Wyrd Sisters

rain.

    Ramtop rain has a curiously penetrative quality which makes ordinary rain seem almost arid. It poured in torrents over the castle roofs, and somehow seemed to go right through the tiles and fill the Great Hall with a warm, uncomfortable moistness. *
    The hall was crowded with half the population of Lancre. Outside, the rushing of the rain even drowned out the distant roar of the river. It soaked the stage. The colors ran and mingled in the painted backdrop, and one of the curtains sagged away from its rail and flapped sadly into a puddle.
    Inside, Granny Weatherwax finished speaking.
    “You forgot about the crown,” whispered Nanny Ogg.
    “Ah,” said Granny. “Yes, the crown. It’s on his head, d’you see? We hid it among the crowns when the actors left, the reason being, no one would look for it there. See how it fits him so perfectly.”
    It was a tribute to Granny’s extraordinary powers of persuasion that everyone did see how perfectly it fitted Tomjon. In fact the only one who didn’t was Tomjon himself, who was aware that it was only his ears that were stopping it becoming a necklace.
    “Imagine the sensation when he put it on for the first time,” she went on. “I expect there was an eldritch tingling sensation.”
    “Actually, it felt rather—” Tomjon began, but no one was listening to him. He shrugged and leaned over to Hwel, who was still scribbling busily.
    “Does eldritch mean uncomfortable?” he hissed.
    The dwarf looked at him with unfocused eyes.
    “What?”
    “I said, does eldritch mean uncomfortable?”
    “Eh? Oh. No. No, I shouldn’t think so.”
    “What does it mean then?”
    “Dunno. Oblong, I think.” Hwel’s glance returned to his scrawls as though magnetized. “Can you remember what he said after all those tomorrows? I didn’t catch the bit after that…”
    “And there wasn’t any need for you to tell everyone I was—adopted,” said Tomjon.
    “That’s how it was, you see,” said the dwarf vaguely. “Best to be honest about these things. Now then, did he actually stab her, or just accuse her?”
    “I don’t want to be a king!” Tomjon whispered hoarsely. “Everyone says I take after dad!”
    “Funny thing, all this taking after people,” said the dwarf vaguely. “I mean, if I took after my dad, I’d be a hundred feet underground digging rocks, whereas—” His voice died away. He stared at the nib of his pen as though it held an incredible fascination.
    “Whereas what?”
    “Eh?”
    “Aren’t you even listening ?”
    “I knew it was wrong when I wrote it, I knew it was the wrong way round…What? Oh, yes. Be a king. It’s a good job. It seems there’s a lot of competition, at any rate. I’m very happy for you. Once you’re a king, you can do anything you want.”
    Tomjon looked at the faces of the Lancre worthies around the table. They had a keen, calculating look, like the audience at a fatstock show. They were weighing him up. It crept upon him in a cold and clammy way that once he was king, he could do anything he wanted. Provided that what he wanted to do was be king.
    “You could build your own theater,” said Hwel, his eyes lighting up for a moment. “With as many trapdoors as you wanted, and magnificent costumes. You could act in a new play every night. I mean, it would make the Dysk look like a shed.”
    “Who would come to see me?” said Tomjon, sagging in his seat.
    “Everyone.”
    “What, every night?”
    “You could order them to,” said Hwel, without looking up.
    I knew he was going to say that, Tomjon thought. He can’t really mean it, he added charitably. He’s got his play. He doesn’t really exist in this world, not right now at the moment.
    He took off the crown and turned it over and over in his hands. There wasn’t much metal in it, but it felt heavy. He wondered how heavy it would get if you wore it all the time.
    At the head of the table was an empty chair containing, he had been assured, the ghost of his real father. It would have been nice to report that he had experienced anything more, when being introduced to it, than an icy sensation and a buzzing in the ears.
    “I suppose I could help father pay off on the Dysk,” he said.
    “That would be nice, yes,” said Hwel.
    He spun the crown in his fingers and listened glumly to the talk flowing back and forth over his head.
    “Fifteen years?” said the Mayor of Lancre.
    “We had to,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    “I thought the baker was a bit