20 In truth, the Nac Mac Feegle believe that the world is such a wonderful place that in order to have got into it they must have been very good in another existence and had arrived in, as it were, heaven. Of course, they appeared to die sometimes, even here, but they like to think of it as going off to be born again. Numerous theologians had speculated that this was a stupid idea, but it was certainly more enjoyable than many other beliefs.
21 A witch made a shambles out of anything you happened to have in your pockets, but if you care about appearances, you paid attention to the things you ‘accidentally’ had in your pockets. It wouldn’t make any difference to how the shambles worked, but if there were going to be other people around, then a mysteriou
s nut, or an interesting bit of wood, a piece of lace and a silver pin suggested ‘witch’ rather more flatteringly than did, say, a broken shoelace, a torn piece of paper bag, half a handful of miscellaneous and unspeakable fluff, and a handkerchief which had been used so many times that, dreadfully, it needed both hands to fold it. Tiffany generally kept one pocket just for shambles ingredients, but if Miss Smith had made this shambles the same way, then she had pockets larger than a wardrobe; it nearly touched the ceiling.
22 A horse’s skull always looks scary, even if someone has put lipstick on it.
Chapter 9
THE DUCHESS AND THE COOK
TIFFANY LIKED FLYING. What she objected to was being in the air, at least at a height greater than her own head. She did it anyway, because it was ridiculous and unbecoming to witchcraft in general to be seen flying so low that her boots scraped the tops off ant hills. People laughed, and sometimes pointed. But now, navigating the stick through the ruined houses and gloomy, bubbling pools, she ached for the open sky. It was a relief when she slid out from behind a stack of broken mirrors to see good clean daylight, despite the fact that she had emerged next to a sign which said: IF YOU ARE CLOSE ENOUGH TO READ THIS SIGN, YOU REALLY, REALLY, SHOULDN’T BE.
That was the last straw. She tipped the stick until it was leaving a groove in the mud behind it, and ascended like a rocket, clinging desperately to the strap, which was creaking, to avoid slipping off. She heard a small voice say, ‘We are experiencing some turbulence, ye ken. If ye look to the right and tae the left ye will see that there are no emergency exits—’
The speaker was interrupted by another voice, which said, ‘In point o’ fact, Rob, the stick has got emergency exits all round, ye ken.’
‘Oh aye,’ said Rob Anybody, ‘but there is such a thing as style, OK? Just waiting until ye have nearly hit the ground and stepping off makes us look like silly billys.’
Tiffany hung on, trying not to listen, and also trying not to kick Feegles, who had no sense of danger, feeling as they always did that they were more dangerous than anything else.
Finally she had the broomstick flying level and risked a look down. There seemed to be a fight going on outside whatever it was they were going to decide was the new name of the King’s Head, but you couldn’t see any sign of Mrs Proust. The witch of the city was a woman of resource, wasn’t she? Mrs Proust could look after herself.
Mrs Proust was looking after herself, by running very fast. She hadn’t waited a second once she sensed the danger, but headed for the nearest alley as the smog rose around her. The city was always full of smokes and smogs and fumes, easy work for a witch who had the knack. They were the breath of the city, and its halitosis, and she could play them like a foggy piano. And now she leaned against a wall and got some breath of her own.
She had felt it building up like a thunderstorm in a city that was normally remarkably easy-going. Any woman who even looked like a witch was becoming a target. She had to hope that old and ugly women everywhere were going to be as safe as she was.
A moment later, a couple of men burst out of the smog, one of them holding a large stick; the other one didn’t need a stick, because he was huge and therefore was his own stick.
As the man with the stick ran towards her, Mrs Proust tapped her foot on the pavement and the stone under the man’s feet tilted up, tripping him so that he landed safely on his chin with a crack, the stick rolling away.
Mrs Proust folded her arms and glared at the heavy man. He wasn’t as stupid as his friend, but his fists were opening and closing and she knew it would only be a matter of time. She tapped her foot on the stones again before he plucked up courage.
The big man was trying to work out what might happen next, but didn’t expect the equestrian statue23 of Lord Alfred Rust – famed for bravely and valiantly losing every military engagement in which he had ever taken part – to gallop out of the fog on bronze hooves and kick him so hard between the legs that he flew backwards and knocked his head on a lamppost before sliding to the ground.
Mrs Proust then recognized him as a customer who sometimes bought itching powder and exploding cigars from Derek; it didn’t do to kill customers. She picked him up, groaning, by his hair, and whispered into his ear, ‘You weren’t here. Nor was I. Nothing happened, and you did not see it.’ She thought for a moment and, because business is business added, ‘And when you next go past Boffo’s Joke Emporium, you will be taken with its range of extremely droll, practical jokes for all the family, and this week’s new “Pearls of the Pavement” naughty Fido jokes for the connoisseur who takes his laughter seriously. I look forward to the pleasure of your custom. P.S. our new range of “thunderbolt” exploding cigars are a laugh a minute, and please do try our hilariously funny rubber chocolate. Take a moment also to browse in our new gentlemen’s necessaries department for all that is best in moustache waxes, moustache cups, cut-throat razors, a range of first-class snuffs, ebony-backed nose-hair clippers and our ever-popular glandular trousers, supplied in a plain wrapper and limited to one pair per customer.’
Satisfied, Mrs Proust let the head fall backwards and was forced to accept that unconscious people don’t buy anything, so she turned her attention to the previous owner of the stick, who was groaning. Well, yes, it was the fault of the man with no eyes, she thought, and perhaps that might be an excuse, but Mrs Proust wasn’t known for her forgiving nature. ‘Poison goes where poison’s welcome,’ she said to herself. She snapped her fingers, then climbed onto the bronze horse, taking a cold but comfortable seat in the late Lord Rust’s metal lap. Clanking and groaning, the bronze horse walked away into the bank of smog that followed Mrs Proust all the way back to her shop.
Back in the alleyway, though, it seemed to be snowing, until you realized that what was falling from the sky onto the unconscious bodies had previously been in the stomachs of the pigeons who were now flocking in from every quarter of the city at Mrs Proust’s command. She heard them and smiled grimly. ‘In this neighbourhood we don’t just watch!’ she said with satisfaction.
Tiffany felt better when the reek and smoke of the city was behind them again. How do they live with the smell? she wondered. It’s worse than a Feegle’s spog.24
But now there were fields below her, and although the smoke from the burning stubbles reached this high, it was a fragrance compared to the world within the city walls.
And Eskarina Smith lived there … well, sometimes lived there! Eskarina Smith! She really was real! Tiffany’s mind raced almost as fast as the broomstick itself. Eskarina Smith! Every witch had heard something about her, but no two witches agreed.
Miss Tick had said that Eskarina was the girl that got a wizard’s staff by mistake!
The first witch ever trained by Granny Weatherwax! Who got her into Unseen University by giving the wizards there a piece of her – that is to say, Granny Weatherwax’s – mind. Quite a large piece, if you listened to some of the stories, which included tales of magical battles.
Miss Level had assured Tiffany that she was some kind of fairy story.
Miss Treason had changed the subject.
Nanny Ogg had tapped the side of her nose conspiratorially and whispered, ‘Least said, soonest mended.’
And Annagramma had loftily assured all the young witches that Eskarina had existed, but was dead.