Lords And Ladies Part 10

Amanita DeVice had told her that Diamanda slept in a real coffin.

She wished she had the nerve to have a dagger-and-skull tattoo on her arm like Amanita did, even if it was was only in ordinary ink and she had to wash it off every night in case her mother saw it. only in ordinary ink and she had to wash it off every night in case her mother saw it.

A tiny, nasty voice from Perdita's inner self suggested that Amanita wasn't a good choice of name.

Or Perdita, for that matter.

And it said that maybe Perdita shouldn't meddle with things she didn't understand.

The trouble was, she knew, that this meant nearly everything.

She wished she could wear black lace like Diamanda did.

Diamanda got results.

Perdita wouldn't have believed it. She'd always known about witches, of course. They were old women who dressed like crows, except for Magrat Garlick, who was frankly mental mental and always looked as if she was going to burst into tears. Perdita remembered Magrat bringing a guitar to a Hogswatchnight party once and singing wobbly folk songs with her eyes shut in a way that suggested that she really believed in them. She hadn't been able to play, but this was all right because she couldn't sing, either. People had applauded because, well, what else could you do? and always looked as if she was going to burst into tears. Perdita remembered Magrat bringing a guitar to a Hogswatchnight party once and singing wobbly folk songs with her eyes shut in a way that suggested that she really believed in them. She hadn't been able to play, but this was all right because she couldn't sing, either. People had applauded because, well, what else could you do?

But Diamanda had read books. She knew about stuff. Raising power at the stones, for one thing. It really worked.

Currently she was showing them the cards.

The wind had got up again tonight. It rattled the shutters and made soot fall down the chimney. It seemed to Perdita that it had blown all the shadows into the corners of the room- "Are you paying attention, sister?" said Diamanda coldly.

That was another thing. You had to call one another 'sister,' out of fraternity.

"Yes, Diamanda," she said, meekly.

"This is the Moon," Diamanda repeated, "for those who weren't paying attention." She held up the card. "And what do we see here-you, Muscara?" is the Moon," Diamanda repeated, "for those who weren't paying attention." She held up the card. "And what do we see here-you, Muscara?"

"Um...it's got a picture of the moon on it?" said Muscara (nee Susan) in a hopeful voice. Susan) in a hopeful voice.

"Of course it's not the moon moon. It's a nonmimetic convention, not tied to a conventional referencing system, actually actually," said Diamanda.

"Ah."

A gust rocked the cottage. The door burst open and slammed back against the wall, giving a glimpse of cloud-wracked sky in which a nonmimetic convention was showing a crescent.

Diamanda waved a hand. There was a brief flash of octarine light. The door jerked shut. Diamanda smiled in what Perdita thought of as her cool, knowing way.

She placed the card on the black velvet cloth in front of her.

Perdita looked at it gloomily. It was all very pretty, the cards were colored like little pasteboard jewels, and they had interesting names. But that little traitor voice whispered: how the h.e.l.l can they know what the future holds? Cardboard isn't very bright.

On the other hand, the coven was was helping people...more or less. Raising power and all that sort of thing. Oh dear, supposing she asks helping people...more or less. Raising power and all that sort of thing. Oh dear, supposing she asks me me?

Perdita realized that she was feeling worried. Something was wrong. It had just gone wrong. She didn't know what it was, but it had gone wrong now. She looked up.

"Blessings be upon this house," said Granny Weatherwax.

In much the same tone of voice have people said, "Eat hot lead, Kincaid," and, "I expect you're wondering after all that excitement whether I've got any balloons and lampshades left."

Diamanda's mouth dropped open.

"'Ere, you're doing that wrong. You don't want to muck about with a hand like that," said Nanny Ogg helpfully, looking over her shoulder. "You've got a Double Onion there."

"Who are you you?"

Suddenly they were there. Perdita thought: one minute there's shadows, the next minute they were there there, solid as anything.

"What's all the chalk on the floor, then?" said Nanny Ogg. "You've got all chalk on the floor. And heathen writing. Not that I've got anything against heathens," she added. She appeared to think about it. "I'm practic'ly one," she added further, "but I don't write on the floor. What'd you want to write all on the floor for?" She nudged Perdita. "You'll never get the chalk out," she said, "it gets right into the grain."

"Um, it's a magic circle," said Perdita. "Um, h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Ogg. Um. It's to keep bad influences away..."

Granny Weatherwax leaned forward slightly.

"Tell me, my dear," she said to Diamanda, "do you think it's working?"

She leaned forward further.

Diamanda leaned backward.

And then slowly leaned forward again.

They ended up nose to nose.

"Who's this?" said Diamanda, out of the corner of her mouth.

"Um, it's Granny Weatherwax," said Perdita. "Um. She's a witch, um..."

"What level?" said Diamanda.

Nanny Ogg looked around for something to hide behind. Granny Weatherwax's eyebrow twitched.

"Levels, eh?" she said. "Well, I suppose I'm level one."

"Just starting?" said Diamanda.

"Oh dear. Tell you what," said Nanny Ogg quietly to Perdita, "if we was to turn the table over, we could probably hide behind it, no problem."

But to herself she was thinking: Esme can never resist a challenge. None of us can. You ain't a witch if you ain't got self-confidence. But we're not getting any younger. It's like being a hired swordfighter, being a top witch. You think you're good, but you know there's got to be someone younger, practicing every day, polishing up their craft, and one day you're walkin' down the road and you hears this voice behind you sayin': go for your toad, or similar.

Even for Esme. Sooner or later, she'll come up against someone faster on the craftiness than she is.

"Oh, yes," said Granny, quietly. "Just starting. Every day, just starting."

Nanny Ogg thought: but it won't be today.

"You stupid old woman," said Diamanda, "you don't frighten me. Oh, yes. I know all about the way you old ones frighten superst.i.tious peasants, actually actually. Muttering and squinting. It's all in the mind. Simple psychology. It's not real real witchcraft." witchcraft."

"I'll, er, I'll just go into the scullery and, er, see if I can fill any buckets with water, shall I?" said Nanny Ogg, to no one in particular.

"I 'spect you'd know all all about witchcraft," said Granny Weatherwax. about witchcraft," said Granny Weatherwax.

"I'm studying, yes," said Diamanda.

Nanny Ogg realized that she had removed her own hat and was biting nervously at the brim.

"I 'spect you're really really good at it," said Granny Weatherwax. good at it," said Granny Weatherwax.

"Quite good," said Diamanda.

"Show me."

She is is good, thought Nanny Ogg. She's been facing down Esme's stare for more'n a minute. Even good, thought Nanny Ogg. She's been facing down Esme's stare for more'n a minute. Even snakes snakes generally give up after a minute. generally give up after a minute.

If a fly had darted through the few inches of s.p.a.ce between their stares it would have flashed into flame in the air.

"I learned my craft from Nanny Gripes," said Granny Weatherwax, "who learned it from Goody Heggety, who got it from Nanna Plumb, who was taught it by Black Aliss, who-"

"So what you're saying is, is," said Diamanda, loading the words into the sentence like cartridges in a chamber, "that no one no one has has actually actually learned anything learned anything new new?"

The silence that followed was broken by Nanny Ogg saying: "b.u.g.g.e.r, I've bitten right through the brim. Right through."

"I see, see," said Granny Weatherwax.

"Look," said Nanny Ogg hurriedly, nudging the trembling Perdita, "right through the lining and everything. Two dollars and curing his pig that hat cost me. That's two dollars and a pig cure I shan't see again in a hurry."

"So you can just go away, old woman," said Diamanda.

"But we ought to meet again," said Granny Weatherwax.

The old witch and the young witch weighed one another up.

"Midnight?" said Diamanda.

"Midnight? Nothing special about midnight. Practic'ly anyone can be a witch at midnight," said Granny Weatherwax. "How about noon?"

"Certainly. What are we fighting for?" said Diamanda.

"Fighting? We ain't fighting fighting. We're just showing each other what we can do. Friendly like," said Granny Weatherwax.

She stood up.

"I'd better be goin'," she said. "Us old people need our sleep, you know how it is."

"And what does the winner get?" said Diamanda. There was just a trace of uncertainty in her voice now. It was very faint, on the Richter scale of doubt it was probably no more than a plastic teacup five miles away falling off a low shelf onto a carpet, but it was there.

"Oh, the winner gets to win," said Granny Weatherwax. "That's what it's all about. Don't bother to see us out. You didn't see us in."

The door slammed back.

"Simple psychokinesis," said Diamanda.

"Oh, well. That's all right then," said Granny Weatherwax, disappearing into the night. "Explains it all, that does."

There used to be such simple directions, back in the days before they invented parallel universes-Up and Down, Right and Left, Backward and Forward, Past and Future...

But normal directions don't work in the multiverse, which has far too many dimensions for anyone to find their way. So new ones have to be invented so that the way can can be found. be found.

Like: East of the Sun, West of the Moon.

Or: Behind the North Wind.

Or: At the Back of Beyond.

Or: There and Back Again.

Or: Beyond the Fields We Know.

And sometimes there's a short cut. A door or a gate. Some standing stones, a tree cleft by lightning, a filing cabinet.

Maybe just a spot on some moorland somewhere...

A place where there there is very nearly is very nearly here here.

Nearly, but not quite. There's enough leakage to make pendulums swing and psychics get nasty headaches, to give a house a reputation for being haunted, to make the occasional pot hurl across a room. There's enough leakage to make the drones fly guard.

Oh, yes. The drones.

There are things called drone a.s.semblies. Sometimes, on fine summer days, the drones from hives for miles around will congregate in some spot, and fly circles in the air, buzzing like tiny early warning systems, which is what they are.

Bees are sensible. It's a human word. But bees are creatures of order, and programmed into their very genes is a hatred of chaos.

If some people once knew where such a spot was, if they had experience of what happens when here and there become entangled, then they might-if they knew how-mark such a spot with certain stones.

In the hope that enough daft b.u.g.g.e.rs would take it as a warning, and keep away.

"Well, what'd you think?" said Granny, as the witches hurried home.

"The little fat quiet one's got a bit of natural talent," said Nanny Ogg. "I could feel it. The rest of 'em are just along for the excitement, to my mind. Playing at witches. You know, ooh-jar boards and cards and wearing black lace gloves with no fingers to 'em and paddlin' with the occult."