Witches Abroad (Discworld 12)

'I ain't going any higher,' she said.

'If we go high enough we might be able to see where we're going,' said Magrat.

'You said you looked at Desiderata's maps,' said Granny.

'It looks different from up here, though,' said Magrat. 'More . . . sticking up. But I think we go ... that way.'

'You sure?'

Which was the wrong question to ask a witch. Especially if the person doing the asking was Granny Weatherwax.

'Positive,' said Magrat.

Nanny Ogg looked up at the high peaks.

'There's a lot of big mountains that way,' she said.

They rose tier on tier, speckled with snow, trailing endless pennants of ice crystals high overhead. No-one ski'd in the high Ramtops, at least for more than a few feet and a disappearing scream. No-one ran up them wearing dirndls and singing. They were not nice mountains. They were the kind of mountains where winters went for their summer holidays.

"There's passes and things through them,' said Magrat uncertainly.

'Bound to be,' said Nanny.

You can use two mirrors like this, if you know the way of it: you set them so that they reflect each other. For if images can steal a bit of you, then images of images can amplify you, feeding you back on yourself, giving you power. . .

And your image extends forever, in reflections of reflections of reflections, and every image is the same, all the way around the curve of light.

Except that it isn't.

Mirrors contain infinity.

Infinity contains more things than you think.

Everything, for a start.

Including hunger.

Because there's a million billion images and only one soul to go around.

Mirrors give plenty, but they take away lots.

Mountains unfolded to reveal more mountains. Clouds gathered, heavy and grey.

'I'm sure we're going the right way,' said Magrat. Freezing rock stretched away. The witches flew along a maze of twisty little canyons, all alike.

'Yeah,' said Granny.

'Well, you won't let me fly high enough,' said Magrat.

'It's going to snow like blazes in a minute,' said Nanny Ogg.

It was early evening. Light was draining out of the high valleys like custard.

'I thought . . . there'd be villages and things,' said Magrat, 'where we could buy interesting native produce and seek shelter in rude huts.'

'You wouldn't even get trolls up here,' said Granny.

The three broomsticks glided down into a bare valley, a mere notch in the mountain side.