At the same time Greebo shot past Agnes, accelerating. And then, just as he was about to spring, he changed his mind. All four feet extended their claws at the same time and bit into the floorboards. He rolled, sprang on to his feet, and started to wash himself.
The red and blue blur hit the door and picked itself up, becoming a blue man, six inches tall, with red hair. He carried a sword about the same size as himself.
'Ach, hins tak yer scaggie, yer dank yowl callyake!' he screamed.
'Oh, it's you,' said Nanny, relaxing. 'Do you want a drink?'
The sword was lowered slightly, but with a definite hint that it could be raised again at a moment's notice.
"tazit?'
Nanny reached down to the crate by her chair and sorted through the bottles.
'Scumble? My best. Vintage,' she said.
The wee man's tiny eyes lit up. 'Las' Tuesda?'
'Right. Agnes, open that sewing box and pass me a thimble, will you? Come away here, man,' said Nanny, uncorking the bottle well away from the fire and filling up the thimble. 'Ladies, this here's... let's see them tattoos... yeah, this here's one of the Nac mac Feegle. The little bastards comes down and raids my still about once a year. I reckon I recognize the pattern.'
'Pings, yow graley yinl Suz ae rikt dheu,' said the blue man, taking the thimble.
'What is he?' said Magrat.
'They're gnomes,' said Nanny.
The man lowered the thimble. 'Pictsies!'
'Pixies, if you insist,' said Nanny. 'They live up on the high moors over towards Uberwald-'
'Ach! Bae, yon snae rikt speel, y'ol behennit! Feggersl Yon ken sweal boggin bludsuckers owl dhu tae-'
Nanny nodded while she listened. Halfway through the little man's rant she topped up his thimble.
'Ah, right,' she said, when he seemed to have finished. 'Well, he says the Nac mac Feegle have been forced out by the vampires, see? They've been driving out all the...' her lips
moved as she tried out various translations '... old people...'
'That's very cruel!' said Magrat.
'No... I mean... old races. The people that live in... the corners. You know, the ones you don't see around a lot... centaurs, bogeys, gnomes-'
'Pictsies!'
'Yeah, right... driving 'em out of the country.'
'Why should they do that?'
'Probably not fashionable any more,' said Nanny.
Agnes looked hard at the pixie. On a scale of ethereal from one to ten he looked as if he was on some other scale, probably one buried in deep ocean sludge. The blueness of his skin, she could see now, was made up of tattoos and paint. His red hair stuck out at all angles. His sole concession to the temperature was a leather loincloth. He saw her looking at him.
'Yist, awa' fra' yeeks, ye stawking gowt that'ya! Bigjobs!'
'Er, sorry,' said Agnes.
'Good language, ain't it?' said Nanny. 'A hint o' heather and midden. But when you've got the Nac mac Feegle on your side you're doing okay.'
The pixie waved the empty thimble at Nanny.