The Shepherd's Crown (Discworld #41)(68)

‘He did indeed, but he almost didn’t. Tiffany’s been to see him already, and it seems Old Horny ain’t interested,’ Nanny answered. ‘Can’t rely on him in any case.’

‘Time moves differently in his realm,’ Tiffany explained. ‘Even if he did decide to do something, it might be now, or next month or next year.’

‘What about the wizards?’ asked another witch. ‘Why aren’t they here?’

Nanny snorted. ‘Ha! That lot. By the time they got a spell ready, the elves would be over the Ramtops and far away.’ She adjusted her position and sniffed. ‘No, this is witches’ business. Them wizards have all got their bums on chairs and their noses stuck in books.’ She said this last word with a sideways glance at Mrs Earwig who was, of course, known for her love of writing.fn1

Magrat cut in quickly. ‘We also have all the support of Lancre that Verence and I can muster.’

‘Well, that’s my Shawn,’ said Nanny with satisfaction. Shawn Ogg was the army of Lancre, as well as its bottle-washer, butler, gardener, trumpeter and – a role Shawn would have liked to lose – the man who checked the garderobes and removed all the night waste. ‘And I reckons our Jason can provide us with a few horseshoes. Being as he’s the blacksmith,’ Nanny added for those who might not know.

Geoffrey coughed. ‘I’ve been working on a few ideas with some of the older gentlemen,’ he said softly. ‘We have . . . something I think might be useful.’

‘And there’s Hodgesaargh,’ said Magrat. Hodgesaargh – the royal falconer – was a surprising asset, since elven glamour didn’t seem to work on him, probably because he spent so much time with his beloved birds that a part of his brain was a falcon by now, and hence unprepared to share space with any other predator. It was generally believed that this was also what stopped the birds from pecking out his eyeballs.

Mrs Earwig laughed confidently. ‘So what is the problem, may I ask? There are plenty of us here. Surely more than enough for a few elves.’ She looked scornfully at Nightshade.

Nanny Ogg exploded. ‘No, there’s not enough of us! How many witches have we here?’ She looked around the room. ‘Ten, twelve mebbe – more if you includes Geoffrey and Letitia, and the young girls still training – but only half of us bein’ senior witches what has much real experience. The elves are sneaky. They’ll have the glamour on you afore you knows it. They come quietly – like a silent but deadly fart – and they get you before you can pinch your nose. Even Esme Weatherwax could barely withstand the power. She fought hard, and you all remember what she was like. They didn’t get past her – but it was a close thing. Ladies, these ’ere elves are horrible. We’re right to be fearful. They do . . . things to you. Get at you.’

‘It happened to me too,’ said Magrat. ‘The glamour makes you feel small and worthless. Those of us who have faced it before can’t warn the rest of you enough.’

‘I fear you are exaggerating. There’s nothing glamorous about that,’ Mrs Earwig said scornfully, pointing at Nightshade.

‘Well, you’ve certainly never met no fairy. If’n you had, you would have scars,’ Nanny spat. She had turned an interesting colour and Tiffany intervened quickly before sparks really began to fly.

‘Ladies, ladies, I think it would be useful to have a little demonstration of the power of an elf. Nightshade, would you be prepared to give us a taste of your glamour?’

There was a collective intake of breath as the assembled witches realized what Tiffany was suggesting.

‘Be careful, Nightshade. Very careful. Those of us who have met the glamour before will keep an eye on you. I sincerely hope that we won’t have a problem.’

And Nightshade smiled – not a particularly pleasant smile, Tiffany noticed.

‘Ladies,’ said Magrat to the others, trying to prepare them. ‘To be a witch is to be full of yourself – and in charge of yourself as well. It would be a good idea to watch one another when the glamour starts to take hold.’

‘Tish and pish!’ said Mrs Earwig. ‘I am my own woman, and always will be. I am a witch, whatever you might think, and I don’t deal in fairy tales.’

In a syrupy voice, Nanny Ogg said, ‘You just write them, Mrs Earwig.’

‘But not as reality,’ said Mrs Earwig. ‘That’s allowed.’

Nanny Ogg looked at her face and thought: We will see.

‘Ladies,’ asked Tiffany, ‘are you all ready?’ There were some nods and yeses, so she said, ‘Nightshade, please show us your glamour.’ And she grasped the shepherd’s crown in her pocket – this was a moment when she knew she would need to keep a strong hold on her sense of her self. Yan tan tethera, she chanted softly to herself. Yan tan tethera.

Nightshade began slowly, her foxy little dairymaid’s face filling with a shining light, with beauty, with style, and then she was suddenly the most wonderful thing in the hall.

Fantastic.

Marvellous.

Enchanting.

Terrific.

The air was thick with glamour and Tiffany could almost hear the witches fighting it. The inexperienced ones – Annagramma, Petulia and Letitia, Dimity and Harrieta – suddenly seemed flaccid, their faces like dolls.

Petulia – like many of the other witches – felt a beguiling feeling that the world was all hers, all of it, with everything that was in it. And then, her dream – as did theirs – unravelled. Who did she think she was? No one liked her, no one wanted her. She wasn’t worthy of anything. No one wanted her. Everyone knew she didn’t have any skills. It would be so much better if she was dead. Maybe it would be better if she simply let the pigs stamp her down into the mire, and even that wouldn’t be bad enough. She screamed.