Carpe Jugulum

said Granny. She leaned against the anvil, panting. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand move slowly.
    “I’ll get—I’ll ask—I’ll—”
    “Man with his head screwed on properly, that falconer. A biscuit wouldn’t come amiss.”
    Oats’s hand reached the ax handle.
    “Still not quick enough,” said Granny. “Keep hold of it, though. Ax first, pray later. You look like a priest. What’s your god?”
    “Er…Om.”
    “That a he god or a she god?”
    “A he. Yes. A he. Definitely a he.” It was one thing the Church hadn’t schismed over, strangely. “Er…you don’t mind, do you?”
    “Why should I mind?”
    “Well…your colleagues keep telling me the Omnians used to burn witches…”
    “They never did,” said Granny.
    “I’m afraid I have to admit that the records show—”
    “They never burned witches,” said Granny. “Probably they burned some old ladies who spoke up or couldn’t run away. I wouldn’t look for witches bein’ burned,” she added, shifting position. “I might look for witches doin’ the burning, though. We ain’t all nice.”
    Oats remembered the Count talking about contributing to the Arca Instrumentorum …
    Those books were ancient! But so were vampires, weren’t they? And they were practically canonical! The freezing knife of doubt wedged itself deeper in his brain. Who knew who really wrote anything ? What could you trust ? Where was the holy writ? Where was the truth ?
    Granny pulled herself to her feet and tottered over the bench, where Hodgesaargh has left his jar of flame. She examined it carefully.
    Oats tightened his grip on the ax. It was, he had to admit, slightly more comforting than prayer at the moment. Perhaps you could start with the small truths. Like: he had an ax in his hand.
    “I wa—want to be certain,” he said. “Are you…are you a vampire?”
    Granny Weatherwax appeared not to hear the question.
    “Where’s Hodgesaargh with that tea?” she said.
    The falconer came in with a tray.
    “Nice to see you up and about, Mistress Weatherwax.”
    “Not before time.”
    The tea slopped as she took the proffered cup. Her hand was shaking.
    “Hodgesaargh?”
    “Yes, mistress?”
    “So you’ve got a firebird here, have you?”
    “No, mistress.”
    “I saw you out huntin’ it.”
    “And I found it, miss. But it had been killed. There was nothing but burnt ground, miss.”
    “You’d better tell me all about it.”
    “Is this the right time?” said Oats.
    “Yes,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    Oats sat and listened. Hodgesaargh was an original storyteller and quite good in a very specific way. If he’d had to recount the saga of the Tsortean War, for example, it would have been in terms of the birds observed, every cormorant noted, every pelican listed, every battlefield raven taxonomically placed, no tern unturned. Some men in armor would have been involved at some stage, but only because the ravens were perching on them.
    “The phoenix doesn’t lay eggs,” said Oats at one point. This was a point a few points after the point where he asked the falconer if he’d been drinking.
    “She’s a bird,” said Hodgesaargh. “That’s what birds do. I’ve never seen a bird that doesn’t lay eggs. I collected the eggshell.”
    He scuttled off into the mews. Oats smiled nervously at Granny Weatherwax.
    “Probably a bit of chicken shell,” he said. “I’ve read about the phoenix. It’s a mythical creature, a symbol, it—”
    “Can’t say for sure,” said Granny. “I’ve never seen one that close to.”
    The falconer returned, clutching a small box. It was full of tufts of fleece, in the middle of which was a pile of shell fragments. Oats picked up a couple. They were a silvery gray and very light.
    “I found them in the ashes.”
    “No one’s ever claimed to have found phoenix eggshell before,” said Oats accusingly.
    “Didn’t know that, sir,” said Hodgesaargh innocently. “Other-wise I wouldn’t have looked.”
    “Did anyone else ever look, I wonder?” said Granny. She poked at the fragments. “Ah…” she said.
    “I thought p’raps the phoenixes used to live somewhere very dangerous—” Hodgesaargh began.
    “Everywhere’s like that when you’re newborn,” said Granny. “I can see you’ve been thinking, Hodgesaargh.”
    “Thank you, Mistress Weatherwax.”
    “Shame you didn’t think further,” Granny went on.
    “Mistress?”
    “There’s the bits of more than one egg