Wyrd Sisters (32 page)

‘How d'you mean?'

Tomjon put down his cup. Shadows seemed to move across his face; his eyes sank, his lips drew back from his teeth, his skin stretched and paled.

‘I
HAVE COME TO GET YOU, YOU TERRIBLE ACTOR
,' he intoned, each syllable falling into place like a coffin lid. His features sprang back into shape.

‘Like that,' he said.

Dafe, who had flattened himself against the wall, relaxed a bit and gave a nervous giggle.

‘Gods, I don't know how you do it,' he said. ‘Honestly, I'll never be as good as you.'

‘There really isn't anything to it. Now run along, Hwel's fit to be tied as it is.'

Dafe gave him a look of gratitude and ran off to help with the scene shifting.

Tomjon sipped his tea uneasily, the backstage noises whirring around him like so much fog. He was worried.

Hwel had said that everything about the play was fine, except for the play itself. And Tomjon kept thinking that the play itself was trying to force itself
into a different shape. His mind had been hearing other words, just too faint for hearing. It was almost like eavesdropping on a conversation. He'd had to shout more to drown out the buzzing in his head.

This wasn't right. Once a play was written it was, well, written. It shouldn't come alive and start twisting itself around.

No wonder everyone needed prompting all the time. The play was writhing under their hands, trying to change itself.

Ye gods, he'd be glad to get out of this spooky castle, and away from this mad duke. He glanced around, decided that it would be some time before the next act was called, and wandered aimlessly in search of fresher air.

A door yielded to his touch and he stepped out on to the battlements. He pushed it shut behind him, cutting off the sounds of the stage and replacing them by a velvet hush. There was a livid sunset imprisoned behind bars of cloud, but the air was as still as a mill pond and as hot as a furnace. In the forest below some night bird screamed.

He walked to the other end of the battlements and peered down into the sheer depths of the gorge. Far beneath, the Lancre boiled in its eternal mists.

He turned, and walked into a draught of such icy coldness that he gasped.

Unusual breezes plucked at his clothing. There was a strange muttering in his ear, as though someone was trying to talk to him but couldn't get the speed right. He stood rigid for a moment, getting his breath, and then fled for the door.

* * *

‘But we're
not
witches!'

‘Why do you look like them, then? Tie their hands, lads.'

‘Yes, excuse me, but we're not
really
witches!'

The captain of the guard looked from face to face. His gaze took in the pointy hats, the disordered hair smelling of damp haystacks, the sickly green complexions and the herd of warts. Guard captain for the duke wasn't a job that offered long-term prospects for those who used initiative. Three witches had been called for, and these seemed to fit the bill.

The captain never went to the theatre. When he was on the rack of adolescence he'd been badly frightened by a Punch and Judy show, and since then had taken pains to avoid any organized entertainment and had kept away from anywhere where crocodiles could conceivably be expected. He'd spent the last hour enjoying a quiet drink in the guardroom.

‘I said tie their hands, didn't I?' he snapped.

‘Shall we gag them as well, cap'n?'

‘But if you'd just
listen
, we're with the theatre—'

‘Yes,' said the captain, shuddering. ‘Gag them.'

‘Please . . .'

The captain leaned down and stared at three pairs of frightened eyes. He was trembling.

‘That,' he said, ‘is the last time
you
'll eat anyone's sausage.'

He was aware that now the soldiers were giving him odd looks as well. He coughed and pulled himself together.

‘Very well then, my theatrical witches,' he said. ‘You've done your show, and now it's time for your applause.' He nodded to his men.

‘Clap them in chains,' he said.

* * *

Three other witches sat in the gloom behind the stage, staring vacantly into the darkness. Granny Weatherwax had picked up a copy of the script, which she peered at from time to time, as if seeking ideas.

‘“Divers alarums and excursions”,' she read, uncertainly.

‘That means lots of terrible happenings,' said Magrat. ‘You always put that in plays.'

‘Alarums and what?' said Nanny Ogg, who hadn't been listening.

‘Excursions,' said Magrat patiently.

‘Oh.' Nanny Ogg brightened a bit. ‘The seaside would be nice,' she said.

‘Do shut up, Gytha,' said Granny Weatherwax. ‘They're not for you. They're only for divers, like it says. Probably so they can recover from all them alarums.'

‘We can't let this happen,' said Magrat, quickly and loudly. ‘If this gets about, witches'll always be old hags with green blusher.'

‘And meddlin' in the affairs of kings,' said Nanny. ‘Which we never do, as is well known.'

‘It's not the meddlin' I object to,' said Granny Weatherwax, her chin on her hand. ‘It's the
evil
meddling.'

‘And the unkindness to animals,' muttered Magrat. ‘All that stuff about eye of dog and ear of toad.
No-one
uses that kind of stuff.'

Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg carefully avoided one another's faces.

‘Drabe!' said Nanny Ogg bitterly.

‘Witches just aren't like that,' said Magrat. ‘We live in harmony with the great cycles of Nature, and do
no harm to anyone, and it's wicked of them to say we don't. We ought to fill their bones with hot lead.'

The other two looked at her with a certain amount of surprised admiration. She blushed, although not greenly, and looked at her knees.

‘Goodie Whemper did a recipe,' she confessed. ‘It's quite easy. What you do is, you get some lead, and you—'

‘I don't think that would be appropriate,' said Granny carefully, after a certain amount of internal struggle. ‘It could give people the wrong idea.'

‘But not for long,' said Nanny wistfully.

‘No, we can't be having with that sort of thing,' said Granny, a little more firmly this time. ‘We'd never hear the last of it.'

‘Why don't we just change the words?' said Magrat. ‘When they come back on stage we could just put the ‘fluence on them so they forget what they're saying, and give them some new words.'

‘I suppose you're an expert at theatre words?' said Granny sarcastically. ‘They'd have to be the proper sort, otherwise people would suspect.'

‘Shouldn't be too difficult,' said Nanny Ogg dismissively. ‘I've been studyin' it. You go tumpty-tumpty-tumpty.'

Granny gave this some consideration.

‘There's more to it than that, I believe,' she said. ‘Some of those speeches were very good. I couldn't understand hardly any of it.'

‘There's no trick to it at all,' Nanny Ogg insisted. ‘Anyway, half of them are forgetting their lines as it is. It'll be easy.'

‘We could put words in their mouths?' said Magrat.

Nanny Ogg nodded. ‘I don't know about
new
words,' she said. ‘But we can make them forget these words.'

They both looked at Granny Weatherwax. She shrugged.

‘I suppose it's worth a try,' she conceded.

‘Witches as yet unborn will thank us for it,' said Magrat ardently.

‘Oh, good,' said Granny.

‘At last! What are you three playing at? We've been looking for you everywhere!'

The witches turned to see an irate dwarf trying to loom over them.

‘Us?' said Magrat. ‘But we're not in—'

‘Oh yes you are, remember, we put it in last week. Act Two, Downstage, around the cauldron. You haven't got to say anything. You're symbolizing occult forces at work. Just be as wicked as you can. Come on, there's good lads. You've done well so far.'

Hwel slapped Magrat on the bottom. ‘Good complexion you've got there, Wilph,' he said encouragingly. ‘But for goodness' sake use a bit more padding, you're still the wrong shape. Fine warts there, Billem. I must say,' he added, standing back, ‘you look as nasty a bunch of hags as a body might hope to clap eyes on. Well done. Shame about the wigs. Now run along. Curtain up in one minute. Break a leg.'

He gave Magrat another ringing slap on her rump, slightly hurting his hand, and hurried off to shout at someone else.

None of the witches dared to speak. Magrat and Nanny Ogg found themselves instinctively turning towards Granny.

She sniffed. She looked up. She looked around. She looked at the brightly lit stage behind her. She brought
her hands together with a clap that echoed around the castle, and then rubbed them together.

‘Useful,' she said grimly, ‘let's do the show right here.'

Nanny squinted sullenly after Hwel. ‘Break your own leg,' she muttered.

Hwel stood in the wings and gave the signal for the curtains. And for the thunder.

It didn't come.

‘Thunder!' he hissed, in a voice heard by half the audience. ‘Get on with it!'

A voice from behind the nearest pillar wailed, ‘I went and bent the thunder, Hwel! It just goes clonk-clonk!'

Hwel stood silent for a moment, counting. The company watched him, awestruck but not, unfortunately, thunderstruck.

At last he raised his fists to the open sky and said, ‘I wanted a storm! Just a storm. Not even a big storm. Any storm. Now I want to make myself absolutely CLEAR! I have had ENOUGH! I want thunder right NOW!'

The stab of lightning that answered him turned the multi-hued shadows of the castle into blinding white and searing black. It was followed by a roll of thunder, on cue.

It was the loudest noise Hwel had ever heard. It seemed to start inside his head and work its way outwards.

It went on and on, shaking every stone in the castle. Dust rained down. A distant turret broke away with balletic slowness and, tumbling end over end, dropped gently into the hungry depths of the gorge.

When it finished it left a silence that rang like a bell.

Hwel looked up at the sky. Great black clouds were blowing across the castle, blotting out the stars.

The storm was back.

It had spent ages learning its craft. It had spent years lurking in distant valleys. It had practised for hours in front of a glacier. It had studied the great storms of the past. It had honed its art to perfection. And now, tonight, with what it could see was clearly an appreciative audience waiting for it, it was going to take them by, well . . . tempest.

Hwel smiled. Perhaps the gods
did
listen, after all. He wished he'd asked for a really good wind machine as well.

He gestured frantically at Tomjon.

‘Get on with it!'

The boy nodded, and launched into his main speech.

‘
And now our domination is complete—
'

Behind him on the stage the witches bent over the cauldron.

‘It's just tin, this one,' hissed Nanny. ‘And it's full of all yuk.'

‘And the fire is just red paper,' whispered Magrat. ‘It looked so real from up there, it's just red paper! Look, you can poke it—'

‘Never mind,' said Granny. ‘Just look busy, and wait until I say.'

As the Evil King and the Good Duke began the exchange that was going to lead to the exciting Duel Scene they became uncomfortably aware of activity behind them, and occasional chuckles from the audience. After a totally inappropriate burst of laughter Tomjon risked a sideways glance.

One of the witches was taking their fire to bits.
Another one was trying to clean the cauldron. The third one was sitting with her arms folded, glaring at him.

‘
The very soil cries out at tyranny
—' said Wimsloe, and then caught the expression on Tomjon's face and followed his gaze. His voice trailed into silence.

‘“And calls me forth for vengeance”,' prompted Tomjon helpfully.

‘B-but—' whispered Wimsloe, trying to point surreptitiously with his dagger.

‘I wouldn't be seen dead with a cauldron like this,' said Nanny Ogg, in a whisper loud enough to carry to the back of the courtyard. ‘Two days' work with a scourer and a bucket of sand, is this.'

‘“And calls me forth for vengeance” ‘hissed Tomjon. Out of the tail of his eye he saw Hwel in the wings, frozen in an attitude of incoherent rage.

‘How do they make it flicker?' said Magrat.

‘Be quiet, you two,' said Granny. ‘You're upsetting people.' She raised her hat to Wimsloe. ‘Go ahead, young man. Don't mind us.'

‘Wha?' said Wimsloe.

‘Aha, it calls you forth for vengeance, does it?' said Tomjon, in desperation. ‘And the heavens cry revenge, too, I expect.'

On cue, the storm produced a thunderbolt that blew the top off another tower . . .

The duke crouched in his seat, his face a panorama of fear. He extended what had once been a finger.

‘There they are,' he breathed. ‘That's them. What are they doing in my play? Who said they could be in my play?'

The duchess, who was less inclined to deal in rhetorical questions, beckoned to the nearest guard.

On stage Tomjon was sweating under the load of the script. Wimsloe was incoherent. Now Gumridge, who was playing the part of the Good Duchess in a wig of flax, had lost the thread as well.

‘Aha, thou callst me an evil king, though thou wisperest it so none save I may hear it,' Tomjon croaked. ‘And thou hast
summoned the guard
, possibly by some most secret signal, owing nought to artifice of lips or tongue.'

A guard came on crabwise, still stumbling from Hwel's shove. He stared at Granny Weatherwax.