Wyrd Sisters

start, as a matter of fact.”
    Tomjon nudged the dwarf.
    “You forgot about the river,” he said. Hwel glared at him.
    “Oh yes,” he muttered, “and can you wait here while we go and find a river.”
    “To help you across,” said Tomjon carefully.
    Nanny Ogg gave him a bright smile. “There’s a perfectly good bridge,” she said. “But I wouldn’t say no to a lift. Move over.”
    To Hwel’s irritation Nanny Ogg hitched up her skirts and scrambled onto the board, inserting herself between Tomjon and the dwarf and then twisting like an oyster knife until she occupied half the seat.
    “You mentioned salt pork,” she said. “There wouldn’t be any mustard, would there?”
    “No,” said Hwel sullenly.
    “Can’t abide salt pork without condiments,” said Nanny conversationally. “But pass it over, anyway.” Wimsloe wordlessly handed over the basket holding the troupe’s supper. Nanny lifted the lid and gave it a critical assessment.
    “That cheese in there is a bit off,” she said. “It needs eating up quick. What’s in the leather bottle?”
    “Beer,” said Tomjon, a fraction of a second before Hwel had the presence of mind to say, “Water.”
    “Pretty weak stuff,” said Nanny, eventually. She fumbled in her apron pocket for her tobacco pouch.
    “Has anyone got a light?” she inquired.
    A couple of actors produced bundles of matches. Nanny nodded, and put the pouch away.
    “Good,” she said. “Now, has anyone got any tobacco?”

    Half an hour later the lattys rattled over the Lancre Bridge, across some of the outlying farmlands, and through the forests that made up most of the kingdom.
    “This is it?” said Tomjon.
    “Well, not all of it,” said Nanny, who had been expecting rather more enthusiasm. “There’s lots more of it behind the mountains over there. But this is the flat bit.”
    “You call this flat?”
    “Flattish,” Nanny conceded. “But the air’s good. That’s the palace up there, offering outstanding views of the surrounding countryside.”
    “You mean forests.”
    “You’ll like it here,” said Nanny encouragingly.
    “It’s a bit small.”
    Nanny thought about this. She’d spent nearly all her life inside the boundaries of Lancre. It had always seemed about the right size to her.
    “Bijou,” she said. “Handy foreverywhere.”
    “Everywhere where ?”
    Nanny gave up. “Everywhere close,” she said.
    Hwel said nothing. The air was good, rolling down the unclimbable slopes of the Ramtops like a sinus wash, tinted with turpentine from the high forests. They passed through a gateway into what was, up here, probably called a town; the cosmopolitan he had become decided that, down on the plains, it would just about have qualified as an open space.
    “There’s an inn,” said Tomjon doubtfully.
    Hwel followed his gaze. “Yes,” he said, eventually. “Yes, it probably is.”
    “When are we going to do the play?”
    “I don’t know. I think we just send up to the castle and say we’re here.” Hwel scratched his chin. “Fool said the king or whoever would want to see the script.”
    Tomjon looked around Lancre town. It seemed peaceful enough. It didn’t look like the kind of place likely to turn actors out at nightfall. It needed the population.
    “This is the capital city of the kingdom,” said Nanny Ogg. “Well-designed streets, you’ll notice.”
    “Streets?” said Tomjon.
    “Street,” corrected Granny. “Also houses in quite good repair, stone’s throw from river—”
    “Throw?”
    “Drop,” Nanny conceded. “Neat middens, look, and extensive—”
    “Madam, we’ve come to entertain the town, not buy it,” said Hwel.
    Nanny Ogg looked sidelong at Tomjon.
    “Just wanted you to see how attractive it is,” she said.
    “Your civic pride does you credit,” said Hwel. “And now, please, leave the cart. I’m sure you’ve got some wood to gather. Lawks.”
    “Much obliged for the snack,” said Nanny, climbing down.
    “Meals,” corrected Hwel.
    Tomjon nudged him. “You ought to be more polite,” he said. “You never know.” He turned to Nanny. “Thank you, good—oh, she’s gone.”

    “They’ve come to do a theater,” said Nanny.
    Granny Weatherwax carried on shelling beans in the sun, much to Nanny’s annoyance.
    “Well? Aren’t you going to say something? I’ve been finding out things,” she said. “Picking up information. Not sitting around making soup—”
    “Stew.”
    “I reckon it’s very