fate is calling him back. I shan’t see him again.”
“It’s only for the summer—”
Vitoller held up a hand. “Don’t interrupt. I’d got the right dramatic flow there.”
“Sorry.”
Flick, flick, went the stick on the wood shavings, knocking them into the air.
“I mean, you know he’s not my flesh and blood.”
“He’s your son, though,” said Hwel. “This hereditary business isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“It’s fine of you to say that.”
“I mean it. Look at me. I wasn’t supposed to be writing plays. Dwarfs aren’t even supposed to be able to read. I shouldn’t worry too much about destiny, if I was you. I was destined to be a miner. Destiny gets it wrong half the time.”
“But you said he looks like the Fool person. I can’t see it myself, mark you.”
“The light’s got to be right.”
“Could be some destiny at work there.”
Hwel shrugged. Destiny was funny stuff, he knew. You couldn’t trust it. Often you couldn’t even see it. Just when you knew you had it cornered, it turned out to be something else—coincidence, maybe, or providence. You barred the door against it, and it was standing behind you. Then just when you thought you had it nailed down it walked away with the hammer.
He used destiny a lot. As a tool for his plays it was even better than a ghost. There was nothing like a bit of destiny to get the old plot rolling. But it was a mistake to think you could spot the shape of it. And as for thinking it could be controlled…
Granny Weatherwax squinted irritably into Nanny Ogg’s crystal ball. It wasn’t a particularly good one, being a greenish glass fishing float brought back from forn seaside parts by one of her sons. It distorted everything including, she suspected, the truth.
“He’s definitely on his way,” she said, at last. “In a cart.”
“A fiery white charger would have been favorite,” said Nanny Ogg. “You know. Caparisoned, and that.”
“Has he got a magic sword?” said Magrat, craning to see.
Granny Weatherwax sat back.
“You’re a disgrace, the pair of you,” she said. “I don’t know—magic chargers, fiery swords. Ogling away like a couple of milkmaids.”
“A magic sword is important,” said Magrat. “You’ve got to have one. We could make him one,” she added wistfully. “Out of thunderbolt iron. I’ve got a spell for that. You take some thunderbolt iron,” she said uncertainly, “and then you make a sword out of it.”
“I can’t be having with that old stuff,” said Granny. “You can wait days for the damn things to hit and then they nearly take your arm off.”
“And a strawberry birthmark,” said Nanny Ogg, ignoring the interruption.
The other two looked at her expectantly.
“A strawberry birthmark,” she repeated. “It’s one of those things you’ve got to have if you’re a prince coming to claim your kingdom. That’s so’s everyone will know. O’course, I don’t know how they know it’s strawberry.”
“Can’t abide strawberries,” said Granny vaguely, quizzing