Wyrd Sisters

‘You see, he’s been very busy,’ said Magrat to her feet. ‘Sorting everything out, you know. He’s very clever, you know. Underneath.’

‘Very sober lad,’ said Nanny.

‘Anyway, it’s full moon,’ said Magrat quickly. ‘You’ve got to go to coven meetings at full moon, no matter what other pressing engagements there may be.’

‘Have y—?’ Nanny Ogg began, but Granny nudged her sharply in the ribs.

‘It’s a very good thing he’s paying so much attention to getting the kingdom working again,’ said Granny, soothingly. ‘It shows proper consideration. I daresay he’ll get around to everything, sooner or later. It’s very demanding, being a king.’

‘Yes,’ said Magrat, her voice barely audible.

The silence that followed was almost solid. It was broken by Nanny, in a voice as bright and brittle as ice.

‘Well, I brought a bottle of that fizzy wine with me,’ she said. ‘In case he’d … in case … in case we felt like a drink,’ she rallied, and waved it at the other two.

‘I don’t want any,’ said Magrat sullenly.

‘You drink up, girl,’ said Granny Weatherwax. ‘It’s a chilly night. It’d be good for your chest.’

She squinted at Magrat as the moon drifted out from behind its cloud.

‘Here,’ she said. ‘Your hair looks a bit grubby. It looks as though you haven’t washed it for a month.’

Magrat burst into tears.

——

The same moon shone down on the otherwise unremarkable town of Rham Nitz, some ninety miles from Lancre.

Tomjon left the stage to thunderous applause at the concluding act of The Troll of Ankh. A hundred people would go home tonight wondering whether trolls were really as bad as they had hitherto thought although, of course, this wouldn’t actually stop them disliking them in any way whatsoever.

Hwel patted him on the back as he sat down at the make-up table and started scraping off the thick grey sludge that was intended to make him look like a walking rock.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘The love scene—just right. And when you turned around and roared at the wizard I shouldn’t think there was a dry seat in the house.’

‘I know.’

Hwel rubbed his hands together.

‘We can afford a tavern tonight,’ he said. ‘So if we just—’

‘We’ll sleep in the carts,’ said Tomjon firmly, squinting at himself in the shard of mirror.

‘But you know how much the Fo—the king gave us! It could be feather beds all the way home!’

‘It’s straw mattresses and a good profit for us,’ said Tomjon. ‘And that’ll buy you gods from heaven and demons from hell and the wind and the waves and more trapdoors than you can count, my lawn ornament.’

Hwel’s hand rested on Tomjon’s shoulder for a moment. Then he said, ‘You’re right, boss.’

‘Certainly I am. How’s the play going?’

‘Hmm? What play?’ said Hwel, innocently.

Tomjon carefully removed a plaster brow ridge.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘That one. The Lancre King.’

‘Oh. Coming along. Coming along, you know. I’ll get it right one of these days.’ Hwel changed the subject with speed. ‘You know, we could work our way down to the river and take a boat home. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’

‘But we could work our way home over land and pick up some more cash. That would be better, wouldn’t it?’ Tomjon grinned. ‘We took one hundred and three pence tonight; I counted heads during the Judgement speech. That’s nearly one silver piece after expenses.’

‘You’re your father’s son, and no mistake,’ said Hwel.

Tomjon sat back and looked at himself in the mirror.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I thought I had better be.’

——

Magrat didn’t like cats and hated the idea of mousetraps. She’d always felt that it should be possible to come to some sort of arrangement with creatures like mice so that all available food was rationed in the best interest of all parties. This was a very humanitarian outlook, which is to say that it was not a view shared by mice, and therefore her moonlit kitchen was alive.

When there was a knocking at the door the entire floor appeared to rush towards the walls.

After a few seconds the knocking came again.

There was another pause. Then the knocking rattled the door on its hinges, and a voice cried, ‘Open in the name of the king!’

A second voice said, in hurt tones, ‘You don’t have to shout like that. Why did you shout like that? I didn’t order you to shout like that. It’s enough to frighten anybody, shouting like that.’

‘Sorry, sire! It goes with the job, sire!’

‘Just knock again. A bit more gently, please.’

The knocking might have been a bit softer. Magrat’s apron dropped off its hook on the back of the door.

‘Are you sure I can’t do it myself?’

‘It’s not done, sire, kings knocking at humble cottage doors. Best leave it to me. OPEN IN THE—’

‘Sergeant!’

‘Sorry, sire. Forgot myself.’

‘Try the latch.’

There was the sound of someone being extremely hesitant.

‘Don’t like the sound of that, sire,’ said the invisible sergeant. ‘Could be dangerous. If you want my advice, sire, I’d set fire to the thatch.’

‘Set fire?’

‘Yessire. We always do that if they don’t answer the door. Brings them out a treat.’