Terry Pratchett

Wyrd Sisters

Death turned to him.

'Verence. Likewise.' He peered down at the old king's features and added, 'Don't seem to recall seeing your picture in the Long Gallery . . .'

Verence repeated, weakly.

'Bacon. Eggs. Smoked fish.' He stared at Champot.

He shuddered.

And then there's this.' She tossed the crown from hand to hand.

'You done the murder.' She looked sideways at Magrat, and admitted, grudgingly, 'Leastways, it looked like it.'

Well, they just don't.'

Granny liked to know where she stood, and she wasn't certain she stood for that sort of thing.

... hand.

'So can you. But no capering.' He grinned encouragingly.

The sergeant of the guard came back empty-handed.' Handed . . . he came down heavily on the importunate thought.

Patience is a virtue.' The duke sat back.

'

Vitoller always waved his arms when he spoke; if you tied his hands behind his back he would be dumb.

'All right,' he was saying, 'how about The King's Brides?'

'Last year,' said the voice of Hwel.

'All right, then. We'll give them Mallo, the Tyrant of Klatch,' said Vitoller, and his larynx smoothly changed gear as his voice became a great rolling thing that could rattle the windows across the width of the average town square. ' "In blood I came, And by blood rule, That none will dare assay these walls of blood—" '

'We did it the year before,' said Hwel calmly. 'Anyway, people are fed up with kings. They want a bit of a chuckle.'

'They are not fed up with my kings,' said Vitoller. 'My dear boy, people do not come to the theatre to laugh, they come to Experience, to Learn, to Wonder—'

'To laugh,' said Hwel, flatly. 'Have a look at this one.'

Tomjon heard the rustle of paper and the creak of wicker-work as Vitoller lowered his weight on to a props basket.

'A Wizard of Sons,' Vitoller read. 'Or, Please Yourself:

Hwel stretched his legs under the table and dislodged Tomjon. He hauled the boy out by one ear.

'What's this?' said Vitoller. 'Wizards? Demons? Imps? Merchants?'

'I'm rather pleased with Act II, Scene IV,' said Hwel, propelling the toddler towards the props box. 'Comic Washing Up with Two Servants.'

'Any death-bed scenes?' said Vitoller hopefully.

'No-o,' said Hwel. 'But I can do you a humorous monologue in Act III.'

'A humorous monologue!'

'All right, there's room for a soliloquy in the last act,' said Hwel hurriedly. 'I'll write one tonight, no problem.'

'And a stabbing,' said Vitoller, getting to his feet. 'A foul murder. That always goes down well.'

He strode away to organise the setting up of the stage.

Hwel sighed, and picked up his quill. Somewhere behind the sacking walls was the town of Hangdog, which had somehow allowed itself to be built in a hollow perched in the nearly sheer walls of a canyon. There was plenty of flat ground in the Ramtops. The problem was that nearly all of it was vertical.

Hwel didn't like the Ramtops, which was odd because it was traditional dwarf country and he was a dwarf. But he'd been banished from his tribe years ago, not only because of his claustrophobia but also because he had a tendency to daydream. It was felt by the local dwarf king that this is not a valuable talent for someone who is supposed to swing a pickaxe without forgetting what he is supposed to hit with it, and so Hwel had been given a very small bag of gold, the tribe's heartfelt best wishes, and a firm goodbye.

It had happened that Vitoller's strolling players had been passing through at the time, and the dwarf had ventured one small copper coin on a performance of The Dragon of the Plains. He had watched it without a muscle moving in his face, gone back to his lodgings, and in the morning had knocked on Vitoller's latty with the first draft of King Under the Mountain. It wasn't in fact very good, but Vitoller had been perceptive enough to see that inside the hairy bullet head was an imagination big enough to bestride the world and so, when the strolling players strolled off, one of them was running to keep up . . .

Particles of raw inspiration sleet through the universe all the time. Every once in a while one of them hits a receptive mind, which then invents DNA or the flute sonata form or a way of making light bulbs wear out in half the time. But most of them miss. Most people go through their lives without being hit by even one.

Some people are even more unfortunate. They get them all.

Such a one was Hwel. Enough inspirations to equip a complete history of the performing arts poured continuously into a small heavy skull designed by evolution to do nothing more spectacular than be remarkably resistant to axe blows.

He licked his quill and looked bashfully around the camp. No-one was watching. He carefully lifted up the Wizard and revealed another stack of paper.

It was another potboiler. Every page was stained with sweat and the words themselves scrawled across the manuscript in a trellis of blots and crossings-out and tiny scribbled insertions. Hwel stared at it for a moment, alone in a world that consisted of him, the next blank page and the shouting, clamouring voices that haunted his dreams.

He began to write.

Free of Hwel's never-too-stringent attention. Tomjon pushed open the lid of the props hamper and, in the methodical way of the very young, began to unpack the crowns.

The dwarf stuck out his tongue as he piloted the errant quill across the ink-speckled page. He'd found room for the star-crossed lovers, the comic gravediggers and me hunchback king. It was the cats and the roller skates that were currently giving him trouble . . .

A gurgle made him look up.

'For goodness sake, lad,' he said. 'It hardly fits. Put it back.'

'You need head-ology.' She looked around the ancient washroom.

Hold on. Hold on ... A thought stole gently into Granny's mind and sheepishly tried to attract her attention.

'They say this fruit be like unto the world

So sweet. Or like, say I, the heart of man

So red without and yet within, unclue'd,

We find the worm, the rot, the flaw.

However glows his bloom the bite

Proves many a man be rotten at the core.'

and Five-leaved False Mandrake, sovereign against fluxes of the bladder.

... and heard the running feet.

Whoops. Um . . .' He backed away.

' The duke's voice trailed off.

'

'. . .the faces . . . wicked lies . . . I wasn't there, and anyway he fell . . . my porridge, all salty . . .' murmured the duke, swaying.

'Pray let me past, dearie.' The last word had knives in it.

'Seen 'em,', said Nanny. 'Leastways, all the ones beginning with P, S, I, T and W.'

'Then let us see how long you can keep that light conversational tone. Light the brazier, Felmet,' snapped the duchess.

'Light the brazier, Fool,' said the duke.

The Fool moved slowly. He hadn't expected any of this. Torturing people hadn't been on his mental agenda. Hurting old ladies in cold blood wasn't his cup of tea, and actually hurting witches in blood of any temperature whatsoever failed to be an entire twelve-course banquet. Words, he'd said. All this probably came under the heading of sticks and stones.

'I don't like doing this,' he murmured under his breath.

'Fine,' said Nanny Ogg, whose hearing was superb. 'I'll remember that you didn't like it.'

'What's that?' said the duke sharply.

'Nothing,' said Nanny. 'Is this going to take long? I haven't had breakfast.'

The Fool lit a match. There was the faintest disturbance in the air beside him, and it went out. He swore, and tried another. This time his shaking hands managed to get it as far as the brazier before it, too, flared and darkened.

'Hurry up, man!' said the duchess, laying out a tray of tools.

'Doesn't seem to want to light—' muttered the Fool, as another match became a fluttering streak of flame and then went out.

The duke snatched the box from his trembling fingers and caught him across the cheek with a handful of rings.

'Can no orders of mine be obeyed?' he screamed. 'Infirm of purpose! Weak! Give me the box!'

The Fool backed away. Someone he couldn't see was whispering things he couldn't quite make out in his ear.

'Go outside,' hissed the duke, 'and see that we are not disturbed!'

The Fool tripped over the bottom step, turned and, with a last imploring look at Nanny, scampered through the door He capered a little bit, out of force of habit.

'The fire isn't completely necessary,' said the Duchess. 'It merely assists. Now, woman, will you confess?'

'What to?' said Nanny.

'It's common knowledge. Treason. Malicious witchcraft. Harbouring the king's enemies. Theft of the crown—'

A tinkling noise made them look down. A blood-stained dagger had fallen off the bench, as though someone had tried to pick it up but just couldn't get the strength together. Nanm heard the king's ghost swear under'its breath, or what would have been its breath.

'—and spreading false rumours,' finished the duchess.

'—salt in my food—' said the duke, nervously, staring at the bandages on his hand. He kept getting the feeling that there was a fourth person in the dungeon.

'If you do confess,' said the duchess, 'you will merely be burned at the stake. And, please, no humorous remarks.'

'What false rumours?'

The duke closed his eyes, but the visions were still there 'Concerning the accidental death of the late King Verence.' he whispered hoarsely. The air swirled again.

Nanny sat with her head cocked to one side, as though listening to a voice only she could hear. Except that the duke was certain that he could hear something too, not exactly a voice, something like the distant sighing of the wind.

'Oh, I don't know nothing false,' she said. 'I know you stabbed him, and you gave him the dagger. It was at the top of the stairs.' She paused, head cocked, nodded, and added, 'Just by the suit of armour with the pike, and you said, "If it's to be done, it's better if it's done quickly", or something, and then you snatched the king's own dagger, the very same what is now lying on the floor, out of his belt and—'

'You lie! There were no witnesses. We made . . . there was nothing to witness! I heard someone in the dark, but there was no-one there! There couldn't have been anyone seeing anything!' screamed the duke. His wife scowled at him.

'Do shut up, Leonal,' she said. 'I think within these four walls we can dispense with that sort of thing.'

'Who told her? Did you tell her?'

'And calm down. No-one told her. She's a witch, for goodness sake, they find out about these things. Second glance, or something.'

'Sight,' said Nanny.

'Which you will not possess much longer, my good woman, unless you tell us who else knows and indeed, assist us on a number of other matters,' said the duchess grimly. 'And you will do so, believe me. I am skilled in these things.'

Granny glanced around the dungeon. It was beginning to get crowded. King Verence was bursting with such angry vitality that he was very nearly apparent, and was furiously trying to get a grip on a knife. But there were others behind – wavering, broken shapes, not exactly ghosts but memories, implanted in the very substances of the walls themselves by sheer pain and terror.

'My own dagger! The bastards! They killed me with my own dagger,' said the ghost of King Verence silently, raising his transparent arms and imploring the netherworld in general to witness this ultimate humiliation. 'Give me strength...'

'Yes,' said Nanny. 'It's worth a try.'

His voice trailed into silence . . .

On the other hand . . . Granny had said that somehow all trees were one tree, or something like that.

'Just a few minutes.' Granny glanced at the door.

'Yes.'

'. . . but there is one who could defeat you,' said Granny slowly.

'Same with toothache.' She gave a sideways glance at Granny's twitching features.

'Well . . . I don't know,' said Magrat, her heart singing a smug song.

'I'm very busy tonight.' She had intended to curl up with a hot milk drink and Goodie Whemper's notebooks on experimental astrology, but instinct told her that any suitor should have an uphill struggle put in front of him, just to make him keener.

'Oh, him.' Magrat blushed hotly under her pale makeup.

In fact he was feeling much better already. His porridge hadn't been oversalted this evening, and there was a decently empty feel about the castle. There were no more voices on the cusp of hearing.

He sat down on the throne. It felt really comfortable for the first time . . .

The duchess sat beside him, her chin on her hand, watching the Fool intently. This bothered him. He thought he knew where he stood with the duke, it was just a matter of hanging on until his madness curved back to the cheerful stage, but the duchess genuinely frightened him.

'It seems that words are extremely powerful,' she said.

'Indeed, lady.'

'You must have made a lengthy study.'

The Fool nodded. The power of words had sustained him through the hell of the Guild. Wizards and witches used words as if they were tools to get things done, but the Fool reckoned that words were things in their own right.

'Words can change the world,' he said.

Her eyes narrowed.

'So you have said before. I remain unconvinced. Strong men change the world,' she said. 'Strong men and their deeds. Words are just like marzipan on a cake. Of course you think words are important. You are weak, you have nothing else.'

'Your ladyship is wrong.'

The duchess's fat hand drummed impatiently on the arm of her throne.

'You had better,' she said, 'be able to substantiate that comment.'

'Lady, the duke wishes to chop down the forests, is this not so?'

'The trees talk about me,' whispered Lord Felmet. 'I hear them whisper when I go riding. They tell lies about me!'

The duchess and the Fool exchanged glances.

'But,' the Fool continued, 'this policy has met with fanatical opposition.'

'What?'

'People don't like it.'

The duchess exploded. 'What does that matter?' she roared. 'We rule! They will do what we say or they will be pitilessly executed!'

The Fool bobbed and capered and waved his hands in a conciliatory fashion.

'But, my love, we will run out of people,' murmured the duke.

'No need, no need!' said the Fool desperately. 'You don't have to do that at all! What you do is, you—' he paused for a moment, his lips moving quickly – 'you embark upon a far-reaching and ambitious plan to expand the agricultural industry, provide long-term employment in the sawmills, open new land for development, and reduce the scope for banditry.'

This time the duke looked baffled. 'How will I do that?' he said.

'Chop down the forests.'

'But you said—'

'Shut up, Felmet,' said the duchess. She subjected the Fool to another long, thoughtful stare.

'Exactly how,' she said, eventually, 'does one go about knocking over the houses of people one does not like?'

'Urban clearance,' said the Fool.

'I was thinking of burning them down.'

'Hygienic urban clearance,' the Fool added promptly.

'And sowing the ground with salt.'

'Marry, I suspect that is hygienic urban clearance and a programme of environmental improvements. It might be a good idea to plant a few trees as well.'

'No more trees!' shouted Felmet.

'Oh, it's all right. They won't survive. The important thing is to have planted them.'

'But I also want us to raise taxes,' said the duchess.

'Why, nuncle—'

'And I am not your nuncle.'

'N'aunt?' said the Fool.

'No.'

'Why . . . prithee . . . you need to finance your ambitious programme for the country.'

'Sorry?' said the duke, who was getting lost again.

'He means that chopping down trees costs money,' said the duchess. She smiled at the Fool. It was the first time he had ever seen her look at him as if he was other than a disgusting little cockroach. There was still a large element of cockroach in her glance, but it said: good little cockroach, you have learned a trick.

'Intriguing,' she said. 'But can your words change the past?'

The Fool considered this.

'More easily, I think,' he said. 'Because the past is what people remember, and memories are words. Who knows how a king behaved a thousand years ago? There is only recollection, and stories. And plays, of course.'

'Ah, yes. I saw a play once,' said Felmet. 'Bunch of funny fellows in tights. A lot of shouting. The people liked it.'

'You tell me history is what people are told?' said the duchess.

The Fool looked around the throne room and found King Gruneberry the Good (906-967).

'Was he?' he said, pointing. 'Who knows, now? What was he good at? But he will be Gruneberry the Good until the end of the world.'

The duke was leaning forward in his throne, his eyes gleaming.

'I want to be a good ruler,' he said. 'I want people to like me. I would like people to remember me fondly.'

'Let us assume,' said the duchess, 'that there were other matters, subject to controversy. Matters of historical record that had . . . been clouded.'

'I didn't do it, you know,' said the duke, quickly. 'He slipped and fell. That was it. Slipped and fell. I wasn't even there. He attacked me. It was self-defence. That's it. He slipped and fell on his own dagger in self-defence.' His voice fell to a mumble. 'I have no recollection of it at this time,' he murmured. He rubbed his dagger hand, although the word was becoming inappropriate.

'Be quiet, husband,' snapped the duchess. 'I know you didn't do it. I wasn't there with you, you may recall. It was I who didn't hand you the dagger.' The duke shuddered again.

'And now, Fool,' said Lady Felmet. 'I was saying, I believe, that perhaps there are matters that should be properly recorded.'

'Marry, that you were not there at the time?' said the Fool, brightly.

It is true that words have power, and one of the things they are able to do is get out of someone's mouth before the speaker has the chance to stop them. If words were sweet little lambs, then the Fool watched them bound cheerfully away into the flamethrower of the duchess's glare.

'Not where?' she said.

'Anywhere,' said the Fool hastily.

'Stupid man! Everyone is somewhere.'

'I mean, you were everywhere but at the top of the stairs,' said the Fool.

'Which stairs?'

'Any stairs,' said the Fool, who was beginning to sweat. 'I distinctly remember not seeing you!'

The duchess eyed him for a while.

'So long as you remember it,' she said. The duchess rubbed her chin, which made an audible rasping noise.

'Reality is only weak words, you say. Therefore, words are reality. But how can words become history?'

'It was a very good play, the play that I saw,' said Felmet dreamily. 'There were fights, and no-one really died. Some very good speeches, I thought.'

There was another sandpapery sound from the duchess.

'Fool?' she said.

'Lady?'

'Can you write a play? A play that will go around the world, a play that will be remembered long after rumour has died?'

'No, lady. It is a special talent.'

'But can you find someone who has it?'

'There are such people, lady.'

'Find one,' murmured the duke. 'Find the best. Find the best. The truth will out. Find one.'

The storm was resting. It didn't want to be, but it was. It had spent a fortnight understudying a famous anticyclone over the Circle Sea, turning up every day, hanging around in the cold front, grateful for a chance to uproot the occasional tree or whirl a farmhouse to any available emerald city of its choice. But the big break in the weather had never come.

It consoled itself with the thought that even the really great storms of the past – the Great Gale of 1789, for example, or Hurricane Zelda and Her Amazing Raining Frogs – had gone through this sort of thing at some stage in their career. It was just part of the great tradition of the weather.

Besides, it had had a good stretch in the equivalent of pantomime down on the plains, bringing seasonal snow and terminal frostbite to millions. It just had to be philosophical about being back up here now with nothing much to do except wave the heather about. If weather was people, this storm would be filling in time wearing a cardboard hat in a hamburger hell.

Currently it was observing three figures moving slowly over the moor, converging with some determination on a bare patch where the standing stone stood, or usually stood, though just at the moment it wasn't visible.

It recognised them as old friends and connoisseurs, and conjured up a brief unseasonal roll of thunder as a form of greeting. This was totally ignored.

'The bloody stone's gone,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'However many there is of it.'

Her face was pale. It might also have been drawn; if so, then it was by a very neurotic artist. She looked as though she meant business. Bad business.

'Light the fire, Magrat,' she added automatically.

'I daresay we'll all feel better for a cup of tea,' said Nanny Ogg, mouthing the words like a mantra. She fumbled in the recesses of her shawl. 'With something in it,' she added, producing a small bottle of applejack.

'Alcohol is a deceiver and tarnishes the soul,' said Magrat virtuously.

'I never touch the stuff,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'We should keep a clear head, Gytha.'

'Just a drop in your tea isn't drinking,' said Nanny. 'It's medicine. It's a chilly old wind up here, sisters.'

'Very well,' said Granny. 'But just a drop.'

They drank in silence. Eventually Granny said, 'Well, Magrat. You know all about the coven business. We might as well do it right. What do we do next?'

Magrat hesitated. She wasn't up to suggesting dancing naked.

'There's a song,' she said. 'In praise of the full moon.'

'It ain't full,' Granny pointed out. 'It's wossname. Bulging.'

'Gibbous,' said Nanny obligingly.

'I think it's in praise of full moons in general,' Magrat hazarded. 'And then we have to raise our consciousness. It really ought to be full moon for that, I'm afraid. Moons are very important.'

Granny gave her a long, calculating look.

'That's modern witchcraft for you, is it?' she said.

'It's part of it, Granny. There's a lot more.'

Granny Weatherwax sighed. 'Each to her own, I suppose. I'm blowed if I'll let a ball of shiny rock tell me what to do.'

We just do the spell, go and fetch him, he can manifest his destiny, and everything will be nice and neat.'

Magrat didn't comment on this, because it had occurred to her that destinies sounded easy enough when you talked about them but were never very bankable where real human beings were concerned. But Nanny Ogg sat back and tipped another generous measure of apple brandy in her tea.

'Could work out nice,' she said. 'A bit of peace and quiet for fifteen years. If I recall the spell, after you say it you have to fly around the castle before cock crow.'

'I wasn't thinking about that,' said Granny. 'It wouldn't be right. Felmet would still be king all that time. The kingdom would still get sick. No, what I was thinking of doing was moving the whole kingdom.'

She beamed at them.

'The whole of Lancre?' said Nanny.

'Yes.'

'Fifteen years into the future?'

'Yes.'

Nanny looked at Granny's broomstick. It was a well-made thing, built to last, apart from the occasional starting problem. But there were limits.

'You'll never do it,' she said. 'Not around the whole kingdom in that. That's all the way up to Powderknife and down to Drumlin's Fell. You just couldn't carry enough magic.'

'I've thought of that,' said Granny.

She beamed again. It was terrifying.

She explained the plan. It was dreadful.

A minute later the moor was deserted, as the witches hurried to their tasks. It was silent for a while, apart from the squeak of bats and the occasional rustle of the wind in the heather.

At least, not unless you think about it.' She looked at her feet again.

Thys ys amain Dainty Messe youe have got me into, Stanleigh . . . He had laughed until his chest ached, and the rest of the company had looked at him in astonishment.

'It was like . . . I mean, I was sort of inside something, like a bowl, and there were these three terrible faces peering in at me.'

I woke up . . .' he finished lamely.

'I promise.' Tomjon adjusted his hat.

'Yes, and the bells.' Tomjon grimaced and kicked Hwel under die table.

'Hahaha. My squeak. Hahaha.' He tried to stand up, and banged his head.

'Strolling players.' He corrected himself.

She was so pale.'

'No. 19 and a layer of powder,' said Tomjon cheerfully. 'Plus a bit of brown eyeshadow.'

'Eh?'

'And a couple of hankies in the vest,' he added.

'What's he saying?' said the dwarf to the company at, for want of a better word, large.

Hwel smiled into his tankard.

'Give 'em a bit of Gretalina's soliloquy, boy,' he said.

'Right.'

Tomjon stood up, hit his head, sat down and then knelt on the floor as a compromise. He clasped his hands to what would have been, but for a few chance chromosomes, his bosom.

'You lie who call it Summer . . .' he began.

The assembled dwarfs listened in silence for several minutes. One of them dropped his axe, and was noisily hushed by the rest of them.

'. . . and melting snow. Farewell,' Tomjon finished. 'Drinks phial, collapses behind battlements, down ladder, out of dress and into tabard for Comic Guard No.2, wait one, entrance left. What ho, good—'

'That's about enough,' said Hwel quietly.

Several of the dwarfs were crying into their helmets. There was a chorus of blown noses.

Thundergust dabbed at his eyes with a chain-mail handkerchief.

'That was the most saddest thing I've ever heard,' he said. He glared at Tomjon. 'Hang on,' he said, as realisation dawned. 'He's a man. I bloody fell in love with that girl on stage.' He nudged Hwel. 'He's not a bit of an elf, is he?'

'Absolutely human,' said Hwel. 'I know his father.'

Once again he stared hard at the Fool, who was watching them with his mouth open, and looked back at Tomjon.

Nah, he thought. Coincidence.

'S'acting,' he said. 'A good actor can be anything, right?'

He could feel the Fool's eye boring into the back of his short neck.

'Yes, but dressing up as women, it's a bit—' said Thundergust doubtfully.

Tomjon slipped off his shoes and knelt down on them, bringing his face level with the dwarfs. He gave him a calculating stare for a few seconds, and then adjusted his features.

And there were two Thundergusts. True, one of them was kneeling and had apparently been shaved.

'What ho, what ho,' said Tomjon in the dwarf's voice.

This was by way of being a hilarious gag to the rest of the dwarfs, who had an uncomplicated sense of humour. As they gathered round the pair Hwel felt a gentle touch on the shoulder.

'You two are with a theatre?' said the Fool, now almost sober.

'S'right.'

'But . . . I don't know . . .'

'Sorry.' Vitoller shook his head. '

What are these supposed to be?'

All right, all right.

Lessee . . . "Baboon hair and . . ." Who's got the baboon hair?

(crossed out: Verence Felmet Small God's Eve) A Night Of (crossed out: Knives Daggers) Kings, by, Hwel of Vitoller's Men. A Comedy Tragedy in (crossed out: Eight Five Six Three) Nine Acts.

Characters: Felmet, A Good King.

Verence, A Bad King.

Wethewacs, Ane Evil Witch

Hogg, Ane Likewise Evil Witch

Magerat, Ane Sirene ...

Scene: (crossed out: A Drawing Room Ship at See Street in Pseudopolis) Blasted Moor. Enter Three Witches ...

'We're all just people.' Nanny blew a cloud of blue smoke at the chimney.

'There's nothing against crockery.' He began to rally.

Close up.' She cackled.

'But pass it over, anyway.' Wimsloe wordlessly handed over the basket holding the troupe's supper.

'You never know.' He turned to Nanny.

Hwel, 'gainst whom no?'

' 'Gainst Whom No . . . Tumpty-Tum . . . nor Tumpty-Tumpty bar,' he said, uncertainly, and flourished his scythe.

'You're upsetting people.' She raised her hat to Wimsloe.

' ". . . lock will hold . . ." ' he whispered, through teeth fixed in a grimace.

' ". . . lock will hold, nor fasten'd portal . . .",' said Tomjon encouragingly.

repeated Death desperately, watching his lips.

' ". . . bar! . . ." '

'Dunno. Oblong, I think.' Hwel's glance returned to his scrawls as though magnetised.

What?

'I got a coronation mug, too.' She produced it.

'Have y—?' Nanny Ogg began, but Granny nudged her sharply in the ribs.

The End