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.