Wyrd Sisters

appropriate for the opening of hostilities in a middle-range war. “Pray let me past, dearie.” The last word had knives in it.
    “No one must enter the castle,” said one of the guards. “Orders of the duke.”
    Granny shrugged. The apple-seller gambit had never worked more than once in the entire history of witchcraft, as far as she knew, but it was traditional.
    “I know you, Champett Poldy,” she said. “I recall I laid out your grandad and I brought you into the world.” She glanced at the crowds, which had regathered a little way off, and turned back to the guard, whose face was already a mask of terror. She leaned a little closer, and said, “I gave you your first good hiding in this valley of tears and by all the gods if you cross me now I will give you your last.”
    There was a soft metallic noise as the spear fell out of the man’s fearful fingers. Granny reached and gave the trembling man a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
    “But don’t worry about it,” she added. “Have an apple.”
    She made to step forward, and a second spear barred her way. She looked up with interest.
    The other guard was not a Ramtopper, but a city-bred mercenary brought up to swell the ranks depleted in recent years. His face was a patchwork of scar tissue. Several of the scars rearranged themselves into what was possibly a sneer.
    “So that’s witches’ magic, is it?” said the guard. “Pretty poor stuff. Maybe it frightens these country idiots, woman, but it doesn’t frighten me.”
    “I imagine it takes a lot to frighten a big strong lad like you,” said Granny, reaching up to her hat.
    “And don’t you try to put the wind up me, neither.” The guard stared straight ahead, and rocked gently on the balls of his feet. “Old ladies like you, twisting people around. It shouldn’t be stood for, like they say.”
    “Just as you like,” said Granny, pushing the spear aside.
    “Listen, I said —” the guard began, and grabbed Granny’s shoulder. Her hand moved so quickly it hardly seemed to move at all, but suddenly he was clutching at his arm and moaning.
    Granny replaced the hatpin in her hat and ran for it.

    “We will begin,” said the duchess, leering, “with the Showing of the Implements.”
    “Seen ’em,” said Nanny. “Leastways, all the ones beginning with P, S, I, T and W.”
    “Then let us see how long you can keep that light conversational tone. Light the brazier, Felmet,” snapped the duchess.
    “Light the brazier, Fool,” said the duke.
    The Fool moved slowly. He hadn’t expected any of this. Torturing people hadn’t been on his mental agenda. Hurting old ladies in cold blood wasn’t his cup of tea, and actually hurting witches in blood of any temperature whatsoever failed to be an entire twelve-course banquet. Words, he’d said. All this probably came under the heading of sticks and stones.
    “I don’t like doing this,” he murmured under his breath.
    “Fine,” said Nanny Ogg, whose hearing was superb. “I’ll remember that you didn’t like it.”
    “What’s that?” said the duke sharply.
    “Nothing,” said Nanny. “Is this going to take long? I haven’t had breakfast.”
    The Fool lit a match. There was the faintest disturbance in the air beside him, and it went out. He swore, and tried another. This time his shaking hands managed to get it as far as the brazier before it, too, flared and darkened.
    “Hurry up, man!” said the duchess, laying out a tray of tools.
    “Doesn’t seem to want to light—” muttered the Fool, as another match became a fluttering streak of flame and then went out.
    The duke snatched the box from his trembling fingers and caught him across the cheek with a handful of rings.
    “Can no orders of mine be obeyed?” he screamed. “Infirm of purpose! Weak! Give me the box!”
    The Fool backed away. Someone he couldn’t see was whispering things he couldn’t quite make out in his ear.
    “Go outside,” hissed the duke, “and see that we are not disturbed!”
    The Fool tripped over the bottom step, turned and, with a last imploring look at Nanny, scampered through the door. He capered a little bit, out of force of habit.
    “The fire isn’t completely necessary,” said the duchess. “It merely assists. Now, woman, will you confess?”
    “What to?” said Nanny.
    “It’s common knowledge. Treason. Malicious witchcraft. Harboring the king’s enemies. Theft of the crown—”
    A tinkling noise made them look down. A