Lords and Ladies by Terry Pratchett

Oggishness.
    She sat for a while in her spotless kitchen, drinking rum and smoking her foul pipe and staring at the paintings on the wall. They had been done by her youngest grandchildren in a dozen shades of mud, most of them of blobby stick figures with the word GRAN blobbily blobbed in underneath in muddy blobby letters.
    In front of her the cat Greebo, glad to be home again, lay on his back with all four paws in the air, doing his celebrated something-found-in-the-gutter impersonation.
    Finally Nanny got up and ambled thoughtfully down to Jason Ogg’s smithy.
    A smithy always occupied an important position in the villages, doing the duty of town hall, meeting room, and general clearing house for gossip. Several men were lounging around in it now, filling in time between the normal Lancre occupations of poaching and watching the women do the work.
    “Jason Ogg, I wants a word with you.”
    The smithy emptied like magic. It was probably something in Nanny Ogg’s tone of voice. But Nanny reached out and grabbed one man by the arm as he tried to go past at a sort of stumbling crouch.
    “I’m glad I’ve run into you, Mr. Quarney,” she said. “Don’t rush off. Store doing all right, is it?”
    Lancre’s only storekeeper gave her the look a three-legged mouse gives an athletic cat. Nevertheless, he tried.
    “Oh, terrible bad, terrible bad business is right now, Mrs. Ogg.”
    “Same as normal, eh?”
    Mr. Quarney’s expression was pleading. He knew he wasn’t going to get out without something , he just wanted to know what it was.
    “Well, now,” said Nanny, “you know the widow Scrope, lives over in Slice?”
    Quarney’s mouth opened.
    “She’s not a widow,” he said. “She—”
    “Bet you half a dollar?” said Nanny.
    Quarney’s mouth stayed open, and around it the rest of his face recomposed itself in an expression of fascinated horror.
    “So she’s to be allowed credit, right, until she gets the farm on its feet,” said Nanny, in the silence. Quarney nodded mutely.
    “That goes for the rest of you men listening outside the door,” said Nanny, raising her voice. “Dropping a cut of meat on her doorstep once a week wouldn’t come amiss, eh? And she’ll probably want extra help come harvest. I knows I can depend on you all. Now, off you go…”
    They ran for it, leaving Nanny Ogg standing triumphantly in the doorway.
    Jason Ogg looked at her hopelessly, a fifteen-stone man reduced to a four-year-old boy.
    “Jason?”
    “I got to do this bit of brazing for old—”
    “So,” said Nanny, ignoring him, “what’s been happening in these parts while we’ve been away, my lad?”
    Jason poked at the fire distractedly with an iron bar.
    “Oh, well, us had a big whirlwind on Hogswatchnight and one of Mother Peason’s hens laid the same egg three times, and old Poorchick’s cow gave birth to a seven-headed snake, and there was a rain of frogs over in Slice—”
    “Been pretty normal, then,” said Nanny Ogg. She refilled her pipe in a casual but meaningful way.
    “All very quiet, really,” said Jason. He pulled the bar out of the fire, laid it on the anvil, and raised his hammer.
    “I’ll find out sooner or later, you know,” said Nanny Ogg.
    Jason didn’t turn his head, but his hammer stopped in mid-air.
    “I always does, you know,” said Nanny Ogg.
    The iron cooled from the color of fresh straw to bright red.
    “You knows you always feels better for telling your old mum,” said Nanny Ogg.
    The iron cooled from red to spitting black. But Jason, used all day to the searing heat of a forge, seemed to be uncomfortably warm.
    “I should beat it up before it gets cold,” said Nanny Ogg.
    “Weren’t my fault, Mum! How could I stop ’em?”
    Nanny sat back in the chair, smiling happily.
    “What them would these be, my son?”
    “That young Diamanda and that Perdita and that girl with the red hair from over in Bad Ass and them others. I says to old Peason, I says you’d have