“And you know what that means?”
“They tell me it means that the walls between realities get weaker. The circles are . . . what's the word Stibbons uses? Isoresons. They connect levels of, oh, something daft . . . similar levels of reality. Which is bloody stupid. You'd be able to walk from one universe to another.”
“Ever tried it?”
“No!”
“A circle is a door half open. It doesn't need much to open it up all the way. Even belief'll do it. That's why they put the Dancers up, years ago. We got the dwarfs to do it. Thunderbolt iron, those stones. There's something special about 'em. They've got the love of iron. Don't ask me how it works. Elves hate it even more than ordinary iron. It . . . upsets their senses, or something. But minds can get through. . .”
“Elves? Everyone knows elves don't exist anymore. Not proper elves. I mean, there's a few folk who say they're elves-”
“Oh, yeah. Elvish ancestry. Elves and humans breed all right, as if that's anything to be proud of. But you just get a race o'skinny types with pointy ears and a tendency to giggle and burn easily in sunshine. I ain't talking about them. There's no harm in them. I'm talking about real wild elves, what we ain't seen here for-”
The road from the bridge to the town curved between high banks, with the forest crowding in on either side and in places even meeting overhead. Thick ferns, already curling like green breakers, lined the clay banks.
They rustled.
The unicorn leapt on the road.
Thousands of universes, twisting together like a rope being plaited from threads . . .
There's bound to be leakages, a sort of mental equivalent of the channel breakthrough on a cheap hi-fi that gets you the news in Swedish during quiet bits in the music. Especially if you've spent your life using your mind as a receiver.
Picking up the thoughts of another human being is very hard, because no two minds are on the same, er, wavelength.
But somewhere out there, at the point where the parallel universes tangle, are a million minds just like yours. For a very obvious reason.
Granny Weatherwax smiled.
Millie Chillum and the king and one or two hangers-on were clustered around the door to Magrat's room when Nanny Ogg arrived.
“What's happening?”
“I know she's in there,” said Verence, holding his crown in his hands in the famous At'-Senor-Mexican-Bandits-Have-Raided-Our-Village position. “Millie heard her shout go away and I think she threw something at the door.”
Nanny Ogg nodded sagely.
“Wedding nerves,” she said. “Bound to happen.”
“But we're all going to attend the Entertainment,” said Verence. “She really ought to attend the Entertainment.”
“Well, I dunno,” said Nanny. “Seeing our Jason and the rest of 'em prancing about in straw wigs . . . I mean, they mean well, but it's not something a young - a fairly young - girl has to see on the night before her nuptials. You asked her to unlock the door?”
“I did better than that,” said Verence. “I instructed her to. That was right, wasn't it? If even Magrat won't obey me, I'm a poor lookout as king.”
“Ah,” said Nanny, after a moment's slow consideration. “You've not entirely spent a lot of time in female company, have you? In a generalized sort of way?”
“Well, I-”
The crown spun in Verence's nervous fingers. Not only had the bandits invaded the village, but the Magnificent Seven had decided to go bowling instead.
“Tell you what,” said Nanny, patting him on the back,
“you go and preside over the Entertainment and hobnob with the other nobs. I'll see to Magrat, don't you worry. I've been a bride three times, and that's only the official score.”
“Yes, but she should-”
“I think if we go easy on the 'shoulds,'” said Nanny, “we might all make it to the wedding. Now, off you all go.”