The same magic didn't seem to infuse the new play. They tried it a few times, just to see how it went. The audience watched attentively, and went home. They didn't even bother to throw anything. It wasn't that they thought it was bad. They didn't think it was anything.
But all the right ingredients were there, weren't they? Tradition was full of people giving evil rulers a well-justified seeing to. Witches were always a draw. The apparition of Death was particularly good, with some lovely lines. Mix them all together . . . and they seemed to cancel out, become a mere humdrum way of filling the stage for a couple of hours.
Late at night, when the cast was alseep, Hwel would sit up in one of the carts and feverishly rewrite. He rearranged scenes, cut lines, added lines, introduced a clown, included another fight, and tuned up the special effects. It didn't seem to have any effect. The play was like some marvellous intricate painting, a feast of impressions close to, a mere blur from the distance.
When the inspirations were sleeting fast he even tried changing the style. In the morning the early risers grew accustomed to finding discarded experiments decorating the grass around the carts, like extremely literate mushrooms.
Tomjon kept one of the strangest:
1ST WITCHE: He's late.
(Pause)
2ND WITCHE: He said he would come.
(Pause)
3RD WITCHE: He said he would come but he hasn't. This is my last newt. I saved it for him. And he hasn't come.
(Pause)
'I think,' said Tomjon, later, 'you ought to slow down a bit. You've done what was ordered. No-one said it had to sparkle.'
'It could, you know. If I could just get it right.'
'You're absolutely sure about the ghost, are you?' said Tomjon. The way he threw the line away made it clear that he wasn't.
'There's nothing wrong with the ghost,' snapped Hwel. 'The scene with the ghost is the best I've done.'
'I was just wondering if this is the right play for it, that's all.'
'The ghost stays. Now let's get on, boy.'
Two days later, with the Ramtops a blue and white wall that was beginning to dominate the Hubward horizon, the company was attacked. There wasn't much drama; they had just manhandled the lattys across a ford and were resting in the shade of a grove of trees, which suddenly fruited robbers.
Hwel looked along the line of half a dozen stained and rusty blades. Their owners seemed slightly uncertain about what to do next.
'We've got a receipt somewhere—' he began.
Tomjon nudged him. 'These don't look like Guild thieves,' he hissed. 'They definitely look freelance to me.'
It would be nice to say that the leader of the robbers was a black-bearded, swaggering brute, with a red headscarf and one gold earring and a chin you could clean pots with. Actually it would be practically compulsory. And, in fact, this was so. Hwel thought the wooden leg was overdoing it, but the man had obviously studied the role.
'Well now,' said the bandit chief. 'What have we here, and do they have any money?'
'We're actors,' said Tomjon.
'That ought to answer both questions,' said Hwel.
'And none of your repartee,' said the bandit. 'I've been to the city, I have. I know repartee when I see it and—' he half turned to his followers, raising an eyebrow to indicate that the next remark was going to be witty – 'if you're not careful I can make a few cutting remarks of my own.'
There was dead silence behind him until he made an impatient gesture with his cutlass.
'All right,' he said, against a chorus of uncertain laughter. 'We'll just take any loose change, valuables, food and clothing you might be having.'
'Could I say something?' said Tomjon.
The company backed away from him. Hwel smiled at his own feet.
'You're going to beg for mercy, are you?' said the bandit.
'That's right.'
Hwel thrust his hands deep into his pockets and looked up at the sky, whistling under his breath and trying not to break into a maniac grin. He was aware that the other actors were also looking expectantly at Tomjon.
He's going to give them the mercy speech from The Troll's Tale, he thought . . .
'The point I'd just like to make is that—' said Tomjon, and his stance changed subtly, his voice became deeper, his right hand flung out dramatically – ' “The worth of man lies not in feats of arms, Or the fiery hunger o' the ravening—” '
It's going to be like when that man tried to rob us back in Sto Lat, Hwel thought. If they end up giving us their swords, what the hell can we do with them? And it's so embarrassing when they start crying.
It was at this moment that the world around him took a green tint and he thought he could make out, right on the cusp of hearing, other voices.
'There's men with swords, Granny!'
'—rend with glowing blades the marvel of the world—' Tomjon said, and the voices at the edge of imagination said. 'No king of mine is going to beg anything off anyone. Give me that milk jug, Magrat.'
'—the heart of compassion, the kiss—'
'That was a present from my aunt.'
'—this jewel of jewels, this crown of crowns.'
There was silence. One or two of the bandits were weeping silently into their hands.
Their chief said, 'Is that it?'
For the first time in his life Tomjon looked nonplussed.
'Well, yes,' he said. 'Er. Would you like me to repeat it?'
'It was a good speech,' the bandit conceded. 'But I don't see what it's got to do with me. I'm a practical man. Hand over your valuables.'
His sword came up until it was level with Tomjon's throat.
'And all the rest of you shouldn't be standing there like idiots,' he added. 'Come on. Or the boy gets it.'
Wimsloe the apprentice raised a cautious hand.
'What?' said the bandit.
'A-are you s-sure you listened carefully, sir?'
'I won't tell you again! Either I hear the clink of coins, or you hear a gurgle!'
In fact what they all heard was a whistling noise, high in the air, and the crash as a milk jug, its sides frosted with the ice of altitude, dropped out of the sky on to the spike atop the chief's helmet.
The remaining bandits took one look at the results, and fled.
The actors stared down at the recumbent bandit. Hwel prodded a lump of frozen milk with his boot.
'Well, well,' he said weakly.
'He didn't take any notice!' whispered Tomjon.
'A born critic,' said the dwarf. It was a blue and white jug. Funny how little details stood out at a time like this. It had been smashed several times in the past, he could see, because the pieces had been carefully glued together again. Someone had really loved that jug.
'What we're dealing with here,' he said, rallying some shreds of logic, 'is a freak whirlwind. Obviously.'
'But milk jugs don't just drop out of the sky,' said Tomjon, demonstrating the astonishing human art of denying the obvious.
'I don't know about that. I've heard of fish and frogs and rocks,' said Hwel. 'There's nothing against crockery.' He began to rally. 'It's just one of these uncommon phenomenons.
They happen all the time in this part of the world, there's nothing unusual about it.'
They got back on to the carts and rode on in unaccustomed silence. Young Wimsloe collected every bit of jug he could find and stored them carefully in the props box, and spent the rest of the day watching the sky, hoping for a sugar basin.
The lattys toiled up the dusty slopes of the Ramtops, mere motes in the foggy glass of the crystal.
'Are they all right?' said Magrat.
They're wandering all over the place,' said Granny. 'They may be good at the acting, but they've got something to learn about the travelling.'
'It was a nice jug,' said Magrat. 'You can't get them like that any more. I mean, if you'd have said what was on your mind, there was a flatiron on the shelf.'
'There's more to life than milk jugs.'
'It had a daisy pattern round the top.'
Granny ignored her.
'I think,' she said, 'it's time we had a look at this new king. Close up.' She cackled.
'You cackled, Granny,' said Magrat darkly.
'I did not! It was,' Granny fumbled for a word, 'a chuckle.'
'I bet Black Aliss used to cackle.'
'You want to watch out you don't end up the same way as she did,' said Nanny, from her seat by the fire. 'She went a bit funny at the finish, you know. Poisoned apples and suchlike.'
'Just because I might have chuckled a . . . a bit roughly,' sniffed Granny. She felt that she was being unduly defensive. 'Anyway, there's nothing wrong with cackling. In moderation.'
'I think,' said Tomjon, 'that we're lost.'
Hwel looked at the baking purple moorland around them, which stretched up to the towering spires of the Ramtops themselves. Even in the height of summer there were pennants of snow flying from the highest peaks. It was a landscape of describable beauty.
Bees were busy, or at least endeavouring to look and sound busy, in the thyme by the trackside. Cloud shadows flickered over the alpine meadows. There was the kind of big, empty silence made by an environment that not only doesn't have any people in it, but doesn't need them either.
Or signposts.
'We were lost ten miles ago,' said Hwel. 'There's got to be a new word for what we are now.'
'You said the mountains were honeycombed with dwarf mines,' said Tomjon. 'You said a dwarf could tell wherever he was in the mountains.'
'Underground, I said. It's all a matter of strata and rock formations. Not on the surface. All the landscape gets in the way.'
'We could dig you a hole,' said Tomjon.
But it was a nice day and, as the road meandered through clumps of hemlock and pine, outposts of the forest, it was pleasant enough to let the mules go at their own pace. The road, Hwel felt, had to go somewhere.
This geographical fiction has been the death of many people. Roads don't necessarily have to go anywhere, they just have to have somewhere to start.
'We are lost, aren't we?' said Tomjon, after a while.
'Certainly not.'
'Where are we, then?'
'The mountains. Perfectly clear on any atlas.'
'We ought to stop and ask someone.'
Tomjon gazed around at the rolling countryside. Somewhere a lonely curlew howled, or possibly it was a badger – Hwel was a little hazy about rural matters, at least those that took place higher than about the limestone layer. There wasn't another human being within miles.
'Who did you have in mind?' he said sarcastically.
'That old woman in the funny hat,' said Tomjon, pointing. 'I've been watching her. She keeps ducking down behind a bush when she thinks I've seen her.'
Hwel turned and looked down at a bramble bush, which wobbled.
'Ho there, good mother,' he said.
The bush sprouted an indignant head.
'Whose mother?' it said.
Hwel hesitated. 'Just a figure of speech, Mrs . . . Miss . . .'
'Mistress,' snapped Granny Weatherwax. 'And I'm a poor old woman gathering wood,' she added defiantly.
She cleared her throat. 'Lawks,' she went on. 'You did give me a fright, young master. My poor old heart.'
There was silence from the carts. Then Tomjon said, 'I'm sorry?'
'What?' said Granny.
'Your poor old heart what?'
'What about my poor old heart?' said Granny, who wasn't used to acting like an old woman and had a very limited repertoire in this area. But it's traditional that young heirs seeking their destiny get help from mysterious old women gathering wood, and she wasn't about to buck tradition.
'It's just that you mentioned it,' said Hwel.
'Well, it isn't important. Lawks. I expect you're looking for Lancre,' said Granny testily, in a hurry to get to the point.