Ye gods, he’d be glad to get out of this spooky castle, and away from this mad duke. He glanced around, decided that it would be some time before the next act was called, and wandered aimlessly in search of fresher air.
A door yielded to his touch and he stepped out on to the battlements. He pushed it shut behind him, cutting off the sounds of the stage and replacing them by a velvet hush. There was a livid sunset imprisoned behind bars of cloud, but the air was as still as a mill pond and as hot as a furnace. In the forest below some night bird screamed.
He walked to the other end of the battlements and peered down into the sheer depths of the gorge. Far beneath, the Lancre boiled in its eternal mists.
He turned, and walked into a draught of such icy coldness that he gasped.
Unusual breezes plucked at his clothing. There was a strange muttering in his ear, as though someone was trying to talk to him but couldn’t get the speed right. He stood rigid for a moment, getting his breath, and then fled for the door.
‘We can’t let this happen,’ said Magrat, quickly and loudly. ‘If this gets about, witches’ll always be old hags with green blusher.’
‘And meddlin’ in the affairs of kings,’ said Nanny. ‘Which we never do, as is well known.’
‘It’s not the meddlin’ I object to,’ said Granny Weatherwax, her chin on her hand. ‘It’s the
‘Goodie Whemper did a recipe,’ she confessed. ‘It’s quite easy. What you do is, you get some lead, and you—’
‘I don’t think that would be appropriate,’ said Granny carefully, after a certain amount of internal struggle. ‘It could give people the wrong idea.’
‘But not for long,’ said Nanny wistfully.
‘No, we can’t be having with that sort of thing,’ said Granny, a little more firmly this time. ‘We’d never hear the last of it.’
‘Why don’t we just change the words?’ said Magrat. ‘When they come back on stage we could just put the ‘fluence on them so they forget what they’re saying, and give them some new words.’
‘I suppose you’re an expert at theatre words?’ said Granny sarcastically. ‘They’d have to be the proper sort, otherwise people would suspect.’
‘Shouldn’t be too difficult,’ said Nanny Ogg dismissively. ‘I’ve been studyin’ it. You go tumpty-tumpty-tumpty.’
Granny gave this some consideration.
‘There’s more to it than that, I believe,’ she said. ‘Some of those speeches were very good. I couldn’t understand hardly any of it.’
‘There’s no trick to it at all,’ Nanny Ogg insisted. ‘Anyway, half of them are forgetting their lines as it is. It’ll be easy.’
‘We could put words in their mouths?’ said Magrat.
Nanny Ogg nodded. ‘I don’t know about
‘Witches as yet unborn will thank us for it,’ said Magrat ardently.
‘Oh, good,’ said Granny.
‘At last! What are you three playing at? We’ve been looking for you everywhere!’
The witches turned to see an irate dwarf trying to loom over them.
‘Us?’ said Magrat. ‘But we’re not in—’
‘Oh yes you are, remember, we put it in last week. Act Two, Downstage, around the cauldron. You haven’t got to say anything. You’re symbolizing occult forces at work. Just be as wicked as you can. Come on, there’s good lads. You’ve done well so far.’
Hwel slapped Magrat on the bottom. ‘Good complexion you’ve got there, Wilph,’ he said encouragingly. ‘But for goodness’ sake use a bit more padding, you’re still the wrong shape. Fine warts there, Billem. I must say,’ he added, standing back, ‘you look as nasty a bunch of hags as a body might hope to clap eyes on. Well done. Shame about the wigs. Now run along. Curtain up in one minute. Break a leg.’
He gave Magrat another ringing slap on her rump, slightly hurting his hand, and hurried off to shout at someone else.
None of the witches dared to speak. Magrat and Nanny Ogg found themselves instinctively turning towards Granny.
She sniffed. She looked up. She looked around. She looked at the brightly lit stage behind her. She brought her hands together with a clap that echoed around the castle, and then rubbed them together.
‘Useful,’ she said grimly, ‘let’s do the show right here.’
Nanny squinted sullenly after Hwel. ‘Break your own leg,’ she muttered.
Hwel stood silent for a moment, counting. The company watched him, awestruck but not, unfortunately, thunderstruck.
At last he raised his fists to the open sky and said, ‘I wanted a storm! Just a storm. Not even a big storm. Any storm. Now I want to make myself absolutely CLEAR! I have had ENOUGH! I want thunder right NOW!’
The stab of lightning that answered him turned the multi-hued shadows of the castle into blinding white and searing black. It was followed by a roll of thunder, on cue.
It was the loudest noise Hwel had ever heard. It seemed to start inside his head and work its way outwards.
It went on and on, shaking every stone in the castle. Dust rained down. A distant turret broke away with balletic slowness and, tumbling end over end, dropped gently into the hungry depths of the gorge.
When it finished it left a silence that rang like a bell.
Hwel looked up at the sky. Great black clouds were blowing across the castle, blotting out the stars.
The storm was back.
It had spent ages learning its craft. It had spent years lurking in distant valleys. It had practised for hours in front of a glacier. It had studied the great storms of the past. It had honed its art to perfection. And now, tonight, with what it could see was clearly an appreciative audience waiting for it, it was going to take them by, well … tempest.
Hwel smiled. Perhaps the gods didlisten, after all. He wished he’d asked for a really good wind machine as well.
He gestured frantically at Tomjon.
‘Get on with it!’