Wyrd Sisters Part 25

The kiss lasted more than fifteen years.

Not even frogs can manage that.

The Fool drew back, his eyes glazed, his expression one of puzzlement.

"Did you feel the world move?" he said.

Magrat peered over his shoulder at the forest.

"I think she's done it," she said.

"Done what?"

Magrat hesitated. "Oh. Nothing. Nothing much, really."

"Shall we have another try? I don't think we got it quite right that time."

Magrat nodded.

This time it lasted only fifteen seconds. It seemed longer.

A tremor ran through the castle, shaking the breakfast tray from which the Duke Felmet, much to his relief, was eating porridge that wasn't too salty.

It was felt by the ghosts that now filled Nanny Ogg's cottage like a rugby team in a telephone box.

It spread to every henhouse in the kingdom, and a number of hands relaxed their grip. And thirty-two purple-faced c.o.c.kerels took a deep breath and crowed like maniacs, but they were too late, too late...

"I still reckon you were up to something," said Granny Weatherwax.

"Have another cup of tea," said Nanny pleasantly.

"You won't go and put any drink in it, will you," Granny said flatly. "It was the drink what did it last night. I would never have put myself forward like that. It's shameful."

"Black Aliss never done anything like it," said Nanny, encouragingly. "I mean, it was a hundred years, all right, but it was only one castle she moved. I reckon anyone could do a castle."

Granny's frown puckered at the edge.

"And she let all weeds grow over it," she observed primly.

"Right enough."

"Very well done," said King Verence, eagerly. "We all thought it was superb. Being in the ethereal plane, of course, we were in a position to observe closely."

"Very good, your graciousness," said Nanny Ogg. She turned and observed the crowding ghosts behind him, who hadn't been granted the privilege of sitting at, or partly through, the kitchen table.

"But you lot can b.u.g.g.e.r off back to the outhouse," she said. "The cheek! Except the kiddies, they can stay," she added. "Poor little mites."

"I am afraid it feels so good to be out of the castle," said the king.

Granny Weatherwax yawned.

"Anyway," she said, "we've got to find the boy now. That's the next step."

"We shall look for him directly after lunch."

"Lunch?"

"It's chicken," said Nanny. "And you're tired. Besides, making a decent search will take a long time."

"He'll be in Ankh-Morpork," said Granny. "Mark my words. Everyone ends up there. We'll start with Ankh-Morpork. You don't have to search for people when destiny is involved, you just wait for them in Ankh-Morpork."

Nanny brightened up. "Our Karen got married to an innkeeper from there," she said. "I haven't seen the baby yet. We could get free board and everything."

"We needn't actually go. The whole point is that he should come here here. There's something about that city," said Granny. "It's like a drain."

"It's five hundred miles away!" said Magrat. "You'll be away for ages!"

"I can't help it," said the Fool. "The duke's given me special instructions. He trusts me."

"Huh! To hire more soldiers, I expect?"

"No. Nothing like that. Not as bad as that." The Fool hesitated. He'd introduced Felmet to the world of words. Surely that was better than hitting people with swords? Wouldn't that buy time? Wouldn't it be best for everybody, in the circ.u.mstances?

"But you don't have to go! You don't want want to go!" to go!"

"That doesn't have much to do with it. I promised to be loyal to him-"

"Yes, yes, until you're dead. But you don't even believe believe that! You were telling me how much you hated the whole Guild and everything!" that! You were telling me how much you hated the whole Guild and everything!"

"Well, yes. But I still have to do it. I gave my word."

Magrat came close to stamping her foot, but didn't sink so low.

"Just when we were getting to know one another!" she shouted. "You're pathetic!"

The Fool's eyes narrowed. "I'd only be pathetic if I broke my word," he said. "But I may be incredibly ill-advized. I'm sorry. I'll be back in a few weeks, anyway."

"Don't you understand I'm asking you not to listen to him?"

"I said I'm sorry. I couldn't see you again before I go, could I?"

"I shall be washing my hair," said Magrat stiffly.

"When?"

"Whenever!"

Hwel pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted wearily at the wax-spattered paper.

The play wasn't going at all well.

He'd sorted out the falling chandelier, and found a place for a villain who wore a mask to conceal his disfigurement, and he'd rewritten one of the funny bits to allow for the fact that the hero had been born in a handbag. It was the clowns who were giving him trouble again. They kept changing every time he thought about them. He preferred them in twos, that was traditional, but now there seemed to be a third one, and he was blowed if he could think of any funny lines for him.

His quill moved scratchily over the latest sheet of paper, trying to catch the voices that had streamed through his dreaming mind and had seemed so funny at the time.

His tongue began to stick out of the corner of his mouth. He was sweating.

This iss My Little Study, he wrote. Hey, with a Little Study youe could goe a Long Way. And I wishe youed start now. Iffe You can't leave yn a Cab then leave yn a Huff. Iff thates too soone, thenn leave yn a minute and a Huff. Say, have you Gott a Pensil? A crayon Hey, with a Little Study youe could goe a Long Way. And I wishe youed start now. Iffe You can't leave yn a Cab then leave yn a Huff. Iff thates too soone, thenn leave yn a minute and a Huff. Say, have you Gott a Pensil? A crayon?- Hwel stared at this in horror. On the page it looked nonsensical, ridiculous. And yet, and yet, in the thronged auditorium of his mind...

He dipped the quill in the inkpot, and chased the echoes further.

Seconde Clown: Atsa right, Boss.

Third Clowne: [business with bladder on stick] Honk. Honk Honk. Honk.

Hwel gave up. Yes, it was funny, he knew knew it was funny, he'd heard the laughter in his dreams. But it wasn't right. Not yet. Maybe never. It was like the other idea about the two clowns, one fat, one thin... it was funny, he'd heard the laughter in his dreams. But it wasn't right. Not yet. Maybe never. It was like the other idea about the two clowns, one fat, one thin...Thys ys amain Dainty Messe youe have got me into, Stanleigh...He had laughed until his chest ached, and the rest of the company had looked at him in astonishment. But in his dreams it was hilarious.

He laid down the pen and rubbed his eyes. It must be nearly midnight, and the habit of a lifetime told him to spare the candles although, for a fact, they could afford all the candles they could eat now, whatever Vitoller might say.

Hour gongs were being struck all across the city and night-watchmen were proclaiming that it was indeed midnight and also that, in the face of all the evidence, all was well. Many of them got as far as the end of the sentence before being mugged.

Hwel pushed open the shutters and looked out at Ankh-Morpork.

It would be tempting to say the twin city was at its best this time of year, but that wouldn't be entirely correct. It was at its most typical typical.

The river Ankh, the cloaca of half a continent, was already pretty wide and silt laden when it reached the city's outskirts. By the time it left it didn't so much flow as exude. Owing to the accretion of the mud of centuries the bed of the river was in fact higher than some of the low lying areas and now, with the snow melt swelling the flow, many of the low-rent districts on the Morpork side were flooded, if you can use that word for a liquid you could pick up in a net. This sort of thing happened every year and would have caused havoc with the drains and sewage systems, so it is just as well that the city didn't have very many. Its inhabitants merely kept a punt handy in the back yard and, periodically, built another story on the house.

It was reckoned to be very healthy there. Very few germs were able to survive.

Hwel looked across a sort of misty sea in which buildings cl.u.s.tered like a sandcastle compet.i.tion at high tide. Flares and lighted windows made pleasing patterns on the iridescent surface, but there was one glare of light, much closer to hand, which particularly occupied his attention.

On a patch of slightly higher ground by the river, bought by Vitoller for a ruinous sum, a new building was rising. It was growing even by night, like a mushroom-Hwel could see the cressets burning all along the scaffolding as the hired craftsmen and even some of the players themselves refused to let the mere shade of the sky interrupt their labors.

New buildings were rare in Morpork, but this was even a new type type of building. of building.

The Dysk Dysk.

Vitoller had been aghast at the idea at first, but young Tomjon had kept at him. And everyone knew that once the lad had got the feel of it he could persuade water to flow uphill.

"But we've always always moved around, laddie," said Vitoller, in the desperate voice of one who knows that, at the end of it all, he's going to lose the argument. "I can't go around settling down at my time of life." moved around, laddie," said Vitoller, in the desperate voice of one who knows that, at the end of it all, he's going to lose the argument. "I can't go around settling down at my time of life."

"It's not doing you any good," said Tomjon firmly. "All these cold nights and frosty mornings. You're not getting any younger. We should stay put somewhere, and let people come to us. And they will, too. You know the crowds we're getting now. Hwel's plays are famous."

"It's not my plays," Hwel had said. "It's the players."

"I can't see me sitting by a fire in a stuffy room and sleeping on feather beds and all that nonsense," said Vitoller, but he'd seen the look on his wife's face and had given in.

And then there had been the theater itself. Making water run uphill was a parlor trick compared to getting the cash out of Vitoller but, it was a fact, they had been doing well these days. Ever since Tomjon had been big enough to wear a ruff and say two words without his voice cracking.

Hwel and Vitoller had watched the first few beams of the wooden framework go up.

"It's against nature," Vitoller had complained, leaning on his stick. "Capturing the spirit of the theater, putting it in a cage. It'll kill it."

"Oh, I don't know," said Hwel diffidently. Tomjon had laid his plans well, he'd devoted an entire evening to Hwel before even broaching the subject to his father, and now the dwarf's mind was on fire with the possibilities of backdrops and scenery changes and wings and flies and magnificent engines that could lower G.o.ds from the heavens and trapdoors that could raise demons from h.e.l.l. Hwel was no more capable of objecting to the new theater than a monkey was of resenting a banana plantation.

"d.a.m.n thing hasn't even got a name," Vitoller had said. "I should call it the Golde Mine Golde Mine, because that's what it's costing me. Where's the money going to come from, that's what I'd like to know."

In fact they'd tried a lot of names, none of which suited Tomjon.

"It's got to be a name that means everything," he said. "Because there's everything inside it. The whole world on the stage, do you see?"

And Hwel had said, knowing as he said it that what he was saying was exactly right, "The Disc."

And now the Dysk was nearly done, and still he hadn't written the new play.

He shut the window and wandered back to his desk, picked up the quill, and pulled another sheet of paper toward him. A thought struck him. The whole world was was a stage, to the G.o.ds... a stage, to the G.o.ds...

Presently he began to write.

All the Disc it is but an Theater, he wrote, Ane alle men and wymmen are but Players Ane alle men and wymmen are but Players. He made the mistake of pausing, and another inspiration sleeted down, sending his train of thought off along an entirely new track.

He looked at what he had written and added: Except Those who selle popcorn Except Those who selle popcorn.

After a while he crossed this out, and tried: Like unto thee Staje of a Theater ys the World, whereon alle Persons strut as Players Like unto thee Staje of a Theater ys the World, whereon alle Persons strut as Players.

This seemed a bit better.

He thought for a bit, and continued conscientiously: Sometimes they walke on. Sometimes they walke off Sometimes they walke on. Sometimes they walke off.

He seemed to be losing it. Time, time, what he needed was an infinity...