Wyrd Sisters - Terry Pratchett [94]
“Yes, but I brought you this pres—” said the Fool vaguely, watching her departing figure.
He sagged as she disappeared between the trees, and looked down at the necklace wound tightly between his nervous fingers. It was, he had to admit, terribly tasteless, but it was the sort of thing she liked, all silver and skulls. It had cost him too much.
A cow, misled by his horns, stuck its tongue in his ear.
It was true, the Fool thought. Witches did do unpleasant things to people, sometimes.
Tomorrow night came, and the witches went by a roundabout route to the castle, with considerable reluctance.
“If he wants us to be here, I don’t want to go,” said Granny. “He’s got some plan. He’s using headology on us.”
“There’s something up,” said Magrat. “He had his men set fire to three cottages in our village last night. He always does that when he’s in a good mood. That new sergeant is a quick man with the matches, too.”
“Our Daff said she saw them actors practicin’ this morning,” said Nanny Ogg, who was carrying a bag of walnuts and a leather bottle from which rose a rich, sharp smell. “She said it was all shouting and stabbing and then wondering who done it and long bits with people muttering to themselves in loud voices.”
“Actors,” said Granny, witheringly. “As if the world weren’t full of enough history without inventing more.”
“They shout so loud, too,” said Nanny. “You can hardly hear yourself talk.” She was also carrying, deep in her apron pocket, a lump of haunted castle rock. The king was getting in free.
Granny nodded. But, she thought, it was going to be worth it. She hadn’t got the faintest idea what Tomjon had in mind, but her inbuilt sense of drama assured her that the boy would be bound to do something important. She wondered if he would leap off the stage and stab the duke to death, and realized that she was hoping like hell that he would.
“All hail wossname,” she said under her breath, “who shall be king here, after.”
“Let’s get a move on,” said Nanny. “All the sherry’ll be gone.”
The Fool was waiting despondently inside the little wicket gate. His face brightened when he saw Magrat, and then froze in an expression of polite surprise when he saw the other two.
“There’s not going to be any trouble, is there?” he said. “I don’t want there to be any trouble. Please.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Granny regally, sweeping past.
“Wotcha, jinglebells,” said Nanny, elbowing the man in the ribs. “I hope you haven’t been keeping our girl here up late o’nights!”
“Nanny!” said Magrat, shocked. The Fool gave the terrified, ingratiating rictus of young men everywhere when confronted by importunate elderly women commenting on their intimately personal lives.
The older witches brushed past. The Fool grabbed Magrat’s hand.
“I know where we can get a good view,” he said.
She hesitated.
“It’s all right,” said the Fool urgently. “You’ll be perfectly safe with me.”
“Yes, I will, won’t I,” said Magrat, trying to look around him to see where the others had gone.
“They’re staging the play outside, in the big courtyard. We’ll get a lovely view from one of the gate towers, and no one else will be there. I put some wine up there for us, and everything.”
When she still looked half-reluctant he added, “And there’s a cistern of water and a fireplace that the guards use sometimes. In case you want to wash your hair.”
The castle was full of people standing around in that polite, sheepish way affected by people who see each other all day and are now seeing each other again in unusual social circumstances, like an office party. The witches passed quite unremarked among them and found seats in the rows of benches in the main courtyard, set up before a hastily assembled stage.
Nanny Ogg waved her bag of walnuts at Granny.
“Want one?” she said.
An alderman of Lancre shuffled past her and pointed politely to the seat on her left.
“Is anyone sitting here?” he said.
“Yes,” said Nanny.
The alderman looked distractedly at the rest of the benches, which were filling up fast, and