A Hat Full of Sky (Discworld 32)

'I'm good at thinking, Rob Anybody, and I am the kelda o' this clan, am I no'? There can only be one, is that not so? And I am thinking that there will be no more chasin' after this big wee girl. Shame on ye, anyway. She'll no' want the like o' Big Yan a- gawpin' at her all the time, I'm sure.' Rob Anybody hung his head. 'Aye . . . but. . .,' he said. 'But what?'

'A hiver's chasin' the puir wee lass.' There was a long pause before Jeannie said, 'Are ye sure?'

'Aye, Kelda,' said Big Yan. 'Once you hear that buzzin' ye never forget it.' Jeannie bit her lip. Then, looking a little pale, she said, 'Ye said she's got the makin's o' a powerful hag, Rob?'

'Aye, but nae one in his'try has survived a hiver! Ye cannae kill it, ye cannae stop it, ye cannae-'

'But wuz ye no' tellin' me how the big wee girl even fought the Quin and won?' said Jeannie. "Wanged her wi' a skillet, ye said. That means she's good, aye? If she is a true hag, she'll find a way hersel'. We all ha' to dree our weird. Whatever's out there, she's got to face it. If she cannae, she's no true hag.'

'Aye, but a hiver's worse than-' Rob began. 'She's off to learn hagglin' from other hags,' said Jeannie. 'An' I must learn keldarin' all by myself. Ye must hope she learns as fast as me, Rob Anybody.' Chapter 2 Twoshirts and Two Noses

Twoshirts was just a bend in the road, with a name. There was nothing there but an inn for the coaches, a blacksmith's shop, and a small store with the word SOUVENIRS written optimistically on a scrap of cardboard in the window. And that was it. Around the place, separated by fields and scraps of woodland, were the houses of people for whom Twoshirts was, presumably, the big city. Every world is full of places like Twoshirts. They are places for people to come from, not go to. It sat and baked silently in the hot afternoon sunlight. Right in the middle of the road an elderly spaniel, mottled brown and white, dozed in the dust. Twoshirts was bigger than the village back home and Tiffany had never seen souvenirs before. She went into the store and spent half a penny on a small wood carving of two shirts on a washing line, and two postcards entitled 'View of Twoshirts' which showed the souvenir shop and what was quite probably the same dog sleeping in the road. The little old lady behind the counter called her 'young lady' and said that Twoshirts was very popular later in the year, when people came from up to a mile around for the Cabbage-Macerating Festival. When Tiffany came out she found Miss Tick standing next to the sleeping dog, frowning back the way they'd come. Is there something the matter?' said Tiffany. 'What?' said Miss Tick, as if she'd forgotten that Tiffany existed. 'Oh . . . no. I just... I thought I... look, shall we go and have something to eat?' It took a while to find someone in the inn, but Miss Tick wandered into the kitchens and found a woman who promised them some scones and a cup of tea. She was actually quite surprised she'd promised that, since she hadn't intended to, it strictly speaking being her afternoon free until the coach came, but Miss Tick had a way of asking questions that got the answers she wanted. Miss Tick also asked for a fresh egg, not cooked, in its shell. Witches were also good at asking questions that weren't followed by the other person saying 'Why?' They sat and ate in the sun, on the bench outside the inn. Then Tiffany took out her diary. She had one in the dairy too, but that was for cheese and butter records. This one was personal. She'd bought it off a pedlar, cheap, because it was last year's. But, as he said, it had the same number of days. It also had a lock, a little brass thing on a leather flap. It had its own tiny key. It was the lock that had attracted Tiffany. At a certain age, you see the point of locks. She wrote down 'Twoshirts', and spent some time thinking before adding y a bend in the road'. Miss Tick kept staring at the road. 'Is there something wrong, Miss Tick?' Tiffany asked again, looking up. 'I'm . . . not sure. Is anyone watching us?' Tiffany looked around. Twoshirts slept in the heat. There was no one watching. 'No, Miss Tick.' The teacher removed her hat and took from inside it a couple of pieces of wood and a reel of black thread. She rolled up her sleeves, looking around quickly in case

Twoshirts had sprouted a population, then broke off a length of the thread and picked up the egg. Egg, thread and fingers blurred for a few seconds and there was the egg, hanging from Miss Tick's fingers in a neat little black net. Tiffany was impressed. But Miss Tick hadn't finished. She began to draw things from her pockets, and a witch generally has a lot of pockets. There were some beads, a couple of feathers, a glass lens and one or two strips of coloured paper. These all got threaded into the tangle of wood and cotton. 'What is that?' said Tiffany. 'It's a shamble,' said Miss Tick, concentrating. 'Is it magic?'

'Not exactly. It's trickery.' Miss Tick lifted her left hand. Feathers and beads and egg and pocket junk spun in the web of threads. 'Hmm,' she said. 'Now let me see what I can see . . .' She pushed the fingers of her right hand into the spiderwork of threads and pulled . . . Egg and glass and beads and feathers danced through the tangle, and Tiffany was sure that at one point one thread had passed straight through another. 'Oh,' she said. 'It's like Cat's Cradle!'

'You've played that, have you?' said Miss Tick vaguely, still concentrating. 'I can do all the common shapes,' said Tiffany. 'The Jewels and The Cradle and The House and The Flock and The Three Old Ladies, One With A Squint, Carrying The Bucket Of Fish To Market When They Meet The Donkey . . . although you need two people for that one, and I only ever did it once, and Betsy Tupper scratched her nose at the wrong moment and I had to get some scissors to cut her loose Miss Tick's fingers worked like a loom. 'Funny it should be a children's toy now,' she said. 'Aha . . .' She stared into the complex web she had created. 'Can you see anything?' said Tiffany. If I may be allowed to concentrate, child? Thank you . . .' Out in the road the sleeping dog woke, yawned and pulled itself to its feet. It ambled over to the bench the two of them were sitting on, gave Tiffany a reproachful look and then curled up by her feet. It smelled of old damp carpets. There's . . . something . . .' said Miss Tick, very quietly. Panic gripped Tiffany. Sunlight reflected off the white dust of the road and the stone wall opposite. Bees hummed between the little yellow flowers that grew on top of the wall. By Tiffany's feet, the spaniel snorted and farted occasionally. But it was all wrong. She could feel the pressure bearing down on her, pushing at her, pushing at the landscape, squeezing it under the bright light of day. Miss Tick and her cradle of threads were motionless beside her, frozen in the moment of bright horror. Only the threads moved, by themselves. The egg danced, the glass glinted, the beads

slid and jumped from string to string- The egg burst. The coach rolled in. It arrived dragging the world behind it, in a cloud of dust and noise and hooves. It blotted out the sun. Doors opened. Harness jingled. Horses steamed. The spaniel sat up and wagged its tail hopefully. The pressure went - no, it fled. Beside Tiffany, Miss Tick pulled out a handkerchief and started to wipe egg off her dress. The rest of the shamble had disappeared into a pocket with remarkable speed. She smiled at Tiffany, and kept the smile as she spoke, making herself look slightly mad. 'Don't get up, don't do anything, just be as quiet as a little mouse,' she said. Tiffany felt in no state to do anything but sit still; she felt like you feel when you wake up after a nightmare. The richer passengers got out of the coach, and the poorer ones climbed down from the roof. Grumbling and stamping their feet, trailing road dust behind them, they disappeared. 'Now,' said Miss Tick, when the inn door had swung shut, 'we're . . . we're going to go for a - a stroll. See that little wood up there? That's where we're heading. And when Mr Crabber the carter sees your father tomorrow he'll say he - he dropped you off here just before the coach arrived and - and - and everyone will be happy and no one will have lied. That's important.'

'Miss Tick?' said Tiffany, picking up the suitcase. 'Yes?'

'What happened just now?'

'I don't know,' said the witch. 'Do you feel all right?'

'Er . . . yes. You've got some yolk on your hat.' And you're very nervous, Tiffany thought. That was the most worrying part. 'I'm sorry about your dress,' she added. 'It's seen a lot worse,' said Miss Tick. 'Let's go.'

'Miss Tick?' said Tiffany again as they trudged away. 'Er, yes?'

'You are very nervous,' said Tiffany. 'If you told me why, that means there's two of us, which is only half the nervousness each.' Miss Tick sighed. 'It was probably nothing,' she said. 'Miss Tick, the egg exploded!'

'Yes. Um. A shamble, you see, can be used as a simple magic detector and amplifier. It's actually very crude, but it's always useful to make one in times of distress and confusion. I think I . . . probably didn't make it right. And sometimes you do get big dis- charges of random magic'

'You made it because you were worried,' said Tiffany. 'Worried? Certainly not. I am never worried!' snapped Miss Tick. 'However, since you raise the subject, I was concerned. Something was making me uneasy. Something close, I think. It was probably nothing. In fact I feel a lot better now we're leaving.'

But you don't look it, Tiffany thought. And I was wrong. Two people means twice as much nervousness each. But she was sure there was nothing magical about Twoshirts. It was just a bend in the road. Twenty minutes later the passengers came out to get into the coach. The coachman did notice that the horses were sweating, and wondered why he could hear a swarm of flies when there were no flies to be seen. The dog that had been lying in the road was found later cowering in one of the inn's stables, whimpering. The wood was about half an hour's walk away, with Miss Tick and Tiffany taking turns to carry the suitcase. It was nothing special, as woods go, being mostly full-grown beech, although once you know that beech drips unpleasant poisons on the ground beneath it to keep it clear it's not quite the timber you thought it was. They sat on a log and waited for sunset. Miss Tick told Tiffany about shambles. They're not magical then?' said Tiffany. 'No. They're something to be magical through.'

'You mean like spectacles help you see but don't see for you?'

'That's right, well done! Is a telescope magical? Certainly not. It's just glass in a tube, but with one you could count the dragons on the moon. And . . . well, have you ever used a bow? No, probably not. But a shamble can act like a bow, too. A bow stores up muscle power as the archer draws it, and sends a heavy arrow much further than the archer could actually throw it. You can make one out of anything, so long as it. . . looks right.'

'And then you can tell if magic is happening?'

'Yes, if that's what you're looking for. When you're good at it you can use it to help you do magic yourself, to really focus on what you have to do. You can use it for protection, like a curse-net, or to send a spell, or ... well, it's like those expensive penknives, you know? The ones with the tiny saw and the scissors and the toothpick? Except that I don't think any witch has ever used a shamble as a toothpick, ha ha. All young witches should learn how to make a shamble. Miss Level will help you.' Tiffany looked around the wood. The shadows were growing longer, but they didn't worry her. Bits of Miss Tick's teachings floated through her head: Always face what you fear. Have just enough money, never too much, and some string. Even if it's not your fault it's your responsibility. Witches deal with things. Never stand between two mirrors. Never cackle. Do what you must do. Never lie, but you don't always have to be honest. Never wish. Especially don't wish upon a star, which is astronomically stupid. Open your eyes, and then open your eyes again. 'Miss Level has got long grey hair, has she?' she said. 'Oh, yes.'

'And she's quite a tall lady, just a bit fat, and she wears quite a lot of necklaces,' Tiffany went on. 'And glasses on a chain. And surprisingly high-heeled boots.' Miss Tick wasn't a fool. She looked around the clearing. 'Where is she?' she said. 'Standing by the tree over there,' said Tiffany.

Even so, Miss Tick had to squint. What Tiffany had noticed was that witches filled space. In a way that was almost impossible to describe, they seemed to be more real than others around them. They just showed up more. But if they didn't want to be seen, they became amazingly hard to notice. They didn't hide, they didn't magically fade away, although it might seem like that, but if you had to describe the room afterwards you'd swear there hadn't been a witch in it. They just seemed to let themselves get lost. 'Ah yes, well done,' said Miss Tick. 'I was wondering when you'd notice.' Ha! thought Tiffany. Miss Level got realer as she walked towards them. She was all in black, but clattered slightly as she walked because of all the black jewellery she wore, and she did have glasses, too, which struck Tiffany as odd for a witch. Miss Level reminded Tiffany of a happy hen. And she had two arms, the normal number. 'Ah, Miss Tick,' she said. 'And you must be Tiffany Aching.' Tiffany knew enough to bow; witches don't curtsy (unless they want to embarrass Roland). 'I'd just like to have a word with Miss Level, Tiffany, if you don't mind,' said Miss Tick, meaningfully. 'Senior witch business.' Ha! thought Tiffany again, because she liked the sound of it. 'I'll just go and have a look at a tree then, shall I?' she said with what she hoped was withering sarcasm. 1 should use the bushes if I was you, dear,' Miss Level called after her. 'I don't like stopping once we're airborne.' There were some holly bushes that made a decent screen, but after being talked to as though she were ten years old Tiffany would rather have allowed her bladder to explode. I beat the Queen of the Fairies! she thought as she wandered into the wood. All right, I'm not sure how, because it's all like a dream now, but I did do it! She was angry at being sent away like that. A little respect wouldn't hurt, would it? That's what the old witch Mistress Weatherwax had said, wasn't it? 'I show you respect, as you in turn will respect me.' Mistress Weatherwax, the witch who all the other witches secretly wanted to be like, had showed her respect, so you'd think the others could make a bit of effort in that department. She said: 'See me.' . . . and stepped out of herself and walked away towards Miss Tick and Miss Level, in her invisible ghost body. She didn't dare look down, in case she saw her feet weren't there. When she turned and looked back at her solid body, she saw it standing demurely by the holly bushes, clearly too far away to be listening to anyone's conversation. As Tiffany stealthily drew nearer she heard Miss Tick say: '- but quite frighteningly precocious.'

'Oh dear. I've never got on very well with clever people,' said Miss Level. 'Oh, she's a good child at heart,' said Miss Tick, which annoyed Tiffany rather more than 'frighteningly precocious' had. 'Of course, you know my situation,' said Miss Level as the invisible Tiffany inched closer.

'Yes, Miss Level, but your work does you great credit. That's why Mistress Weatherwax suggested you.'

'But I am afraid I'm getting a bit absent-minded,' Miss Level worried. 'It was terrible flying down here, because like a big silly I left my long-distance spectacles on my other nose. . .' Her other nose? thought Tiffany. Both witches froze, at exactly the same time. I'm without an egg!' said Miss Tick. 'I have a beetle in a matchbox against just such an emergency!' squeaked Miss Level. Their hands flew to their pockets and pulled out string and feathers and bits of coloured cloth- They know I'm here! thought Tiffany, and whispered, 'See me not!' She blinked and rocked on her heels as she arrived back in the patient little figure by the holly bushes. In the distance, Miss Level was frantically making a shamble and Miss Tick was staring around the wood. 'Tiffany, come here at once!' she shouted. 'Yes, Miss Tick,' said Tiffany, trotting forward like a good girl. They spotted me somehow, she thought. Well, they are witches, after all, even if in my opinion they're not very good ones- Then the pressure came. It seemed to squash the wood flat and filled it with the horrible feeling that something is standing right behind you. Tiffany sank to her knees with her hands over her ears and a pain like the worst earache squeezing her head. 'Finished!' shouted Miss Level. She held up a shamble. It was quite different from Miss Tick's, and made up of string and crow feathers and glittery black beads and, in the middle, an ordinary matchbox. Tiffany yelled. The pain was like red-hot needles and her ears filled with the buzz of flies. The matchbox exploded. And then there was silence, and birdsong, and nothing to show that anything had happened apart from a few pieces of matchbox spiralling down, along with an iridescent fragment of wing case. 'Oh dear,' said Miss Level. 'He was quite a good beetle, as beetles go . . .' “Tiffany, are you all right?' said Miss Tick. Tiffany blinked. The pain had gone as fast as it had arrived, leaving only a burning memory. She scrambled to her feet. 'I think so, Miss Tick!' Then a word, if you please!' said Miss Tick, marching over to a tree and standing there looking stern. 'Yes, Miss Tick?' said Tiffany. 'Did you . . . do anything?' said Miss Tick. 'You haven't been summoning things, have you?'

'No! Anyway, I don't know how to!' said Tiffany. 'It's not your little men then, is it?' said Miss Tick doubtfully. 'They're not mine, Miss Tick. And they don't do that sort of thing. They just shout ”Crivens!" and then start kicking people on the ankle. You definitely know it's them.'