Wyrd Sisters by Terry Pratchett Page B

And his—”
    “Your whole family have been Fools?”
    “Family tradition, sir,” said the Fool. “Prithee, I mean.”
    The duke smiled again, and the Fool was too worried to notice how many teeth it contained.
    “You come from these parts, don’t you?” said the duke.
    “Ma—Yes, sir.”
    “So you would know all about the native beliefs and so on?”
    “I suppose so, sir. Prithee.”
    “Good. Where do you sleep, my Fool?”
    “In the stables, sir.”
    “From now on you may sleep in the corridor outside my room,” said the duke beneficently.
    “Gosh!”
    “And now,” said the duke, his voice dripping across the Fool like treacle over a pudding, “tell me about witches…”

    That night the Fool slept on good royal flagstones in the whistling corridor above the Great Hall instead of the warm stuffy straw of the stables.
    “This is foolish,” he told himself. “Marry, but is it foolish enough ?”
    He dozed off fitfully, into some sort of dream where a vague figure kept trying to attract his attention, and was only dimly aware of the voices of Lord and Lady Felmet on the other side of the door.
    “It’s certainly a lot less drafty,” said the duchess grudgingly.
    The duke sat back in the armchair and smiled at his wife.
    “Well?” she demanded. “Where are the witches?”
    “The chamberlain would appear to be right, beloved. The witches seem to have the local people in thrall. The sergeant of the guard came back empty-handed.” Handed…he came down heavily on the importunate thought.
    “You must have him executed,” she said promptly. “To make an example to the others.”
    “A course of action, my dear, which ultimately results in us ordering the last soldier to cut his own throat as an example to himself. By the way,” he added mildly, “there would appear to be somewhat fewer servants around the place. You know I would not normally interfere—”
    “Then don’t,” she snapped. “Housekeeping is under my control. I cannot abide slackness .”
    “I’m sure you know best, but—”
    “What of these witches? Will you stand idly by and let trouble seed for the future? Will you let these witches defy you? What of the crown?”
    The duke shrugged. “No doubt it ended in the river,” he said.
    “And the child? He was given to the witches? Do they do human sacrifice?”
    “It would appear not,” said the duke. The duchess looked vaguely disappointed.
    “These witches,” said the duke. “Apparently, they seem to cast a spell on people.”
    “Well, obviously—”
    “Not like a magic spell. They seem to be respected. They do medicine and so on. It’s rather strange. The mountain people seem to be afraid of them and proud of them at the same time. It might be a little difficult to move against them.”
    “I could come to believe,” said the duchess darkly, “that they have cast a glamor over you as well.”
    In fact the duke was intrigued. Power was always darkly fascinating, which was why he had married the duchess in the first place. He stared fixedly at the fire.
    “In fact,” said the duchess, who recognized the malign smile, “you like it, don’t you? The thought of the danger. I remember when we were married; all that business with the knotted rope—”
    She snapped her fingers in front of the duke’s glazed eyes. He sat up.
    “Not at all!” he shouted.
    “Then what will you do?”
    “Wait.”
    “ Wait ?”
    “Wait, and consider. Patience is a virtue.”
    The duke sat back. The smile he smiled could have spent a million years sitting on a rock. And then, just below one eye, he started to twitch.
    Blood was oozing between the bandages on his hand.

    Once again the full moon rode the clouds.
    Granny Weatherwax milked and fed the goats, banked the fire, put a cloth over the mirror and pulled her broomstick out from behind the door. She went out, locked the back door behind her, and hung the key on its nail in the privy.
    This was quite sufficient. Only once, in