'Let's see his lordship in action, shall we?' said Nanny. 'We can nip into the old guardroom alongside the door and look through the squint.'

'I want to get Verence!’  said Magrat.

'He's not going anywhere,' said Nanny, striding into the little room by the door. 'And I don't reckon they're planning to kill him. Anyway, he's got some protection now.'

'I think these really are new vampires,' said Agnes. 'They really aren't like the old sort.'

'Then we face 'em here and now,' said Nanny. 'That's what Esme would do, sure enough.'

'But are we strong enough?' said Agnes. Granny wouldn't have asked, said Perdita.

'There's three of us, isn't there?' said Nanny. She produced a flask and uncorked it. 'And a bit of help. Anyone else want some?'

'That's brandy, Nanny!’  said Magrat. 'Do you want to face the vampires drunk?'

'Sounds a whole lot better than facin' them sober,' said Nanny, taking a gulp and shuddering. 'Only sensible bit of advice Agnes got from Mister Oats, I reckon. Vampire hunters need to be a little bit tipsy, he said. Well, I always listen to good advice. . .'

 

 

Even inside Mightily Oats's tent the candle streamed in the wind. He sat gingerly on his camp bed, because sudden movements made it fold up with nail-blackening viciousness, and leafed through his notebooks in a state of growing panic.

He hadn't come here to be a vampire expert. 'Revenants and Ungodly Creatures' had been a one-hour lecture from deaf Deacon Thrope every fortnight, for Om's sake! it hadn't even counted towards the final examination score! They'd spent twenty times that on Comparative Theology, and right now he wished, he really wished, that they'd found time to tell him, for example, exactly where the heart was and how much force you needed to drive a stake through it.

Ah . . . here they were, a few pages of scribble, saved only because the notes for his essay on Thrum's Lives of the Prophets were on the other side.

'. . . The blood is the life . . . vampires are subservient to the one who turned them into a vampire . . . allyl disulphide, active ingredient in garlic . . . porphyria, lack of? Learned reaction? . . . native soil v. important . . . as many as possible will drink of a victim so that he is the slave of all .. . "clustersuck" ... blood as an unholy sacrament . . . Vampire controls: bats, rats, creatures of the night, weather . . . contrary to legend, most victims merely become passive, NOT vampires . . . intended vampire sufers terrible torments et craving for blood . . . socks . . . Garlic, holy icons . . . sunlight-deadly?. . . kill vampire, release all victims . . . physical strength & . . .'

Why hadn't anyone told them this was important? He'd covered half the page with a drawing of Deacon Thrope, which was practically a still life.

Oats dropped the book into his pocket and grasped his medallion hopefully. After four years of theological college he wasn't at all certain of what he believed, and this was partly because the Church had schismed so often that occasionally the entire curriculum would alter in the space of one afternoon. But also–

They had been warned about it. Don't expect it, they'd said. It doesn't happen to anyone except the prophets. Om doesn't work like that. Om works from inside.

–but he'd hoped that, just once, Om would make himself known in some obvious and unequivocal way that couldn't be mistaken for wind or a guilty conscience. Just once he'd like the clouds to part for the space of ten seconds and a voice to cry out, 'YES, MIGHTILYPRAISEWORTHY-ARE-YE-WHO-EXALTETH-OM OATS! IT'S ALL COMPLETELY TRUE! INCIDENTALLY, THAT WAS A VERY THOUGHTFUL PAPER YOU WROTE ON THE CRISIS OF RELIGION IN A PLURALISTIC SOCIETY!'

It wasn't that he'd lacked faith. But faith wasn't enough. He'd wanted knowledge.

Right now he'd settle for a reliable manual of vampire disposal.

He stood up. Behind him, unheeded, the terrible camp bed sprang shut.

He'd found knowledge, and knowledge hadn't helped.

Had not Jotto caused the Leviathan of Terror to throw itself on to the land and the seas to turn red with blood? Had not Orda, strong in his faith, caused a sudden famine thoughout the land of Smale?

They certainly had. He believed it utterly. But a part of him also couldn't forget reading about the tiny little creatures that caused the rare red tides off the coast of Urt and the effect this apparently had on local sea life, and about the odd wind cycle that sometimes kept rainclouds away from Smale for years at a time.

This had been . . . worrying.

It was because he was so very good at old languages that he'd been allowed to study in the new libraries that were springing up around the Citadel, and this had been fresh ground for worry, because the seeker after truth had found truths instead. The Third Journey of the Prophet Cena, for example, seemed remarkably like a retranslation of the Testament of Sand in the Laotan Book of the Whole. On one shelf alone he found forty-three remarkably similar accounts of a great flood, and in every single one of them a man very much like Bishop Horn had saved the elect of mankind by building a magical boat. Details varied, of course. Sometimes the boat was made of wood, sometimes of banana leaves. Sometimes the news of the emerging dry land was brought by a swan, sometimes by an iguana. Of course these stories in the chronicles of other religions were mere folktales and myth, while the voyage detailed in the Book of Cena was holy truth. But nevertheless . . .

Oats had gone on to be fully ordained, but he'd progressed from Slightly Reverend to Quite Reverend a troubled young man. He'd wanted to discuss his findings with someone, but there were so many schisms going on that no one would stand still long enough to listen. The hammering of clerics as they nailed their own versions of the truth of Om on the temple doors was deafening, and for a brief while he'd even contemplated buying a roll of paper and a hammer of his own and putting his name on the waiting list for the doors, but he'd overruled himself.

Because he was, he knew, in two minds about everything.

At one point he'd considered asking to be exorcized but had drawn back from this because the Church traditionally used fairly terminal methods for this and in any case serious men who seldom smiled would not be amused to hear that the invasive spirit he wanted exorcized was his own.

He called the voices the Good Oats and the Bad Oats. The trouble was, each of them agreed with the terminology but applied it in different ways.

Even when he was small there'd been a part of him that thought the temple was a silly boring place, and tried to make him laugh when he was supposed to be listening to sermons. It had grown up with him. It was the Oats that read avidly and always remembered those passages which cast doubt on the literal truth of the Book of Om –and nudged him and said, if this isn't true, what can you believe?

And the other half of him would say: there must be other kinds of truth.

And he'd reply: other kinds than the kind that is actually true, you mean?

And he'd say: define actually!

And he'd shout: well, actually Omnians would have tortured you to death, not long ago, for even thinking like this. Remember that? Remember how many died for using the brain which, you seem to think, their god gave them? What kind of truth excuses all that pain?

He'd never quite worked out how to put the answer into words. And then the headaches would start, and the sleepless nights. The Church schismed all the time these days, and this was surely the ultimate one, starting a war inside one's head.

To think he'd been sent here for his health, because Brother Melchio had got worried about his shaky hands and the way he talked to himself l

He did not gird his loins, because he wasn't certain how you did that and had never dared ask, but he adjusted his hat and stepped out into the wild night under the thick, uncommunicative clouds.

 

 

The castle gates swung open and Count Magpyr stepped out, flanked by his soldiers.

This was not according to the proper narrative tradition. Although the people of Lancre were

technically new to all this, down at genetic level they knew that when the mob is at the gate the mobee should be screaming defiance in a burning laboratory or engaged in a cliffhanger struggle with some hero on the battlements.

He shouldn't be lighting a cigar.

They fell silent, scythes and pitchforks hovering in midshake. The only sound was the crackling of the torches.

The Count blew a smoke ring.

'Good evening,' he said, as it drifted away. 'You must be the mob.'

Someone at the back of the crowd, who hadn't been keeping up to date, threw a stone. Count Magpyr caught it without looking.

'The pitchforks are good,' he said. 'I like the pitchforks. As pitchforks they certainly pass muster. And the torches, well, that goes without saying. But the scythes . . . no, no, I'm afraid not. They simply will not do. Not a good mob weapon, I have to tell you. Take it from me. A simple sickle is much better. Start waving scythes around and someone could lose an ear. Do try to learn.'

He ambled over to a very large man who was holding a pitchfork.

'And what is your name, young man?'

'Br . . . Jason Ogg, sir.'

'The blacksmith?'

'Yessir?'

'Wife and family doing well?'

'Yessir.'

'Well done. Got everything you need?'

'Er . . . yessir.'

'Good man. Carry on. If you could keep the noise down over dinner I would be grateful, but of course I appreciate you have a vital traditional role to play. I'll have the servants bring out some mugs of hot toddy shortly.' He knocked the ash off his cigar. 'Oh, and may I introduce you to Sergeant Kraput, known to his friends as "Bent Bill", I believe, and this gentleman here picking his teeth with his knife is Corporal Svitz, who I understand has no friends at all. I suppose it is faintly possible that he will make some here. They and their men, who I suppose could be called soldiers in a sort of informal, easy-come easy-go, cut-and-thrust sort of way' – here Corporal Svitz leered and flicked a gobbet of anonymous rations from a yellowing molar – 'will be going on duty in, oh, about an hour. Purely for reasons of security, you understand.'

'An' then we'll gut yer like a clam and stuff yer with straw,' said Corporal Svitz.

'Ah. This is technical military language of which I know little,' said the Count. 'I do so hope there is no unpleasantness.'

'I don't,' said Sergeant Kraput.

'What scamps they are,' said the Count. 'Good evening to you all. Come, gentlemen.'

He stepped back into the courtyard. The gates, their wood so heavy and toughened with age that it was like iron, swung shut.

On the other side of it was silence, followed by the puzzled mumbling of players who have had their ball confiscated.

The Count nodded at Vlad and flung out his hands theatrically.

'Ta-da! And that is how we do it-'

'And d'you think you'd do it twice?' said a voice from the steps.

The vampires looked up at the three witches.

'Ah, Mrs Ogg,' said the Count, waving the soldiers away im-patiently. 'And your majesty. And Agnes . . . Now. . . was it three for a girl? Or three for a funeral?'

The stone cracked under Nanny's feet as Magpyr walked forward.

'Do you think I'm stupid, dear ladies?' he said. 'Did you really think I'd let you run around if there was the least chance that you could harm us?'

Lightning crackled across the sky.

'I can control the weather,' said the Count. 'And lesser creatures which, let me tell you, includes humans. And yet you plot away and think you can have some kind of . . . of duel? What a lovely image. However...'

The witches were lifted off their feet. Hot air curled around them. A rising wind outside made the torches of the mob stream flames like flags.

'What happened to us harnessing the power of all three of us together?' hissed Magrat.

'That rather depended on him standing still!' said Nanny.

'Stop this at once!' Magrat shouted. 'And how dare you smoke in my castle! That can have a very serious effect on people around you!'

'Is anyone going to say, "You'll never get away with it"?' said the Count, ignoring her. He walked up the steps. They bobbed helplessly along ahead of him, like so many balloons. The hall doors slammed shut after him.

'Oh, someone must,' he said.

'You won't get away with this!'

The Count beamed. 'And I didn't even see your lips move-'

'Depart from here and return to the grave whence thou camest, unrighteous revenant!'

'Where the hell did he come from?' said Nanny, as Mightily Oats dropped to the ground in front of the vampires.

He was creeping along the minstrel gallery, said Perdita to Agnes. Sometimes you just don't pay attention.

The priest's coat was covered with dust and his collar was torn, but his eyes blazed with holy zeal.

He thrust something in front of the vampire's face. Agnes saw him glance down hurriedly at a small book in his other hand.

'Er. . . "Get thee hence, thou worm of Rheum, and vex not "'

'Excuse me?' said the Count.

'"-trouble not more the-"

'Could I just make a point?'

' "-thou spirit that troubles thee, thou' . . . What?'

The Count took the notebook out of Oats's suddenly unresisting hand.

'This is from Ossory's Malleus Maleficarum,' he said. 'Why do you look so surprised? I helped write it, you silly little man!'

'But. . . you . . . but that was hundreds of years ago!' Oats managed.

'So? And I contributed to Auriga Clavorum Maleficarum, Torquus Simiae Maleficarum . . . the whole damn Arca Instrumentorum, in fact. None of those stupid fictions work on vampires, didn't you even know that?'The Count almost growled. 'Oh, I remember your prophets. They were mad bearded old men with the sanitary habits of a stoat but, by all that's crazed, they had passion! They didn't have holy little minds full of worry and fretfulness. They spoke the idiot words as though they believed them, with specks of holy foam bubbling away in the corners of their mouths. Now they were real priests, bellies full of fire and bile! You are a joke.'

He tossed the notebook aside and took the pendant. 'And this is the holy turtle of Om, which I believe should make me cringe back in fear. My, my. Not even a very good replica. Cheaply made.'

Oats found a reserve of strength. He managed to say, 'And how would you know, foul fiend?'

'No, no, that's for demons,' sighed the Count.

He handed the turtle back to Oats.

'A commendable effort, none the less,' he said. 'If I ever want a nice cup of tea and a bun and possibly also a cheery sing-song, I will be sure to patronize your mission. But, at the moment, you are in my way.'

He hit the priest so hard that he slid under the long table.

'So much for piety,' he said. 'All that remains is for Granny Weatherwax to turn up. It should be any minute now. After all, did you think she'd trust you to get it right?'

The sound of the huge iron doorknocker reverberated through the hall.

The Count nodded happily. 'And that will be her,' he said. 'Of course it will. Timing is everything.'

The wind roared in when the doors were opened, swirling twigs and rain and Granny Weatherwax, blown like a leaf. She was soaked and covered in mud, her dress torn in several places.

Agnes realized that she'd never actually seen Granny Weatherwax wet before, even after the worst storm, but now she was drenched. Water poured off her and left a trail on the floor.

'Mistress Weatherwax! So good of you to come,' said the Count. 'Such a long walk on a dark night. Do sit by the fire for a while and rest.'

'I'll not rest here,' said Granny.

'At least have a drink or something to eat, then.'

'I'll not eat nor drink here.'

'Then what will you do?'

'You know well why I've come.'

She looks small, said Perdita. And tired, too.

'Ah, yes. The set-piece battle. The great gamble. The Weatherwax trademark. And . . . let me see . . . your shopping list today will be. . . "if I win I will expect you to free everyone and go back to Uberwald,' am I right?'

'No. I will expect you to die,' said Granny.

To her horror, Agnes saw that the old woman was swaying slightly.

The Count smiled. 'Excellent! But . . . I know how you think, Mistress Weatherwax. You always have more than one plan. You're standing there, clearly one step away from collapse, and yet . . . I'm not entirely certain that I believe what I'm seeing.'

'I couldn't give a damn what you're certain of,' said Granny. 'But you daren't let me walk out of here, I do know that. 'Cos you can't be sure of where I'll go, or what I'll do. I could be watching you from any pair of eyes. I might be behind any door. I have a few favours I might call in. I could come from any direction, at any time. An' I'm good at malice.'

'So? If I was so impolite, I could kill you right now. A simple arrow would suffice. Corporal Svitz?'

The mercenary gave a wave that was as good as he'd ever get to a salute, and raised his crossbow.

'Are you sure?' said Granny. 'Is your ape sure he'd have time for a second shot? That I'd still be here?'

'You're not a shape-changer, Mistress Weatherwax. And by the look of it you're in no position to run.'

'She's talking about moving her self into someone else's head,' said Vlad.

The witches looked at one another.

'Sorry, Esme,' said Nanny Ogg, at last. 'I couldn't stop meself thinking. I don't think I drunk quite enough.'

'Oh, yes,' said the Count. 'The famous Borrowing trick.'

'But you don't know where, you don't know how far,' said Granny wearily. 'You don't even know what kind of head. You don't know if it has to be a head. All you know about me is what you can get out of other people's minds, and they don't know all about me. Not by a long way.'

'And so your self is put elsewhere,' said the Count. 'Primitive. I've met them, you know, on my travels. Strange old men in beads and feathers who could put their inner self into a fish, an insect . . . even a tree. And as if it mattered. Wood burns. I'm sorry, Mistress Weatherwax. As King Verence is so fond of saying, there's a new world order. We are it. You are history-'

He flinched. The three witches dropped to the ground.

'Well done,' he said. 'A shot across my bows. I felt that. I actually felt it. No one in Uberwald has ever managed to get through.'

'I can do better'n that,' said Granny.

'I don't think you can,' said the Count. 'Because if you could you would have done so. No mercy for the vampire, eh? The cry of the mob throughout the ages!'

He strolled towards her. 'Do you really think we're like some inbred elves or gormless humans and can be cowed by a firm manner and a bit of trickery? We're out of the casket now, Mistress Weatherwax. I have tried to be understanding towards you, because really we do have a lot in common, but now-'

Granny's body jerked back like a paper doll caught by a gust of wind.

The Count was halfway towards her, hands in the pockets of his jacket. He broke his step momentarily.

'Oh dear, I hardly felt that one,' he said. 'Was that your best?'

Granny staggered, but raised a hand. A heavy chair by the wall was picked up and tumbled across the room.

'For a human that was quite good,' said the Count. 'But I don't think you can keep on sending it away.'

Granny flinched and raised her other hand. A huge chandelier began to swing.

'Oh dear,' said the Count. 'Still not good enough. Not nearly good enough.'

Granny backed away.

'But I will promise you this,' said the Count. 'I won't kill you. On the contrary-'

Invisible hands picked her up and slammed her against the wall.

Agnes went to step forward, but Magrat squeezed her arm.

'Don't think of it as losing, Granny Weatherwax,' said the Count. 'You will live for ever. I would call that a bargain, wouldn't you?'

Granny managed a sniff of disapproval.

'Pd call that unambitious,' she said. Her face screwed up in pain.

'Goodbye,' said the Count.

The witches felt the mental blow. The hall wavered.

But there was something else, in a realm outside normal space. Something bright and silvery, slipping like a fish . . .

'She's gone,' whispered Nanny. 'She sent her self somewhere. . .'

'Where? Where?' hissed Magrat.

'Don't think about it!' said Nanny.

Magrat's expression froze.

'Oh, no. . .'she began.

'Don't think it! Don't think it!' said Nanny urgently. 'Pink elephants! Pink elephants!'

'She wouldn't-'

'Lalalala! Be-ie-ee-ie-oh!' shouted Nanny, dragging Magrat towards the kitchen door. 'Come on, let's go! Agnes, it's up to you two!'

The door slammed behind them. Agnes heard the bolts slide home. It was a thick door and they were big bolts; the builders of Lancre Castle hadn't understood the concept of planks less than three inches thick or locks that couldn't withstand a battering ram.

The situation would, to an outsider, have seemed very selfish. But, logically, three witches in danger had been reduced to one witch in danger. Three witches would have spent too much time worrying about one another and what they were going to do. One witch was her own boss.

Agnes knew all this, and it still seemed selfish.

The Count was walking towards Granny. Out of the corner of her eye Agnes could see Vlad and his sister approaching her. There was a solid door behind her. Perdita wasn't coming up with any ideas.

So she screamed.

That was a talent. Being in two minds wasn't a talent, it was merely an affliction. But Agnes's vocal range could melt earwax at the top of the scale.

She started high and saw that she'd judged right. Just after the point where bats and woodworm fell out of the rafters, and dogs barked down in the town, Vlad clapped his hands over his ears.

Agnes gulped for breath.

'Another step and I'll do it louder!' she shouted.

The Count picked up Granny Weatherwax as though she were a doll.

'I'm sure you will,' he said. 'And sooner or later you will run out of breath. Vlad, she followed you home, you may keep her, but she's your responsibility. You have to feed her and clean out her cage.'

The younger vampire approached cautiously.

'Look, you're really not being sensible,' he hissed.

'Good!'

And then he was beside her. But Perdita had been expecting this even if Agnes hadn't, and as he arrived her elbow was already well into its thrust and caught him in the stomach before he could stop it.

She strode forward as he doubled up, noting that inability to learn was a vampire trait that was hard to shake off.

The Count laid Granny Weatherwax on the table.

'Igor!' he shouted. 'Where are you, you stupid-'

'Yeth, marthter?'

The Count spun round.

'Why do you always turn up behind me like that!'

'The old Count alwayth . . . ecthpected it of me, marthter. It'th a profethional thing.'

'Well, stop it.'

'Yeth, marthter.'

'And the ridiculous voice, too. Go and ring the dinner gong.'

'Yeth, marrrtthhter.'

'And I've told you before about that walk!' the Count shouted, as Igor limped across the hall. 'It's not even amusing!'

Igor walked past Agnes, lisping nastily under his breath.

Vlad caught up with Agnes as she strode towards the table, and she was slightly glad because she didn't know what she'd do when she got there.

'You must go,' he panted. 'I wouldn't have let him hurt you, of course, but Father can get . . . testy.'

'Not without Granny.'

A faint voice in her head said: Leave . . . me . . .

That wasn't me, Perdita volunteered. I think that was her.

Agnes stared at the prone body. Granny Weatherwax looked a lot smaller when she was unconscious.

'Would you like to stay to dinner?' said the Count.

'You're going to . . . after all this talk, you're going to . . . suck her blood?'

'We are vampires, Miss Nitt. It's a vampire thing. A little . . . sacrament, shall we say.'

'How can you? She's an old lady!'

He spun round and was suddenly standing too dose to her.

'The idea of a younger aperitif is attractive, believe me,' he said. 'But Vlad would sulk. Anyway, blood develops . . . character, just like your old wines. She won't be killed. Not as such. At her time of life I should welcome a little immortality.'

'But she hates vampires!'

'This may present her with a problem when she comes round, since she will be a rather subservient one. Oh dear. . .' The Count reached down and picked up Oats from under the table by one arm. 'What a bloodless performance. I remember Omnians when they were full of certainty and fire and led by men who were courageous and unforgiving, albeit quite unbelievably insane. How they would despair of all this milk and water stuff. Take him away with you, please.'

'Shall I see you again tomorrow?' said Vlad, proving to Agnes that males of every species could possess a stupidity gene.

'You won't be able to turn her into a vampire!' she said, ignoring him.

'She won't be able to help it,' said the Count. 'It's in the blood, if we choose to put it there.'

'She'll resist.'

'That would be worth seeing.'

The Count dropped Oats on to the floor again.

'Now go away, Miss Nitt. Take your soggy priest. Tomorrow, well, you can have your old witch back. But she'll be ours. There's a hierarchy. Everyone knows that . . . who knows anything about vampires.'

Behind him Oats was being sick.

Agnes thought of the hollow-eyed people now working in the castle. No one deserved that.

She grabbed the priest by the back of his jacket and held him like a bag.

'Goodbye, Miss Nitt,' said the Count.

She hauled the limp Oats to the main doors. Now it was raining hard outside, great heavy unmerciful rain slanting out of the sky like steel rods. She kept close to the wall for the slight shelter that this gave and propped him up under the gush from a gargoyle.

He shuddered. 'Oh, that poor old woman,' he moaned, slumping forward so that a flattened star of rain poured off his head.

'Yes,' said Agnes. The other two had run off. They'd shared a thought – and Perdita had too. They'd all felt the shock as Granny set her mind free and . . . well, the baby was even called Esme, wasn't she? But . . . she couldn't have imagined Granny's voice in her head. She had to be somewhere close . . .

'I really made a terrible mess of it, didn't I?' said Oats.

'Yes,' said Agnes vaguely. No, lending her self to the baby did have a sort of rightness to it, a folklore touch, a romantic ring, and that's why Nanny and Magrat would probably believe Wand that was why Granny wouldn't do it. Granny had no romance in her soul, Agnes thought. But she did have a very good idea of how to manipulate the romance in other people.

So ... where else was she? Something had happened. She'd put the essence of herself somewhere for safety, and no matter what she'd told the Count she couldn't have put it very far away. It had to be in something alive, but if it was in a human the owner wouldn't even know it–

'If only I'd used the right exorcism,' Oats mumbled.

'Wouldn't have worked,' said Agnes sharply. 'I don't think they're very religious vampires.'

'It's probably only once in his life that a priest gets a chance like this . . .'

'You were just the wrong person,' said Agnes. 'If a pamphlet had been the right thing to scare them away, then you'd have been the very best man for the job.'

She stared down at Oats. So did Perdita.

'Brother Melchio is going to get very abrupt about this,' he said, pulling himself to his feet. 'Oh, look at me, all covered in mud. Er . . . why are you looking at me like that?'

'Oh . . . just an odd thought. The vampires still don't affect your head?'

'What do you mean?'

'They don't affect your mind? They don't know what you're thinking?'

'Hah! Most of the time even I don't know what I'm thinking,' said Oats miserably.

'Really?' said Agnes. Really? said Perdita.

'He was right,' mumbled Oats, not listening. 'I've let everyone down, haven't I? I should have stayed in the college and taken that translating post.'

There wasn't even any thunder and lightning with the rain. It was just hard and steady and grim.

'But I'm . . . ready to have another go,' said Oats.

'You are? Why?'

'Did not Kazrin return three times into the valley of Mahag, and wrest the cup of Hiread from the soldiers of the Oolites while they slept?'

'Did he?'

'Yes. I'm . . . I'm sure of it. And did not Om say to the Prophet Brutha, "'I will be with you in dark places"?'

'I imagine he did.'

'Yes, he did. He must have done.'

'And,' said Agnes, 'on that basis you'd go back

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Because if I didn't, what use am I? What use am I anyway?'

'I don't think we'd survive a second time,' said Agnes. 'They let us go this time because it was the cruel thing to do. Dang! I've got to decide what to do now, and it shouldn't be me. I'm the maiden, for goodness' sake!' She saw his expression and added, for reasons she'd find hard to explain at the moment, 'A technical term for the junior member of a trio of witches. I shouldn't have to decide things. Yes, I know it's better than making the tea!'

'Br . . . I didn't say anything about making the tea-'

'No, sorry, that was someone else. What is it she wants me to do?'

Especially since now you think you know where she's hiding, said Perdita.

There was a creak, and they heard the hall doors open. Light spilled out, shadows danced in the mist raised by the driving rain, there was a splash and the doors shut again. As they closed, there was the sound of laughter.

Agnes hurried to the bottom of the steps, with the priest squelching along beside her.

There was already a wide and muddy puddle at this end of the courtyard. Granny Weatherwax lay in it, her dress torn, her hair uncoiling from its rock-hard bun.

There was blood on her neck.

'They didn't even lock her in a cell or something,' said Agnes, steaming with rage. 'They just threw her like . . . like a meat bone!'

'I suppose they think she is locked up now, the poor soul,' said Oats. 'Let's get her under cover, at least.. .'

'Oh . . . yes . . . of course.'

Agnes took hold of Granny's legs, and was amazed that someone so thin could be so heavy.

'Perhaps there'd be someone in the village?' said Oats, staggering under his end of the load.

'Not a good idea,' said Agnes.

'Oh, but surely-'

'What would you say to them? "This is Granny, can we leave her here, oh, and when she wakes up she'll be a vampire"?'

'Ah.'

'It's not as though people are that happy to see her anyway, unless they're ill . . .'

Agnes peered around through the rain.

'Come on, let's go round to the stables and the mews, there's sheds and things. . .'

 

 

King Verence opened his eyes. Water was pouring down the window of his bedroom. There was no light but that which crept in under the door, and he could just make out the shapes of his two guards, nodding in their seats.

A windowpane tinkled. One of the Uberwaldians went and opened the window, looked out into the wild night, found nothing of interest and shuffled back to his seat.

Everything felt very . . . pleasant. It seemed to Verence that he was lying in a nice warm bath, which was very relaxing and comfortable. The cares of the world belonged to someone else. He bobbed like happy flotsam on the warm sea of life.

He could hear very faint voices, apparently coming from somewhere below his pillow.

'Rikt, gi' tae yon helan bigjobs?'

'Ach, fashit keel!'

'Hyup?'

'Nach oona whiel ta' tethra ... yin, tan, TETRA!'

'Hyup! Hyup!'

Something rustled on the floor. The chair of one man jerked up into the air and bobbed at speed to the window.

'Hyup!' The chair and its occupant crashed through the glass.

The other guard managed to get to his feet, but something was growing in the air in front of him. To Verence, an alumnus of the Fools' Guild, it looked very much like a very tall human pyramid made up of very small acrobats.

'Hup! Hup!'

'Hyup!'

'Hup!'

It grew level with the guard's face. The single figure at the top yelled: 'What ya lookin' a', chymie? Ha' a wee tastie!’  and launched itself directly at a point between the man's eyes. There was a little cracking noise, and the man keeled over backwards.

'Hup! Hup!'

'Hyup!'

The living pyramid dissolved to floor level. Verence heard tiny pattering feet and suddenly there was a small, heavily tattooed man in a blue pointy hat standing on his chin.

'Seyou, kingie! Awa' echt ta' branoch, eh?'

'Well done,' Verence murmured. 'How long have you been a hallucination? Jolly good.'

'Ken ye na' saggie, ye spargit?'

'That's the way,' said Verence dreamily.

'Auchtahelweit!'

'Hyup! Hyup!'

Verence felt himself lifted off the bed. Hundreds of little hands passed him from one to the other and he was glided through the window and out into the void.

It was a sheer wall and, he told himself dreamily, he had no business drifting down it so slowly, to cries of 'Ta ya! Ta me! Hyup!' Tiny hands caught his collar, his nightshirt, his bedsocks . . .

'Good show,' he murmured, as he slid gently to the ground and then, six inches above ground level, was carried off into the night.

 

 

There was a light burning in the rain. Agnes hammered on the door, and the wet wood gave way to the slightly better vision of Hodgesaargh the falconer.

'We've got to come in!' she said.

'Yes, Miss Nitt.'

He stood back obediently as they carried Granny into the little room.

'She been hurt, miss?'

'You do know there's vampires in the castle?' said Agnes.

'Yes, miss?' said Hodgesaargh. His voice suggested that he'd just been told a fact and he was waiting with polite interest to be told whether this was a good fact or a bad fact.

'They bit Granny Weatherwax. We need to let her lie down somewhere.'

'There's my bed, miss.'

It was small and narrow, designed for people who went to bed because they were tired.

'She might bleed on it a bit,' said Agnes.

'Oh, I bleed on it all the time,' said Hodgesaargh cheerfully. 'And on the floor. I've got any amount of bandages and ointment, if that will be any help.'

'Well, it won't do any harm,' said Agnes. 'Er . . . Hodgesaargh, you do know vampires suck people's blood, do you?'

'Yes, miss? They'll have to queue up behind the birds for mine, then.'

'It doesn't worry you?'

'Mrs Ogg made me a huge tub of ointment, miss.'

That seemed to be that. Provided they didn't touch his birds, Hodgesaargh didn't much mind who ran the castle. For hundreds of years the falconers had simply got on with the important things, like falconry, which needed a lot of training, and left the kinging to amateurs.

'She's soaking wet,' said Oats. 'At least let's wrap her up in a blanket or something.'

'And you'll need some rope,' said Agnes.

'Rope?'

'She'll wake up.'

'You mean . . . we ought to tie her up?'

'If a vampire wants to turn you into a vampire, what happens?'

Oats's hands clasped his turtle pendant for comfort as he tried to remember. 'I . . . think they put something in the blood,' he said. 'I think if they want to turn you into a vampire you get turned. That's all there is to it. I don't think you can fight it when it's in the blood. You can't say you don't want to join. I don't think it's a power you can resist.'

'She's good at resisting,' said Agnes.

'That good?' said Oats.

 

 

One of the Uberwald people shuffled along the corridor. It stopped when it heard a sound, looked around, saw nothing that had apparently made a noise, and plodded on again.

Nanny Ogg stepped out of the shadows, and then beckoned Magrat to follow her.

'Sorry, Nanny, it's very hard to keep a baby quiet-'

'Shh! There's quite a bit of noise coming from the kitchens. What could vampires want to cook?'

'It's those people they've brought with them,' hissed Magrat. 'They've been moving in new furniture. They've got to be fed, I suppose.'

'Yeah, like cattle. I reckon our best bet is to walk out bold as brass,' said Nanny. 'These folk don't look like they're big on original thinkin'. Ready?' She absentmindedly took a swig from the bottle she was carrying. 'You just follow me.'

'But look, what about Verence? I can't just leave him. He's my husband!'

'What will they do to him that you could prevent if you was here?' said Nanny. 'Keep the baby safe, that's the important thing. It always has been. Anyway . . . I told you, he's got protection. I saw to that.'

'What, magic?'

'Much better'n that. Now, you just follow me and act snooty. You must've learned that, bein' a queen. Never let 'em even think you haven't got a right to be where you are.'

She strode out into the kitchen. The shabbily dressed people there gave her a dull-eyed look, like dogs waiting to see if a whipping was in prospect. On the huge stove, in place of Mrs Scorbic's usual array of scoured-clean pots, was a large, blackened cauldron. The contents were a basic grey. Nanny wouldn't have stirred it for a thousand dollars.

'Just passing through,' she said sharply. 'Get on with whatever you were doing.'

The heads all turned to watch them. But towards the back of the kitchen a figure unfolded from the old armchair where Mrs Scorbic sometimes held court and ambled towards them.

'Oh, blast, it's one of the bloody hangers-on,' said Nanny. 'He's between us and the door. . .'

'Ladies!' said the vampire, bowing. 'May I be of assistance?'

'We were just leaving,' said Magrat haughtily.

'Possibly not,' said the vampire.

' 'scuse me, young man,' said Nanny, in her soft old biddy voice, 'but where are you from?'

'Uberwald, madam.'

Nanny nodded and referred to a piece of paper she'd pulled out of her pocket. 'That's nice. What part?'

'Klotz.'

'Really? That's nice. 'scuse me.' She turned her back and there was a brief twanging of elastic before she turned round again, all smiles.

'I just likes to take an interest in people,' she

said. 'Klotz, eh? What's the name of that river there? The Um? The Eh?'

'The Ah,' said the vampire.

Nanny's hand shot forward and wedged something yellow between the vampire's teeth. He grabbed her but, as she was dragged forward, she hit him on the top of the head.

He fell to his knees, clutching at his mouth and trying to scream through the lemon he'd just bitten into.

'Seems an odd superstition, but there you are,' said Nanny, as he started to foam around the lips.

'You have to cut their heads off, too,' said Magrat.

'Really? Well, I saw a cleaver back there-'

'Shall we just go?' Magrat suggested. 'Before someone else comes, perhaps?'

'All right. He's not a high-up vampire, anyway,' said Nanny dismissively. 'He's not even wearing a very interestin' waistcoat.'

The night was silver with rain. Heads down, the witches dashed through the murk.

'I've got to change the baby!’

'For a raincoat'd be favourite,' muttered Nanny. 'Now?'

'It's a bit urgent . . .'

'All right, then, in here. . .'

They ducked into the stables. Nanny peered back into the night and shut the door quietly.

'It's very dark,' whispered Magrat.

'I could always change babies by feel when I was young.'

'I'd prefer not to have to. Hey . . . there's a light...'

The weak glow of a candle was just visible at the far end of the loose boxes.

Igor was brushing the horses until they shone. His muttering kept time with the strokes of the brush. Something seemed to be on his mind.

'Thilly voithe, eh? Thilly walk? What the hell doth he know? Jumped-up whipper-thnapper! Igor thtop thith, Igor thtop that . . . all thethe kidth thwanning around, trying to puth me around . . . there'th a covenant in thethe thingth. The old marthter knew that! A thervant ith not a thlave . . .'

He glanced around. A piece of straw drifted to the ground.

He began brushing again. 'Huh! Fetch thith, fetch that . . . never a morthel of rethpect, oh no...'

Igor stopped and pulled another piece of straw off his sleeve.

'. . . and another thing..

.'

There was a creak, a rush of air, the horse reared in its stall and Igor was borne to the ground, his head feeling as though it was caught in a vice.

'Now, if I brings my knees together,' said a cheerful female voice above him, 'it's very probable I could make your brains come right down your nose. But I know that ain't going to happen, because I'm sure we're all friends here. Say yes.'

' 'th.'

'That's the best we're going to get, I expect.'

Nanny Ogg got up and flicked straw off her dress. 'I've been in cleaner haylofts,' she said. 'Up you get, Mr Igor. And if you're thinking of anything clever, my colleague over there is holdin' a pitchfork and she ain't much good at aiming so who knows what part of you she might hit?'

'Ith that a baby thee'th carrying?'

'We're very modern,' said Nanny. 'We've got hedge money and everything. And now we'll have your coach, Igor.'

'Will we?' said Magrat. 'Where're we going?'

'It's a wicked night. I don't want to keep the babby out, and I don't know where we'd be safe near here. Maybe we can get down on to the plains before morning.'

'I won't leave Lancre I'

'Save the child,' said Nanny. 'Make sure there's going to be a future. Besides. . .' She mouthed something at Magrat which Igor did not catch.

'We can't be sure of that,' said Magrat.

'You know the way Granny thinks,' said Nanny. 'She'll want us to keep the baby safe,' she added loudly. 'So hitch up the horses, Mr Igor.'

'Yeth, mithtreth,' said Igor meekly.*

'Are you kicking my bucket, Igor?'[12]

'No, it'th a pleathure to be commanded in a clear, firm authoritative voithe, mithtreth,' said Igor, lurching over to the bridles. 'None of thith "Would you mind..." rubbith. An Igor liketh to know where he thtandth.'

'Slightly lopsidedly?' said Magrat.

'The old marthter uthed to whip me every day!’  said Igor proudly.

'You liked that?' said Magrat.

'Of courthe not! But it'th proper! He wath a gentleman, whothe bootth I wath not fit to lick clean. . .'

'But you did, though?' said Nanny.

Igor nodded. 'Every morning. Uthed to get a lovely thine, too.'

'Well, help us out and I'll see you're flogged with a scented bootlace,' said Nanny.

'Thankth all the thame, but I'm leaving anyway,' said Igor, tightening a strap. 'I'm thick up to here with thith lot. They thouldn't be doing thith! They're a dithgrathe to the thpethieth!'

Nanny wiped her face. 'I like a man who speaks his mind,' she said, 'and is always prepared to lend a towel -did I say towel? I mean hand.'

'Are you going to trust him?' said Magrat.

'I'm a good judge of character, me,' said Nanny. 'And you can always rely on a man with stitches all round his head.'

 

 

'Waley, waley, waley!’

'Ta' can onlie be one t'ousan!'

'Bigjobs!'

A fox peered cautiously around a tree.

Through the rain-swept woods a man was moving at speed, while apparently lying down. He wore a nightcap, the bobble of which bounced on the ground.

By the time the fox realized what was going on it was too late. A small blue figure leapt out from under the rushing man and landed on its nose, smacking it between the eyes with his head.

'Seeyu? Grich' ta' bones outa t'is yan!'

The Nac mac Feegle leapt down as the fox collapsed, grabbed its tail with one hand and ran after the others, punching the air triumphantly.

'Obhoy! We 'gan eat t'nicht!'

 

 

They'd pulled the bed out into the middle of the room. Now Agnes and Oats sat on either side of it, listening to the distant sounds of Hodgesaargh feeding the birds. There was the rattle of tins and the occasional yelp as he tried to remove a bird from his nose.

'Sorry?' said Agnes.

'Pardon?'

I thought you whispered something,' said Agnes. 'I was, er, saying a short prayer,' said Oats.

'Will that help?' said Agnes.

'Er . . . it helps me. The Prophet Brutha said that Om helps those who help one another.'

'And does he?'

'To be honest, there are a number of opinions of what was meant.'

'How many?'

'About one hundred and sixty, since the Schism of 10.30 a.m., February 23. That was when the ReUnited Free Chelonianisis (Hubwards Convocation) schismed from the Re-United Free Chelonianists (Rimwards Convocation). It was rather serious.'

'Blood spilled?' said Agnes. She wasn't really interested, but it took her mind off whatever might be waking up in a minute.

'No, but there were fisticuffs and a deacon had ink spilled on him.'

'I can see that was pretty bad.'

'There was some serious pulling of beards as well.'

'Gosh.' Sects maniacs, said Perdita.

'You're making fun of me,' said Oats solemnly.

'Well, it does sound a little . . . trivial. You're always arguing?'

'The Prophet Brutha said, "Let there be ten thousand voices,"' said the priest. 'Sometimes I think he meant that it was better to argue amongst ourselves than go out putting unbelievers to fire and the sword. It's all very complicated.' He sighed. 'There are a hundred pathways to Om. Unfortunately I sometimes think someone left a rake lying across a lot of them. The vampire was right. We've lost the fire. . .'

'But you used to burn people with it.'

'I know. . . I know.. .'

Agnes saw a movement out of the corner of her eye.

Steam was rising from under the blanket they'd pulled over Granny Weatherwax.

As Agnes looked down Granny's eyes sprang open and swivelled from side to side.

Her mouth moved once or twice.

'And how are you, Miss Weatherwax?' said Mightily Oats, in a cheerful voice.

'She was bitten by a vampire! What sort of question is that?' Agnes hissed.

'One that's better than "What are you?"' Oats whispered.

Granny's hand twitched. She opened her mouth again, arched her body against the rope and then slumped back against the pillow.

Agnes touched her forehead, and drew her hand back sharply.

'She's burning up! Hodgesaargh! Bring some water!’

'Coming, miss!'

'Oh, no.. .' whispered Oats. He pointed to the ropes. They were unknotting themselves, stealthily moving across one another like snakes.

Granny half rolled, half fell out of the bed, landing on her hands and knees. Agnes went to pick her up and received a blow from an elbow that sent her across the room.

The old witch dragged the door open and crawled out into the rain. She paused, panting, as the drops hit her. Agnes swore that some of them sizzled.

Granny's hands slipped. She landed in the mud and struggled to push herself upright.

Blue-green light spilled out from the mews 's open door. Agnes looked back inside. Hodgesaargh was staring at a jamjar, in which a point of white light was surrounded by a pale blue flame that stretched well beyond the jar, and curled and pulsed.

'What's that?'

'My phoenix feather, miss! It's burning the air!'

Outside, Oats had pulled Granny upright and had got his shoulder under one of her arms.

'She said something,' he said. "I am", I think.. .'

'She might be a vampire!'

'She just said it again. Didn't you hear?'

Agnes moved closer, and Granny's limp hand was suddenly gripping her shoulder. She could feel the heat of it through her sodden dress and made out the word in the hiss of the rain.

'Iron?' said Oats. 'Did she say iron?'

'There's the castle forge next door,' said Agnes. 'Let's get her in there.'

The forge was dark and cold, its fire only lit when there was work to be done. They pulled Granny inside and she slipped out of their grip and landed on hands and knees on the flagstones.

'But iron's no good against vampires, is it?' said Agnes. 'I've never heard of people using iron-'

Granny made a noise somewhere between a snort and a growl. She pulled herself across the floor, leaving a trail of mud, until she reached the anvil.

It was simply a great long lump of iron to accommodate the half-skilled metal-bashing occasionally needed to keep the castle running. Still kneeling, Granny grabbed at it with both hands and laid her forehead against it.

'Granny, what can-' Agnes began.

'Go where the others ... are,' Granny Weatherwax croaked. 'It'll need three . . . witches if this goes . . . wrong . . . you'll have to face . . . something terrible. . .'

'What terrible thing?'

'Me. Do it now.'

Agnes backed away. On the black iron, by Granny's fingers, little flecks of rust were spitting and jumping.

'I'd better go! Keep an eye on her!'

'But what if-'

Granny flung her head back, her eyes screwed shut.

'Get away!' she screamed.

Agnes went white.

'You heard what she said!' she shouted, and ran out into the rain.

Granny's head slumped forward against the iron again. Around her fingers red sparks danced on the metal.

'Mister priest,' she said in a hoarse whisper. 'Somewhere in this place is an axe. Fetch it here!'

Oats looked around desperately. There was an axe, a small double-headed one, lying by a grindstone.

'Er, I've found one,' he ventured.

Granny's head jerked back. Her teeth were gritted, but she managed to say, 'Sharpen it!'

Oats glanced at the grindstone and licked his lips nervously.

'Sharpen it right now, I said!'

He pulled off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, took up the axe and put a foot on the wheel's treadle.

Sparks leapt off the blade as the wheel spun.

'Then find some wood an' . . . cut a point on it. And find . . . a hammer. . .'

The hammer was easy. There was a rack of tools by the wheel. A few seconds' desperate

rummaging in the debris by the wall produced a fence post.

'Madam, what are you wanting me to-'

'Something ... will get up ... presently,' Granny panted. 'Make sure . . . you know well . . . what it is. . .'

'But you're not expecting me to behead-'

'I'm commandin' you, religious man l What do you really . . . believe? What did you . . . think it was all about? Singing songs? Sooner or later . . . it's all down to . . . the blood. . .'

Her head lolled against the anvil.

Oats looked at her hands again. Around them the iron was black, but just a little way from her fingers there was a faint glow to the metal, and the rust still sizzled. He touched the anvil gingerly, then pulled his hand away and sucked at his fingers.

'Mistress Weatherwax a bit poorly, is she?' said Hodgesaargh, coming in.

'I think you could certainly say that, yes.'

'Oh dear. Want some tea?'

'What?'

'It's a nasty night. If we're stopping up I'll put the kettle on.'

'Do you realize, man, that she might get up from there a bloodthirsty vampire?'

'Oh.' The falconer looked down at the still figure and the smoking anvil. 'Good idea to face her with a cup of tea inside you, then,' he said.

'Do you understand what's going on here?'

Hodgesaargh took another slow look at the scene. 'No,' he said.

'In that case-'

'’s not my job to understand this sort of thing,' said the falconer. 'I wasn't trained. Probably takes a lot of training, understanding this. That's your job. And her job. Can you understand what's going on when a bird's been trained and'll make a kill and still come back to the wrist?'

'Well, no-'

'There you are, then. So that's all right. Cup of tea, was it?'

Oats gave up. 'Yes, please. Thank you.'

Hodgesaargh bustled off.

The priest sat down. If the truth were known, he wasn't sure he understood what was happening. The old woman had been burning up and in pain, and now . . . the iron was getting hot, as if the pain and the heat had been moved away. Could anyone do that? Well, of course, the prophets could, he told himself conscientiously, but that was because Om had given them the power. But by all accounts the old woman didn't believe in anything.

She was very still now.

The others had talked about her as though she was some great magician, but the figure he'd seen in the hall had been just a tired, worn-out old woman. He'd seen people down in the hospice in Aby Dyal, stiff and withdrawn until the pain was too great and all they had left was a prayer and then . . . not even that. That seemed to be where she was now.

She was really still. Oats had only seen stillness like that when movement was no longer an option.

 

 

Up the airy mountain and down the rushy glen ran the Nac mac Feegle, who seemed to have no concept of stealth. Progress was a little slower now, because some of the party broke away occasionally to have a fight amongst themselves or an impromptu hunt, and in addition to the King of Lancre there was now, bobbing through the heather, the fox, a stunned stag, a wild boar, and a weasel who'd been suspected of looking at a Nac mac Feegle in a funny way.

Verence saw, muzzily, that they were heading for a bank at the edge of a field, long deserted and overgrown, topped with some ancient thorn trees.

The pixies stopped with a jolt when the King's head was a few inches away from a large rabbit hole.

'Danna fittit!’

'G'shovitt, s'yust!’

Verence's head was banged hopefully against the wet soil once or twice.

'Hakkis lugs awa'!'

'Bigjobs!'

One of the pixies shook his head. 'Canna' do't, ken? Els' y'ole carlin'll hae oor guts fae garters . . .'

Unusually, the Nac mac Feegle fell silent for a moment. Then one of them said, 'Na one's got tha' much guts, right eno'.'

'An' b'side, she'll gi'us uskabarch muckell. We oathit. Y' canna' cross a hag.'

'Al' at it noo, then . . .'

Verence was dropped on the ground. There was a brief sound of digging, and mud showered over him. Then he was picked up again and carried through a much enlarged hole, his nose brushing tree roots in the ceiling. Behind him there was the sound of a tunnel being rapidly filled in.

Then there was just a bank where rabbits obviously lived, topped with thorn trees. Unseen in the wild night, the occasional wisp of smoke drifted among the trunks.

 

 

Agnes leaned against the castle wall, which was streaming with water, and fought for breath. Granny hadn't just told her to go away. The command had hit her brain like a bucket of ice. Even Perdita had felt it. There was no question of not obeying.

Where would Nanny have gone? Agnes felt a pressing desire to be near her. Nanny Ogg radiated a perpetual field of it'll-be-0-rightness. If they'd got out through the kitchens she could be anywhere . . .

She heard the coach rattle out through the arch that led to the stables. It was just a looming shape, shrouded in spray from the rain, as it bounced across the cobbles of the courtyard. A figure by the driver, holding a sack over its head against the wind and rain, might have been Nanny. It hardly mattered. No one would have seen Agnes running through the puddles and waving.

She trooped back to the arch as the coach disappeared down the hill. Well, they had been trying to get away, hadn't they? And stealing a vampire's coach had a certain Nanny Ogg style . . .

Someone gripped both her arms from behind. Instinctively she tried to thrust back with her elbows. It was like trying to move against rock.

'Why, Miss Agnes Nitt,' said Vlad coldly. 'A pleasant stroll to take in a little rain?'

'They've got away from you !’  she snapped.

'You think so? Father could send that coach right into the gorge in a moment if he wanted to,' said the vampire. 'But he won't. We much prefer the personal touch.'

'The in-your-neck approach,' said Agnes.

'Hah, yes. But he really is trying to be reasonable. So I can't persuade you to become one of us, Agnes?'

'What, someone who lives by taking life from other people?'

'We don't usually go as far as that any more,' said Vlad, dragging her forward. 'And when we do . . . well, we make sure that we only kill people who deserve to die.'

'Oh, well, that's all right, then, isn't it?' said Agnes. 'I'm sure I'd trust a vampire's judgement.'

'My sister can be a bit too . . . rigorous at times, I admit.'

'I've seen the people you brought with youl They practically moot'

'Oh, them. The domestics. Well? It's not much different from the lives they would have had in any case. Better, in fact. They are well fed, sheltered-'

'-milked.'

'And is that bad?'

Agnes tried to twist out of his grip. Just here there was no castle wall. There hadn't been any need. Lancre Gorge was all the wall anyone could need, and Vlad was walking her right to the sheer drop.

'What a stupid thing to say!' she said.

'Is it? I understand you've travelled, Agnes,' said Vlad, as she struggled. 'So you'll know that so many people lead little lives, always under the whip of some king or ruler or master who won't hesitate to sacrifice them in battle or turn them out when they can't work any more.'

But they can run away, Perdita prompted.

'But they can run away!'

'Really? On foot? With a family? And no money? Mostly they never even try. Most people put up with most things, Agnes.'

'That's the most unpleasant, cynical-'

Accurate, Perdita said.

'-accur- No!'

Vlad raised his eyebrows. 'You have such a strange mind, Agnes. Of course, you are not one of the . . . cattle. I expect that no witch is. You people tend to know your own mind.' He gave her a toothy grin, and on a vampire this was not pleasant. 'I wish I did. Come along.'

There was no resisting the pull, unless she wanted to be dragged along the ground.

'Father's very impressed with you witches,' he said, over his shoulder. 'He says we should make you all vampires. He says you're halfway there anyway. But I'd much rather you came to see how marvellous it could be.'

'You would, would you? I'd like to be constantly craving blood?'

'You constantly crave chocolate, don't you?'

'How dare you!'

'Blood tends to be low in carbohydrates. Your body will adapt. The pounds will just drop away. . .'

'That's sickening!'

'You'll have complete control over yourself . . .'

'I'm not listening!'

'All it takes is a little prick-'

'It's not going to be yours, mister!'

'Hah! Wonderful!' said Vlad and, dragging Agnes behind him, he leapt into the Lancre Gorge.

 

 

Granny Weatherwax opened her eyes. At least, she had to assume they were open. She'd felt the lids move.

Darkness lay in front of her. It was velvet black, starless, a hole in space. But there was light behind her. She was standing with her back to the light, she could sense it, see it on her hands. It was streaming past, outlining the darkness that was the long rich deep shadow of her on the . . .

. . . black sand. it crunched under her boots as she shifted her weight.

This was a test. Everything was a test. Everything was a competition. Life put them in front of you every day. You watched yourself all the time. You had to make choices. You never got told which ones were right. Oh, some of the priests said you got given marks afterwards, but what was the point of that?

She wished her mind was working faster. She couldn't think properly. Her head felt full of fog.

This . . . wasn't a real place. No, that wasn't the right way of thinking about it. It wasn't a usual place. It might be more real than Lancre. Across it her shadow stretched, waiting . . .

She glanced up at the tall, silent figure beside her.

GOOD EVENING.

'Oh . . . you again.'

ANOTHER CHOICE, ESMERELDA WEATHERWAX.

'Light and dark? It's never as simple as that, you know, even for you.'

Death sighed. NOT EVEN FOR ME.

Granny tried to line up her thoughts.

Which light and which dark? She hadn't been prepared for this. This didn't feel right. This wasn't the fight she had expected. Whose light? Whose mind was this?

Silly question. She was always her.

Never lose your grip on that . . .

So . . . light behind her, darkness in front . . .

She'd always said witches stood between the light and the dark.

'Am I dyin'?'

YES.

'Will I die?'

YES.

Granny thought this over.

'But from your point of view, everyone is dying and everyone will die, right?'

YES.

'So you aren't actually bein' a lot of help, strictly speakin'.'

I'M SORRY, I THOUGHT YOU WANTED THE TRUTH. PERHAPS YOU WERE EXPECTING JELLY AND ICE CREAM?

'Hah. . .'

There was no movement in the air, no sound but her own breathing. Just the brilliant white light on one side, and the heavy darkness on the other . . . waiting.

Granny had listened to people who'd nearly died but had come back, possibly because of a deft thump in the right place or the dislodging of some wayward mouthful that'd gone down the wrong way. Sometimes they talked about seeing a light

That's where she ought to go, a thought told her. But . . . was the light the way in, or the way out?

Death snapped his fingers.

An image appeared on the sand in front of them. She saw herself, kneeling in front of the anvil. She admired the dramatic effect. She'd always had a streak of theatrics, although she'd never admit it, and she appreciated in a disembodied way the strength with which she had thrust her pain into the iron. Someone had slightly spoiled the effect by putting a kettle on one end.

Death reached down and took a handful of sand. He held it up, and let it slip between his fingers.

CHOOSE, he said. YOU ARE GOOD AT CHOOSING, I BELIEVE.

'Is there any advice you could be givin' me?' said Granny.

CHOOSE RIGHT.

Granny turned to face the sheer white brilliance, and dosed her eyes.

And stepped backwards.

The light dwindled to a tiny distant point and vanished.

The blackness was suddenly all around, closing in like quicksand. There seemed to be no way, no direction. When she moved she did not sense movement.

There was no sound but the faint trickle of sand inside her head.

And then, voices from her shadow.

'. .. Because of you, some died who may have lived. . .'

The words lashed at her, leaving livid lines across her mind.

'Some lived who surely would have died,' she said.

The dark pulled at her sleeves.

'. . . you killed. . .'

'No. I showed the way.'

'. . . hah! That's just words. . .'

'Words is important,' Granny whispered into the night .

. . . you took the right to judge others. . .'

'I took the duty. I'll own up to it.'

'. . . I know every evil thought you've ever had. . .'

'I know.'

'. . . the ones you'd never dare tell anyone . . .'

'I know.'

'. . . all the little secrets, never to be told . . .'

'I know.'

'. . . how often you longed to embrace the dark. . .'

'Yes.'

'. . . such strength you could have . . .'

'Yes.'

'. . . embrace the dark. . .'

'No.'

'. . . give in to me. . .'

'No.'

'... Lilith Weatherwax did. Alison Weatherwax did...'

'That's never been proved!'

'. . . give in to me. . .'

'No. I know you. I've always known you. The Count just let you out to torment me, but I've always known you were there. I've fought you every day of my life and you'll get no victory now.'

She opened her eyes and stared into the blackness.

'I knows who you are now, Esmerelda Weatherwax,' she said. 'You don't scare me no more.'

The last of the light vanished.

Granny Weatherwax hung in the dark for a time she couldn't measure. It was as if the absolute emptiness had sucked all the time and direction into it. There wasn't anywhere to go, because there wasn't any anywhere.

After a length of time without any measure, she began to hear another sound, the faintest of whispers on the borders of hearing. She pushed towards it.

Words were rising through the blackness like little wriggling golden fish.

She fought her way towards them, now that there was a direction.

The slivers of light turned into sounds.

'-and asketh you in your infinite compassion to see your way clear to possibly intervening here . . .'

Not normally the kind of words she'd associate with light. Perhaps it was the way they were said. But they had a strange echo to them, a second voice, woven in amongst the first voice, glued to every syllable . . .

'. . . what compassion? How many people prayed at the stake? How foolish I look, kneeling like this . . .'

Ah . . . one mind, split in half. There were more Agneses in the world than Agnes dreamed of, Granny told herself. All the girl had done was give a thing a name, and once you gave a thing a name you gave it a life . . .

There was something else near by, a glimmer a few photons across, which winked out as she looked for it again. She turned her attention away for a moment, then jerked it back. Again, the tiny spark blinked out.

Something was hiding.

The sand stopped rushing. Time was up.

Now to find out what she was.

Granny Weatherwax opened her eyes, and there was light.

 

 

The coach swished to a halt on the mountain road. Water poured around its wheels.

Nanny got out and paddled over to Igor, who was standing where the road wasn't.

Water was foaming where it should have been.

'Can we get acroth?' said Igor.

'Probably, but it'll be worse down below, where there's really bad run-off,' said Nanny. 'The plains have been cut off all winter before now. . .'

She looked at the other way. The road wound further into the mountains, awash but apparently sound.

'Where's the nearest village that way?' she said. 'One with a good stone building in it. Slake, isn't it? There's a coaching inn up there.'

'That'th right. Thlake.'

'Well, we ain't going anywhere on foot in this weather,' said Nanny. 'Slake it's got to be, then.'

She got back into the coach and felt it turn round.

'Is there a problem?' said Magrat, 'Why are we going uphill?'

'Road's washed out,' said Nanny.

'We're heading into Uberwald?'

'Yes.'

'But there's werewolves and vampires and-'

'Yes, but not everywhere. We should be safe on the main road. Anyway, there's not much of a choice.'

'I suppose you're right,' said Magrat reluctantly.

'And it could be worse,' said Nanny.

'How?'

'Well . . . there could be snakes in here with us.'

 

 

Agnes saw the rocks rush past, looked down and saw the foam of the swollen river.

The world spun around her when Vlad stopped in midair. Water washed over her toes.

'Let there be . . . lightness,' he said. 'You'd like to be as light as the air, wouldn't you, Agnes?'

'We – we've got broomsticks . . .' Agnes panted. Her life had just flashed past her eyes and wasn't it dull? Perdita added.

'Useless cumbersome stupid things,' he said. 'And they can't do this-'

The walls of the gorge went past in a blur. The castle dropped away. Clouds drenched her. Then they unrolled as a silver-white fleece, under the silent cold light of the moon.

Vlad wasn't beside her. Agnes slowed in her rise, flung out her arms to grip what wasn't there, and began to fall back

He appeared, laughing, and grabbed her around the waist.

'-can they?' he said.

Agnes couldn't speak. Her life passing in front of her eyes one way had met it passing in front of her eyes going in the opposite direction, and words would fail her now until she could decide when now was.

'And you haven't seen anything yet,' said Vlad. Wisps of cloud coiled behind them as he raced forward.

The clouds vanished under them. They might have been as thin as smoke but their presence, their imitation of groundness, had been a comfort. Now they were a departing edge,

and far below were the moonlit plains.

'Ghjgh,' gurgled Agnes, too tense and terrified even to scream. Wheee! crowed Perdita, inside.

'See that?' said Vlad, pointing. 'See the light all around the Rim?'

Agnes stared, because anything now was better than looking down.

The sun was under the Disc. Around the dark Rim, though, it found its way up through the endless waterfall, creating a glowing band between the night-time ocean and the stars. It was, indeed, beautiful, but Agnes felt that beauty was even more likely to be in the eye of the beholder if the feet of the beholder were on something solid. At ten thousand feet up, the eye of the beholder tends to water.

Perdita thought it was beautiful. Agnes wondered if, should Agnes end up as a circle of pink splash marks on the rocks, Perdita would still be there.

'Everything you want,' whispered Vlad. 'For ever.'

'I want to get down,' said Agnes.

He let go.

There was this about Agnes's shape. It was a good one for falling. She turned automatically belly down, hair streaming behind her, and floated in the rushing wind.

Oddly enough, the terror had gone. That had been fear of a situation out of her control. Now, arms outspread, skirts whipping her legs, eyes streaming in the freezing air, she could at least see what the future held even if it was not big enough to hold very much.

Perhaps she could hit a snowbank, or deep water-

It might have been worth a try, said Perdita. He doesn't seem entirely bad.

'Shut up.'

It'd just be nice if you could stop looking as though you were wearing saddlebags under your skirt . . .

'Shut up.'

And it'd be nice if you didn't hit the rocks like a balloon full of water . . .

'Shut up. Anyway, I can see a lake. I think I can sort of angle across towards it.'

At this speed it will be like hitting the ground.

'How do you know that? I don't know that. So how do you know?'

Everyone knows that.

Vlad appeared alongside Agnes, lounging on the air as though it were a sofa.

'Enjoying it?' he said.

'It's fine so far,' said Agnes, not looking at him.

She felt him touch her wrist. There was no real sense of pressure, but the fall stopped. She felt as light as the air again.

'Why are you doing this?' she said. 'If you're going to bite me, then get it over with!'

'Oh, but I couldn't be having with that!’

'You did it to Granny!' said Agnes.

'Yes, but when it's against someone's will . . . well, they end up so . . . compliant. Little more than thinking food. But someone who embraces the night of their own volition . .. ah, that's another thing entirely, my dear Agnes. And you're far too interesting to be a slave.'

'Tell me,' said Agnes, as a mountaintop floated by, 'have you had many girlfriends?'

He shrugged. 'One or two. Village girls. Housemaids.'

'And what happened to them, may I ask?'

'Don't look at me like that. We still find employment for them in the castle.'

Agnes loathed him. Perdita merely hated him, which is the opposite pole to love and just as attractive .

. . . but Nanny said if the worst came to the worst . . . and then he'll trust you . . . and they've already got Granny . . .

'If I'm a vampire,' she said, 'I won't know good from evil.'

'That's a bit childish, isn't it? They're only ways of looking at the same thing. You don't always have to do what the rest of the world wants you to do.'

'Are you still toying with her?'

Lacrimosa was walking towards them on the air. Agnes saw the other vampires behind her.

'Bite her or let her go,' the girl went on. 'Good grief, she's so blobby. Come on, Father wants you. They're heading for our castle. Isn't that just too stupid?'

'This is my affair, Lacci,' said Vlad.

'Every boy should have a hobby, but . . . really,' said Lacrimosa, rolling her black-rimmed eyes.

Vlad grinned at Agnes.

'Come with us,' he said.

Granny did say you need to be with the others,

Perdita pointed out.

'Yes, but how will I find them when we're there?' said Agnes aloud.

'Oh, we'll find them,' said Vlad.

'I meant-'

'Do come. We don't intend to hurt your friends-'

'Much,' said Lacrimosa.

'Or . . . we could leave you here,' said Vlad, smiling.

Agnes looked around. They had touched down on the mountain peak, above the clouds. She felt warm and light, which was wrong. Even on a broomstick she'd never felt like this, she'd always been aware of gravity sucking her down, but with the vampire holding her arm every part of her felt that it could float for ever.

Besides, if she didn't go with them it was going to be either a very long or an extremely short journey down to the ground.

Besides, she would find the other two, and you couldn't do that when you were dying in some crevasse somewhere.

Besides, even if he did have small fangs and a terrible taste in waistcoats, Vlad actually seemed attracted to her. It wasn't even as if she had a very interesting neck.

She made up both minds.

'If you attached a piece of string to her I suppose we could tow her like some sort of balloon,' said Lacrimosa.

Besides, there was always the chance that, at some point, she might find herself in a room with Lacrimosa. When that happened, she wouldn't

need garlic, or a stake, or an axe. Just a little talk about people who were too unpleasant, too malicious, too thin. Just five minutes alone.

And perhaps a pin, said Perdita.

 

 

Under the rabbit hole, down below the bank, was a wide, low-roofed chamber. Tree roots wound among the stones in the wall.

There were plenty of such things around Lancre. The kingdom had been there many years, ever since the ice withdrew. Tribes had pillaged, tilled, built and died. The clay walls and reed thatch of the living houses had long since rotted and been lost but, down under the moundy banks, the abodes of the dead survived. No one knew now who'd been buried there. Occasionally the spoil heap outside a badger sett would reveal a piece of bone or a scrap of corroded armour. The Lancrastians didn't go digging themselves, reckoning in their uncomplicated country way that it was bad luck to have your head torn off by a vengeful underground spirit.

One or two of the old barrows had been exposed over the years, their huge stones attracting their own folklore. If you left your unshod horse at one of them overnight and placed a sixpence on the stone, in the morning the sixpence would be gone and you'd never see your horse again, either . . .

Down on the earth floor under the bank a fire was burning darkly, filling the barrow with smoke which exited through various hidden crannies.

There was a pear-shaped rock beside it.

Verence tried to sit up, but his body didn't want to obey.

'Dinna scanna' whista,' said the rock.

It unfolded its legs. It was, he realized, a woman, or at least a female, blue like the other pixies but at least a foot high and so fat that it was almost spherical. It looked exactly like the little figurines back in the days of ice and mammoths, when what men really looked for in a woman was quantity. For the sake of modesty, or merely to mark the equator, it wore what Verence could only think of as a tutu. The whole effect reminded him of a spinning top he'd had when he was a child.

'The Kelda says,' said a cracked voice by his ear, 'that ye . . . must get . . . ready.'

Verence turned his head the other way and tried to focus on a small wizened pixie right in front of his nose. Its skin was faded. It had a long white beard. It walked with two sticks.

'Ready? For what?'

'Good.' The old pixie banged its sticks on the ground. 'Craik'n shaden ach, Feegle!'

The blue men rushed at Verence from the shadows. Hundreds of hands grabbed him. Their bodies formed a human pyramid, pulling him upright against the wall. Some clung to the tree roots that looped across the ceiling, tugging on his nightshirt to keep him vertical.

A crowd of others ran across the floor with a full-sized crossbow and propped it on a stone close to him.

'Er . . . I say. . .' Verence murmured.

The Kelda waddled into the shadows and returned with her pudgy fists clenched. She went to the fire and held them over the flames.

'Yin!' said the old pixie.

'I say, that's aimed right at my-'

'Yin!' shouted the Nac mac Feegle.

'. . . ton!'

'Ton!'

'Um, it's, er, right. . .'

'Tetra!'

The Kelda dropped something on the fire. A white flame roared up, etching the room in black and white. Verence blinked.

When he managed to see again there was a crossbow bolt sticking in the wall just by his ear.

The Kelda growled some order, while white light still danced around the walls. The bearded pixie rattled his sticks again.

'Now ye must walk awa'. Noo!'

The Feegle let Verence go. He took a few tottering steps and collapsed on the floor, but the pixies weren't watching him.

He looked up.

His shadow twisted on the wall where it had been pinned. It writhed for a moment, trying to dutch at the arrow with insubstantial hands, and then faded.

Verence raised his hand. There seemed to be a shadow there, too, but at least this one looked as if it was the regular kind.

The old pixie hobbled over to him.

'All fine now,' he said.

'You shot my shadow?' said Verence.

'Aye, ye could call it a shade,' said the pixie. 'It's the 'fluence they put on ye. But ye'll be up and aboot in no time.'

'A boot?'

'Aboot the place,' said the pixie evenly. 'All hail, your kingy. I'm Big Aggie's Man. Ye'd call me the prime minister, I'm hazardin'. Will ye no' have a huge dram and a burned bannock while yer waitin'?'

Verence rubbed his face. He did feel better already. The fog was drifting away.

'How can I ever repay you?' he said.

The pixie's eyes gleamed happily.

'Oh, there's a wee bitty thing the carlin' Ogg said you could be givin' us, hardly important at all,' he said.

'Anything,' said Verence.

A couple of pixies came up staggering under a rolled-up parchment, which was unfolded in front of Verence. The old pixie was suddenly holding a quill pen.

'It's called a signature,' he said, as Verence stared at the tiny handwriting. 'An' make sure ye initial all the subclauses and codicils. We of the Nac mac Feegle are a simple folk,' he added, 'but we write verra comp-lic-ated documents.'

 

 

Mightily oats blinked at Granny over the top of his praying hands. She saw his gaze slide sideways to the axe, and then back to her.

'You wouldn't reach it in time,' said Granny, without moving. 'Should've got hold of it already if you were goin' to use it. Prayer's all very well. I can see where it can help you get your mind right. But an axe is an axe no matter what you believes.'

Oats relaxed a little. He'd expected a leap for the throat.

'If Hodgesaargh's made any tea, I'm parched,' said Granny. She leaned against the anvil, panting. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand move slowly.

'I'll get- I'll ask- I'll-'

'Man with his head screwed on properly, that falconer. A biscuit wouldn't come amiss.'

Oats's hand reached the axe handle.

'Still not quick enough,' said Granny. 'Keep hold of it, though. Axe first, pray later. You look like a priest. What's your god?'

'Er . . . Om.'

'That a he god or a she god?'

'A he. Yes. A he. Definitely a he.' It was one thing the Church hadn't schismed over, strangely. 'Er.. . you don't mind, do you?'

'Why should I mind?'

'Well . . . your colleagues keep telling me the Omnians used to burn witches. . .'

'They never did,' said Granny.

'I'm afraid I have to admit that the records show-'

'They never burned witches,' said Granny. 'Probably they burned some old ladies who spoke up or couldn't run away. I wouldn't look for witches bein' burned,' she added, shifting position. 'I might look for witches doin' the burning, though. We ain't all nice.'

Oats remembered the Count talking about contributing to the Arca Instrumentorum . . .

Those books were ancient! But so were vampires, weren't they? And they were practically canonical! The freezing knife of doubt wedged itself deeper in his brain. Who knew who really wrote anything? What could you trust? Where was the holy writ? Where was the truth?

Granny pulled herself to her feet and tottered over to the bench, where Hodgesaargh had left his jar of flame. She examined it carefully.

Oats tightened his grip on the axe. It was, he had to admit, slightly more comforting than prayer at that moment. Perhaps you could start with the small truths. Like: he had an axe in his hand.

'I wa- want to be certain,' he said. 'Are you . . . are you a vampire?'

Granny Weatherwax appeared not to hear the question.

'Where's Hodgesaargh with that tea?' she said.

The falconer came in with a tray.

'Nice to see you up and about, Mistress Weatherwax.'

'Not before time.'

The tea slopped as she took the proffered cup. Her hand was shaking.

'Hodgesaargh?'

'Yes, mistress?'

'So you've got a firebird here, have you?'

'No, mistress.'

'I saw you out huntin' it.'

'And I found it, miss. But it had been killed.

There was nothing but burnt ground, miss.'

'You'd better tell me all about it.'

'Is this the right time?' said Oats.

'Yes,' said Granny Weatherwax.

Oats sat and listened. Hodgesaargh was an original storyteller and quite good in a very specific way. If he'd had to recount the saga of the Tsortean War, for example, it would have been in terms of the birds observed, every cormorant noted, every pelican listed, every battlefield raven taxonomically placed, no tern unturned. Some men in armour would have been involved at some stage, but only because the ravens were perching on them.

'The phoenix doesn't lay eggs,' said Oats, at one point. This was a point a few points after the point where he asked the falconer if he'd been drinking.

'She's a bird,' said Hodgesaargh. 'That's what birds do. I've never seen a bird that doesn't lay eggs. I collected the eggshell.'

He scuttled off into the mews. Oats smiled nervously at Granny Weatherwax.

'Probably a bit of chicken shell,' he said. 'I've read about the phoenix. It's a mythical creature, a symbol, it-'

'Can't say for sure,' said Granny. 'I've never seen one that close to.'

The falconer returned, clutching a small box. It was full of tufts of fleece, in the middle of which was a pile of shell fragments. Oats picked up a couple. They were a silvery grey and very light.

'I found them in the ashes.'

'No one's ever claimed to have found phoenix

eggshell before,' said Oats accusingly.

'Didn't know that, sir,' said Hodgesaargh innocently. 'Otherwise I wouldn't have looked.'

'Did anyone else ever look, I wonder?' said Granny. She poked at the fragments. 'Ah. . .' she said.

'I thought p'raps the phoenixes used to live somewhere very dangerous-' Hodgesaargh began.

'Everywhere's like that when you're newborn,' said Granny. 'I can see you've been thinking, Hodgesaargh.'

'Thank you, Mistress Weatherwax.'

'Shame you didn't think further,' Granny went on.

'Mistress?'

'There's the bits of more than one egg here.'

'Mistress?'

'Hodgesaargh,' said Granny patiently, 'this phoenix laid more than one egg.'

'What? But it can't! According to mythology-' Oats said.

'Oh, mythology,' said Granny. 'Mythology's just the folktales of people who won 'cos they had bigger swords. They're just the people to spot the finer points of ornithology, are they? Anyway, one of anything ain't going to last for very long, is it? Firebirds have got enemies, same as everything else. Give me a hand up, Mister Oats. How many birds in the mews, Hodgesaargh?'

The falconer looked at his fingers for a moment.

'Fifty.'

'Counted 'em lately?'

They stood and watched while he walked from post to post. Then they stood and watched while he walked back and counted them again. Then he spent some time looking at his fingers.

'Fifty-one?' said Granny helpfully.

'I don't understand it, mistress.'

'You'd better count them by types, then.'

This produced a count of nineteen lappet-faced worriers where there should have been eighteen.

'Perhaps one flew in because it saw the others,' said Oats. 'Like pigeons.'

'It doesn't work like that, sir,' said the falconer.

'One of 'em won't be tethered,' said Granny. 'Trust me.'

They found it at the back, slightly smaller than the other worriers, hanging meekly from its perch.

Fewer birds could sit more meekly than the Lancre wowhawk, or lappet-faced worrier, a carnivore permanently on the lookout for the vegetarian option. It spent most of its time asleep in any case, but when forced to find food it tended to sit on a branch out of the wind somewhere and wait for something to die. When in the mews the worriers would initially perch like other birds and then, talons damped around the pole, doze off peacefully upside down. Hodgesaargh bred them because they were found only in Lancre and he liked the plumage, but all reputable falconers agreed that for hunting purposes the only way you could reliably bring down prey with a wowhawk was by using it in a slingshot.

Granny reached out towards it.

'I'll fetch you a glove,' said Hodgesaargh, but she waved him away.

The bird hopped on to her wrist.

Granny gasped, and little threads of green and blue burned like marsh gas along her arm for a moment.

'Are you all right?' said Oats.

'Never been better. I'll need this bird, Hodgesaargh.'

'It's dark, mistress.'

'That won't matter. But it'll need to be hooded.'

'Oh, I never hood wowhawks, mistress. They're never any trouble.'

'This bird . . . this bird,' said Granny, 'is a bird I reckon no one's ever seen before. Hood it.'

Hodgesaargh hesitated. He recalled the circle of scorched earth and, before it, something looking for a shape in which it could survive . . .

'It is a wowhawk, isn't it, mistress?'

'And what makes you ask that?' said Granny slowly. 'After all, you're the falconer in these parts.'

'Because I found . . . in the woods . . . I saw. . .'

'What did you see, Hodgesaargh?'

Hodgesaargh gave up in the face of her stare. To think that he'd tried to capture a phoenix! At least the worst the other birds could do would be to draw blood. Supposing he'd been holding it . . . He was overcome by a very definite burning desire to get this bird out of here.

Strangely, though, the other birds weren't disturbed at all. Every hooded head was turned towards the little bird on Granny Weatherwax's wrist. Every blind, hooded head.

Hodgesaargh picked up another hood. As he fastened it over the bird's head he thought, for a moment, that there was a flash of gold from underneath.

He put that down as not his business. He'd survived quite happily in the castle for many years by knowing where his business was, and he was suddenly very clear that it wasn't here, thank goodness.

Granny took a few deep breaths.

'Right,' she said. 'Now we'll go up to the castle.'

'What for? Why?' said Oats.

'Good grief, man, why d'you think?'

'The vampires are gone,' said the priest. 'While you were . . . getting better. Mr Hodges . . . aargh found out. They've just left the soldiers and the, er, servants. There was a lot of noise and the coach went, too. There's guards all over the place.'

'How did the coach get out, then?'

'Well, it was the vampires' coach and their servant was driving it, but Jason Ogg said he saw Mrs Ogg, too.'

Granny steadied herself against the wall.

'Where did they go?'

'I thought you could read their minds or something,' said Oats.

'Young man, right now I don't think I can read my own mind.'

'Look, Granny Weatherwax, it's obvious to me you're still weak from loss of blood-'

'Don't you dare tell me what I am,' said Granny. 'Don't you dare. Now, where would Gytha Ogg've taken them?'

'I think-'

'Uberwald,' said Granny. 'That'll be it.'

'What? How can you know that?'

'Because nowhere in the village'd be safe, she wouldn't go up to the gnarly ground on a night like this and with a baby to carry as well, and heading down on to the plains'd be downright daft 'cos there's no cover and I wouldn't be surprised if the road is washed out by now.'

'But that'll be right into danger!’

'More dangerous than here?' said Granny. 'They know about vampires in Uberwald. They're used to 'em. There's safe places. Pretty strong inns all along the coach road, for a start. Nanny's practical. She'll think of that, I'm betting.' She winced, and added, 'But they'll end up in the vampires' castle.'

'Oh, surely not!’

'I can feel it in my blood,' said Granny. 'That's the trouble with Gytha Ogg. Far too practical.' She paused. 'You mentioned guards?'

'They've locked themselves in the keep, mistress,' said a voice in the doorway. It was Shawn Ogg, with the rest of the mob behind him. He advanced awkwardly, one hand held in front of him.

'That's a blessing, then,' said Granny.

'But we can't get in, mistress,' said Shawn.

'So? Can they get out?'

'Well . . . no, not really. But the armoury's in there. All our weaponsl And they're boozing!’

'What's that you're holding?' .

Shawn looked down. 'It's the Lancrastian Army

Knife,' he said. 'Er . . . I left my sword in the armoury, too.'

'Has it got a tool for extracting soldiers from castles?'

'Er . . . no.'

Granny peered closer. 'What's the curly thing?' she said.

'Oh, that's the Adjustable Device for Winning Ontological Arguments,' said Shawn. 'The King asked for it.'

'Works, does it?'

'Er . . . if you twiddle it properly.'

'And this?'

'That's the Tool for Extracting the Essential Truth from a Given Statement,' said Shawn.

'Verence asked for that one too, did he?'

'Yes, Granny.'

'Useful to a soldier, is it?' said Oats. He glanced at Granny. She'd changed as soon as the others had entered. Before, she'd been bowed and tired. Now she was standing tall and haughty, supported by a scaffolding of pride.

'Oh, yes, sir, 'cos of when the other side are yelling, "We're gonna cut yer tonk- yer tongue off,"' Shawn blushed and corrected himself, 'and things like that. . .'

'Yes?'

'Well, you can tell if they're going to be right,' said Shawn.

'I need a horse,' said Granny.

'There's old Poorchick's plough horse-' Shawn began.

'Too slow.'

'I . . . er . . ., I've got a mule,' said Oats. 'The King was kind enough to let me put it in the stables.'

'Neither one thing nor t'other, eh?' said Granny. 'It suits you. That'll do for me, then. Fetch it up here and I'll be off to get the girls back.'

'What? I thought you wanted it to take you up to your cottagel Into Uberwald? Alone? I couldn't let you do that!'

'I ain't asking you to let me do anything. Now off you go and fetch it, otherwise Om will be angry, I expect.'

'But you can hardly stand up!'

'Certainly I can! Off you go.'

Oats turned to the assembled Lancrastians for support.

'You wouldn't let a poor old lady go off to confront monsters on a wild night like this, would you?'

They watched him owlishly for a while just in case something interestingly nasty was going to happen to him.

Then someone near the back said, 'So why should we care what happens to monsters?'

And Shawn Ogg said, 'That's Granny Weatherwax, that is.'

'But she's an old lady!' Oats insisted.

The crowd took a few steps back. Oats was clearly a dangerous man to be around.

'Would you go out alone on a night like this?' he said.

The voice at the back said, 'Depends if I knew where Granny Weatherwax was.'

'Don't think I didn't hear that, Bestiality Carter,' said Granny, but there was just a hint of satisfaction in her voice. 'Now, are we fetchin' your mule, Mr Oats?'

'Are you sure you can walk?'

'Of course I cant'

Oats gave up. Granny smirked triumphantly at the crowd and strode through them and towards the stables, with him trotting after her.

When he hurried around the corner he almost collided with her, standing as stiff as a rod.

'Is there anyone watchin' me?' she said.

'What? No, I don't think so. Apart from me, of course.'

'You don't count,' said Granny.

She sagged, and almost collapsed. He caught her, and she pummelled him on the arm. The wowhawk flapped its wings desperately.

'Let go! I just lost my footin', that's all!’

'Yes, yes, of course. You just lost your footing,' he said soothingly.

'And don't try to humour me, either.'

'Yes, yes, all right.'

'It's just that it don't do to let things slide, if you must know.'

'Like your foot did just then . . .'

'Exactly.'

'So perhaps I'll take your arm, because it's very muddy.'

He could just make out her face. It was a picture, but not one you'd hang over the fireplace. Some sort of inner debate was raging.

'Well, if you think you're going to fall over . . .' she said.

'That's right, that's right,' said Oats gratefully. 'I nearly hurt my ankle back there as it is.'

'I've always said young people today don't have the stamina,' said Granny, as if testing out an idea.

'That's right, we don't have the stamina.'

'And your eyesight is prob'ly not as good as mine owin' to too much readin',' said Granny.

'Blind as a bat, that's right.'

'All right.'

And so, at cross purposes and lurching occasionally, they reached the stables.

The mule shook its head at Granny Weatherwax when they arrived at its loose box. It knew trouble when it saw her.

'It's a bit cantankerous,' said Oats.

'Is it?' said Granny. 'Then we shall see what we can do.'

She walked unsteadily over to the creature and pulled one of its ears down to the level of her mouth. She whispered something. The mule blinked.

'That's sorted out, then,' she said. 'Help me up.'

'Just let me put the bridle on-'

'Young man, I might be temp'ry not at my best, but when I need a bridle on any creature they can put me to bed with a shovel. Give me a hand up, and kindly avert your face whilst so doing.'

Oats gave up and made a stirrup of his hands to help her into the saddle.

'Why don't I come with you?'

'There's only one mule. Anyway, you'd be a

hindrance. I'd be worrying about you all the time.'

She slid gently off the other side of the saddle and landed in the straw. The wowhawk fluttered up and perched on a beam, and if Oats had been paying attention he'd have wondered how a hooded bird could fly so confidently.

'Drat!'

'Madam, I do know something about medicine! You are in no state to ride anything!'

'Not right now, I admit,' said Granny, her voice slightly muffled. She pulled some straw away from her face and waved a hand wildly to be helped up. 'But you just wait until I find my feet. . .'

'All right! All right! Supposing I ride and you hang on behind me? You can't weigh more than the harmonium, and I managed that all right.'

Granny looked owlishly at him. She seemed drunk, at that stage when hitherto unconsidered things seem a good idea, like another drink. Then she appeared to reach a decision.

'Oh . . . if you insist . .'

Oats found a length of rope and, after some difficulties caused by Granny's determined belief that she was doing him some sort of favour, got her strapped into a pillion position.

'Just so long as you understand that I didn't ax you to come along and I don't need your help,' said Granny.

Ax.

'Ask, then,' said Granny. 'Slipped into a bit of rural there.'

Oats stared ahead for a while. Then he dismounted, lifted Granny down, propped her up while she protested, disappeared into the night, came back shortly carrying the axe from the forge, used more rope to tie it to his waist, and mounted up again.

'You're learnin',' said Granny.

As they left she raised an arm. The wowhawk fluttered down and settled on her wrist.

 

 

The air in the rocking coach was acquiring a distinct personality.

Magrat sniffed. 'I'm sure I changed Esme not long ago. . .'

After a fruitless search of the baby they looked under the seat. Greebo was lying asleep with his legs in the air.

'Isn't that just like him?' said Nanny. 'He can't see an open door without going through it, bless 'im. And he likes to be near his mum.'

'Could we open a window?' said Magrat.

'The rain'll get in.'

'Yes, but the smell will go out.' Magrat sighed. 'You know, we've left at least one bag of toys. Verence was really very keen on those mobiles.'

'I still think it's a bit early to start the poor little mite on education,' said Nanny, as much to take Magrat's mind off the current dangers as from a desire to strike a blow for ignorance.

'Environment is so very important,' said Magrat solemnly.

'Did I hear he told you to read improvin' books

and listen to posh music while you were expecting?' said Nanny, as the coach rushed through a puddle.

'Well, the books were all right, but the piano doesn't work properly- and all I could hear was Shawn practising the trumpet solo,' said Magrat.

'It's not his fault if no one wants to join in,' said Nanny. She steadied herself as the coach lurched. 'Good turn of speed on this thing.'

'I wish we hadn't forgotten the bath, too,' Magrat mused. 'And I think we left the bag with the toy farm. And we're low on nappies . . .'

'Let's have a look at her,' Nanny said.

Baby Esme was passed across the swaying coach.

'Yes, let's have a look at you . . .' said Nanny.

The small blue eyes focused on Nanny Ogg. The pink face on the small lolling head gave her a speculative look, working out whether she'd do as a drink or a toilet.

'That's good, at this age,' said Nanny. 'Focusing like that. Unusual in a babby.'

'If she is at this age,' said Magrat darkly.

'Hush, now. If Granny's in there she's not interfering. She never interferes. Anyway, it wouldn't be her mind in there, that's not how she works it.'

'What is it, then?'

'You've seen her do it. What do you think?'

'I'd say . . . all the things that make her her,' Magrat ventured.

'That's about right. She wraps 'em all up and puts 'em somewhere safe.'

'You know how she can even be silent in her own special way.'

'Oh, yes. No one can be quiet like Esme. You can hardly hear yourself think for the silence.'

They bounced in their seats as the coach sprang in and out of a pothole.

'Nanny?'

'Yes, love?'

'Verence will be all right, won't he?'

'Yep. I'd trust them little devils with anything except a barrel of stingo or a cow. Even Granny says the Kelda's damn good-'

'The Kelda?'

'Sort of a wise lady. I think the current one's called Big Aggie. You don't see much of their women. Some say there's only ever one at a time, and she's the Kelda an' has a hundred kids at a go.'

'That sounds . . . very. . .' Magrat began.

'Nah, I reckons they're a bit like the dwarfs and there's hardly any difference except under the loincloth,' said Nanny.

'I expect Granny knows,' said Magrat.

'And she ain't sayin',' said Nanny. 'She says it's their business.'

'And . . . he'll be all right with them?'

'Oh, yes.'

'He's very . . . kind, you know.' Magrat 's sentence hung in the air.

'That's nice.'

'And a good king, as well.'

Nanny nodded.

'It's just that I wish people took him . . . more seriously,' Magrat went on.

'It's a shame,' said Nanny.

'He does work very hard. And he worries about

everything. But people just seem to ignore him.'

Nanny wondered how to approach it.

'He could try having the crown taken in a bit,' she ventured, as the coach bounced over another rut. 'There's plenty of dwarfs up at Copperhead'd be glad to make it smaller for him.'

'It is the traditional crown, Nanny.'

'Yes, but if it wasn't for his ears it'd be a collar on the poor man,' said Nanny. 'He could try bellowing a bit more, too.'

'Oh, he couldn't do that, he hates shouting!'

'That's a shame. People like to see a bit of bellowing in a king. The odd belch is always popular, too. Even a bit of carousing'd help, if he could manage it. You know, quaffing and such.'

'I think he thinks that isn't what people want. He's very conscious of the needs of today's citizen.'

'Ah, well, I can see where there's a problem, then,' said Nanny. 'People need something today but they generally need something else tomorrow. Just tell him to concentrate on bellowing and carousing.'

'And belching?'

'That's optional.'

'And. . .'

'Yes, dear?'

'He'll be all right, will he?'

'Oh, yes. Nothing's going to happen to him. It's like that chess stuff, see? Let the Queen do the fightin', 'cos if you lose the King you've lost everything.'

'And us?'

'Oh, we're always all right. You remember that. We happen to other people.'

 

 

A lot of people were happening to King Verence. He lay in a sort of warm, empty daze, and every time he opened his eyes it was to see scores of the Feegle watching him in the firelight. He overheard snatches of conversation or, more correctly, argument.

'. . . he's oor kingie noo?'

'Aye, sortaley.'

'That pish of a hobyah?'

'Hushagob! Wman's sicken, can y'no yard?'

'Aye, mucken! Born sicky, imhoe!'

Verence felt a small yet powerful kick on his foot.

'See you, kingie? A'ye a lang stick o'midlin or wha', bigjobs?'

'Yes, well done,' he mumbled.

The interrogating Feegle spat near his ear.

'Ach, I wouldna' gi'ye skeppens for him-'

There was a sudden silence, a real rarity in any space containing at least one Feegle. Verence swivelled his eyes sideways.

Big Aggie had emerged from the smoke.

Now that he could see her clearly, the dumpy creature looked like a squat version of Nanny Ogg. And there was something about the eyes. Verence was technically an absolute ruler and would continue to be so provided he didn't make the mistake of repeatedly asking Lancrastians to do anything they didn't want to do. He was aware

that the commander-in-chief of his armed forces was more inclined to take orders from his mum than his king.

Whereas Big Aggie didn't even have to say anything. Everyone just watched her, and then went and got things done.

Big Aggie's man appeared at her side.

'Ye'll be wantin' to save yer ladie and yer bairn, Big Aggie's thinkin',' he said.

Verence nodded. He didn't feel strong enough to do anything else.

'But ye'll still be verra crassick from loss o' blud, Big Aggie reckons. The heelins put something in their bite that makes ye biddable.'

Verence agreed absolutely. Anything anyone said was all right by him.

Another pixie appeared through the smoke, carrying an earthenware bowl. White suds slopped over the top.

'Ye canna be kinging lyin' down,' said Big Aggie's man. 'So she's made up some brose for ye ...'

The pixie lowered the bowl, which looked as though it was full of cream, although dark lines spiralled on its surface. Its bearer stood back reverentially.

'What's in it?' Verence croaked.

'Milk,' said Big Aggie's man promptly. 'And some o' Big Aggie's brewin'. An' herbs.'

Verence grasped the last word thankfully. He shared with his wife the curious but unshakeable conviction that anything with herbs in it was safe and wholesome and nourishing.

'So you'll be having a huge dram,' said the 'old pixie. 'And then we'll be finding you a sword.

'I've never used a sword,' said Verence, trying to pull himself into a sitting position. 'I- I believe violence is the last resort . . .'

'Ach, weel, so long as ye've brung yer bucket and spade,' said Big Aggie's man. 'Now you just drink up, kingie. Ye'll soon see things differently.'

 

 

The vampires glided easily over the moonlit clouds. There was no weather up here and, to Agnes's surprise, no chill either.

'I thought you turned into bats!' she shouted to Vlad.

'Oh, we could if we wanted to,' he laughed. 'But that's a bit too melodramatic for Father. He says we should not conform to crass stereotypes.'

A girl glided alongside them. She looked rather like Lacrimosa; that is, she looked like someone who admired the way Lacrimosa looked and so had tried to look like her. I bet she's not a natural brunette, said Perdita. And if I used that much mascara I'd at least try not to look like Harry the Happy Panda.

'This is Morbidia,' said Vlad. 'Although she's been calling herself Tracy lately, to be cool. Mor– Tracy, this is Agnes.'

'What a good name!' said Morbidia. 'How clever of you to come up with it! Vlad, everyone wants to stop off at Escrow. Can we?'

'It's my real-' Agnes began, but her words were carried away on the wind.

'I thought we were going to the castle,' said Vlad.

'Yes, but some of us haven't fed for days and that old woman was hardly even a snack and the Count won't allow us to feed in Lancre yet and he says it'll be all right and it's not much out of our way.'

'Oh. Well, if Father says. . .'

Morbidia swooped away.

'We haven't been to Escrow for weeks,' said Vlad. 'It's a pleasant little town.'

'You're going to feed there?' said Agnes.

'It's not what you think.'

'You don't know what I think.'

'I can guess, though.' He smiled at her. 'I wonder if Father said yes because he wants you to see? It's so easy to be frightened of what you don't know. And then, perhaps, you could be a sort of ambassador. You could tell Lancre what life under the Magpyrs is really like.'

'People being dragged out of their beds, blood on the walls, that sort of thing?'

'There you go again, Agnes. It's most unfair. Once people find out you're a vampire they act as if you're some kind of monster.'

They curved gently through the night air.

'Father's rather proud of his work in Escrow,' said Vlad. 'I think you'll be impressed. And then perhaps I could dare hope-'

No.

'I'm really being rather understanding about this, Agnes.'

'You attacked Granny Weatherwax! You bit her.'

'Symbolically. To welcome her into the family.' 'Oh, really? Oh, that makes it all better, does it? And she'll be a vampire?'

'Certainly. A good one, I suspect. But that's only horrifying if you believe being a vampire is a bad thing. We don't. You'll come to see that we're right, in time,' said Vlad. 'Yes, Escrow would be good for you. For us. We shall see what can be done. . .'

Agnes stared.

He does smile nicely . . . He's a vampire! All right, but apart from that- Oh, apart from that, eh? Nanny would tell you to make the most of it. That might work for Nanny, but can you imagine kissing that? Yes, I can. I will admit, he does smile nicely, and he looks good in those waistcoats, but look at what he is- Do you notice? Notice what? There's something different about him. He's just trying to get round us, that's all. No . . . there's something ...new...

'Father says Escrow is a model community,' said Vlad. 'it shows what happens if ancient enmity is put aside and humans and vampires learn to live in peace. Yes. It's not far now. Escrow is the future.'

 

 

A low ground mist drifted between the trees, curling up in little tongues as the mule's hooves disturbed it. Rain dripped off the branches. There was even a bit of sullen thunder now, not the outgoing sort that cracks the sky but the other sort, which hangs around the horizons and gossips nastily with other storms.

Mightily Oats had tried a conversation with himself a few times, but the problem with a conversation was that the other person had to join in. Occasionally he heard a snore from behind him. When he looked around, the wowhawk on her shoulder flapped its wings in his face.

Sometimes the snoring would stop with a grunt, and a hand would tap him on a shoulder and point out a direction which looked like every other direction.

It did so now.

         'What's                   that you're singing?' Granny

demanded.

'I wasn't singing very loudly.'

'What's it called?'

'It's called "Om Is In His Holy Temple".'

'Nice tune,' said Granny.

'It keeps my spirits up,' Oats admitted. A wet twig slapped his face. After all, he thought, I may have a vampire behind me, however good she is.

'You take comfort from it, do you?'

'I suppose so.'

'Even that bit about "smiting evil with thy sword"? That'd worry me, if I was an Omnian. Do you get just a little sort of tap for a white lie but minced up for murder? That's the sort of thing that'd keep me awake o' nights.'

'Well, actually . . . I shouldn't be singing it at all, to be honest. The Convocation of Ee struck it from the songbook as being incompatible with the ideals of modern Omnianism.'

'That line about crushing infidels?'

'That's the one, yes.'

'You sung it anyway, though.'

'It's the version my grandmother taught me,' said oats.

'She was keen on crushing infidels?'

'Well, mainly I think she was in favour of crushing Mrs Ahrim next door, but you've got the right idea, yes. She thought the world would be a better place with a bit more crushing and smiting.'

'Prob'ly true.'

'Not as much smiting and crushing as she'd like, though, I think,' said Oats. 'A bit judgemental, my grandmother.'

'Nothing wrong with that. Judging is human.'

'We prefer to leave it ultimately to Om,' said Oats and, out here in the dark, that statement sounded lost and all alone.

'Bein' human means judgin' all the time,' said the voice behind him. 'This and that, good and bad, making choices every day . . . that's human.'

'And are you so sure you make the right decisions?'

'No. But I do the best I can.'

'And hope for mercy, eh?'

A bony finger prodded him in the back.

'Mercy's a fine thing, but judgin' comes first. Otherwise you don't know what you're bein' merciful about. Anyway, I always heard you Omnians were keen on smitin' and crushin'.'

'Those were . . . different days. We use crushing arguments now.'

'And long pointed debates, I suppose?'

'Well, there are two sides to every question. . .'

'What do you do when one of 'em's wrong?'

The reply came back like an arrow.

'I meant that we are enjoined to see things from the other person's point of view,' said Oats patiently.

'You mean that from the point of view of a torturer, torture is all right?'

'Mistress Weatherwax, you are a natural disputant.'

'No, I ain't!'

'You'd certainly enjoy yourself at the Synod, anyway. They've been known to argue for days about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.'

He could almost feel Granny's mind working. At last she said, 'What size pin?'

'I don't know that, I'm afraid.'

'Well, if it's a ordinary household pin, then there'll be sixteen.'

'Sixteen angels?'

'That's right.'

,Why?,

'I don't know. Perhaps they like dancing.'

The mule picked its way down a bank. The mist was getting thicker here.

'You've counted sixteen?' said Oats eventually.

'No, but it's as good an answer as any you'll get. And that's what your holy men discuss, is it?'

'Not usually. There is a very interesting debate raging at the moment about the nature of sin, for example.'

'And what do they think? Against it, are they?'

'It's not as simple as that. It's not a black and white issue. There are so many shades of grey.'

'Nope.'

'Pardon?'

'There's no greys, only white that's got grubby. I'm surprised you don't know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That's what sin is.'

'It's a lot more complicated than that-'

'No. It ain't. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they're getting worried that they won't like the truth. People as things, that's where it starts.'

'Oh, I'm sure there are worse crimes-'

'But they starts with thinking about people as things. . .'

Granny's voice tailed off. Oats let the mule walk on for a few minutes, and then a snort told him that Granny had awoken again.

'You strong in your faith, then?' she said, as if she couldn't leave things alone.

Oats sighed. 'I try to be.'

'But you read a lot of books, I'm thinking. Hard to have faith, ain't it, when you read too many books?'

Oats was glad she couldn't see his face. Was the old woman reading his mind through the back of his head?

'Yes,' he said.

'Still got it, though?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'If I didn't, I wouldn't have anything.'

He waited for a while, and then tried a counterattack.

'You're not a believer yourself, then, Mistress Weatherwax?'

There were a few moments' silence as the mule picked its way over the mossy tree roots. Oats thought he heard, behind them, the sound of a horse, but then it was lost in the sighing of the wind.

'Oh, I reckon I believes in tea, sunrises, that sort of thing,' said Granny.

'I was referring to religion.'

'I know a few gods in these parts, if that's what you mean.'

Oats sighed. 'Many people find faith a great solace,' he said. He wished he was one of them.

'Good.'

'Really? Somehow I thought you'd argue.'

'It's not my place to tell 'em what to believe, if they act decent.'

'But it's not something that you feel drawn to, perhaps, in the darker hours?'

'No. I've already got a hot water bottle.'

The wowhawk fluttered its wings. Oats stared into the damp, dark mist. Suddenly he was angry.

'And that's what you think religion is, is it?' he said, trying to keep his temper.

'I gen'rally don't think about it at all,' said the voice behind him.

It sounded fainter. He felt Granny clutch his arm to steady herself . . .

'Are you all right?' he said.

'I wish this creature would go faster . . . I ain't entirely myself.'

'We could stop for a rest.'

'No! Not far now! Oh, I've been so stupid. . .'

The thunder grumbled. He felt her grip lessen, and heard her hit the ground.

Oats leapt down. Granny Weatherwax was lying awkwardly on the moss, her eyes closed. He took her wrist. There was a pulse there, but it was horribly weak. She felt icy cold.

When he patted her face she opened her eyes.

'If you raise the subject of religion at this point,' she wheezed, 'I'll give you such a hidin'. . .' Her eyes shut again.

Oats sat down to get his breath back. Icy cold . . . yes, there was something cold about all of her, as though she always pushed heat away. Any kind of warmth.

He heard the sound of the horse again, and the faint jingle of a harness. It stopped a little way away.

'Hello?' said Oats, standing up. He strained to see the rider in the darkness, but there was just a dim shape further along the track.

'Are you following us? Hello?'

He took a few steps and made out the horse, head bowed against the rain. The rider was just a darker shadow in the night.

Suddenly awash with dread, Oats ran and slithered back to Granny's silent form. He struggled out of his drenched coat and put it over her, for whatever good that would do, and looked around desperately for anything that could make a fire. Fire, that was the thing. It brought life and drove away the darkness.

But the trees were tall firs, dripping wet with

dank bracken underneath among the black trunks. There was nothing that would burn here.

He fished hurriedly in his pocket and found a waxed box with his last few matches in it. Even a few dry twigs or a tuft of grass would do, anything that'd dry out another handful of twigs . . .

Rain oozed through his shirt. The air was full of water.

Oats hunched over so that his hat kept the drips off, and pulled out the Book of Om for the comfort that it brought. In times of trouble, Om would surely show the way

... I've already got a hot water bottle . . .

'Damn you,' he said, under his breath.

He opened the book at random, struck a match and read:

'. . . and in that time, in the land of the Cyrinites, there was a multiplication of camels. . .'

The match hissed out.

No help there, no clue. He tried again.

'. . . and looked upon Gul-Arah, and the lamentation of the desert, and rode then to . . .'

Oats remembered the vampire's mocking smile. What words could you trust? He struck the third match with shaking hands and flicked the book open again and read, in the weak dancing light:

'. . . and Brutha said to Simony, "Where there is darkness we will make a great light. . ."'

The match died. And there was darkness.

Granny Weatherwax groaned. At the back of his mind Oats thought he could hear the sound of hooves, slowly approaching.

Oats knelt in the mud and tried a prayer, but there was no answering voice from the sky. There never had been. He'd been told never to expect one. That wasn't how Om worked any more. Alone of all the gods, he'd been taught, Om delivered the answers straight into the depths of the head. Since the prophet Brutha, Om was the silent god. That's what they said.

If you didn't have faith, then you weren't anything. There was just the dark.

He shuddered in the gloom. Was the god silent, or was there no one to speak?

He tried praying again, more desperately this time, fragments of childish prayer, losing control of the words and even of their direction, so that they tumbled out and soared away into the universe addressed simply to The Occupier.

The rain dripped off his hat.

He knelt and waited in the wet darkness, and listened to his own mind, and remembered, and took out the Book of Om once more.

And made a great light.

 

 

The coach thundered through pinetrees by a lake, struck a tree root, lost a wheel and skidded to a halt on its side as the horses bolted.

Igor picked himself up, lurched to the coach and raised a door.

'Thorny about that,' he said. 'I'm afraid thith alwayth happenth when the marthter ithn't on board. Everyone all right down there?'

A hand grabbed him by the throat.

'You could have warned us!' Nanny growled.

'We were thrown all over the place! Where the hell are we? Is this Slake?'

A match flared and Igor lit a torch.

'We're near the cathle,' he said.

'Whose?'

'The Magpyrth'.'

'We're near the vampires' castle?'

'Yeth. I think the old marthter did thomething to the road here. The wheelth alwayth come off, ath thure ath eggth ith eggth. Bringth in the vithitorth, he thed.'

'It didn't occur to you to mention it?' said Nanny, climbing out and giving Magrat a hand.

'Thorny. It'th been a buthy day. . .'

Nanny took the torch. The flames illuminated a crude sign nailed to a tree.

'"Don't go near the Castle!!"'Nanny read. 'Nice of them to put an arrow pointing the way to it, too.'

'Oh, the marthter did that,' said Igor. 'Otherwithe people wouldn't notithe it.'

Nanny peered into the gloom. 'And who's in the castle now?'

'A few thervantth.'

'Will they let us in?'

'That'th not a problem.' Igor fished in his noisome shirt and pulled out a very big key on a string.

'We're going to go into their castle?' said Magrat.

'Looks like it's the only place around,' said Nanny Ogg, heading up the track. 'The coach is wrecked. We're miles from anywhere else. Do you want to keep the baby out all night? A castle's a castle. It'll have locks. All the vampires are in Lancre. And-'

'Well?'

'It's what Esme would've done. I feels it in my blood.'

A little way off something howled. Nanny looked at Igor.

'Werewolf?' she said.

'That'th right.'

'Not a good idea to hang around, then.'

She pointed to a sign painted on a rock.

'"Don't take thif quickeft route to the Caftle,"'' she read aloud. 'You've got to admire a mind like that. Definitely a student of human nature.'

'Won't there be a lot of ways in?' said Magrat as they walked past a sign that said: 'Don't go Nere the Coach Park, 20 gds. on left.'

'Igor?' said Nanny.

'Vampireth uthed to fight amongtht themthelveth,' said Igor. 'There'th only one way in.'

'Oh, all right, if we must,' said Magrat. 'You take the rocker, and the used nappy bag. And the teddies. And the thing that goes round and round and plays noises when she pulls the string-'

A sign near the drawbridge said, 'Laft chance not to Go near the Caftle', and Nanny Ogg laughed and laughed.

'The Count's not going to be very happy about you, Igor,' she said, as he unlocked the doors.

'Thod him,' he said. 'I'm going to pack up my thtuff and head for Blintth. There'th alwayth a job for an Igor up there. More lightning thtriketh per year than anywhere in the mountainth, they thay.'

Nanny Ogg wiped her eye. 'Good job we're soaked already,' she said. 'All right, let's get in. And, Igor, if you haven't been thtraight with us, sorry, straight with us, I'll have your guts for garters.'

Igor looked down bashfully. 'Oh, that'th more than a man could pothibly hope for,' he murmured.

Magrat giggled and Igor pushed open the door and hurriedly shuffled inside.

'What?' said Nanny.

'Haven't you noticed the looks he's been giving you?' said Magrat, as they followed the lurching figure.

'What, him?' said Nanny.

'Could be carrying a torch for you,' said Magrat,

'I thought it was just to see where he's going!' said Nanny, a little bit of panic in her voice. 'I mean, I haven't got my best drawers on or anything!'

'I think he's a bit of a romantic, actually,' said Magrat.

'Oh, I don't know, I really don't,' said Nanny. 'I mean, it's flattering and everything, but I really don't think I could be goin' out with a man with a limp.'

'Limp what?'

Nanny Ogg had always considered herself unshockable, but there's no such thing. Shocks can come from unexpected directions.

'I am a married woman,' said Magrat, smiling at her expression. And it felt good, just once, to place a. small tintack in the path of Nanny's carefree amble through life.

'But is . . . I mean, is Verence, you know, all right in the–'

'Oh, yes. Everything's ... fine. But now I understand what your jokes were about.'

'What, all of them?' said Nanny, like someone who'd found all the aces removed from their favourite pack of cards.

'Well, not the one about the priest, the old woman and the rhinoceros.'

'I should just about hope so!' said Nanny. 'I didn't understand that one until I was forty!'

Igor limped back.

'There'th jutht the thervantth,' he said. 'You could thtay down in my quarterth in the old tower. There'th thick doorth.'

'Mrs Ogg would really like that,' said Magrat. 'She was saying just now what good legs you've got, weren't you, Nanny. . .'

'Do you want thome?' said Igor earnestly, leading the way up the steps. 'I've got plenty and I could do with the thpathe in the ithehouthe.'

'You what?' said Nanny, stopping dead.

'I'm your man if there'th any organ you need,' said Igor.

There was a strangled coughing noise from Magrat.

'You've got – bits of people stored on ice?' said Nanny, horrified. 'Bits of strange people? Chopped up? I'm not taking another step!'

Now Igor looked horrified.

'Not thtrangerth,' he said. 'Family.'

'You chopped up your family?' Nanny backed away.

Igor waved his hands frantically.