sent for Ponder Stibbons, his right-hand wizard.
‘The clacks confirms what Hex told you, Mr Stibbons,’ he said sadly. ‘The witch Esme Weatherwax of Lancre, known to many as Granny Weatherwax,has died.’ The Archchancellor looked slightly embarrassed. There was a bundle of letters on his lap, which he was turning over and over. ‘There was a bond, you see, when we were both young, but she wanted to be the best of all witches and I hoped one day to be Archchancellor. Alas for us, our dreams came true.’ fn6
‘Oh dear, sir. Would you like me to arrange your schedule so that you can attendthe funeral? There will be a funeral, I assume . . .’
‘Mr Stibbons, schedules be damned. I am leaving now. Right now.’
‘With respect, Archchancellor, I must tell you, sir, that you promised to go to a meeting with the Guild of Accountants and Usurers.’
‘Those penny-pinchers! Tell them that I have got an urgent matter of international affairs to deal with.’
Ponder hesitated. ‘That is not strictlytrue, is it, Archchancellor.’
Ridcully riposted with, ‘Oh yes, it is!’ Rules were for other people. Not for him. Nor, he thought with a pang, had they been for Esme Weatherwax . . . ‘How long have you been working for the University, young man?’ he boomed at Stibbons. ‘Dissembling is our stock in trade. Now I am going to get on my broomstick, Mr Stibbons, and I will leave the place in your verycapable hands.’
And in that . . . other world, that parasite with its evil little hooks in the gateways of stone, an elf was hatching his plans. Plotting to seize Fairyland from the control of a Queen who had never fully recovered her powers after her humiliating defeat at the hands of a young girl named Tiffany Aching. Plotting to pounce, to spring through a gateway that – for a time, at least– would be gossamer-thin. For a powerful hag no longer stood in their way. And those in that world would be vulnerable.
The Lord Peaseblossom’s eyes gleamed and his mind filled with glorious images of victims, of the pleasures of cruelty, the splendours of a land where the elves could toy once more with new playthings.
When the moment was right . . .
fn1 She did not know it, but a keen young philosopher in Ephebe had pondered exactly that same conundrum, until he was found one morning – most of him, anyway – surrounded by a number of purring, and very well fed, cats. No one had seemed keen to continue his experiments after that.
fn2 And its meals. It’s amazing how a night as an owl, snacking on voles, can really leave a nasty taste in your mouth.
fn3 She hadn’t ever needed to. Granny Weatherwax was like the prow of a ship. Seas parted when she turned up.
fn4 Pronounced Ah-wij.
fn5 The only known instance of the Feegles rebuilding a pub they had drunk dry and demolished. The rebuilt version, however, turned out back to front. Complete with a big ripe boil on the neck in question.
fn6 Thus proving that dreams that come true are not always the right dreams. Does wearing a glass slipper lead to a comfortable life? If everything you touch turns into marshmallows, won’t that make things a bit . . . sticky?
CHAPTER 4
A Farewell – and a Welcome
GETTING GRANNY WEATHERWAX’S corpse down the winding stair with its tiny little steps in the tiny little cottage the following morning was not helped by the big jug of cider which Nanny Ogg was emptying speedily, but nevertheless they got it done without a bump.
They laid Granny’s body carefully in the wicker casket, and Tiffany went out to the barn to fetchthe wheelbarrow and shovels while Nanny Ogg caught her breath. Then, together, they gently lifted the basket into the wheelbarrow, and placed the shovels on either side of her.
Tiffany picked up the handles of the barrow. ‘Ye stay here now, Rob,’ she said to the Feegle as he and his little band appeared from their varied hiding places and lined up behind her. ‘This is a hag thing, ye ken.
‘The clacks confirms what Hex told you, Mr Stibbons,’ he said sadly. ‘The witch Esme Weatherwax of Lancre, known to many as Granny Weatherwax,has died.’ The Archchancellor looked slightly embarrassed. There was a bundle of letters on his lap, which he was turning over and over. ‘There was a bond, you see, when we were both young, but she wanted to be the best of all witches and I hoped one day to be Archchancellor. Alas for us, our dreams came true.’ fn6
‘Oh dear, sir. Would you like me to arrange your schedule so that you can attendthe funeral? There will be a funeral, I assume . . .’
‘Mr Stibbons, schedules be damned. I am leaving now. Right now.’
‘With respect, Archchancellor, I must tell you, sir, that you promised to go to a meeting with the Guild of Accountants and Usurers.’
‘Those penny-pinchers! Tell them that I have got an urgent matter of international affairs to deal with.’
Ponder hesitated. ‘That is not strictlytrue, is it, Archchancellor.’
Ridcully riposted with, ‘Oh yes, it is!’ Rules were for other people. Not for him. Nor, he thought with a pang, had they been for Esme Weatherwax . . . ‘How long have you been working for the University, young man?’ he boomed at Stibbons. ‘Dissembling is our stock in trade. Now I am going to get on my broomstick, Mr Stibbons, and I will leave the place in your verycapable hands.’
And in that . . . other world, that parasite with its evil little hooks in the gateways of stone, an elf was hatching his plans. Plotting to seize Fairyland from the control of a Queen who had never fully recovered her powers after her humiliating defeat at the hands of a young girl named Tiffany Aching. Plotting to pounce, to spring through a gateway that – for a time, at least– would be gossamer-thin. For a powerful hag no longer stood in their way. And those in that world would be vulnerable.
The Lord Peaseblossom’s eyes gleamed and his mind filled with glorious images of victims, of the pleasures of cruelty, the splendours of a land where the elves could toy once more with new playthings.
When the moment was right . . .
fn1 She did not know it, but a keen young philosopher in Ephebe had pondered exactly that same conundrum, until he was found one morning – most of him, anyway – surrounded by a number of purring, and very well fed, cats. No one had seemed keen to continue his experiments after that.
fn2 And its meals. It’s amazing how a night as an owl, snacking on voles, can really leave a nasty taste in your mouth.
fn3 She hadn’t ever needed to. Granny Weatherwax was like the prow of a ship. Seas parted when she turned up.
fn4 Pronounced Ah-wij.
fn5 The only known instance of the Feegles rebuilding a pub they had drunk dry and demolished. The rebuilt version, however, turned out back to front. Complete with a big ripe boil on the neck in question.
fn6 Thus proving that dreams that come true are not always the right dreams. Does wearing a glass slipper lead to a comfortable life? If everything you touch turns into marshmallows, won’t that make things a bit . . . sticky?
CHAPTER 4
A Farewell – and a Welcome
GETTING GRANNY WEATHERWAX’S corpse down the winding stair with its tiny little steps in the tiny little cottage the following morning was not helped by the big jug of cider which Nanny Ogg was emptying speedily, but nevertheless they got it done without a bump.
They laid Granny’s body carefully in the wicker casket, and Tiffany went out to the barn to fetchthe wheelbarrow and shovels while Nanny Ogg caught her breath. Then, together, they gently lifted the basket into the wheelbarrow, and placed the shovels on either side of her.
Tiffany picked up the handles of the barrow. ‘Ye stay here now, Rob,’ she said to the Feegle as he and his little band appeared from their varied hiding places and lined up behind her. ‘This is a hag thing, ye ken.
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