Carpe Jugulum

conversations involving polysyllabic words were shrouded in mystery.
    “Now, I want you to all pay attention—”
    “Father, we have done this before.”
    “The point can’t be hammered home far enough. That is the Lancre River down there. Running water. And we will cross it. It is as well to consider that your ancestors, although quite capable of undertaking journeys of hundreds of miles, nevertheless firmly believed that they couldn’t cross a stream. Do I need to point out the contradiction?”
    “No, Father.”
    “Good. Cultural conditioning would be the death of us, if we are not careful. Drive on, Igor.”
    The troll watched them go. Coldness seemed to follow them across the bridge. Granny Weatherwax was airborne again, glad of the clean, crisp air. She was well above the trees and, to the benefit of all concerned, no one could see her face.
    Isolated homesteads passed below, a few with lighted windows but most of them dark, because people would long ago have headed for the palace.
    There was a story under every roof, she knew. She knew all about stories. But those down there were the stories that were never to be told, the little secret stories, enacted in little rooms…
    They were about those times when medicines didn’t help and headology was at a loss because a mind was a rage of pain in a body that had become its own enemy, when people were simply in a prison made of flesh, and at times like this she could let them go . There was no need for desperate stuff with a pillow, or deliberate mistakes with the medicine. You didn’t push them out of the world, you just stopped the world pulling them back. You just reached in, and…showed them the way.
    There was never anything said. Sometimes you saw in the face of the relatives the request they’d never, ever put words around, or maybe they’d say “is there something you can do for him?” and this was, perhaps, the code. If you dared ask, they’d be shocked that you might have thought they meant anything other than, perhaps, a comfier pillow.
    And any midwife, out in isolated cottages on bloody nights, would know all the other little secrets…
    Never to be told…
    She’d been a witch here all her life. And one of the things a witch did was stand right on the edge, where the decisions had to be made. You made them so that others didn’t have to, so that others could even pretend to themselves that there were no decisions to be made, no little secrets, that things just happened . You never said what you knew. And you didn’t ask for anything in return.
    The castle was brightly lit, she saw. She could even make out figures around the bonfire.
    Something else caught her eye, because she was going to look everywhere but at the castle now, and it jolted her out of her mood. Mist was pouring over the mountains and sliding down the far valleys under the moonlight. One strand was flowing toward the castle and pouring, very slowly, into the Lancre Gorge.
    Of course you got mists in the spring, when the weather was changing, but this mist was coming from Uberwald.

The door to Magrat’s room was opened by Millie Chillum, the maid, who curtseyed to Agnes, or at least to her hat, and then left her alone with the Queen, who was at her dressing table.
    Agnes wasn’t sure of the protocol, but tried a sort of republican curtsey. This caused considerable movement in outlying regions.
    Queen Magrat of Lancre blew her nose and stuffed the hankie up the sleeve of her dressing gown.
    “Oh, hello, Agnes,” she said. “Take a seat, do. You don’t have to bob up and down like that. Millie does it all the time and I get seasick. Anyway, strictly speaking, witches bow.”
    “Er…” Agnes began. She glanced at the crib in the corner. It had more loops and lace than any piece of furniture should.
    “She’s asleep,” said Magrat. “Oh, the crib? Verence ordered it all the way from Ankh-Morpork. I said the old one they’d always used was fine, but he’s very, you know… modern . Please sit down.”
    “You wanted me, your maj—” Agnes began, still uncertain. It was turning out to be a very complicated evening, and she wasn’t sure even now how she felt about Magrat. The woman had left echoes of herself in the cottage—an old bangle lost under the bed, rather soppy notes in some of the ancient notebooks, vases full of desiccated flowers…You can build up a very strange view of someone via the things they leave behind the dresser.
    “I just wanted a