Witches Abroad (28 page)

‘Not with that cockerel leading the way. She'll be safer in Mrs Gogol's swamp than at the ball, I know that,' said Nanny.

‘Thank
you
!'

‘You're welcome,' said Granny.

‘Everyone'll know I'm not her!'

‘Not with the mask on they won't,' said Granny.

‘But my hair's the wrong
colour
!'

‘I can tint that up a treat, no problem,' said Nanny.

‘I'm the wrong
shape
!'

‘We can—' Granny hesitated. ‘Can you, you know, puff yourself out a bit more?'

‘No!'

‘Have you got a spare handkerchief, Gytha?'

‘I reckon I could tear a bit off my petticoat, Esme.'

‘Ouch!'

‘There!'

‘And these glass shoes don't
fit
!'

‘They fit me fine,' said Nanny. ‘I gave 'em a try.'

‘Yes, but I've got smaller feet than you!'

‘That's all right,' said Granny. ‘You put on a couple of pairs of my socks and they'll fit real snug.'

Bereft of all further excuses, Magrat struck out in sheer desperation.

‘But I don't know how to
behave
at balls!'

Granny Weatherwax had to admit that she didn't, either. She raised her eyebrows at Nanny.

‘You used to go dancin' when you were young,' she said.

‘Well,' said Nanny Ogg, social tutor, ‘what you do is, you tap men with your fan – got your fan? – and say things like “La, sir!” It helps to giggle, too. And flutter your eyelashes a bit. And pout.'

‘How am I supposed to
pout
?'

Nanny Ogg demonstrated.

‘Yuk!'

‘Don't worry,' said Granny. ‘We'll be there too.'

‘And that's supposed to make me feel
better
, is it?'

Nanny reached behind Magrat and grabbed Granny's shoulder. Her lips formed the words: Won't work. She's all to pieces. No
confidence
.

Granny nodded.

‘Perhaps I ought to do it,' said Nanny, in a loud voice. ‘I'm experienced at balls. I bet if I wore my hair long and wore the mask and them shiny shoes and we hemmed up the dress a foot no one'd know the difference, what do you say?'

Magrat was so overawed by the sheer fascinating picture of this that she obeyed unthinkingly when Granny Weatherwax said,
‘Look at me, Magrat Garlick
.'

The pumpkin coach entered the palace drive at high speed, scattering horses and pedestrians, and braked by the steps in a shower of gravel.

‘That was
fun
,' said Greebo. And then lost interest.

A couple of flunkies bustled forward to open the door, and were nearly thrown back by the sheer force of the arrogance that emanated from within.

‘Hurry up, peasants!'

Magrat swept out, pushing the major-domo away. She gathered up her skirts and ran up the red carpet. At the top, a footman was unwise enough to ask her for her ticket.

‘You impertinent
lackey
!'

The footman, recognizing instantly the boundless bad manners of the well-bred, backed away quickly.

Down by the coach, Nanny Ogg said, ‘You don't think you might have overdone it a little bit?'

‘I had to,' said Granny. ‘You know what she's like.'

‘How are we going to get in? We ain't got tickets. And we ain't dressed properly, either.'

‘Get the broomsticks down off the rack,' said Granny. ‘We're going straight to the top.'

They touched down on the battlements of a tower overlooking the palace grounds. The strains of courtly music drifted up from below, and there was the occasional pop and flare of fireworks from the river.

Granny opened a likely-looking door in the tower and descended the circular stairs, which led to a landing.

‘Posh carpet on the floor,' said Nanny. ‘Why's it on the walls too?'

‘Them's
tapestries
,' said Granny.

‘Cor,' said Nanny. ‘You live and learn. Well, I do anyway.'

Granny stopped with her hand on a doorknob.

‘What do you mean by that?' she said.

‘Well, I never knew you had a sister.'

‘We never talked about her.'

‘It's a shame when families break up like that,' said Nanny.

‘Huh!
You
said
your
sister Beryl was a greedy ingrate with the conscience of an oyster.'

‘Well, yes, but she
is
my sister.'

Granny opened the door.

‘Well, well,' she said.

‘What's up? What's up? Don't just stand there.' Nanny peered around her and into the room.

‘Coo,' she said.

Magrat paused in the big, red-velvet ante-room. Strange thoughts fireworked around her head; she hadn't felt like this since the herbal wine. But struggling among them like a tiny prosaic potato in a spray of psychedelic chrysanthemums was an inner voice screaming that she didn't even know how to dance. Apart from in circles.

But it couldn't be difficult if ordinary people managed it.

The tiny inner Magrat struggling to keep its balance on the surge of arrogant self-confidence wondered if this was how Granny Weatherwax felt
all the time
.

She raised the hem of her dress slightly and looked down at her shoes.

They couldn't be real glass, or else she'd be hobbling towards some emergency first aid by now. Nor were they transparent. The human foot is a useful organ but is not, except to some people with highly specialized interests, particularly attractive to look at.

The shoes were mirrors. Dozens of facets caught the light.

Two mirrors on her feet. Magrat vaguely recalled something about . . . about a witch never getting caught between two mirrors, wasn't it? Or was it never trust a man with orange eyebrows? Something she'd been taught, back when she'd been an ordinary person. Something . . . like . . . a witch should never stand between two mirrors because, because, because the person that walked away might not be the same person. Or something. Like . . . you were spread out among the images, your whole soul was pulled out thin, and somewhere in the distant images a dark part of you would get out and come looking for you, if you weren't very careful. Or something.

She overruled the thought. It didn't matter.

She stepped forward, to where a little knot of other guests were waiting to make their entrance.

‘Lord Henry Gleet and Lady Gleet!'

The ballroom wasn't a room at all, but a courtyard open to the soft night airs. Steps led down into it. At the far end, another much wider staircase, lined with flickering torches, led up into the palace itself. On the far wall, huge and easily visible, was a clock.

‘The Honourable Douglas Incessant!'

The time was a quarter to eight. Magrat had a vague recollection of some old woman shouting something about the time, but . . . that didn't matter either . . .

‘Lady Volentia D'Arrangement!'

She reached the top of the stairs. The butler who was announcing the arrivals looked her up and down and then, in the manner of one who had been coached carefully all afternoon for this very moment, bellowed:

‘Er . . . Mysterious and beautiful stranger!'

Silence spread out from the bottom of the steps like spilled paint. Five hundred heads turned to look at Magrat.

A day before, even the mere thought of having five hundred people staring at her would have melted Magrat like butter in a furnace. But now she stared back, smiled, and raised her chin haughtily.

Her fan snapped open like a gunshot.

The mysterious and beautiful stranger, daughter of Simplicity Garlick, granddaughter of Araminta Garlick, her self-possession churning so strongly that it was crystallizing out on the sides of her personality . . .

. . . stepped out.

A moment later another guest stalked past the butler.

The butler hesitated. Something about the figure worried him. It kept going in and out of focus. He wasn't entirely certain if there was anyone else there at all.

Then his common sense, which had temporarily gone and hidden behind something, took over. After all, it was Samedi Nuit Mort – people were
supposed
to dress up and look weird. You were
allowed
to see people like that.

‘Excuse me, er, sir,' he said. ‘Who shall I say it is?'

I'
M HERE INCOGNITO
.

The butler was sure nothing had been said, but he was also certain that he had heard the words.

‘Um . . . fine . . .' he mumbled. ‘Go on in, then . . . um.' He brightened. ‘Damn good mask, sir.'

He watched the dark figure walk down the steps, and leaned against a pillar.

Well, that was about it. He pulled a handkerchief out from his pocket, removed his powdered wig, and wiped his brow. He felt as though he'd just had a narrow escape, and what was even worse was that he didn't know from
what
.

He looked cautiously around, and then sidled into the ante-room and took up a position behind a velvet curtain, where he could enjoy a quiet roll-up.

He nearly swallowed it when another figure loped silently up the red carpet. It was dressed like a pirate that had just raided a ship carrying black leather goods for the discerning customer. One eye had a patch over it. The other gleamed like a malevolent emerald. And no-one that big ought to be able to walk that quietly.

The butler stuck the dog-end behind his ear.

‘Excuse me, milord,' he said, running after the man and touching him firmly yet respectfully on the arm. ‘I shall need to see your tic . . . your . . . tic . . .'

The man transferred his gaze to the hand on his arm. The butler let go hurriedly.

‘Wrowwwl?'

‘Your . . . ticket . . .'

The man opened his mouth and hissed.

‘Of course,' said the butler, backing away with the efficient speed of someone who certainly isn't being paid enough to face a needle-toothed maniac in black leather, ‘I expect you're one of the Duc's friends, yes?'

‘Wrowwl.'

‘No problem . . . no problem . . . but Sir has forgotten Sir's mask . . .'

‘Wrowwl?'

The butler waved frantically to a side-table piled high with masks.

‘The Duc requested that everyone here is masked,' said the butler. ‘Er. I wonder if Sir would find something here to his liking?'

There's always a few of them, he thought to himself. It says ‘Masque' in big curly letters on the invite, in gold yet, but there's always a few buggers who thinks it means it's from someone called Maskew. This one was quite likely looting towns when he should have been learning to read.

The greasy man stared at the masks. All the good ones had been taken by earlier arrivals, but that didn't seem to dismay him.

He pointed.

‘Want that one,' he said.

‘Er . . . a . . . very good choice, my lord. Allow me to help you on—'

‘Wrowwl!'

The butler backed away, clutching at his own arm.

The man glared at him, then dropped the mask over his head and squinted out through an eyehole at a mirror.

Damn odd, the butler thought. I mean, it's not the kind of mask the men choose. They go for skulls and birds and bulls and stuff like that. Not
cats
.

The odd thing was that the mask had just been a pretty ginger cat head when it was on the table. On its wearer it was . . . still a cat head, only a lot more so, and somehow slightly more feline and a lot nastier than it should have been.

‘Aaalwaaays waanted to bee ginger,' said the man.

‘On you it looks good, sir,' trilled the butler.

The cat-headed man turned his head this way and that, clearly in love with what he was seeing.

Greebo yowled softly and happily to himself and ambled into the ball. He wanted something to eat, someone to fight, and then . . . well, he'd have to see.

For wolves and pigs and bears, thinking that they're human is a tragedy. For a cat, it's an experience.

Besides, this new shape was a lot more fun. No-one had thrown an old boot at him for over ten minutes.

The two witches looked around the room.

‘Odd,' said Nanny Ogg. ‘Not what I'd expect in, you know, a royal bedroom.'

‘Is it a royal bedroom?'

‘There's a crown on the door.'

‘Oh.'

Granny looked around at the decor.

‘What do you know about royal bedrooms?' she said, more or less for something to say. ‘You've never been in a royal bedroom.'

‘I might have been,' said Nanny.

‘You never have!'

‘Remember young Verence's coronation? We all got invited to the palace?' said Nanny. ‘When I went to have a – to powder my nose I saw the door open, so I went in and had a bit of a bounce up and down.'

‘That's treason. You can get put in prison for that,' said Granny severely, and added, ‘What was it like?'

‘Very comfy. Young Magrat doesn't know what she's missing. And it was a lot better than this, I don't mind saying,' said Nanny.

The basic colour was green. Green walls, green floor. There was a wardrobe and a bedside table. Even a bedside rug, which was green. The light filtered in through a window filled with greenish glass.

‘Like being at the bottom of a pond,' said Granny. She swatted something. ‘And there's flies everywhere!' She paused, as if thinking very hard, and said, ‘Hmm . . .'