“Esme-”
“You got anything to say, Gytha? About bags of sweets?”
Granny Weatherwax still hadn't turned around.
Nanny looked at her boots.
“No, Esme,” she said meekly.
“I knew you'd go up to the Long Man, you know. How'd you get in?”
“Used one of the special horseshoes.”
Granny nodded. “You didn't ought to have brung him into it, Gytha.”
“Yes, Esme.”
“He's as tricky as she is.”
“Yes, Esme.”
“You're trying preemptive meekness on me.”
“Yes, Esme.”
They walked a little further.
“What was that dance your Jason and his men did when they'd got drunk?” said Granny.
“It's the Lancre Stick and Bucket Dance, Esme.”
“It's legal, is it?”
“Technically they shouldn't do it when there's women present,” said Nanny. “Otherwise it's sexual morrisment.”
“And I thought Magrat was very surprised when you recited that poem at the reception.”
“Poem?”
“The one where you did the gestures.”
“Oh, that poem.”
“I saw Verence making notes on his napkin.”
Nanny reached again into the shapeless recesses of her clothing and produced an entire bottle of champagne you could have sworn there was no room for.
“Mind you, I thought she looked happy,” she said. “Standing there wearing about half of a torn muddy dress and chain-mail underneath. Hey, d'you know what she told me?”
“What?”
“You know that ole painting of Queen Ynci? You know, the one with the iron bodice? Her with all the spikes and knives on her chariot? Well, she said she was sure the . . . the spirit of Ynci was helping her. She said she wore the armour and she did things she'd never dare do.”
“My word,” said Granny, noncommittally.
“Funny ole world,” agreed Nanny.
They walked in silence for a while.