The Magpyrs’ coach had been righted and dragged up to the castle. Now it returned, with Jason Ogg at the reins. He was concentrating on avoiding the bumps. They made his bruises tender. Besides, the royal family was on board and he was feeling extremely loyal at the moment.

Jason Ogg was very big and very strong and, therefore, not a violent man, because he did not need to be. Sometimes he was summoned down to the pub to sort out the more serious fights, which he usually did by picking up both contestants and holding them apart until they stopped struggling. If that didn’t work, he’d bang them together a few times, in as friendly a way as possible.

Aggressiveness did not normally impress him, but since in yesterday’s battle at Lancre Castle he’d had to physically lift Verence off the ground in order to stop him slaughtering enemies, friends, furniture, walls and his own feet, he was certainly seeing his king in a new light. It had turned out to be an extremely short battle. The mercenaries had been only too keen to surrender, especially after Shawn’s assault. The real fight had been to keep Verence away from them long enough to allow them to say so.

Jason was impressed.

King Verence, inside the coach, laid his head in his wife’s lap and groaned as she wiped his brow with a cloth…

At a respectable distance, the coach was followed by a cart containing the witches, although what it contained mostly was snore.

Granny Weatherwax had a primal snore. It had never been tamed. No one had ever had to sleep next to it, to curb its wilder excesses by means of a kick, a prod in the small of the back or a pillow used as a bludgeon. It had had years in a lonely bedroom to perfect the knark, the graaah and the gnoc, gnoc, gnoc unimpeded by the nudges, jabs and occasional attempts at murder that usually moderate the snore impulse over time.

She sprawled in the straw at the bottom of the cart, mouth open, and snored.

“You half expect to find the shafts sawed through, don’t you,” said Nanny, who was leading the horse. “Still, you can hear it doin’ her good.”

“I’m a bit worried about Mister Oats, though,” said Agnes. “He’s just sitting there and grinning.”

Oats was sitting with his legs over the tail of the cart, staring happily at the sky.

“Did he hit his head?” said Nanny.

“I don’t think so.”

“Let him be, then. At least he ain’t settin’ fire to anything…oh, here’s an old friend…”

Igor, tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth in the ferocity of his concentration, was putting the finishing touches to a new sign. It read WHY NOT VYSYT OUR GIFTE SHOPPE? He stood up and nodded as the cart drew near.

“The old marthter came up with some new ideath while he wath dead,” he said, feeling that some explanation was called for. “Thith afternoon I’ve got to thtart building a funfair, whatever that ith.”

“That’s basic’ly swings,” said Nanny.

Igor brightened up. “Oh, I’ve plenty of rope and I’ve alwayth been a dab hand at nootheth,” he said.

“No, that’s not—” Agnes began, but Nanny Ogg cut in quickly.

“I s’pose it all depends on who’s going to have the fun,” she said. “Well, be seeing you, Igor. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, if you ever find anything I wouldn’t do.”

“We’re very sorry about Scraps,” said Agnes. “Perhaps we can find you a puppy or—”

“Thankth all the thame, but no. There’th only one Thcrapth.”

He waved to them until they were round the next bend.

As Agnes turned round again she saw the three magpies. They were perched on a branch over the road.

“‘Three for a funeral—’” she began.

A stone whirred up. There was an indignant squawk and a shower of feathers.

“Two for mirth,” said Nanny, in a self-satisfied voice.

“Nanny, that was cheating.”

“Witches always cheat,” said Nanny Ogg. She glanced back at the sleeping figure behind them. “Everyone knows that—who knows anything about witches.”

They went home to Lancre.