an the book was just a bit of fun. No sense in making ourselves unpopular, is there?'
'Can't have witches being done down, Gytha.'
'I don't feel done down. I felt fine until you told me I was done down,' said Nanny, putting her finger on a major sociological point. 'You've been exploited,' said Granny firmly. 'No I ain't.'
'Yes you have. You're a downtrodden mass.'
'No I ain't.'
'You've been swindled out of your life savings,' said Granny. , 'Two dollars?'
'Well, it's all you'd actually saved,' said Granny, accurately. 'Only 'cos I spent everything else,' said Nanny. Other people salted away money for their old age, but Nanny preferred to accumulate memories. 'Well, there you are, then.'
'I was putting that by for some new piping for my still up at Copperhead,' said Nanny.[5] 'You know how that scumble eats away at the metal-'
'You were putting a little something by for some security and peace of mind in your old age,' Granny translated. 'You don't get peace of mind with my scumble,' said Nanny happily. 'Pieces, yes; but not peace. It's made from the finest apples, you know,' she added. 'Well, mainly apples.' Granny stopped outside an ornate doorway, and peered at the brass plate affixed thereon. 'This is the place,' she said. They looked at the door.
'I've never been one for front doors,' said Nanny, shifting from one foot to the other. Granny nodded. Witches had a thing about front doors. A brief search located an alleyway which led around the back of the building. Here was a pair of much larger doors, wide open. Several dwarfs were loading bundles of books on to a cart. A rhythmic thumping came from somewhere beyond the doorway. No one took any notice of the witches as they wandered inside. Movable type was known in Ankh-Morpork, but if wizards heard about it they moved it where no one could find it. They generally didn't interfere with the running of the city, but when it came to movable type the pointy foot was put down hard. They had never explained why, ' and people didn't press the issue because you didn't press the issue with wizards, not if you liked yourself the shape you were. They simply worked around the problem, and engraved everything. This took a long time and meant that Ankh-Morpork was, for example, denied the benefit of newspapers, leaving the population to fool themselves as best they could. A press was thumping gently at one end of the warehouse. Beside it, at long tables, a number of dwarfs and humans were stitching pages together and gluing on the covers. Nanny took a book off a pile. It was The Joye of Snacks. 'Can I help you, ladies?' said a voice. Its tone suggested very clearly that it wasn't anticipating offering any kind of help whatsoever, except out into the street at speed. 'We've come about this book,' said Granny. 'I'm Mrs Ogg,' said Nanny Ogg. The man looked her up and down. 'Oh yes? Can you identify yourself?'
'Certainly. I'd know me anywhere.'
'Hah! Well, I happen to know what Gytha Ogg looks like, madam, and she does not look like you.' Nanny Ogg opened her mouth to reply, and then said, in the voice of one who has stepped happily into the road and only now remembers about the onrushing coach:'. . . Oh.'
'And how do you know what Mrs Ogg looks like?' said Granny. 'Oh, is that the time? We'd better be going-'said Nanny. 'Because, as a matter of fact, she sent me a picture,' said Goatberger, taking out his wallet. 'I'm sure we're not at all interested,' said Nanny hurriedly, pulling on Granny's arm. 'I'm extremely interested,' said Granny. She snatched a folded piece of paper out of Goatberger's hands, and peered at it. 'Hah! Yes. . . that's Gytha Ogg all right,' she said. 'Yes, indeed. I remember when that young artist came to Lancre for the summer.'
'I wore my hair longer in those days,' muttered Nanny. 'Just as well, considering,' said Granny. 'I didn't know you had copies, though.'
'Oh, you know how it is when you're young,' said Nanny dreamily. 'It was doodle, doodle, doodle all summer long.' She awoke from her reverie. 'And I still weigh the same now as I did then,' she added. 'Except that it's shifted,' said Granny, nastily. She handed the sketch back to Goatberger. 'That's her all right,' she said. 'But it's out by about sixty years and several layers of clothing. This is Gytha Ogg, right here.'
'You're telling me this came up with Banana Soup Surprise?'
'Did you try it?' said Nanny. 'Mr Cropper the head printer did, yes.'
'Was he surprised?'
'Not half as surprised as Mrs Cropper.'
'It can take people like that,' said Nanny. 'I think perhaps I overdo the nutmeg.' Goatberger stared at her. Doubt was beginning to assail him. You only had to look at Nanny Ogg grinning back at you to believe she could write something like The Joye of Snacks. 'Did you really write this?' he said. 'From memory,' said Nanny, proudly. 'And now she'd like some money,' said Granny. Mr Goatberger's face twisted up as though he'd just eaten a lemon and washed it down with vinegar. 'But we gave her the money back,' he said. 'See?' said Nanny, her face falling. 'I told you, Esme-'
'She wants some more,' said Granny. 'No, I don't-'
'No, she doesn't!' Goatberger agreed. 'She does,' said Granny. 'She wants a little bit of money for every book you've sold.'
'I don't expect to be treated like royalty,' said Nanny.[6] 'You shut up,' said Granny. 'I know what you want. We want some money, Mr Goatberger.'
'And what if I won't give it to you?' Granny glared at him. 'Then we shall go away and think about what to do next,' she said. 'That's no idle threat,' said Nanny. 'There's a lot of people've regretted Esme thinking about what to do next.'
'Come back when you've thought, then!' snapped Goatberger. He stormed off: 'I don't know, authors wanting to be paid, good grief-' He disappeared among the stacks of books. 'Er. . . do you think that could have gone better?' said Nanny. Granny glanced at the table beside them. It was stacked with long sheets of paper. She nudged a dwarf, who had been watching the argument with some amusement. 'What're these?' she said. 'They're proofs for the Almanack.' He saw her blank expression. 'They're sort of a trial run for the book so's we can check that all the spelling mistakes have been left in.' Granny picked it up. 'Come, Gytha,' she said. 'I don't want trouble, Esme,' said Nanny Ogg as she hurried after her. 'It's only money.'
'It ain't money any more,' said Granny. 'It's a way of keepin' score.' Mr Bucket picked up a violin. It was in two pieces, held together by the strings. One of them broke. 'Who'd do something like this?' he said. 'Honestly, Salzella. . . what is the difference between opera and madness?'
'Is this a trick question?'
'No!'
'Then I'd say: better scenery. Ah. . . I thought so. . .' Salzella rooted among the destruction, and stood up with a letter in his hand. 'Would you like me to open it?' he said. 'It's addressed to you.' Bucket shut his eyes. 'Go on,' he said. 'Don't bother about the details. Just tell me, how many exclamation marks?'
'Five.'