Wyrd Sisters

engagements. The dwarf paused in the task of loading up the latty. *
    “About a week, maximum,” he said at last. “With matinees, of course.”

    A month went past. The early damp-earth odors of autumn drifted over the velvety-dark moors, where the watery starlight was echoed by one spark of a fire.
    The standing stone was back in its normal place, but still poised to run if any auditors came into view.
    The witches sat in careful silence. This was not going to rate among the hundred most exciting coven meetings of all time. If Mussorgsky had seen them, the night on the bare mountain would have been over by teatime.
    Then Granny Weatherwax said, “It was a good banquet, I thought.”
    “I was nearly sick,” said Nanny Ogg proudly. “And my Shirl helped out in the kitchen and brought me home some scraps.”
    “I heard,” said Granny coldly. “Half a pig and three bottles of fizzy wine went missing, they say.”
    “It’s nice that some people think of the old folk,” said Nanny Ogg, completely unabashed. “I got a coronation mug, too.” She produced it. “It says ‘Viva Verence II Rex.’ Fancy him being called Rex. I can’t say it’s a good likeness, mind you. I don’t recall him having a handle sticking out of his ear.”
    There was another long, terribly polite pause. Then Granny said, “We were a bit surprised you weren’t there, Magrat.”
    “We thought you’d be up at the top of the table, kind of thing,” said Nanny. “We thought you’d have moved in up there.”
    Magrat stared fixedly at her feet.
    “I wasn’t invited,” she said meekly.
    “Well, I don’t know about invited ,” said Granny. “We weren’t invited . People don’t have to invite witches, they just know we’ll turn up if we want to. They soon find room for us,” she added, with some satisfaction.
    “You see, he’s been very busy,” said Magrat to her feet. “Sorting everything out, you know. He’s very clever, you know. Underneath.”
    “Very sober lad,” said Nanny.
    “Anyway, it’s full moon,” said Magrat quickly. “You’ve got to go to coven meetings at full moon, no matter what other pressing engagements there may be.”
    “Have y—?” Nanny Ogg began, but Granny nudged her sharply in the ribs.
    “It’s a very good thing he’s paying so much attention to getting the kingdom working again,” said Granny, soothingly. “It shows proper consideration. I daresay he’ll get around to everything, sooner or later. It’s very demanding, being a king.”
    “Yes,” said Magrat, her voice barely audible.
    The silence that followed was almost solid. It was broken by Nanny, in a voice as bright and brittle as ice.
    “Well, I brought a bottle of that fizzy wine with me,” she said. “In case he’d…in case…in case we felt like a drink,” she rallied, and waved it at the other two.
    “I don’t want any,” said Magrat sullenly.
    “You drink up, girl,” said Granny Weatherwax. “It’s a chilly night. It’d be good for your chest.”
    She squinted at Magrat as the moon drifted out from behind its cloud.
    “Here,” she said. “Your hair looks a bit grubby. It looks as though you haven’t washed it for a month.”
    Magrat burst into tears.

    The same moon shone down on the otherwise unremarkable town of Rham Nitz, some ninety miles from Lancre.
    Tomjon left the stage to thunderous applause at the concluding act of The Troll of Ankh . A hundred people would go home tonight wondering whether trolls were really as bad as they had hitherto thought although, of course, this wouldn’t actually stop them disliking them in any way whatsoever.
    Hwel patted him on the back as he sat down at the makeup table and started scraping off the thick gray sludge that was intended to make him look like a walking rock.
    “Well done,” he said. “The love scene—just right. And when you turned around and roared at the wizard I shouldn’t think there was a dry seat in the house.”
    “I know.”
    Hwel rubbed his hands together.
    “We can afford a tavern tonight,” he said. “So if we just—”
    “We’ll sleep in the carts,” said Tomjon firmly, squinting at himself in the shard of mirror.
    “But you know how much the Fo—the king gave us! It could be feather beds all the way home!”
    “It’s straw mattresses and a good profit for us,” said Tomjon. “And that’ll buy you gods from heaven and demons from hell and the wind and the waves and more trapdoors than you can count, my lawn