'There they are,' he breathed. 'That's them. What are they doing in my play? Who said they could be in my play?'
The duchess, who was less inclined to deal in rhetorical questions, beckoned to the nearest guard.
On stage Tomjon was sweating under the load of the script. Wimsloe was incoherent. Now Gumridge, who was playing the part of the Good Duchess in a wig of flax, had lost the thread as well.
'Aha, thou callst me an evil king, though thou wisperest it so none save I may hear it,' Tomjon croaked. 'And thou hast summoned the guard, possibly by some most secret signal, owing nought to artifice of lips or tongue.'
A guard came on crabwise, still stumbling from Hwel's shove. He stared at Granny Weatherwax.
'Hwel says what the hell's going on?' he hissed.
'What was that?' said Tomjon. 'Did I hear you say / come, my lady?'
'Get these people off, he says!'
Tomjon advanced to the front of the stage.
'Thou babblest, man. See how I dodge thy tortoise spear. I said, see how I dodge thy tortoise spear. Thy spear, man. You're holding it in thy bloody hand, for goodness' sake.'
The guard gave him a desperate, frozen grin.
Tomjon hesitated. Three other actors around him were staring fixedly at the witches. Looming up in front of him with all the inevitability of a tax demand was a sword fight during which, it was beginning to appear, he would have to parry his own wild thrusts and stab himself to death.
He turned to the three witches. His mouth opened.
For the first time in his life his awesome memory let him down. He could think of nothing to say.
Granny Weatherwax stood up. She advanced to the edge of the stage. The audience held its breath. She held up a hand.
'Ghosts of the mind and all device away, I bid the Truth to have—' she hesitated – 'its tumpty-tumpty day.'
Tomjon felt the chill engulf him. The others, too, jolted into life.
Up from out of the depths of their blank minds new words rushed, words red with blood and revenge, words that had echoed among the castle's stones, words stored in silicon, words that would have themselves heard, words that gripped their mouths so tightly that an attempt not to say them would result in a broken jaw.
'Do you fear him now?' said Gumridge. 'And he so mazed with drink? Take his dagger, husband – you are a blade's width from the kingdom.'
'I dare not,' Wimsloe said, trying to look in astonishment at his own lips.
'Who will know?' Gumridge waved a hand towards the audience. He'd never act so well again. 'See, there is only eyeless night. Take the dagger now, take the kingdom tomorrow. Have a stab at it, man.'
Wimsloe's hand shook.
'I have it, wife,' he said. 'Is this a dagger I see before me?'
'Of course it's a bloody dagger. Come on, do it now. The weak deserve no mercy. We'll say he fell down the stairs.'
'But people will suspect!'
'Are there no dungeons? Are there no pilliwinks? Possession is nine parts of the law, husband, when what you possess is a knife.'
Wimsloe drew his arm back.
'I cannot! He has been kindness itself to me!'
'And you can be Death itself to him . . .'
Dafe could hear the voices a long way off. He adjusted his mask, checked the deathliness of his appearance in the mirror, and peered at the script in the empty backstage gloom.