A low ground mist drifted between the trees, curling up in little tongues as the mule’s hooves disturbed it. Rain dripped off the twigs. There was even a bit of sullen thunder now, not the outgoing sort that cracks the sky but the other sort, which hangs around the horizons and gossips nastily with other storms.
Mightily Oats had tried a conversation with himself a few times, but the problem with a conversation was that the other person had to join in. Occasionally he heard a snore from behind him. When he looked around, the wowhawk on her shoulder flapped its wings in his face.
Sometimes the snoring would stop with a grunt, and a hand would tap him on a shoulder and point out a direction which looked like every other direction.
It did so now.
“What’s that you’re singing?” Granny demanded.
“I wasn’t singing very loudly.”
“What’s it called?”
“It’s called ‘Om Is in His Holy Temple.’”
“Nice tune,” said Granny.
“It keeps my spirits up,” Oats admitted. A wet twig slapped his face. After all, he thought, I
may
have a vampire behind me, however good she is.
“You take comfort from it, do you?”
“I suppose so.”
“Even that bit about ‘smiting evil with thy sword’? That’d worry me, if I was an Omnian. Do you get just a little sort of tap for a white lie but minced up for murder? That’s the sort of thing that’d keep
me
awake o’ nights.”
“Well, actually…I shouldn’t be singing it at all, to be honest. The Convocation of Ee struck it from the songbook as being incompatible with the ideals of modern Omnianism.”
“That line about crushing infidels?”
“That’s the one, yes.”
“You sung it anyway, though.”
“It’s the version my grandmother taught me,” said Oats.
“She was keen on crushing infidels?”
“Well, mainly I think she was in favor of crushing Mrs. Ahrim next door, but you’ve got the right idea, yes. She thought the world would be a better place with a bit more crushing and smiting.”
“Prob’ly true.”
“Not as much smiting and crushing as
she’d
like, though, I think,” said Oats. “A bit judgmental, my grandmother.”
“Nothing wrong with that. Judging is human.”
“We prefer to leave it ultimately to Om,” said Oats and, out here in the dark, that statement sounded lost and all alone.
“Bein’ human means judgin’ all the time,” said the voice behind him. “This and that, good and bad, making choices every day…that’s human.”
“And are you so sure you make the right decisions?”
“No. But I do the best I can.”
“And hope for mercy, eh?”
The bony finger prodded him in the back.
“Mercy’s a fine thing, but judgin’ comes first. Otherwise you don’t know what you’re bein’ merciful about. Anyway, I always heard you Omnians were
keen
on smitin’ and crushin’.”
“Those were…different days. We use crushing arguments now.”
“And long pointed debates, I suppose?”
“Well, there
are
two sides to every question…”
“What do you do when one of ’em’s wrong?” The reply came back like an arrow.
“I meant that we are enjoined to see things from the other person’s point of view,” said Oats, patiently.
“You mean that from the point of view of a torturer, torture is all right?”
“Mistress Weatherwax, you are a natural disputant.”
“No I ain’t!”
“You’d certain enjoy yourself at the Synod, anyway. They’ve been known to argue for days about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.”
He could almost feel Granny’s mind working. At last she said, “What size pin?”
“I don’t know that, I’m afraid.”
“Well, if it’s an ordinary household pin, then there’ll be sixteen.”
“Sixteen angels?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps they like dancing.”
The mule picked its way down a bank. The mist was getting thicker here.
“You’ve
counted
sixteen?” said Oats eventually.
“No, but it’s as good an answer as any you’ll get. And that’s what your holy men discuss, is it?”
“Not usually. There is a very interesting debate raging at the moment about the nature of sin, for example.”
“And what do they think? Against it, are they?”
“It’s not as simple as that. It’s not a black and white issue. There are so many shades of gray.”
“Nope.”
“Pardon?”
“There’s no grays, only white that’s got grubby. I’m surprised you don’t know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.”
“It’s a lot more complicated than that—”
“No. It ain’t. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they’re getting worried that they won’t like the truth. People as things, that’s where it starts.”
“Oh, I’m sure there are worse crimes—”
“But they
starts
with thinking about people as things…”
Granny’s voice trailed off. Oats let the mule walk on for a few minutes, and then a snort told him that Granny had awoken again.
“You strong in your faith, then?” she said, as if she couldn’t leave things alone.
Oats sighed. “I try to be.”
“But you read a lot of books, I’m thinking. Hard to have faith, ain’t it, when you read too many books.”
Oats was glad she couldn’t see his face. Was the old woman reading his mind through the back of his head?
“Yes,” he said.
“Still got it, though?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have anything.”
He waited for a while, and then tried a counterattack.
“You’re not a believer yourself, then, Mistress Weatherwax?”
There was a few moments’ silence as the mule picked its way over the mossy tree roots. Oats thought he heard, behind them, the sound of a horse, but then it was lost in the sighing of the wind.
“Oh, I reckon I believes in tea, sunrises, that sort of thing,” said Granny.
“I was referring to religion.”
“I know a few gods in these parts, if that’s what you mean.”
Oats sighed. “Many people find faith a great solace,” he said. He wished he was one of them.
“Good.”
“Really? Somehow I thought you’d argue.”
“It’s not my place to tell ’em what to believe, if they act decent.”
“But it’s not something that you feel drawn to, perhaps, in the darker hours?”
“No. I’ve already got a hot water bottle.”
The wowhawk fluttered its wings. Oats stared into the damp, dark mist. Suddenly he was angry.
“And that’s what you think religion is, is it?” he said, trying to keep his temper.
“I gen’rally don’t think about it at all,” said the voice behind him.
It sounded fainter. He felt Granny clutch his arm to steady herself…
“Are you all right?” he said.
“I wish this creature would go faster…I ain’t entirely myself.”
“We could stop for a rest?”
“No! Not far now! Oh, I’ve been so
stupid
…”
The thunder grumbled. He felt her grip lessen, and heard her hit the ground.
Oats leapt down. Granny Weatherwax was lying awkwardly on the moss, her eyes closed. He took her wrist. There was a pulse there, but it was horribly weak. She felt icy cold.
When he patted her face she opened her eyes.
“If you raise the subject of religion at this point,” she wheezed, “I’ll give you such a hidin’…” Her eyes shut again.
Oats sat down to get his breath back. Icy cold…yes, there
was
something cold about all of her, as though she always pushed heat away. Any kind of warmth.
He heard the sound of the horse again, and the faint jingle of a harness. It stopped a little way away.
“Hello?” said Oats, standing up. He strained to see the rider in the darkness, but there was just a dim shape farther along the track.
“Are you following us? Hello?”
He took a few steps and made out the horse, head bowed against the rain. The rider was just a darker shadow in the night.
Suddenly awash with dread, Oats ran and slithered back to Granny’s silent form. He struggled out of his drenched coat and put it over her, for whatever good that would do, and looked around desperately for anything that could make a fire.
Fire
, that was the thing. It brought life and drove away the darkness.
But the trees were tall firs, dripping wet with dank bracken underneath among the black trunks. There was nothing that would burn here.
He fished hurriedly in his pocket and found a waxed box with his last few matches in it. Even a few dry twigs or a tuft of grass would do, anything that’d dry out
another
handful of twigs…
Rain oozed through his shirt. The air was full of water.
Oats hunched over so that his hat kept the drips off, and pulled out the
Book of Om
for the comfort that it brought. In times of trouble, Om would surely show the way—
…I’ve already got a hot water bottle…
“Damn you,” he said, under his breath.
He opened the book at random, struck a match and read:
“…and in that time, in the land of the Cyrinites, there was a multiplication of camels…”
The match hissed out.
No help there, no clue. He tried again.
“…and looked upon Gul-Arah, and the lamentation of the desert, and rode then to…”
Oats remembered the vampire’s mocking smile. What words could you trust? He struck the third match with shaking hands and flicked the book open again and read, in the weak dancing light:
“…and Brutha said to Simony, ‘Where there is darkness we will make a great light…’”
The match died. And there was darkness.
Granny Weatherwax groaned. At the back of his mind, Oats thought he could hear the sounds of hooves, slowly approaching.
Oats knelt in the mud and tried a prayer, but there was no answering voice from the sky. There never had been. He’d been told never to expect one. That wasn’t how Om worked anymore. Alone of all the gods, he’d been taught, Om delivered the answers straight into the depths of the head. Since the prophet Brutha, Om was the silent god. That’s what they said.
If you didn’t have faith, then you weren’t anything. There was just the dark.
He shuddered in the gloom. Was the god silent, or was there no one to speak?
He tried praying again, more desperately this time, fragments of childish prayer, losing control of the words and even of their direction, so that they tumbled out and soared away into the universe addressed simply to The Occupier.
The rain dripped off his hat.
He knelt and waited in the wet darkness, and listened to his own mind, and remembered, and took out the
Book of Om
once more.
And made a great light.
The coach thundered through pine trees by a lake, struck a tree root, lost a wheel and skidded to a halt on its side as the horses bolted.
Igor picked himself up, lurched to the coach and raised a door.
“Thorry about that,” he said. “I’m afraid thith alwayth happenth when the marthter ithn’t on board. Everyone all right down there?”
A hand grabbed him by the throat.
“You could have warned us!” Nanny growled. “We were thrown all over the place! Where the hell are we? Is this Slake?”
A match flared and Igor lit a torch.
“We’re near the cathle,” he said.
“Whose?”
“The Magpyrth.”
“We’re near the
vampires’
castle?”
“Yeth. I think the old marthter did thomething to the road here. The wheelth alwayth come off, ath thure ath eggth ith eggth. Bringth in the vithitorth, he thed.”
“It didn’t occur to you to mention it?” said Nanny, climbing out and giving Magrat a hand.
“Thorry. It’th been a buthy day…”
Nanny took the torch. The flames illuminated a crude sign nailed to a tree.
“‘Don’t go near the Castle!!’” Nanny read. “Nice of them to put an arrow pointing the way to it, too.”
“Oh, the marthter did that,” said Igor. “Otherwithe people wouldn’t notice it.”
Nanny peered into the gloom. “And who’s in the castle now?”
“A few thervantth.”
“Will they let us in?”
“That’th not a problem.” Igor fished in his noisome shirt and pulled out a very big key on a string.
“We going to go
into
their
castle
?” said Magrat.
“Looks like it’s the only place around,” said Nanny Ogg. heading up the track. “The coach is wrecked. We’re miles from anywhere else. Do you want to keep the baby out all night? A castle’s a castle. It’ll have locks. All the vampires are in Lancre. And—”
“Well?”
“It’s what Esme would’ve done. I feels it in my blood.”
A little way off something howled. Nanny looked at Igor.
“Werewolf?” she said.
“That’th right.”
“Not a good idea to hang around, then.”
She pointed to a sign painted on a rock.
“‘Don’t take thi
ƒ
quicke
ƒ
t route to the Ca
ƒ
tle,’” she read aloud. “You’ve got to admire a mind like that. Definitely a student of human nature.”
“Won’t there be a lot of ways in?” said Magrat, as they walked past a sign that said:
DON’T GO NERE THE COACH PARK
, 20
YDS. ON LEFT
.
“Igor?” said Nanny.
“Vampireth uthed to fight amongtht themthelveth,” said Igor. “There’th only one way in.”
“Oh, all
right,
if we must,” said Magrat, “You take the rocker, and the used nappy bag. And the teddies. And the thing that goes round and round and plays noises when she pulls the string—”
A sign near the drawbridge said
LA
ƒ
T CHANCE NOT TO GO NEAR THE CA
ƒ
TLE
, and Nanny Ogg laughed and laughed.
“The Count’s not going to be very happy about you, Igor,” she said, as he unlocked the doors.
“Thod him,” he said. “I’m going to pack up my thtuff and head for Blintth. There’th alwayth a job for an Igor up there. More lightning thtriketh per year than anywhere in the mountainth, they thay.”
Nanny Ogg wiped her eye. “Good job we’re soaked already,” she said. “All right, let’s get in. And, Igor, if you haven’t been thtraight with us, sorry, straight with us, I’ll have your guts for garters.”
Igor looked down bashfully. “Oh, that’th more than a man could pothibly hope for,” he murmured.
Magrat giggled and Igor pushed open the door and hurriedly shuffled inside.
“What?” said Nanny.
“Haven’t you noticed the looks he’s been giving you?” said Magrat, as they followed the lurching figure.
“What,
him
?” said Nanny.
“Could be carrying a torch for you,” said Magrat.
“I thought it was just to see where he’s going!” said Nanny, a little bit of panic in her voice. “I mean, I haven’t got my best drawers on or anything!”
“I think he’s a bit of a romantic, actually,” said Magrat.
“Oh, I don’t know, I really don’t,” said Nanny. “I mean, it’s flattering and everything, but I really don’t think I could be goin’ out with a man with a limp.”
“Limp what?”
Nanny Ogg had always considered herself unshockable, but there’s no such thing. Shocks can come from unexpected directions.
“I
am
a married woman,” said Magrat, smiling at her expression. And it felt good, just once, to place a small tintack in the path of Nanny’s carefree amble through life.
“But is…I mean, is Verence, you know, all right in the—”
“Oh yes. Everything’s…fine. But now I understand what your jokes were about.”
“What,
all
of them?” said Nanny, like someone who’d found all the aces removed from their favorite pack of cards.
“Well, not the one about the priest, the old woman and the rhinoceros.”
“I should just about hope so!” said Nanny. “I didn’t understand
that
one until I was forty!”
Igor limped back.
“There’th jutht the thervantth,” he said. “You could thtay down in my quarterth in the old tower. There’th thick doorth.”
“Mrs. Ogg would really like that,” said Magrat. “She was saying just now what good legs you’ve got, weren’t you, Nanny…”
“Do you want thome?” said Igor earnestly, leading the way up the steps. “I’ve got plenty and I could do with the thpathe in the ithehouthe.”
“You what?” said Nanny, stopping dead.
“I’m your man if there’th any organ you need,” said Igor.
There was a strangled coughing noise from Magrat.
“You’ve got—bits of people stored on ice?” said Nanny, horrified. “Bits of strange people? Chopped up? I’m not taking another step!”
Now Igor looked horrified.
“Not
thtrangerth
,” he said.
“Family.”
“You chopped up your
family
?” Nanny backed away.
Igor waved his hands frantically.
“It’s a tradithion!” he said. “Every Igor leaveth hith body to the family! Why wathte good organth? Look at my uncle Igor, he died of buffaloeth, tho there wath a perfectly good heart and thome kidneyth going begging, pluth he’d thtill got Grandad’th handth and they were damn good handth, let me tell you.” He sniffed. “I with I’d had them, he wath a great thurgeon.”
“We-ll…I suppose every family says things like ‘he’s got his father’s eyes’—” Nanny began.
“No, my thecond couthin Igor got
them
.”
“But—but…who does the cutting and sewing?” said Magrat.
“I do. An Igor learnth houthehold thurgery on hith father’th knee,” said Igor. “And then practitheth on hith grandfather’th kidneyth.”
“’scuse me,” said Nanny. “What did you say your uncle died of?”
“Buffaloeth,” said Igor, unlocking another door.
“He broke out in them?”
“A herd fell on him. A freak acthident. We don’t talk about it.”
“Sorry, are you telling us you do surgery on
yourself
?” said Magrat.
“It’th not hard when you know what you’re doing. Thome-timeth you need a mirror, of courth, and it helpth if thomeone can put a finger on the knotth.”
“Isn’t it painful?”
“Oh no, I always tell them to take it away jutht before I pull the thtring tight.”
The door creaked open. It was a long, tortured groaning noise. In fact there was more creak than door, and it went on just a few seconds after the door had stopped.
“That sounds
dreadful
,” said Nanny.
“Thank you. It took dayth to get right. Creakth like that don’t jutht happen by themthelveth.”
There was a woof from the darkness and
something
leapt at Igor, knocking him off his feet.
“Got off, you big thoppy!”
It was a dog. Or several dogs rolled, as it were, into one. There were four legs, and they were nearly all the same length although not, Agnes noted, all the same color. There was one head, although the left ear was black and pointed while the right ear was brown and white and flopped. It was a very enthusiastic animal in the department of slobber.
“Thith ith Thcrapth,” said Igor, fighting to get to his feet in a hail of excited paws. “He’th a thilly old thing.”
“Scraps…yes,” said Nanny. “Good name. Good name.”
“He’th theventy-eight yearth old,” said Igor, leading the way down a winding staircase. “Thome of him.”
“Very neat stitching,” said Magrat. “He looks well on it, too. Happy as a dog with two—oh, I see he
does
have two…”
“I had one thpare,” said Igor, leading the way with Scraps bounding along beside him. “I thought, he’th tho happy with one, jutht think of the fun he could have with two…”
Nanny Ogg’s mouth didn’t even get half open—
“Don’t you even
think
of saying anything, Gytha Ogg!” snapped Magrat.
“Me?” said Nanny innocently.
“Yes! And you
were
. I could
see
you! You
know
he was talking about tails, not…anything else.”
“Oh, I thought about
that
long ago,” said Igor. “It’th obviouth. Thaveth wear and tear, pluth you can uthe one while you’re replathing the other. I ecthperimented on mythelf.”
Their footsteps echoed on the stairs.
“Now, what are we talking about here, exactly?” said Nanny, in a quiet I’m-only-asking-out-of-interest tone of voice.
“Heartth,” said Igor.
“Oh, two
hearts
. You’ve got two hearts?”
“Yeth. The other one belonged to poor Mr. Thwinetth down at the thawmill, but hith wife thed it wath no uthe to him after the acthident, what with him not having a head to go with it.”
“You’re a bit of a self-made man on the quiet, aren’t you,” said Magrat.
“Who did your brain?” said Nanny.
“Can’t do brainth yourthelf,” said Igor.
“Only…you’ve got all those stitches…”
“Oh, I put a metal plate in my head,” said Igor. “And a wire down my neck all the way to my bootth. I got fed up with all thothe lightning thtriketh. Here we are.” He unlocked another groaning door. “My little plathe.”
It was a dank vaulted room, clearly lived in by someone who didn’t spent a lot of social time there. There was a fireplace with a dog basket in front of it, and a bed with a mattress and one blanket. Crude cupboards lined one wall.
“There’th a well under that cover there,” he said, “and there’th a privy through there…”
“What’s through
that
door?” said Nanny, pointing to one with heavy bolts across it.
“Nothing,” said Igor.
Nanny shot him a glance. But the bolts were very firmly on this side.
“This looks like a crypt,” she said. “With a fireplace.”
“When the
old
Count wath alive he liked to get warm of an evening before going out,” said Igor. “Golden dayth, them wath. I wouldn’t give you tuppenth for the new vampireth. D’you know, they wanted me to get rid of Thcrapth?”
Scraps leapt up and tried to lick Nanny’s face.
“I thaw Lacrimotha
kick
him onthe,” said Igor darkly. He rubbed his hands together. “Can I get you ladieth anything to eat?”
“No,” said Nanny and Magrat together.
Scraps tried to lick Igor. He was a dog with a lot of lick to share.
“Thcrapth play dead,” said Igor. The dog dropped and rolled over with his legs in the air.
“Thee?” said Igor. “He rememberth!”
“Won’t we be cornered down here if the Magpyrs come?” said Magrat.
“They don’t come down here. It’th not
modern
enough for them,” said Igor. “And there’th wayth out if they do.”
Magrat glanced at the bolted door. It didn’t look the kind of way out anyone would want to take.
“What about weapons?” she said. “I shouldn’t think there’d be any anti-vampire stuff in a vampire’s castle, would there?”
“Why, thertainly,” said Igor.
“There is?”
“Ath much ath you want. The old marthter wath very keen on that. When we had vithitorth ecthpected, he alwayth thed, ‘Igor, make thertain the windowth are clean and there’th lotth of lemonth and bitth of ornament that can be turned into religiouth thymbolth around the plathe.’ He enjoyed it when people played by the ruleth. Very fair, the old marthter.”
“Yeah, but that’d mean he’d die, wouldn’t it?” said Nanny. She opened a cupboard and a stack of wrinkled lemons fell out.
Igor shrugged. “You win thome, you lothe thome,” he said. “The old marther uthed to thay, ‘Igor, the day vampireth win all the time, that’th the day we’ll be knocked back beyond return.’ Mind you, he got annoyed when people pinched hith thockth. He’d thay, ‘thod, that wath thilk, ten dollarth a pair in Ankh-Morpork.’”
“And he probably spent a lot of money on blotting paper, too,” said Nanny. Another cupboard revealed a rack of stakes, along with a mallet and a simple anatomical diagram with an X over the heart area.
“The chart wath my idea, Mithith Ogg,” said Igor proudly. “The old marthter got fed up with people just hammering the thtaketh in any old where. He thed he didn’t mind the dying, that wath quite rethtful, but he did object to looking like a colander.”
“You’re a bright chap, aren’t you, Igor,” said Nanny.
Igor beamed. “I’ve got a good brain in my head.”
“Chose it yourself, did you? No, only joking. You can’t do brains.”
“I’ve got a dithtant couthin at Untheen Univerthity, you know.”
“Really? What’s he do there?”
“Floatth around in hith jar,” said Igor, proudly. “Thall I thow you the holy water thellar? The old marthter build up a very good collection.”
“Sorry? A
vampire
collected
holy water
?” said Magrat.
“I think I’m beginning to understand,” said Nanny. “He was a sportsman, right?”
“Egthactly!”
“And a good sportsman always gives the valiant prey a decent chance,” said Nanny. “Even if it means having a cellar of Chateau Nerf de Pope. Sounds an intelligent bird, your old boy. Not like this new one. He’s just clever.”