Witches Abroad

you’ll be wanting to get home early,” said Granny. “Don’t you bother yourself. It’d be no trouble.”
    “Oh, it won’t be any trouble at all,” said Nanny.
    “You don’t want to go tiring yourself out at your age,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    They glared at one another.
    “I really don’t see that it matters,” said Gammer Brevis. “You might as well go together rather than fight about it.”
    “I’m a bit busy tomorrow,” said Granny. “How about after lunch?”
    “Right,” said Nanny Ogg. “We’ll meet at her cottage. Right after lunch.”
    “We had one once but the bit you unscrew fell off and got lost,” said Old Mother Dismass.

    Hurker the poacher shovelled the last of the earth into the hole. He felt he ought to say a few words.
    “Well, that’s about it, then,” he said.
    She’d definitely been one of the better witches, he thought, as he wandered back to the cottage in the pre-dawn gloom. Some of the other ones—while of course being wonderful human beings, he added to himself hurriedly, as fine a bunch of women as you could ever hope to avoid—were just a bit overpowering. Mistress Hollow had been a listening kind of person.
    On the kitchen table was a long package, a small pile of coins, and an envelope.
    He opened the envelope, although it was not addressed to him.
    Inside was a smaller envelope, and a note.
    The note said: I’m watching you, Albert Hurker. Deliver the packige and the envlope and if you dare take a peek inside something dretful will happen to you. As a profesional Good Farey Godmother I aint allowed to curse anyone but I Predict it would probly involve bein bittern by an enraged wolf and your leg going green and runny and dropping off, dont arsk me how I know anyway you carnt because, I am dead. All the best, Desiderata.
    He picked up the package with his eyes shut.

    Light travels slowly in the Discworld’s vast magical field, which means that time does too. As Nanny Ogg would put it, when it’s teatime in Genua it’s Tuesday over here…
    In fact it was dawn in Genua. Lilith sat in her tower, using a mirror, sending her own image out to scan the world. She was searching.
    Wherever there was a sparkle on a wave crest, wherever there was a sheet of ice, wherever there was a mirror or a reflection then Lilith knew she could see out. You didn’t need a magic mirror. Any mirror would do, if you knew how to use it. And Lilith, crackling with the power of a million images, knew that very well.
    There was just a nagging doubt. Presumably Desiderata would have got rid of it . Her sort were like that. Conscientious. And presumably it would be to that stupid girl with the watery eyes who sometimes visited the cottage, the one with all the cheap jewelry and the bad taste in clothes. She looked just the type.
    But Lilith wanted to be sure. She hadn’t got where she was today without being sure.
    In puddles and windows all over Lancre, the face of Lilith appeared momentarily and then moved on…

    And now it was dawn in Lancre. Autumn mists rolled through the forest.
    Granny Weatherwax pushed open the cottage door. It wasn’t locked. The only visitor Desiderata had been expecting wasn’t the sort to be put off by locks.
    “She’s had herself buried around the back,” said a voice behind her. It was Nanny Ogg.
    Granny considered her next move. To point out that Nanny had deliberately come early, so as to search the cottage by herself, then raised questions about Granny’s own presence. She could undoubtedly answer them, given enough time. On the whole, it was probably best just to get on with things.
    “Ah,” she said, nodding. “Always very neat in her ways, was Desiderata.”
    “Well, it was the job,” said Nanny Ogg, pushing past her and eyeing the room’s contents speculatively. “You got to be able to keep track of things, in a job like hers. By gor’, that’s a bloody enormous cat.”
    “It’s a lion,” said Granny Weatherwax, looking at the stuffed head over the fireplace.
    “Must’ve hit the wall at a hell of a speed, whatever it was,” said Nanny Ogg.
    “Someone killed it,” said Granny Weatherwax, surveying the room.
    “Should think so,” said Nanny. “If I’d seen something like that eatin’ its way through the wall I’d of hit it myself with the poker.”
    There was of course no such thing as a typical witch’s cottage, but if there was such a thing as a nontypical witch’s cottage, then this was certainly it. Apart