There was a jar of boiled sweets by her bed, and a thick glass bottle of the clear fluid from her complicated still out behind the woodshed. It wasn't exactly whiskey, and it wasn't exactly gin, but it was exactly 90° proof, and a great comfort during those worrying moments that sometimes occurred around 3 A.M. when you woke up and forgot who you were. After a glass of the clear liquid you still didn't remember who you were, but that was all right now because you were someone else anyway.

She plumped up the four pillows, kicked her fluffy slippers into the comer, and pulled the blankets over her head, creating a small, warm, and slightly rank cave. She sucked a boiled sweet; Nanny had only one tooth left, and that had taken all she could throw at it for many years, so a sweet at bedtime wasn't going to worry it much.

After a few seconds a sense of pressure on her feet indicated that the cat Greebo had taken up his accustomed place on the end of the bed. Greebo always slept on Nanny's bed; the way he'd affectionately try to claw your eyeballs out in the morning was as good as an alarm clock. But she always left a window open all night in case he wanted to go out and disembowel something, bless him.

Well, well. Elves. (They couldn't hear you say the word inside your head, anyway. At least, not unless they were real close.) She really thought they'd seen the last of them. How long was it, now? Must be hundreds and hundreds of years, maybe thousands. Witches didn't like to talk about it, because they'd made a big mistake about the elves. They'd seen through the buggers in the end, of course, but it had been a close thing. And there'd been a lot of witches in those days. They'd been able to stop them at every turn, make life in this world too hot for them. Fought them with iron. Nothing elvish could stand iron. It blinded them, or something. Blinded them all over.

There weren't many witches now. Not proper witches. More of a problem, though, was that people didn't seem to be able to remember what it was like with the elves around. Life was certainly more interesting then, but usually because it was shorter. And it was more colourful, if you liked the colour of blood. It got so people didn't even dare talk openly about the bastards.

You said: The Shining Ones. You said: The Fair Folk. And you spat, and touched iron. But generations later, you forgot about the spitting and the iron, and you forgot why you used those names for them, and you remembered only that they were beautiful.

Yes, there'd been a lot of witches in them days. Too many women found an empty cradle, or a husband that never came home from the hunt. Had been the hunt.

Elves! The bastards . . . and yet . . . and yet . . . somehow, yes, they did things to memory.

Nanny Ogg turned over in bed. Greebo growled in protest.

Take dwarfs and trolls, for e.g. People said: Oh, you can't trust 'em, trolls are OK if you've got 'em in front of you, and some of 'em are decent enough in their way, but they're cowardly and stupid, and as for dwarfs, well, they're greedy and devious devils, all right, fair enough, sometimes you meet one of the clever little sods that's not too bad, but overall they're no better'n trolls, in fact—

—they're just like us.

But they ain't any prettier to look at and they've got no style. And we're stupid, and the memory plays tricks, and we remember the elves for their beauty and the way they move, and forget what they were. We're like mice saying, "Say what you like, cats have got real style."

People never quaked in their beds for fear of dwarfs. They never hid under the stairs from trolls. They might have chased 'em out of the henhouse, but trolls and dwarfs were never any more than a bloody nuisance. They were never a terror in the night.

We only remembers that the elves sang. We forgets what it was they were singing about.

Nanny Ogg turned over again. There was a slithering noise from the end of the bed, and a muffled yowl as Greebo hit the floor.

And Nanny sat up.

"Get your walking paws on, young fella-me-lad. We're going out."

As she passed through the midnight kitchen she paused, took one of the big black flatirons from the hob by the fire, and attached it to a length of clothesline.

For all her life she'd walked at night through Lancre with no thought of carrying a weapon of any sort. Of course, for most of that time she'd recognizably been a witch, and any importunate prowler would've ended up taking his essentials away in a paper bag, but even so it was generally true of any woman in Lancre. Man too, come to that.

Now she could sense her own fear.

The elves were coming back all right, casting their shadows before them.

Diamanda reached the crest of the hill.

She paused. She wouldn't put it past that old Weatherwax woman to have followed her. She felt sure there had been something tracking her in the woods.

There was no one else around.

She turned.

"Evenin', miss."

"You? You did follow me!"

Granny got to her feet from the shadow of the Piper, where she had been sitting quite invisibly in the blackness.

"Learned that from my dad," she said. "When he went hunting. He always used to say a bad hunter chases, a good hunter waits."

"Oh? So you're hunting me now?"

"No. I was just waiting. I knew you'd come up here. You haven't got anywhere else to go. You've come to call her, haven't you? Let me see your hands."

It wasn't a request, it was a command. Diamanda found her hands moving of their own accord. Before she could pull them back the old woman had grabbed them and held them firmly; her skin felt like sacking.

"Never done a hard day's work in your life, have you?" said Granny, pleasantly. "Never picked cabbages with the ice on 'em, or dug a grave, or milked a cow, or laid out a corpse."

"You don't have to do all that to be a witch!" Diamanda snapped.

"Did I say so? And let me tell you something. About beautiful women in red with stars in their hair. And probably moons, too. And voices in your head when you slept. And power when you came up here. She offered you lots of power, I expect. All you wanted. For free."

Diamanda was silent.

"Because it happened before. There's always someone who'll listen." Granny Weatherwax's eyes seemed to lose their focus.

"When you're lonely, and people around you seem too stupid for words, and the world is full of secrets that no one'll tell you . . . "

"Are you reading my mind?"

"Yours?" Granny's attention snapped back, and her voice lost its distant quality. "Hah! Flowers and suchlike. Dancing about without yer drawers on. Mucking about with cards and bits of string. And it worked, I expect. She gave you power, for a while. Oh, she must have laughed. And then there is less power and more price. And then no power, and you're payin' every day. They always take more than they give. And what they give has less than no value. And they end up taking everything. What they like to get from us is our fear. What they want from us most of all is our belief. If you call them, they will come. You'll give them a channel if you call them here, at circle time, where the world's thin enough to hear. The power in the Dancers is weak enough now as it is. And I'm not having the . . . the Lords and Ladies back."

Diamanda opened her mouth.

"I ain't finished yet. You're a bright girl. Lots of things you could be doing. But you don't want to be a witch. It's not an easy life."

"You mad old woman, you've got it all wrong! Elves aren't like that-"

"Don't say the word. Don't say the word. They come when called."

"Good! Elf, elf, elf! Elf-"

Granny slapped her face, hard.

"Even you knows that's stupid and childish," she said. "Now you listen to me. If you stay here, there's to be none of this stuff anymore. Or you can go somewhere else and find a future, be a great lady, you've got the mind for it. And maybe you'll come back in ten years loaded down with jewels and stuff, and lord it over all us stay-at-homes, and that will be fine. But if you stay here and keep trying to call the . . . Lords and Ladies, then you'll be up against me again. Not playing stupid games in the daylight, but real witchcraft. Not messing around with moons and circles, but the true stuff, out of the blood and the bone and out of the head. And you don't know nothin' about that. Right? And it don't allow for mercy."

Diamanda looked up. Her face was red where the slap had landed.

"Go?" she said.

Granny reacted a second too late.

Diamanda darted between the stones.

"You stupid child! Not that way'."

The figure was already getting smaller, even though it appeared to be only a few feet away.

"Oh, drat!"

Granny dived after her, and heard her skirt rip as the pocket tore. The poker she'd brought along whirred away and clanked against one of the Dancers.

There was a series of jerks and tings as the hobnails tore out of her boots and sped toward the stones.

No iron could go through the stones, no iron at all.

Granny was already racing over the turf when she realized what that meant. But it didn't matter. She'd made a choice.

There was a feeling of dislocation, as directions danced and twirled around. And then snow underfoot. It was white. It had to be white, because it was snow. But patterns of colour moved across it, reflecting the wild dance of the permanent aurora in the sky

Diamanda was struggling. Her footwear was barely suitable for a city summer, and certainly not for a foot of snow. Whereas Granny Weatherwax's boots, even without their hobnails, could have survived a trot across lava.

Even so, the muscles that were propelling them had been doing it for too long. Diamanda was outrunning her.

More snow was falling, out of a night sky. There was a ring of riders waiting a little way from the stones, with the Queen slightly ahead. Every witch knew her, or the shape of her.

Diamanda tripped and fell, and then managed to bring herself up to a kneeling position.

Granny stopped.

The Queen's horse whinnied.

"Kneel before your Queen, you," said the elf. She was wearing red, with a copper crown in her hair.

"Shan't. Won't," said Granny Weatherwax.

"You are in my kingdom, woman," said the Queen. "You do not come or go without the leave of me. You will kneel!"

"I come and go without the leave of anyone," said Granny Weatherwax. "Never done it before, ain't starting now."

She put a hand on Diamanda's shoulder.

"These are your elves," she said. "Beautiful, ain't they?"

The warriors must have been more than two meters tall. They did not wear clothes so much as items strung together — scraps of fur, bronze plates, strings of brightly coloured feathers. Blue and green tattoos covered most of their exposed skin. Several of them held drawn bows, the tips of their arrows following Granny's every move.

Their hair massed around their heads like a halo, thick with grease. And although their faces were indeed the most beautiful Diamanda had ever seen, it was beginning to creep over her that there was something subtly wrong, some quirk of expression that did not quite fit.

"The only reason we're still alive now is that we're more fun alive than dead," said Granny's voice behind her.

"You know you shouldn't listen to the crabbed old woman," said the Queen. "What can she offer?"

"More than snow in summertime," said Granny. "Look at their eyes. Look at their eyes."

The Queen dismounted.

"Take my hand, child," she said.

Diamanda stuck out a hand gingerly. There was something about the eyes. It wasn't the shape or the colour. There was no evil glint. But there was . . .

. . . a look. It was such a look that a microbe might encounter if it could see up from the bottom end of the microscope. It said: You are nothing. It said: You are flawed, you have no value. It said: You are animal. It said: Perhaps you may be a pet, or perhaps you may be a quarry. It said:

And the choice is not yours.

She tried to pull her hand away.

"Get out of her mind, old crone."

Granny's face was running with sweat.

"I ain't in her mind, elf. I'm keeping you out."

The Queen smiled. It was the most beautiful smile Diamanda had ever seen.

"And you have some power, too. Amazing. I never thought you'd amount to anything, Esmerelda Weatherwax. But it's no good here. Kill them both. But not at the same time. Let the other one watch."

She climbed on to her horse again, turned it around, and galloped off.

Two of the elves dismounted, drawing thin bronze daggers from their belts.

"Well, that's about it, then," said Granny Weatherwax, as the warriors approached. She dropped her voice.

"When the time comes," she said, "run."

"What time?"

"You'll know."

Granny fell to her knees as the elves approached.

"Oh, deary me, oh spare my life, I am but a poor old woman and skinny also," she said. "Oh spare my life, young sir. Oh lawks."

She curled up, sobbing. Diamanda looked at her in astonishment, not least at how anyone could expect to get away with something like that.

Elves had been away from humans for a long time. The first elf reached her, hauled her up by her shoulder, and got a doubled-handed, bony-knuckled punch in an area that Nanny Ogg would be surprised that Esme Weatherwax even knew about.

Diamanda was already running. Granny's elbow caught the other elf in the chest as she set off after her.

Behind her, she heard the merry laughter of the elves.

Diamanda had been surprised at Granny's old lady act. She was far more surprised when Granny drew level. But Granny had more to run away from.

"They've got horses!"

Granny nodded. And it's true that horses go faster than people, but it's not instantly obvious to everyone that this is only true over moderate distances. Over short distances a determined human can outrun a horse, because they've only got half as many legs to sort out.

Granny reached over and gripped Diamanda's arm.

"Head for the gap between the Piper and the Drummer!"

"Which ones are they?"

"You don't even know that?"

Humans can outrun a horse, indeed. It was preying on Granny Weatherwax's mind that no one can outrun an arrow.

Something whined past her ear.

The circle of stones seemed as far away as ever.

Nothing for it. It oughtn't to be possible. She'd only ever tried it seriously when she was lying down, or at least when she had something to lean against.

She tried it now . . .

There were four elves chasing them. She didn't even think about looking into their minds. But the horses . . . ah, the horses . . .

They were carnivores, minds like an arrowhead.

The rules of Borrowing were: you didn't hurt, you just rode inside their heads, you didn't involve the subject in any way . . .

Well, not so much a rule, as such, more of a general guideline.

A stone-tipped arrow went through her hat.

Hardly really a guideline, even.

In fact, not even—

Oh, drat.

She plunged into the lead horse's mind, down through the layers of barely controlled madness which is what is inside even a normal horse's brain. For a moment she looked out through its bloodshot eyes at her own figure, staggering through the snow. For a moment she was trying to control six legs at once, two of them in a separate body.

In terms of difficulty, playing one tune on a musical instrument and singing a totally different one[20] was a stroll in the country by comparison.

She knew she couldn't do it for more than a few seconds before total confusion overwhelmed mind and body. But a second was all she needed. She let the confusion arise, dumped it in its entirety in the horse's mind, and withdrew sharply, picking up control of her own body as it began to fall.

There was one horrible moment in the horse's head.

It wasn't sure what it was, or how it had got there. More importantly, it didn't know how many legs it had. There was a choice of two or four, or possibly even six. It compromised on three.

Granny heard it scream and collapse noisily, by the sound of things taking a couple of others with it.

"Hah!"

She risked a look sideways at Diamanda.

Who wasn't there.

She was in the snow some way back, trying with difficulty to get to her feet. The face she turned to Granny was as pale as the snow.

There was an arrow sticking out of her shoulder.

Granny darted back, grabbed the girl and hauled her upright.

"Come on! Nearly there!"

"Can't r'n . . . c'ld . . ."

Diamanda slumped forward. Granny caught her before she hit the snow and, with a grunt of effort, slung her over her shoulder.

A few more steps, and all she had to do was fall forward . . .

A clawed hand snatched at her dress . . .

And three figures fell, rolling over and over in the summer bracken.

The elf was first to its feet, looking around in dazed triumph. It already had a long copper knife in its hand.

It focused on Granny, who had landed on her back. She could smell the rankness of it as it raised the knife, and she sought desperately for a way into its head . . .

Something flashed past her vision.

A length of rope had caught the elf's neck, and went tight as something swished through the air. The creature stared in horror as a flatiron whirred a few feet away from its face and swung past its ear, winding around and around with increasing speed but a decreasing orbital radius until it connected heavily with the back of the elf's head, lifting it off its feet and dropping it heavily on the turf.

Nanny Ogg appeared in Granny's vision.

"Cor, it doesn't half whiff, don't it?" she said. "You can smell elves a mile off."

Granny scrambled upright.

There was nothing but grass inside the circle. No snow, no elves.

She turned to Diamanda. So did Nanny. The girl was lying unconscious.

"Elf-shot," said Granny.

"Oh, bugger."

"The point's still in there."

Nanny scratched her head.

"I could probably get the point out, no problem," she said, "but I don't know about the poison . . . we could tie a tourniquet around the affected part."

"Hah! Her neck'd be favourite, then."

Granny sat down with her chin on her knees. Her shoulders ached.

"Got to get me breath back," she said.

Images swam in the forefront of her mind. Here it came again. She knew there were such things as alternative futures, after all, that's what the future meant. But she'd never heard of alternative pasts. She could remember having just gone through the stones, if she concentrated. But she could remember other things. She could remember being in bed in her own house, but that was it, it was a house, not a cottage, but she was her, they were her own memories. . . she had a nagging feeling that she was asleep, right now . . .

Dully, she tried to focus on Nanny Ogg. There was something comfortingly solid about Gytha Ogg.

Nanny had produced a penknife.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Going to put it out of its misery, Esme."

"Doesn't look miserable to me."

Nanny Ogg's eyes gleamed speculatively.

"Could soon arrange that, Esme."

"Don't go torturing it just because it's lying down, Gytha."

"Damn well ain't waiting for it to stand up again, Esme."

"Gytha."

"Well, they used to carry off babies. I ain't having that again. The thought of someone carrying off our Pewsey-"

"Even elves ain't that daft. Never seen such a sticky child in all my life."

Granny pulled gently at Diamanda's eyelid.

"Out cold," she said. "Off playing with the fairies."

She picked the girl up. "Come on. I'll carry her, you bring Mr. Tinkerbell."

"That was brave of you, carrying her over your shoulder," said Nanny. "With them elves firing arrows, too."

"And it meant less chance of one hitting me, too," said Granny.

Nanny Ogg was shocked.

"What? You never thought that, did you?"

"Well, she'd been hit already. If I'd been hit too, neither of us'd get out," said Granny, simply.

"But that's — that's a bit heartless, Esme."

"Heartless it may be, but headless it ain't. I've never claimed to be nice, just to be sensible. No need to look like that. Now, are you coming or are you going to stand there with your mouth open all day?"

Nanny closed her mouth, and then opened it again to say:

"What're you going to do?"

"Well, do you know how to cure her?"

"Me? No!"

"Right! Me neither. But I know someone who might know," she said. "And we can shove him in the dungeons for now. Lots of iron bars down there. That should keep him quiet."

"How'd he get through?"

"He was holding on to me. I don't know how it works. Maybe the stone . . . force opens to let humans through, or something. Just so long as his friends stay inside, that's all I'm bothered about."

Nanny heaved the unconscious elf on to her shoulders without much effort[21].

"Smells worse than the bottom of a goat's bed," she said. "It's a bath for me when I get home."

"Oh, dear," said Granny "It gets worse, don't it?"

* * *

What is magic?

Then there is the witches' explanation, which comes in two forms, depending on the age of the witch. Older witches hardly put words to it at all, but may suspect in their hearts that the universe really doesn't know what the hell is going on and consists of a zillion trillion billion possibilities, and could become any one of them if a trained mind rigid with quantum certainty was inserted in the crack and twisted; that, if you really had to make someone's hat explode, all you needed to do was twist into that universe where a large number of hat molecules all decide at the same time to bounce off in different directions.

Younger witches, on the other hand, talk about it all the time and believe it involves crystals, mystic forces, and dancing about without yer drawers on.

Everyone may be right, all at the same time. That's the thing about quantum.

It was early morning. Shawn Ogg was on guard on the battlements of Lancre castle, all that stood between the inmates and any mighty barbarian hordes that might be in the area.

He enjoyed the military life. Sometimes he wished a small horde would attack, just so's he could Save the Day. He daydreamed of leading an army into battle, and wished the king would get one.

A brief scream indicated that Hodgesaargh was giving his charges their morning finger.

Shawn ignored the noise. It was part of the background hum of the castle. He was passing the time by seeing how long he could hold his breath.

He had any amount of ways of passing the time, since guard duty in Lancre involved such an awful lot of it. There was Getting The Nostrils Really Clean, that was a good one. Or Farting Tunes. Or Standing On One Leg. Holding His Breath and Counting was something he fell back on when he couldn't think of anything else and his meals hadn't been too rich in carbohydrates.

There were a couple of loud creaks from the door knocker, far below. There was so much rust on it now that the only way it could be coaxed into making any sound was to lift it up, which made it squeak, and then force it mightily downward, which caused another squeak and, if the visitor was lucky, a faint thud.

Shawn took a deep breath and leaned over the battlements.

"Halt! Who Goes There?" he said.

A ringing voice came up from below.

"It's me, Shawn. Your mum."

"Oh, hello. Mum. Hello, Mistress Weatherwax."

"Let us in, there's a good boy."

"Friend or Foe?"

"What?"

"It's what I've got to say, Mum. It's official. And then you've got to say Friend."

"I'm your mum."

"You've got to do it properly, Mum," said Shawn, in the wretched tones of one who knows he's going to lose no matter what happens next, "otherwise what's the point?"

"It's going to be Foe in a minute, my lad."

"Oooaaaww, Mum!"

"Oh, all right. Friend, then."

"Yes, but you could just be saying that-"

"Let us in right now, Shawn Ogg."

Shawn saluted, slightly stunning himself with the butt of his spear.

"Right you are. Mistress Weatherwax."

His round, honest face disappeared from view. After a minute or two they heard the creaking of the portcullis.

"How did you do that?" said Nanny Ogg. "Simple," said Granny. "He knows you wouldn't make his daft head explode."

"Well, I know you wouldn't, too."

"No you don't. You just know I ain't done it up to now."

Magrat had thought this sort of thing was just a joke, but it was true. The castle's Great Hall had one long, one very long dining table, and she and Verence sat at either end of it.

It was all to do with etiquette.

The king had to sit at the head of the table. That was obvious. But if she sat on one side of him it made them both uneasy, because they had to keep turning to talk to each other. Opposite ends and shouting was the only way.

Then there was the logistics of the sideboard. Again, the easy option — them just going over and helping themselves — was out of the question. If kings went round putting their own food on their own plate, the whole system of monarchy would come crashing down.

Unfortunately, this meant that service had to be by means of Mr. Spriggins the butler, who had a bad memory, a nervous twitch and a rubber knee, and a sort of medieval elevator system that connected with the kitchen and sounded like the rattle of a tumbril. The elevator shaft was a kind of heat sink. Hot food was cold by the time it arrived. Cold food got colder. No one knew what would happen to ice cream, but it would probably involve some rewriting of the laws of thermodynamics.

Also, the cook couldn't get the hang of vegetarianism. The traditional palace cuisine was heavy in artery-clogging dishes so full of saturated fats that they oozed out in great wobbly globules. Vegetables existed as things to soak up spare gravy, and were generally boiled to a uniform shade of yellow in any case. Magrat had tried explaining things to Mrs. Scorbic the cook, but the woman's three chins wobbled so menacingly at words like "vitamins" that she'd made an excuse to back out of the kitchen.

At the moment she was making do with an apple. The cook knew about apples. They were big roasted floury things scooped out and filled with raisins and cream. So Magrat had resorted to stealing a raw one from the apple loft. She was also plotting to find out where the carrots were kept.

Verence was distantly visible behind the silver candlesticks and a pile of account books.

Occasionally they looked up and smiled at each other. At least, it looked like a smile but it was a little hard to be sure at this distance.

Apparently he'd just said something.

Magrat cupped her hands around her mouth.

"Pardon?"

"We need a-"

"Sorry?"

"What?"

"What?"

Finally Magrat got up and waited while Spriggins, purple in the face with the effort, moved her chair down toward Verence. She could have done it herself, but it wasn't what queens did.

"We ought to have a Poet Laureate," said Verence, marking his place in a book. "Kingdoms have to have one. They write poems for special celebrations."

"Yes?"

"I thought perhaps Mrs. Ogg? I hear she's quite an amusing songstress."

Magrat kept a straight face.

"I . . . er . . . I think she knows lots of rhymes for certain words," she said.

"Apparently the going rate is fourpence a year and a butt of sack," said Verence, peering at the page. "Or it may be a sack of butt."

"What exactly will she have to do?" said Magrat.

"It says here the role of the Poet Laureate is to recite poems on State occasions," said Verence.

Magrat had witnessed some of Nanny Ogg's humorous recitations, especially the ones with the gestures. She nodded gravely.

"Provided," she said, "and I want to be absolutely sure you understand me on this, provided she takes up her post after the wedding."

"Oh, dear? Really?"

"After the wedding."

"Oh."

"Trust me."

"Well, of course, if it makes you happy-"

There was a commotion outside the double doors, which were flung back. Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax stamped in, with Shawn trying to overtake them.

"Oooaaww, Mum! I'm supposed to go in first to say who it is!"

"We'll tell them who we are. Wotcha, your majesties," said Nanny.

"Blessing be upon this castle," said Granny. "Magrat, there's some doctorin' needs doing. Here."

Granny swept a candlestick and some crockery on to the floor with a dramatic motion and laid Diamanda on the table. In fact there were several acres of table totally devoid of any obstruction, but there's no sense in making an entrance unless you're prepared to make a mess.