Mightily Oats blinked at Granny over the top of his praying hands. She saw his gaze slide sideways to the ax, 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 ax is an ax 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 ax handle.

“Still not quick enough,” said Granny. “Keep hold of it, though. Ax 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 the bench, where Hodgesaargh has left his jar of flame. She examined it carefully.

Oats tightened his grip on the ax. It was, he had to admit, slightly more comforting than prayer at the moment. Perhaps you could start with the small truths. Like: he had an ax 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 armor 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 gray 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. “Other-wise 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 began.

“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 that the other worriers, hanging meekly from its perch.

Fewer birds could sit more meekly than the Lancre wow-hawk, 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 clamped 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 toward it.

“I’ll fetch you a glove,” said Hodgesaargh, but she waved him away.

The bird hopped onto 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 toward 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 onto 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 armory’s in there. All our weapons! 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 armory, 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 is 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 in 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 cottage! 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 can!”

Oats gave up. Granny smirked triumphantly at the crowd and strode through them and toward 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 pummeled 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 humor 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 he 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 favor, 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 ax 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 practicing 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 safe somewhere.”

“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.”