“Hmm,” she said. “We will, will we?”
“Yes, and if you don't,” said Magrat, “you can get thrown in prison.”
“My word,” said Granny. “Deary deary me. I wouldn't like that. I wouldn't like that at all.”
All three of them knew that the castle dungeons, which in any case had never been its most notable feature, were now totally unused. Verence II was the most amiable monarch in the history of Lancre. His subjects regarded him with the sort of good-natured contempt that is the fate of all those who work quietly and conscientiously for the public good. Besides, Verence would rather cut his own leg off than put a witch in prison, since it'd save trouble in the long run and probably be less painful.
“Queen Magrat, eh?” said Nanny Ogg, trying to lighten the atmosphere a bit. “Cor. Well, the old castle could do with a bit of lightening up-”
“Oh, it'll lighten up all right,” said Granny.
“Well, anyway, I don't have to bother with this sort of thing,” said Magrat. “Whatever it is. It's your business. I just shan't have time, I'm sure.”
“I'm sure you can please yourself, your going-to-be-majesty,” said Granny Weatherwax.
“Hah!” said Magrat. “I can! You can jol - you can damn well find another witch for Lancre! All right? Another soppy girl to do all the dreary work and never be told anything and be talked over the head of the whole time. I've got better things to do!”
“Better things than being a witch?” said Granny
Magrat walked into it. “Yes!”
“Oh, dear,” murmured Nanny
“Oh. Well, then I expect you'll be wanting to be off,” said Granny, her voice like knives. “Back to your palace, I'll be bound.”
“Yes!”
Magrat picked up her broomstick.
Granny's arm shot out very fast and grabbed the handle.
“Oh, no,” she said, “you don't. Queens ride around in golden coaches and whatnot. Each to their own. Brooms is for witches.”
“Now come on, you two,” began Nanny Ogg, one of nature's mediators. “Anyway, someone can be a queen and a w-”
“Who cares?” said Magrat, dropping the broomstick. “I don't have to bother with that sort of thing anymore.”
She turned, clutched at her dress, and ran. She became a figure outlined against the sunset.
“You daft old besom, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg. “Just because she's getting wed.”
“You know what she'd say if we told her,” said Granny Weatherwax. “She'd get it all wrong. The Gentry. Circles. She'd say it was . . . nice. Best for her if she's out of it.”
“They ain't been active for years and years,” said Nanny. “We'll need some help. I mean . . . when did you last go up to the Dancers?”
“You know how it is,” said Granny “When it's so quiet. . . you don't think about 'em.”
“We ought to have kept 'em cleared.”
“True.”
“We better get up there first thing tomorrow,” said Nanny Ogg.
“Yes.”
“Better bring a sickle, too.”
There isn't much of the kingdom of Lancre where you could drop a football and not have it roll away from you. Most of it is moor land and steeply forested hillside, giving way to sharp and ragged mountains where even trolls wouldn't go and valleys so deep that they have to pipe the sunlight in.