'Not important as such,' said Magrat. She looked over her shoulder. 'Oh, and put in that rag doll, will you? I'm sure she's focusing on it. Oh, blast... the red bag has got the medicines in it, thank you... What was it you asked me?'
'Granny's box,' Agnes hinted.
'Oh, it's... just important to her.'
'It's magical?'
'What? Oh, no. Not as far as I know. But everything in it belongs to her, you see. Not to the cottage,' said Magrat, picking up her daughter. 'Who's a good girl, then? You are!' She looked around. 'Have we forgotten anything?'
Oats spat out the rabbit. 'Possibly the ceiling,' he said.
'Then let's go.'
Magpies flocked around the castle tower. Most magpie rhymes peter out at around ten or twelve, but here were hundreds of birds, enough to satisfy any possible prediction. There are many rhymes about magpies, but none of them is very reliable because they are not the ones the magpies know themselves.
The Count sat in the darkness below, listening to their minds. Images flashed behind his eyes. This was the way to run a country, he reflected. Human minds were so hard to read, unless they were so close that you could see the words just hovering below actual vocalization. But the birds could get everywhere, see every worker in the fields and hunter in the forest. They were good listeners, too. Much better than bats or rats.
Once again, tradition was overturned.
No sign of Granny, though. Some trick, perhaps. It didn't matter. Eventually she'd find him. She wouldn't hide for long. It wasn't in her nature. Weatherwaxes would always stand and fight, even when they knew they would be beaten. So predictable.
Several of the birds had seen a busy little figure trudging across the kingdom, leading a donkey laden with falconry gear. The Count had taken a look at Hodgesaargh, found a mind crammed end to end with hawks, and dismissed him. He and his silly birds would have to go eventually, of course, because he made the magpies nervous. He made a note to mention this to the guards.
'Ooaauooow!'
... but there was probably no combination of vowels that could do justice to the cry Nanny Ogg made on seeing a young baby. It included sounds known only to cats.
'Isn't she a little precious?' Nanny crooned. 'I've probably got a sweetie somewhere-'
'She's not on solids,' said Magrat.
'Still keeping you up at nights?'
'And days. But she's slept well today, thank goodness. Nanny, give her to Mr Oats and let's sort this out right away.'
The young priest took the baby nervously, holding it, as some men do, as if it would break or at least explode.
'There, there, there,' he said, vaguely.
'Now... what's this about Granny?' said Magrat.
They told her, interrupting one another at important points.
'The gnarly ground over towards the top of the forest?' said Magrat, when they were nearly finished.
'That's right,' said Nanny.
'What is gnarly ground?' said Agnes.
'There's a lot of magic in these mountains, right?' said Nanny. 'And everyone knows mountains get made when lumps of land bang together, right? Well, when the magic gets trapped you... sort of... get a bit of land where the space is... sort of... scrunched up, right? It'd be quite big if it could but it's like a bit of gnarly wood in an of tree. Or a used hanky... all folded up small but still big in a different way.'
'But I've been up there and it's just a bit of moorland!'
'You've got to know the right direction,' said Nanny. 'Damn hard to scry into a place like that. It goes all wobbly. It's like tryin' to look at something close up and a long way away at the same time. It makes your crystal ball water.'
She pulled the green ball towards her.
'Now, you two push an' I'll steer-'