The Shepherd's Crown (Discworld 41)

‘Is there going to be a funeral?’ asked Tiffany.

‘Well, you know Esme. She wasn’t one for that kind of thing – never one to push herself forwardfn3 – and we witches don’t much like funerals. Granny called them fuss.’

Tiffany thought of the only other witch’s funeral she had been to. The late Miss Treason, for whom she had worked, had wanted a lot of fuss. She hadn’t wanted to miss the event herself either, so she had sent out invitations in advance. It had been . . . memorable.

As they put Granny Weatherwax to bed – as Granny had called it – Nanny said, ‘Queen Magrat has to be told. She’s away in Genua at the moment with the King, but I daresay as she’ll be along soon as possible, what with all these railways and whatnot. Anyone else as needs to know will probably know already, you mark my words. But first thing tomorrow, before they get here, we’ll bury Esme the way she wanted, quiet-like an’ no fuss, in that wickerwork basket downstairs. Very cheap, wickerwork baskets are, and quick to make, Esme always said. An’ you know Esme, she’s such a frugal person – nothing goes to waste.’

Tiffany spent the night on the truckle bed, a tiny thing which was usually pushed away when it wasn’t needed. Nanny Ogg had settled for the rocking chair downstairs, which squeaked and complained every time she rocked back. But Tiffany didn’t sleep. There were a series of half-sleeps as the light of the moon filtered into the room, and every time she looked up there was You, the cat, asleep at the foot of Granny’s bed, curled up like a little white moon herself.

Tiffany had watched the dead before many times, of course – it was the custom for a departing soul to have company the night before any funeral or burial, as if to make a point to anything that might be . . . lurking: this person mattered, there is someone here to make sure nothing evil creeps in at this time of danger. The night-time creaking of woodwork filled the room now and Tiffany, fully awake, listened as Granny Weatherwax began making sounds of her own as her body settled down. I’ve done this often, she told herself. It’s what we witches do. We don’t talk about it, but we do it. We watch the dead to see that no harm comes to them out of the darkness. Although, as Nanny said, maybe it’s the living you have to watch – for despite what most people thought, the dead don’t hurt anybody.

What do I do now? she thought in the small hours of the night. What’s going to happen tomorrow? The world is upside down. I can’t replace Granny. Never in a hundred years. And then she thought, What did young Esmerelda say when Nanny Gripes told her that her steading was the whole world?

She twisted and turned, then opened her eyes and looked up suddenly to see an owl gazing in at her from the windowsill, its huge eyes hanging in the darkness like a lantern to another world. Another omen? Granny had liked owls . . .

Now her Second Thoughts were at work, thinking about what she was thinking. You can’t say you’re not good enough – no witch would ever say that, they told her. I mean, you know you are pretty good, yes; the senior witches know that you once threw the Queen of the Fairies from our world, and they saw you go through the gate with the hiver. They all saw you return too.

But is that enough? her First Thoughts butted in. After . . . after we have done what we need to do, I could just put on my number-two drawers and go home on my broomstick. I have to go anyway, even if I take on the steading. I have to tell my parents. And I’m going to need help on the Chalk . . . it’s going to be a nightmare if I have to be in two places at once. I’m not like a cat . . .

And as she thought that, she looked down, and there was You looking at her, but not just looking – a penetrating stare of the kind that only cats can achieve, and it seemed to Tiffany that this meant: Get on with your job, there is a lot of work to be doing. Don’t think of yourself. Think for all.

Then tiredness was finally her friend, and Tiffany Aching had a few hours’ sleep.

The clacks rattled as the news of Granny Weatherwax went down the lines in the morning, and people who got the message faced it in their various ways.

In the study of her manor house, Mrs Earwigfn4 got the news while she was writing her next book on ‘Flower Magick’ and there was a sudden sense of wrongness, of the world going askew. She put the right expression of grief on her face and went to tell her husband, an elderly wizard, trying to keep her joy hidden as she realized what this could mean: she, Mrs Earwig, was going to be one of the most senior witches in Lancre. Perhaps she could get her latest girl into that old cottage in the woods? Her sharp face went even sharper as she thought how magickal she could make it look with the help of a few curse-nets, charms, runic symbols, silver stars, black velvet drapes and – oh yes, the essential crystal ball.

She called to her latest young trainee to fetch her cape and broomstick, and pulled on her very best pair of black lacy gloves, the ones with the silver symbols stitched over each fingertip. She would need to Make an Entrance . . .

In Boffo’s Novelty and Joke Emporium, 4 Tenth Egg Street, Ankh-Morpork – ‘Everything for the Hag in a Hurry’ – Mrs Proust said, ‘What a shame, but the old girl had a good innings.’

Witches don’t have leaders, of course, but everyone knew that Granny Weatherwax had been the best leader they didn’t have, so now someone else would need to step forward to generally steer the witches. And to keep an eye too on anyone prone to a bit of cackling.

Mrs Proust put down an imitation cackle she had taken from her Compare the Cackle display, and looked towards her son Derek and said, ‘There’s going to be an argument now, or my name’s not Eunice Proust. But it will surely be young Tiffany Aching who gets that steading. We all saw what she can do. My word, we did!’ And in her mind, she said, Go to it, Tiffany, before somebody else does.

In the palace, Drumknott the clerk hurried with the Ankh-Morpork Times to the Oblong Office where Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of the city, had been waiting for his daily crossword to arrive.

But Vetinari already knew the news that mattered. ‘There will be some trouble. Mark my words, I expect squabbling on the distaff side.’ He sighed. ‘Any ideas, Drumknott? Who will rise to the top of the brew, do you think?’ He tapped the top of his ebony cane as he considered his own question.

‘Well, my lord,’ said Drumknott, ‘the rumour on the clacks is that it’s likely to be Tiffany Aching. Quite young.’

‘Quite young, yes. And any good?’ asked Vetinari.

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘What about this woman called Mrs Earwig?’

Drumknott made a face. ‘All show, my lord, doesn’t get her hands dirty. Lot of jewellery, black lace, you know the type. Well-connected, but that’s about all I can say.’

‘Ah yes, now you tell me, I’ve seen her. Pushy and full of herself. She’s the kind who goes to soirees.’

‘So do you, my lord.’

‘Yes, but I am the tyrant, so it’s the job I have to do, alas. Now, this Aching young lady – what else do we know about her? Wasn’t there some bother the last time she was in the city?’

‘My lord, the Nac Mac Feegles are very fond of her and she of them. They consider themselves an honour guard to her on occasions.’

‘Drumknott.’