Witches Abroad

in a jamjar and then hop about and get squashed…
    She was interrupted by the sound of a mandolin being played quite well, right on the other side of the wall, and a small but determined voice raised in song.
    “— si consuenti d’amoure, ventre dimo tondreturoooo—”
    “How I hunger my love for the dining room of your warm maceration,” said Nanny, without looking up.
    “— della della t’ozentro, audri t’dren vontarieeeeee ”
    “The shop, the shop, I have a lozenge, the sky is pink,” said Nanny.
    Granny and Magrat looked at one another.
    “— guarunto del tari, bella pore di larientos —”
    “Rejoice, candlemaker, you have a great big—”
    “I don’t believe any of this,” said Granny. “You’re making it up.”
    “Word for word translation,” said Nanny. “I can speak foreign like a native, you know that.”
    “Mrs. Ogg? Is that you, my love?”
    They all looked up toward the barred window. There was a small face peering in.
    “Casanunda?” said Nanny.
    “That’s me, Mrs. Ogg.”
    “My love,” muttered Granny.
    “How did you get up to the window?” said Nanny, ignoring this.
    “I always know where I can get my hands on a stepladder, Mrs. Ogg.”
    “I suppose you don’t know where you can get your hands on a key?”
    “Wouldn’t do any good. There’s too many guards outside your door, Mrs. Ogg. Even for a famous swordsman like me. Her ladyship gave strict orders. No one’s to listen to you or look at you, even.”
    “How come you’re in the palace guard, Casanunda?”
    “Soldier of fortune takes whatever jobs are going, Mrs. Ogg,” said Casanunda earnestly.
    “But all the rest of ’em are six foot tall and you’re—of the shorter persuasion.”
    “I lied about my height, Mrs. Ogg. I’m a world-famous liar.”
    “Is that true?”
    “No.”
    “What about you being the world’s greatest lover?”
    There was silence for a while.
    “Well, maybe I’m only No. 2,” said Casanunda. “But I try harder.”
    “Can’t you go and find us a file or something, Mr. Casanunda?” said Magrat.
    “I’ll see what I can do, Miss.”
    The face disappeared.
    “Maybe we could get people to visit us and then we could escape in their clothes?” said Nanny Ogg.
    “Now I’ve gone and stuck the pin in my finger,” muttered Granny Weatherwax.
    “Or maybe we could get Magrat to seduce one of the guards,” said Nanny.
    “Why don’t you?” said Magrat, as nastily as she could manage.
    “All right. I’m game.”
    “Shut up, the pair of you,” said Granny. “I’m trying to think—”
    There was another sound at the window.
    It was Legba.
    The black cockerel peered in between the bars for a moment, and then fluttered away.
    “Gives me the creeps, that one,” said Nanny. “Can’t look at him without thinking wistfully of sage-and-onion and mashed potatoes.”
    Her crinkled face crinkled further.
    “Greebo!” she said. “Where’d we leave him?”
    “Oh, he’s only a cat,” said Granny Weatherwax. “Cats know how to look after themselves.”
    “He’s really just a big softie—” Nanny began, before someone started pulling down the wall.
    A hole appeared. A gray hand appeared and grasped another stone. There was a strong smell of river mud.
    Rock crumbled under heavy fingers.
    “Ladies?” said a resonant voice.
    “Well, Mister Saturday,” said Nanny, “as I live and breathe—saving your presence, o’course.”
    Saturday grunted something and walked away.
    There was a hammering on the door and someone started fumbling with keys.
    “We don’t want to hang around here,” said Granny. “Come on.”
    They helped one another out through the hole.
    Saturday was on the other side of a small courtyard, striding toward the sound of the ball.
    And there was something behind him, trailing out like the tail of a comet.
    “What’s that?”
    “Mrs. Gogol’s doing,” said Granny Weatherwax grimly.
    Behind Saturday, widening as it snaked through the palace grounds to the gate, was a stream of deeper darkness in the air. At first sight it seemed to contain shapes, but closer inspection indicated that they weren’t shapes at all but a mere suggestion of shapes, forming and reforming. Eyes gleamed momentarily in the swirl. There was the chittering of crickets and the whine of mosquitoes, the smell of moss and the stink of river mud.
    “It’s the swamp,” said Magrat.
    “It’s the idea of the swamp,” said Granny. “It’s what you have to have