'That's a pretty name. What is it?'
'It's a kind of thumbscrew. Look,' said the king.
'It's not that,' said Nanny.
'Choke-pear?' he said desperately.
'That's a C, and anyway I don't know what it is,' said Nanny Ogg. The king obligingly indicated it on the tray, and explained its use.
'Definitely not,' said Nanny.
'Smouldering Boot of Punishment?' said the king.
'You're a bit too good at these names,' said Nanny sharply. 'You sure you didn't use them when you were alive?'
'Absolutely, Nanny,' said the ghost.
'Boys that tell lies go to a bad place,' warned Nanny.
'Lady Felmet had most of them installed herself, it's the truth,' said the king desperately; he felt his position to be precarious enough without having any bad places to worry about.
Nanny sniffed. 'Right, then,' she said, slightly mollified. 'It was “pinchers”.'
'But pinchers is just another name for pi—' the king began, and stopped himself in time. During his adult life he'd been afraid of no man, beast or combination of the two, but Nanny's voice brought back old memories of schoolroom and nursery, of life under strict orders given by stern ladies in long skirts, and nursery food – mostly grey and brown -which seemed indigestible at the time but now appeared a distant ambrosia.
'That's five to me,' said Nanny happily.
'They'll be back soon,' said the king. 'Are you sure you'll be all right?'
'If I'm not, precisely how much help can you be?' said Nanny.
There was the sound of bolts sliding back.
There was already a crowd outside the castle as Granny's broomstick wobbled uncertainly towards the ground. They went quiet as she strode forward, and parted to let her pass. She had a basket of apples under her arm.
'There's a witch in the dungeons,' someone whispered to Granny. 'And foul tortures, they say!'
'Nonsense,' said Granny. 'It couldn't be. I expect Nanny Ogg has just gone to advise the king, or something.'
'They say Jason Ogg's gone to fetch his brothers,' said a stallholder, in awe.
'I really advise you all to return home,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'There has probably been a misunderstanding. Everyone knows a witch cannot be held against her will.'
'It's gone too far this time,' said a peasant. 'All this burning and taxing and now this. I blame you witches. It's got to stop. I know my rights.'
'What rights are they?' said Granny.
'Dunnage, cowhage-in-ordinary, badinage, leftovers, scrommidge, clary and spunt,' said the peasant promptly. 'And acornage, every other year, and the right to keep two-thirds of a goat on the common. Until he set fire to it. It was a bloody good goat, too.'
'A man could go far, knowing his rights like you do,' said Granny. 'But right now he should go home.'
She turned and looked at the gates. There were two extremely apprehensive guards on duty. She walked up to them, and fixed one of them with a look.
'I am a harmless old seller of apples,' she said, in a voice more appropriate for the opening of hostilities in a middle-range war. 'Pray let me past, dearie.' The last word had knives in it.
'No-one must enter the castle,' said one of the guards. 'Orders of the duke.'
Granny shrugged. The apple-seller gambit had never worked more than once in the entire history of witchcraft, as far as she knew, but it was traditional.