Who knitted socks in a coffin? On the other hand, perhaps even vampires couldn’t sleep sometimes, and tossed and turned all day.
She braced herself as the coffin was picked up and she tried to occupy her mind by working out where it was being taken. She heard the sound of footsteps on the cobbles, and then the ring of the flagstones on the main steps, echoing in the great hall, a sudden dip—
That meant the cellars. Logical, really, but not good.
You’re doing this to impress me, said Perdita. You’re doing it to try to be extrovert and dynamic.
Shut up, Agnes thought.
A voice outside said, “Put them down there and puth off.”
That was the one who called himself Igor. Agnes wished she’d thought of a weapon.
“Get rid of me, would they?” the voice went on, against a background of disappearing footsteps. “Thith ith all going to end in tearth. It’th all very well for them, but who hath to go and thweep up the dutht, eh? That’th what I’d like to know. Who’th it hath to pull their headth out of the pickle jarth? Who’th it hath to find them under the ithe? I mutht’ve pulled out more thtaketh than I’ve had wriggly dinnerth…”
Light flooded in as the coffin lid was removed.
Igor stared at Agnes. Agnes stared at Igor.
Igor unfroze first. He smiled—he had a geometrically interesting smile, because of the row of stitches right across it—and said, “Dear me, thomeone’th been lithening to too many thtorieth. Got any garlic?”
“Masses,” Agnes lied.
“Won’t work. Any holy water?”
“Gallons.”
“It—”
A coffin lid smacked down on Igor’s head, making an oddly metallic sound. He reached up slowly to rub the spot, and then turned around. This time the lid smacked into his face.
“Oh…thit,” he said, and folded up. Oats appeared, face aglow with adrenaline and righteousness.
“I smote him mightily!”
“Good, good, let’s get out of here! Help me up!”
“My wrath descended upon him like—”
“It was a heavy lid and he’s not that young,” said Agnes. “Look, I used to play down here, I know how to get to the back stairs—”
“He’s not a vampire? He looks like one. First time I’ve ever seen a patchwork man…”
“He’s a servant. Now, please come—” Agnes paused. “Can you make holy water?”
“What, here?”
“I mean bless it, or dedicate it to Om, or…boil the hell out of it, perhaps,” said Agnes.
“There is a small ceremony I can—” He stopped. “That’s right! Vampires can be stopped by holy water!”
“Good. We’ll go via the kitchens, then.”
The huge kitchens were almost empty. They never bustled these days, since the royal couple were not the sort who demanded three meat courses with every meal, and at the moment there was only Mrs. Scorbic the cook in there, calmly rolling out pastry.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Scorbic,” said Agnes, deciding the best course was to march past and rely on the authority of the pointy hat. “We’ve just dropped in for some water, don’t worry, I know where the pump is, but if you’ve got a couple of empty bottles that would be helpful.”
“That’s right, dear,” said Mrs. Scorbic.
Agnes stopped and turned.
Mrs. Scorbic was famously acerbic, especially on the subject of soya, nut cutlets, vegetarian meals and any vegetable that couldn’t be boiled until it was yellow. Even the King hesitated to set foot in her kitchen, but whereas he only got an angry silence, lesser mortals got the full force of her generalized wrath. Mrs. Scorbic was permanently angry, in the same way that mountains are permanently large.
Today she was wearing a white dress, a white apron, a big white mob cap and a white bandage around her throat. She also looked, for want of any better word, happy.
Agnes urgently waved Oats toward the pump. “Find something to fill up,” she hissed, and then said brightly, “How are you feeling, Mrs. Scorbic?”
“All the better for you asking, miss.”
“I expect you’re busy with all these visitors?”
“Yes, miss.”
Agnes coughed. “And, er, what did you give them for breakfast?”
The cook’s huge pink brow wrinkled. “Can’t remember, miss.”
“Well done.”
Oats nudged her. “I’ve filled up a couple of empty bottles and I said the Purification Rite of Om over them.”
“And that will work?”
“You must have faith.”
The cook was watching them amiably.
“Thank you, Mrs. Scorbic,” said Agnes. “Please get on with…whatever you were doing.”
“Yes, miss.” The cook turned back to her rolling pin.
Plenty of meals on her, said Perdita. Cook and larder all in one.
“That was tasteless!” said Agnes.
“What was?” said the priest.
“Oh…just a thought I had. Let’s go up the back stairs.”
They were bare stone, communicating with the public bits of the keep via a door at every level. On the other side of those doors it was still bare stone, but a better class of masonry altogether and with tapestries and carpets. Agnes pushed open a door.
A couple of the Uberwald people were ambling along the corridor beyond, carrying something covered in a cloth. They didn’t spare the newcomers a glance as Agnes led the way to the royal apartments.
Magrat was standing on a chair when they came in. She looked down at them while little painted wooden stars and animals tangled themselves around her upraised arm.
“Wretched things,” she said. “You’d think it would be easy, wouldn’t you? Hello, Agnes. Could you hold the chair?”
“What are you doing?” said Agnes. She looked carefully. There was no bandage around Magrat’s neck.
“Trying to hook this mobile onto the chandelier,” said Magrat. “Uh…that’s done it. But it tangles up all the time! Verence says it’s very good for young children to see lots of bright colors and shapes. It speeds development, he says. But I can’t find Millie anywhere.”
There’s a castle full of vampires, and she’s decorating the playroom, said Perdita. What’s wrong with this woodcut?
Somehow, Agnes couldn’t bring herself to blurt out a warning. Apart from anything else, the chair looked wobbly.
“Little Esme’s only two weeks old,” said Agnes. “Isn’t that a bit young for education?”
“Never too early to start, he says. What can I do for you?”
“We need you to come with us. Right now.”
“Why?” said Magrat, and to Agnes’s relief she stepped down from the chair.
“Why? Magrat, there’s vampires in the castle! The Magpyr family are vampires!”
“Don’t be silly, they’re very pleasant people. I was talking to the Countess only this morning—”
“What about?” Agnes demanded. “I bet you can’t remember!”
“I am Queen, Agnes,” said Magrat reproachfully.
“Sorry, but they affect people’s minds—”
“Yours?”
“Um, no, not mine. I have—I’m—It seems I’m immune,” Agnes lied.
“And his?” said Magrat sharply.
“I am protected by my faith in Om,” said Oats.
Magrat raised her eyebrows at Agnes. “Is he?”
Agnes shrugged. “Apparently.”
Magrat leaned closer. “He’s not drunk, is he? He’s holding two beer bottles.”
“They’re full of holy water,” Agnes whispered.
“Verence said Omnianism seemed a very sensible and stable religion,” hissed Magrat.
They both looked at Oats, mentally trying the words on him for size.
“Are we leaving?” he said.
“Of course not,” snapped Magrat, straightening up. “This is silly, Agnes. I’m a married woman, I’m Queen, I’ve got a little baby. And you co
me in here telling me we’ve got vampires! I’ve got guests here and—”
“The guests are vampires, your majesty,” said Agnes. “The King invited them!”
“Verence says we have to learn to deal with all sorts of people—”
“We think Granny Weatherwax is in very bad trouble,” said Agnes.
Magrat stopped. “How bad?” she said.
“Nanny Ogg is very worried. Quite snappish. She says it needs three of us to find Granny.”
“Well, I—”
“And Granny’s taken the box, whatever that means,” said Agnes.
“The one she keeps in the dresser?”
“Yes. Nanny wouldn’t tell me much about what was in it.”
Magrat opened up her hands like an angler measuring a medium-sized fish.
“The polished wooden box? About this size?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never seen it. Nanny seemed to think it was important. She didn’t say what was in it,” Agnes repeated, just in case Magrat hadn’t got the hint.
Magrat clasped her hands together and looked down, biting her knuckles. When she looked up her face was set with purpose. She pointed at Oats.
“You find a bag or something and empty into it all the stuff in the top drawer over there, and take the potty, and the little truck, oh, and the stuffed animals, and the bag of nappies, and the bag for used nappies, and the bath, and the bag with the towels, and the box of toys, and the wind-up things, and the musical box, and the bag with the little suits, oh, and the woolly hat, and you, Agnes, find something we can make into a sling. You came up the back stairs? We’ll go down the same way.”
“What do we need a sling for?”
Magrat leaned over the crib and picked up the baby, wrapped in a blanket.
“I’m not going to leave her here, am I?” she said.
There was a clatter from the direction of Mightily Oats. He already had both arms full, and a large stuffed rabbit in his teeth.
“Do we need all of that?” said Agnes.
“You never know,” said Magrat.
“Even the box of toys?”
“Verence thinks she might be an early developer,” said Magrat.
“She’s a couple of weeks old!”
“Yes, but stimulus at an early age is vital to the development of the growing brain,” said Magrat, laying baby Esme on the table and shuffling her into a romper suit. “Also, we have to get on top of her hand–eye coordination as soon as possible. It’s no good just letting things slide. Oh yes…If you can bring the little slide, too. And the yellow rubber duck. And the sponge in the shape of a teddy bear. And the teddy bear in the shape of a sponge.”
There was another crash from the mound around Oats.
“Why’s the box so important?” said Agnes.
“Not important as such,” said Magrat. She looked over her shoulder. “Oh, and put in that rag doll, will you? I’m sure she’s focusing on it. Oh blast…the red bag has got the medicines in it, thank you…What was it you asked me?”
“Granny’s box,” Agnes hinted.
“Oh, it’s…just important to her.”
“It’s magical?”
“What? Oh no. No as far as I know. But everything in it belongs to her, you see. Not to the cottage,” said Magrat, picking up her daughter. “Who’s a good girl, then? You are!” She looked around. “Have we forgotten anything?”
Oats spat out the rabbit. “Possibly the ceiling,” he said.
“Then let’s go.”
Magpies flocked around the castle tower. Most magpie rhymes peter out at around ten or twelve, but here were hundreds of birds, enough to satisfy any possible prediction. There are many rhymes about magpies, but none of them is very reliable because they are not the ones the magpies know themselves.
The Count sat in the darkness below, listening to their minds. Images flashed behind his eyes. This was the way to run a country, he reflected. Human minds were so hard to read, unless they were so close that you could see the words just hovering below actual vocalization. But the birds could get everywhere, see every worker in the fields and hunter in the forest. They were good listeners, too. Much better than bats or rats. Once again, tradition was overturned.
No sign of Granny, though. Some trick, perhaps. It didn’t matter. Eventually she’d find him. She wouldn’t hide for long. It wasn’t in her nature. Weatherwaxes would always stand and fight, even when they knew they would be beaten. So predictable.
Several of the birds had seen a busy little figure trudging across the kingdom, leading a donkey laden with falconry gear. The Count had taken a look at Hodgesaargh, found a mind crammed end to end with hawks, and dismissed him. He and his silly birds would have to go eventually, of course, because he made the magpies nervous. He made a note to mention this to the guards.
“Ooaauooow!”
…but there was probably no combination of vowels that could do justice to the cry Nanny Ogg made on seeing a young baby. It included sounds known only to cats.
“Isn’t she a little precious,” Nanny crooned. “I’ve probably got a sweetie somewhere—”
“She’s not on solids,” said Magrat.
“Still keeping you up at nights?”
“And days. But she’s slept well today, thank goodness. Nanny, give her to Mr. Oats and let’s sort this out right away.”
The young priest took the baby nervously, holding it, as some men do, as if it would break or at least explode.
“There, there, there,” he said, vaguely.
“Now…what’s this about Granny?” said Magrat.
They told her, interrupting one another at important points.
“The gnarly ground over toward the top of the forest?” said Magrat, when they were nearly finished.
“That’s right,” said Nanny.
“What is gnarly ground?” said Agnes.
“There’s a lot of magic in these mountains, right?” said Nanny. “And everyone knows mountains get made when lumps of land bang together, right? Well, when the magic gets trapped you…sort of…get a bit of land where the space is…sort of…scrunched up, right? It’d be quite big if it could but it’s like a bit of gnarly wood in an ol’ tree. Or a used hanky…all folded up small but still big in a different way.”
“But I’ve been up there and it’s just a bit of moorland!”
“You’ve got to know the right direction,” said Nanny. “Damn hard to scry into a place like that. It goes all wobbly. It’s like tryin’ to look at something close up and a long way away at the same time. It makes your crystal ball water.”
She pulled the green ball toward her.
“Now, you two push an’ I’ll steer—”
“Er, are you going to do some magic?” said Oats, behind them.
“What’s the problem?” said Nanny.
“I mean, does it involve, er…” he colored up, “er…removing your garments and dancing around and summoning lewd and salacious creatures? Only I’m afraid I couldn’t be a party to that. The Book of Om forbids consorting with false enchanters and deceitful soothsayers, you see.”
“I wouldn’t consort with false enchanters neither,” said Nanny. “Their beards fall off.”
“We’re real,” said Magrat.
“And we certainly don’t summon lewd and salacious creatures,” said Agnes.
“Unless we want to,” said Nanny Ogg, almost under her breath.
“Well…all right, then,” said Oats.
As they unwound the power, Agnes heard Perdita think I don’t like Magrat. She’s not like she used to be. Well, of course she’s not. But she’s taking charge, she’s not cringing slightly like she used to, she’s not WET. That’s because she’s a mother, Agnes thought. Mothers are only slightly damp.
She was not, herself, hugely in favor of motherhood in general. Obviously it was necessary, but it wasn’t exactly difficult. Even cats managed it. But women acted as if they’d been given a medal that entitled them to boss people around. It was as if
, just because they’d got the label which said “mother,” everyone else got a tiny part of the label that said “child”…
She gave a mental shrug, and concentrated on the craft in hand.
Light grew and faded inside the green globe. Agnes had only scryed a few times before, but she didn’t remember the light pulsing like this. Every time it dissolved into an image the light flickered and bounced to somewhere else…a patch of heather…a tree…boiling clouds…
And then Granny Weatherwax came and went. The image appeared and was gone in an instant, and the glow that rolled in with a finality told Agnes that this was all, folks.
“She was lying down,” said Magrat. “It was all fuzzy.”
“Then she’s in one of the caves. She said once she goes up there to be alone with her thoughts,” said Nanny. “And did you catch that little twitch? She’s trying to keep us out.”
“The caves up there are just scoops in the rock,” said Agnes.
“Yes…and no,” said Nanny. “Did I see her holding a card in her hands?”
“The ‘I ate’nt dead’ card?” said Magrat.
“No, she’d left that in the cottage.”
“Just when we really need her, she goes away into a cave?”
“Does she know we need her? Did she know about the vampires?” said Agnes.
“Can’t we go and ask her?” said Magrat.
“We can’t fly all the way,” said Nanny, scratching her chin. “Can’t fly prop’ly over gnarly ground. The broomsticks act funny.”
“Then we’ll walk the rest,” said Magrat. “It’s hours to sunset.”
“You’re not coming, are you?” said Agnes, aghast.
“Yes, of course.”
“But what about the baby?”
“She seems to like it in the sling and it keeps her warm and it’s not as if there’s monsters up there,” said Magrat. “Anyway, I think it’s possible to combine motherhood and a career.”
“I thought you’d given up witchcraft,” said Agnes.
“Yes…well…yes. Let’s make sure Granny’s all right and get this all sorted out, and then obviously I’ll have other things to do…”