The Shepherd's Crown (Discworld #41)(70)

There was a susurration amongst the witches as the room started to fill with a sea of blue skin and tartan – not all the witches had met the Feegles before. Tiffany heard Nanny Ogg whisper not quite quietly enough to Queen Magrat, ‘Put anythin’ drinkable in the cellar.’

‘Ach, ye are a cruel hag, so ye are, or my name isnae Rob Anybody,’ Rob moaned.

Magrat laughed. ‘Rob Anybody, you are a war all by yourself, man! Welcome to the palace but please don’t drink everything. At least, not until we have won the war.’

‘Now ye are talking, lassie – I mean, your queenship. Where there’s a war there’s a Nac Mac Feegle.’

There was a barrage of cries of ‘Crivens’ from the clan and Rob Anybody shouted, ‘Aye, get ’em doon, and the kickin’ starts.’ There was another cheer then and Big Yan jumped up and shouted, ‘Ye will need to tak’ note, ye weans. We dinnae say yes tae Mister Finesse, but we jes’ kick ’em.’

Hamish added, ‘Whan Morag swoops doon on top o’ ’em, her beak ’n’ talons’ll tak’ their breath awa’. And she’s a heavy girl.’

‘Be happy that they are on our side,’ Tiffany said. She looked reprovingly at Mrs Earwig, who had a snooty look on her face. ‘It’s true that they are rough diamonds, but no better warriors can be found anywhere on the Disc.’ And she hoped that Mrs Earwig didn’t hear the mumbling:

Daft Wullie. ‘What’s this? Did we stole any diamonds?’

‘It’s a manner of speaking, ye daftie.’ Rob Anybody.

‘But we got no manners. We treasure the fact, ye ken.’ Wullie, again.

‘It’s an idiom.’

‘Who’re you calling an idiom?’

Tiffany laughed to herself. It appeared that the kelda had been seeing to the clan’s range of expressions.

Rob waved his claymore in the air, making one or two witches retreat a step or two, and then he leaped up onto a table and glared down the hall. ‘Weel, I see the Lady Nightshade is with us the noo,’ he said. ‘Ach, the big wee hag and the kelda seem tae think that we shouldnae do anything aboot this elf – we are tae leave her alone. Although,’ he continued, looking at Nightshade, ‘we’ll be watching her carefully, verra carefully indeed. Oor kelda is soft, oor kelda, as soft as stone, ye ken – she is nae one to let a body break their troth and get away wi’ it!’

‘Dear sir, Mister Feegle,’ said Mrs Earwig. ‘This is a council of war, so we should be discussing strategies and tactics.’

‘Ah weel, ye can if ye wish, but we are Feegles and we dinnae mess about wi’ things like that. It’s all aboot usin’ yon claymore to best offence. And if ye dinnae get that right, your last resort is to nut ’em.’

Tiffany took in Mrs Earwig’s face and said cheerfully, ‘Could you do that, Mrs Earwig?’

She was given a Look, and Mrs Earwig said, ‘I will nut as I see fit.’ And to Tiffany’s surprise, the other witches applauded, and for once Mrs Earwig was wreathed in smiles.

‘I tell ye, I would nae cross yon carlin,’ said Rob Anybody.

‘Nae me,’ said Big Yan. ‘She’s as sharp as a she-wolf.’

‘So wheer’s yon battle, then, hag o’ the hills?’ Rob demanded.

There was another roar from the assembled Feegles, and a forest of little swords and clubs were thrust into the air.

‘Nac Mac Feegle, wha hae!’

‘A guid kickin’ for the wee scunners!’

‘Nae king! Nae quin! We willnae be fooled again!’

Tiffany smiled. ‘If Nightshade is right, the elves will ride through this coming night – when the full moon shines in the skies. Ladies – and Geoffrey,’ she addressed the assembled witches. ‘Go and get some rest. I must fly back to my steading now, but goodnight and good luck.’

‘Let the runes of fortune guide and protect us all,’ Mrs Earwig added portentously, always determined to get the last word in.

Tiffany loved the little room she’d had since she was a child. Her parents hadn’t changed anything, and unless it was raining or blowing a gale, she slept with the window open.

Now, weary from the broomstick ride back, tense with the expectation of what the night might bring but hoping to get a few hours’ rest, she savoured the atmosphere of the little room, finding strength from its familiarity.

A strength that came from feeling that she was exactly where she should be. An Aching.

‘I get up Aching, and I go to bed Aching,’ she whispered to herself, smiling. One of her father’s jokes, and she had rolled her eyes when hearing it again and again as a child, but now its warmth curled over her body.

And there was the china shepherdess on the shelf.

Granny Aching.

And next to it she had placed the shepherd’s crown.

Aching to Aching, down the generations.

Land under wave, she mused. That was what the name Tiffany meant in the speech of the Feegles. Tir-far-thóinn, ‘Tiffan’, the kelda would call her. The sound of her name was magic, real magic from the beginning of time.

It was a soft night. She told herself that she really ought to get some sleep – she’d be no good without some rest – but she lay there, the cat You snuggled up against her warmth, listening to the owls. Hootings were coming from everywhere, as if they were warning her.