The duke leaned closer until his nose was an inch from Granny's face.
'Get back to your cauldrons, wyrd sisters,' he said softly.
Granny Weatherwax stalked through the passages of Lancre Castle like a large, angry bat, the duke's laughter echoing around her head.
'You could give him boils or something,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Haemorrhoids are good. That's allowed. It won't stop him ruling, it just means he'll have to rule standing up. Always good for a laugh, that. Or piles.'
Granny Weatherwax said nothing. If fury were heat, her hat would have caught fire.
'Mind you, that'd probably make him worse,' said Nanny, running to keep up. 'Same with toothache.' She gave a sideways glance at Granny's twitching features.
'You needn't fret,' she said. They didn't do anything much. But thanks, anyway.'
'I ain't worried about you, Gytha Ogg,' snapped Granny. 'I only come along 'cos Magrat was fretting. What I say is, if a witch can't look after herself, she's got no business calling herself a witch.'
'Magrat done well with the woodwork, I thought.'
Even in the grip of her sullen fury, Granny Weatherwax spared a nod.
'She's coming along,' she said. She looked up and down the corridor, and then leaned closer to Nanny Ogg's ear.
'I ain't going to give him the pleasure of saying it,' she said, 'but he's got us beaten.'
'Well, I don't know,' said Nanny. 'Our Jason and a few sharp lads could soon—'
'You saw some of his guards. These aren't the old sort. These are a tough kind.'
'We could give the boys just a bit of help—'
'It wouldn't work. People have to sort this sort of thing out for themselves.'
'If you say so, Esme,' said Nanny meekly.
he realised, in an absolutely clear way, that her padding had slipped down to her waist, her head felt as though a family of unhygienic birds had been nesting in it, and her eyeshadow had not so much run as sprinted. Her dress was torn in several places, her legs were scratched, her arms were bruised, and for some reason she felt on top of the world.
'I think you'd better stand back, Verence,' she said. 'I'm not sure how this is going to work.'
There was a sharp intake of breath.
'How did you know my name?'
Magrat sized up the door. The oak was old, centuries old, but she could sense just a little sap under a surface varnished by the years into something that was nearly as tough as stone. Normally what she had in mind would require a day's planning and a bagful of exotic ingredients. At least, so she'd always believed. Now she was prepared to doubt it.
If you could conjure demons out of washtubs, you could do anything.
She became aware that the Fool had spoken.
'Oh, I expect I heard it somewhere,' she said vaguely.
'I shouldn't think so, I never use it,' said the Fool. 'I mean, it's not a popular name with the duke. It was me mam, you see. They like to name you after kings, I suppose. My grandad said I had no business having a name like that and he said I shouldn't go around—'
Magrat nodded. She was looking around the dank tunnel with a professional's eye.
It wasn't a promising place. The old oak planks had been down here in the darkness all these years, away from the clock of the seasons . . .
On the other hand . . . Granny had said that somehow all trees were one tree, or something like that. Magrat thought she understood it, although she didn't know exactly what it meant. And it was springtime up there. The ghost of life that still lived in the wood must know that. Or if it had forgotten, it must be told.
She put her palms flat on the door again and shut her eyes, tried to think her way out through the stone, out of the castle, and into the thin, black soil of the mountains, into the air, into the sunlight . . .