Magrat's cottage traditionally housed thoughtful witches who noticed things and wrote things down. Which herbs were better than others for headaches, fragments of old stories, odds and ends like that.
There were a dozen books of tiny handwriting and drawings, the occasional interesting flower or unusual frog pressed carefully between the pages.
It was a cottage of questioning witches, research witches. Eye of what newt? What species of ravined salt-sea shark? It's all very well a potion calling for Love-in-idleness, but which of the thirty-seven common plants called by that name in various parts of the continent was actually meant?
The reason that Granny Weatherwax was a better witch than Magrat was that she knew that in witchcraft it didn't matter a damn which one it was, or even if it was a piece of grass.
The reason that Magrat was a better doctor than Granny was that she thought it did.
The coach slowed to a halt in front of the barricade across the road.
The bandit chieftain adjusted his eyepatch. He had two good eyes, but people respect uniforms. Then he strolled toward the coach.
“Morning, Jim. What've we got today, then?”
“Uh. This could be difficult,” said the coachman. “Uh, there's a handful of wizards. And a dwarf. And an ape.” He rubbed his head, and winced. “Yes. Definitely an ape. Not, and I think I should make this clear, any other kind of manshaped thing with hair on.”
“You all right, Jim?”
“I've had this lot ever since Ankh-Morpork. Don't talk to me about dried frog pills.”
The bandit chief raised his eyebrows.
“All right. I won't.”
He knocked on the coach door. The window slid down.
“I wouldn't like you to think of this as a robbery,” he said. “I'd like you to think of it more as a colourful anecdote you might enjoy telling your grandchildren about.”
A voice from within said, “That's him! He stole my horse!”
A wizard's staff poked out. The chieftain saw the knob on the end.
“Now, then,” he said, pleasantly. “I know the rules. Wizards aren't allowed to use magic against civilians except in genuine life-threatening situa-”
There was a burst of octarine light.
“Actually, it's not a rule,” said Ridcully. “It's more a guideline.” He turned to Ponder Stibbons. “Interestin' use of Stacklady's Morphic Resonator here, I hope you noticed.”
Ponder looked down.
The chieftain had been turned into a pumpkin although, in accordance with the rules of universal humour, he still had his hat on.
“And now,” said Ridcully, “I'd be obliged if all you fellows hidin' behind the rocks and things would just step out where I can see you. Very good. Mr. Stibbons, you and the Librarian just pass around with the hat, please.”
“But this is robbery!” said the coachman. “And you've turned him into a fruit!”
“A vegetable,” said Ridcully “Anyway, it'll wear off in a couple of hours.”
“And I'm owed a horse,” said Casanunda.
The bandits paid up, reluctantly handing over money to Ponder and reluctantly but very quickly handing over money to the Librarian.
“There's almost three hundred dollars, sir,” said Ponder.
“And a horse, remember. In fact, there were two horses. I'd forgotten about the other horse until now.”
“Capital! We're in pocket on the trip. So if these gentlemen would just remove the roadblock, we'll be on our way.”