'Be quiet, you two,' said Granny. 'You're upsetting people.' She raised her hat to Wimsloe. 'Go ahead, young man. Don't mind us.'
'Wha?' said Wimsloe.
'Aha, it calls you forth for vengeance, does it?' said Tomjon. in desperation. 'And the heavens cry revenge, too, I expect.'
On cue, the storm produced a thunderbolt that blew the top off another tower . . .
n sipped his tea uneasily, the backstage noises whirring around him like so much fog. He was worried.
Hwel had said that everything about the play was fine, except for the play itself. And Tomjon kept thinking that the play itself was trying to force itself into a different shape. His mind had been hearing other words, just too faint for hearing. It was almost like eavesdropping on a conversation. He'd had to shout more to drown out the buzzing in his head.
This wasn't right. Once a play was written it was, well, written. It shouldn't come alive and start twisting itself around.
No wonder everyone needed prompting all the time. The play was writhing under their hands, trying to change itself.
Ye gods, he'd be glad to get out of this spooky castle, and away from this mad duke. He glanced around, decided that it would be some time before the next act was called, and wandered aimlessly in search of fresher air.
A door yielded to his touch and he stepped out on to the battlements. He pushed it shut behind him, cutting off the sounds of the stage and replacing them by a velvet hush. There was a livid sunset imprisoned behind bars of cloud, but the air was as still as a mill pond and as hot as a furnace. In the forest below some night bird screamed.
He walked to the other end of the battlements and peered down into the sheer depths of the gorge. Far beneath, the Lancre boiled in its eternal mists.
He turned, and walked into a draught of such icy coldness that he gasped.
Unusual breezes plucked at his clothing. There was a strange muttering in his ear, as though someone was-trying to talk to him but couldn't get the speed right. He stood rigid for a moment, getting his breath, and then fled for the door.
'But we're not witches!'
'Why do you look like them, then? Tie their hands, lads.'
'Yes, excuse me, but we're not really witches!'
The captain of the guard looked from face to face. His gaze took in the pointy hats, the disordered hair smelling of damp haystacks, the sickly green complexions and the herd of warts. Guard captain for the duke wasn't a job that offered long-term prospects for those who used initiative. Three witches had been called for, and these seemed to fit the bill.
The captain never went to the theatre. When he was on the rack of adolescence he'd been badly frightened by a Punch and Judy show, and since then had taken pains to avoid any organised entertainment and had kept away from anywhere where crocodiles could conceivably be expected. He'd spent the last hour enjoying a quiet drink in the guardroom.
'I said tie their hands, didn't I?' he snapped.
'Shall we gag them as well, cap'n?'
'But if you'd just listen, we're with the theatre—'
'Yes,' said the captain, shuddering. 'Gag them.'
'Please . . .'
The captain leaned down and stared at three pairs of frightened eyes. He was trembling.
'That,' he said, 'is the last time you'll eat anyone's sausage.'
He was aware that now the soldiers were giving him odd looks as well. He coughed and pulled himself together.
'Very well then, my theatrical witches,' he said. 'You've done your show, and now it's time for your applause.' He nodded to his men.
'Clap them in chains,' he said.
Three other witches sat in the gloom behind the stage, staring vacantly into the darkness. Granny Weatherwax had picked up a copy of the script, which she peered at from time to time, as if seeking ideas.
' “Divers alarums and excursions”,' she read, uncertainly.