Witches Abroad

Of course, there was her. After all this time . . .



Of course. She approved of that. Because there would have to be three of them. Three was an important number for stories. Three wishes, three princes, three billy goats, three guesses . . . three witches. The maiden, the mother and the . . . other one. That was one of the oldest stories of all.



Esme Weatherwax had never understood stories. She'd never understood how real reflections were. If she had, she'd probably have been ruling the world by now.



'You're always looking in mirrors!' said a petulant voice. 'I hate it when you're always looking in mirrors!'



The Duc sprawled in a chair in one corner, all black silk and well-turned legs. Lilith would not normally allow anyone inside the nest of mirrors but it was, technically, his castle. Besides, he was too vain and stupid to know what was going on. She'd seen to that. At least, she'd thought she had. Lately, he seemed to be picking things up. . .



'I don't know why you have to do that,' he whined. 'I thought magic was just a matter of pointing and going whoosh.'



Lilith picked up her hat, and glanced at a mirror as she adjusted it.



'This way's safer,' she said. 'It's self-contained. When you use mirror magic, you don't have to rely on anyone except yourself. That's why no-one's ever conquered the world with magic . . . yet. They try to take it from . . . other places. And there's always a price. But with mirrors, you're beholden to no-one but your own soul.'



She lowered the veil from the hat brim. She preferred the privacy of a veil, outside the security of the mirrors.



'I hate mirrors,' muttered the Duc.



'That's because they tell you the truth, my lad.'



'It's cruel magic, then.'



Lilith tweaked the veil into a fetching shape.



'Oh, yes. With mirrors, all the power is your own. There's nowhere else it can come from,' she said.



'The swamp woman gets it from the swamp,' said the Duc.



'Ha! And it'll claim her one day. She doesn't understand what she's doing.'



'And you do?'



She felt a pang of pride. He was actually resenting her! She really had done a good job there.



'I understand stories,' she said. 'That's all I need.'



'But you haven't brought me the girl,' said the Duc. 'You promised me the girl. And then it'll be all over and I can sleep in a real bed and I won't need any more reflecting magic —'



But even a good job can go too far.



'You've had your fill of magic?' said Lilith sweetly. 'You'd like me to stop? It would be the easiest thing in the world. I found you in the gutter. Would you like me to send you back?'



His face became a mask of panic.



'I didn't mean that! I just meant . . . well, then everything will be real. Just one kiss, you said. I can't see why that's so hard to arrange.'



'The right kiss at the right time,' said Lilith. 'It has to be at the right time, otherwise it won't work.' She smiled. He was trembling, partly out of lust, mainly out of terror, and slightly out of heredity.



'Don't worry,' she said. 'It can't not happen.'



'And these witches you showed me?'



'They're just . . . part of the story. Don't worry about them. The story will just absorb them. And you'll get her because of stories. Won't that be nice? And now . . . shall we go? I expect you've got some ruling to do?'



He picked up the inflexion. It was an order. He stood up, extended an arm to take hers, and together they went down to the palace's audience chamber.



Lilith was proud of the Duc. Of course, there was his embarrassing little nocturnal problem, because his morphic field weakened when he slept, but that wasn't yet a major difficulty. And there was the trouble with mirrors, which showed him as he really was, but that was easily overcome by banning all mirrors save hers. And then there were his eyes. She couldn't do anything about the eyes. There was practically no magic that could do anything about someone's eyes. All she had been able to come up with there were the smoked glasses.



Even so, he was a triumph. And he was so grateful. She'd been good for him.



She'd made a man of him, for a start.



Some way downriver from the waterfall, which was the second highest anywhere on the Disc and had been discovered in the Year of the Revolving Crab by the noted explorer Guy de Yoyo,* Granny Weatherwax sat in front of a small fire with a towel around her shoulders and steamed.



'Still, look on the bright side,' said Nanny Ogg. 'At least I was holding my broom and you at the same time. And Magrat had hers. Otherwise we'd all be looking at the waterfall from underneath.'



'Oh, good. A silver lining,' said Granny, her eyes glinting evilly.



'Bit of an adventure, really,' said Nanny, grinning encouragingly. 'One day we'll look back on this and laugh.'



'Oh, good,' said Granny.



Nanny dabbed at the claw marks on her arm. Greebo, with a cat's true instinct for self-preservation, had clawed his way up his mistress and taken a flying leap to safety from the top of her head. Now he was curled up by the fire, dreaming cat dreams.



A shadow passed over them. It was Magrat, who had been combing the riverbanks.



'I think I've got nearly everything,' she said as she landed.'Here's Granny's broomstick. And. . .oh, yes. . .



* Of course, lots of dwarfs, trolls, native people, trappers, hunters and the merely badly lost had discovered it on an almost daily basis for thousands of years. But they weren't explorers and didn't count.



the wand.' She gave a brave little smile. 'Little pumpkins were bobbing to the surface. That's how I found it.'



'My word, that was lucky,' said Nanny Ogg encouragingly. 'Hear that, Esme? We shan't be wanting for food, at any rate.'



'And I've found the basket with the dwarf bread in it,' said Magrat, 'although I'm afraid it might be spoilt.'



'It won't be, take it from me,' said Nanny Ogg. 'You can't spoil dwarf bread. Well, well,' she said, sitting down again. 'We've got quite a little picnic, haven't we ... and a nice bright fire and . . . and a nice place to sit and . . . I'm sure there's lots of poor people in places like Howondaland and suchlike who'd give anything to be here right now . . .'



'If you don't stop being so cheerful, Gytha Ogg, I shall give you such a ding around the ear with the flat of my hand,' said Granny Weatherwax.



'You sure you're not catching a chill?' said Nanny Ogg.



'I'm dryin' out,' said Granny Weatherwax, 'from the inside.'



'Look, I'm really sorry,' said Magrat. 'I said I was sorry.'



Not that she was quite certain what for, she told herself. The boat wasn't her idea. She hadn't put the waterfall there. She hadn't even been in a position to see it coming. She'd turned the boat into a pumpkin, but she hadn't meant to. It could have happened to anyone.



'I managed to save Desiderata's notebooks, too,' she said.



'Well, that's a blessing,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Now we know where we're lost.'



She looked around. They were through the worst of the mountains, but there were still peaks around and high meadows stretching to the snowline. From somewhere in the distance came the clonking of goat bells.



Magrat unfolded a map. It was creased, damp, and the pencil had run. She pointed cautiously to a smudged area.



'I think we're here,' she said.



'My word,' said Nanny Ogg, whose grasp of the principles of cartography was even shakier than Granny's. 'Amazing how we can all fit on that little bit of paper.'



'I think perhaps it would be a good idea at the moment if we just followed the river,' said Magrat. 'Without in any way going on it,' she added quickly.



'I suppose you didn't find my bag?' said Granny Weatherwax. 'It had pers'nal items in.'



'Probably sank like a stone,' said Nanny Ogg.



Granny Weatherwax stood up like a general who's just had news that his army has come second.



'Come on,' she said. 'Where to next, then?'



What was next was forest - dark and ferociously coniferous. The witches flew over it in silence. There were occasional, isolated cottages half-hidden in the trees. Here and there a crag loomed over the sylvanian gloom, shrouded in mist even in mid-afternoon. Once or twice they flew past castles, if that's what you could call them; they didn't look built, more extruded from the landscape.



It was the kind of landscape that had a particular type of story attached to it, featuring wolves and garlic and frightened women. A dark and thirsty story, a story that flapped wings against the moon . . .



'Der flabberghast,' muttered Nanny.



'What's that?' said Magrat.



'It's foreign for bat.'



'I've always liked bats,' said Magrat. 'In general.'



The witches found that, by unspoken agreement, they were flying closer together.



'I'm getting hungry,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'And don't no-one mention pumpkin.'



"There's dwarf bread,' said Nanny.



'There's always the dwarf bread,' said Granny. 'I fancy something cooked this year, thank you all the same.'



They flew past another castle, occupying the entire summit of a crag.



'What we need is a nice little town or something,' said Magrat.



'But the one down there will have to do,' said Granny.



They looked down at it. It wasn't so much a town as a huddle of houses, clustering together against the trees. It looked as cheerless as an empty hearth, but the shadows of the mountains were already speeding across the forest and something about the landscape tacitly discouraged night-time flying.



'Can't see many people about,' said Granny.



'Maybe they turn in early in these parts,' said Nanny Ogg.



'It's hardly even sunset,' said Magrat. 'Perhaps we ought to go up to that castle?'



They all looked at the castle.



'No-o-o,' said Granny slowly, speaking for all of them. 'We know our place.'



So they landed, instead, in what was presumably the town square. A dog barked, somewhere behind the buildings. A shutter banged closed.



' Very friendly,' said Granny. She walked over to a larger building that had a sign, unreadable under the grime, over the door. She gave the woodwork a couple of thumps.



'Open up!' she said.



'No, no, you don't say that,' said Magrat. She shouldered her way past, and tapped on the door. 'Excuse me! Bona fide travellers!'



'Bona what?' said Nanny.



'That's what you need to say,' said Magrat. 'Any inn has got to open up for bona fide travellers and give them succour.'



'Has it?' said Nanny, with interest. 'That sounds like a thing worth knowing.'



The door remained shut.



'Let me 'ave a go,' said Nanny. 'I know some foreign lingo.'



She hammered on the door.



'Openny vous, gunga din, chop-chop, pretty damn quick,' she said.



Granny Weatherwax listened carefully.



'That's speaking foreign, is it?'



'My grandson Shane is a sailor,' said Nanny Ogg. 'You'd be amazed, the words he learns about foreign parts.'



'I expects I would,' said Granny. 'And I 'opes they works better for him.'



She thumped on the door again. And this time it opened, very slowly. A pale face peered around it.



'Excuse me - ' Magrat began.



Granny pushed the door open. The face's owner had been leaning on it; they could hear the scrape of his boots over the floor as he was shoved gently backwards.



'Blessings be on this house,' Granny said, perfunctorily. It was always a good opening remark for a witch. It concentrated people's minds on what other things might be on this house, and reminded them about any fresh cakes, newly-baked bread or bundles of useful old clothing that might have temporarily escaped their minds.



It looked like one of the other things had been on this house already.



It was an inn, of sorts. The three witches had never seen such a cheerless place in their lives. But it was quite crowded. A score or more pale-faced people watched them solemnly from benches around the walls.