Wyrd Sisters

haven’t seen anything else I could be.”
    Student Fools were allowed out, in the last year of training, but under a fearsome set of restrictions. Capering miserably through the streets he’d seen wizards for the first time, moving like dignified carnival floats. He’d seen the surviving assassins, foppish, giggling young men in black silk, as sharp as knives underneath; he’d seen priests, their fantastic costumes only slightly marred by the long rubber sacrificial aprons they wore for major services. Every trade and profession had its costume, he saw, and he realized for the first time that the uniform he was wearing had been carefully and meticulously designed for no other purpose than making its wearer look like a complete and utter pillock.
    Even so, he’d persevered. He’d spent his whole life persevering.
    He persevered precisely because he had absolutely no talent, and because grandfather would have flayed him alive if he didn’t. He memorized the authorized jokes until his head rang, and got up even earlier in the morning to juggle until his elbows creaked. He had perfected his grasp of the comic vocabulary until only the very senior Lords could understand him. He’d capered and clowned with an impenetrable grim determination and he’d graduated top of his year and had been awarded the Bladder of Honor. He’d dropped it down the privy when he came home.
    Magrat was silent.
    The Fool said, “How did you get to be a witch?”
    “Um?”
    “I mean, did you go to a school or something?”
    “Oh. No. Goodie Whemper just walked down to the village one day, got all us girls lined up, and chose me. You don’t choose the Craft, you see. It chooses you.”
    “Yes, but when do you actually become a witch?”
    “When the other witches treat you as one, I suppose.” Magrat sighed. “If they ever do,” she added. “I thought they would after I did that spell in the corridor. It was pretty good, after all.”
    “Marry, ’twas a rite of passage,” said the Fool, unable to stop himself. Magrat gave him a blank look. He coughed.
    “The other witches being those two old ladies?” he said, relapsing into his usual gloom.
    “Yes.”
    “Very strong characters, I imagine.”
    “Very,” said Magrat, with feeling.
    “I wonder if they ever met my grandad,” said the Fool.
    Magrat looked at her feet.
    “They’re quite nice really,” she said. “It’s just that, well, when you’re a witch you don’t think about other people. I mean, you think about them, but you don’t actually think about their feelings, if you see what I mean. At least, not unless you think about it.” She looked at her feet again.
    “You’re not like that,” said the Fool.
    “Look, I wish you’d stop working for the duke,” said Magrat desperately. “You know what he’s like. Torturing people and setting fire to their cottages and everything.”
    “But I’m his Fool,” said the Fool. “A Fool has to be loyal to his master. Right up until he dies. I’m afraid it’s tradition. Tradition is very important.”
    “But you don’t even like being a Fool!”
    “I hate it. But that’s got nothing to do with it. If I’ve got to be a Fool, I’ll do it properly.”
    “That’s really stupid,” said Magrat.
    “Foolish, I’d prefer.”
    The Fool had been edging along the log. “If I kiss you,” he added carefully, “do I turn into a frog?”
    Magrat looked down at her feet again. They shuffled themselves under her dress, embarrassed at all this attention.
    She could sense the shades of Gytha Ogg and Esme Weatherwax on either side of her. Granny’s specter glared at her. A witch is master of every situation , it said.
    Mistress , said the vision of Nanny Ogg, and made a brief gesture involving much grinning and waving of forearms.
    “We shall have to see,” she said.
    It was destined to be the most impressive kiss in the history of foreplay.
    Time, as Granny Weatherwax had pointed out, is a subjective experience. The Fool’s years in the Guild had been an eternity whereas the hours with Magrat on the hilltop passed like a couple of minutes. And, high above Lancre, a double handful of seconds extended like taffy into hours of screaming terror.
    “Ice!” screamed Granny. “It’s iced up!”
    Nanny Ogg came alongside, trying vainly to match courses with the tumbling, bucking broomstick. Octarine fire crackled over the frozen bristles, shorting them out at random. She leaned over and snatched a handful of