She must be somewhere near the kitchen now, because that was Greebo's territory. This was an unknown and shadowy area, terror incognita, where the flesh of carpets and the plaster pillars ran out and the stone bone of the castle showed through.
She was sure there were footsteps behind her, very fast and light.
If she hurried around the next comer-
In her arms, Greebo tensed like a spring. Magrat stopped.
Around the next comer-
Without her apparently willing it, the hand holding the broken wood came up, moving slowly back.
She stepped to the comer and stabbed in one movement. There was a triumphant hiss which turned into a screech as the wood scraped down the side of the waiting elfs neck. It reeled away Magrat bolted for the nearest doorway, weeping in panic, and wrenched at the handle. It swung open. She darted through, slammed the door, flailed in the dark for the bars, felt them clonk home, and collapsed on to her knees.
Something hit the door outside.
After a while Magrat opened her eyes, and then wondered if she really had opened her eyes, because the darkness was no less dark. There was a feeling of space in front of her. There were all sorts of things in the castle, old hidden rooms, anything . . . there could be a pit there, there could be anything. She fumbled for the doorframe, guided herself upright, and then groped cautiously in the general direction of the wall.
There was a shelf. This was a candle. And this was a bundle of matches.
So, she insisted above her own heartbeat, this was a room that got used recently. Most people in Lancre still used tinderboxes. Only the king could afford matches all the way from Ankh-Morpork. Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg got them too, but they didn't buy them. They got given them. It was easy to get given things, if you were a witch.
Magrat lit the stub of candle, and turned to see what kind of room she'd scuttled into.
Oh, no . . .
“Well, well,” said Ridcully “There's a familiar tree.”
“Shut up.”
“I thought someone said we just had to walk up hill,” said Ridcully.
“Shut up.”
"I remember once when we were in these woods you let
“me-”
“Shut up.”
Granny Weatherwax sat down on a stump.
“We're being mazed,” she said. “Someone's playing tricks on us.”
“I remember a story once,” said Ridcully, “where these two children were lost in the woods and a lot of birds came and covered them with leaves.” Hope showed in his voice like a toe peeking out from under a crinoline.
“Yes, that's just the sort of bloody stupid thing a bird would think of,” said Granny. She rubbed her head.
“She's doing it,” she said. “It's an elvish trick. Leading travellers astray. She's mucking up my head. My actual head. Oh, she's good. Making us go where she wants. Making us go round in circles. Doing it to me.”
“Maybe you've got your mind on other things,” said Ridcully, not quite giving up hope.
“Course I've got my mind on other things, with you falling over all the time and gabbling a lot of nonsense,” said Granny. “If Mr. Cleverdick Wizard hadn't wanted to dredge up things that never existed in the first place I wouldn't be here, I'd be in the centre of things, knowing what's going on.” She clenched her fists.
“Well, you don't have to be,” said Ridcully. “It's a fine night. We could sit here and-”
“You're falling for it too,” said Granny. “All that dreamy-weamy, eyes-across-a-crowded-room stuff. Can't imagine how you keep your job as head wizard.”
“Mainly by checking my bed carefully and makin' sure someone else has already had a slice of whatever it is I'm eating,” said Ridcully, with disarming honesty. “There's not much to it, really. Mainly it's signin' things and having a good shout-”