"Excuse me," said Magrat. There were some things you had to be told.

"Yes?"

"I don't know what it means," said Magrat. "I mean, old Goodie Whemper-"

"-maysherestinpeace-" the older witches chorused.

"-told me once that the circles were dangerous, but she never said anything about why."

The older witches shared a glance.

"Never told you about the Dancers?" said Granny Weatherwax.

"Never told you about the Long Man?" said Nanny Ogg.

"What Dancers? You mean those old stones up on the moor?"

"All you need to know right now," said Granny Weatherwax, "is that we've got to put a stop to Them."

"What Them?"

Granny radiated innocence. . .

"The circles, of course," she said.

"Oh, no," said Magrat. "I can tell by the way you said it.

You said Them as though it was some sort of curse. It wasn't just a them, it was a them with a capital The."

The old witches looked awkward again.

"And who's the Long Man?" said Magrat.

"We do not," said Granny, "ever talk about the Long Man."

"No harm in telling her about the Dancers, at any rate," mumbled Nanny Ogg.

"Yes, but . . . you know . . . I mean . . . she's Magrat," said Granny.

"What's that meant to mean?" Magrat demanded.

"You probably won't feel the same way about Them, is what I am saying," said Granny.

"We're talking about the-" Nanny Ogg began.

"Don't name 'em!"

"Yeah, right. Sorry."

"Mind you, a circle might not find the Dancers," said Granny. "We can always hope. Could be just random."

"But if one opens up inside the-" said Nanny Ogg.

Magrat snapped.

"You just do this on purpose! You talk in code the whole time! You always do this! But you won't be able to when I'm queen\"

That stopped them.

Nanny Ogg put her head on one side.

"Oh?" she said. "Young Verence popped the question, then?"

"Yes!"

"When's the happy event?" said Granny Weatherwax, icily.

"Two weeks' time," said Magrat. "Midsummer Day."

"Bad choice, bad choice," said Nanny Ogg. "Shortest night o' the year-"

"Gytha Ogg!"

"And you'll be my subjects," said Magrat, ignoring this. "And you'll have to curtsy and everything!"

She knew as soon as she said it that it was stupid, but anger drove her on.

Granny Weatherwax's eyes narrowed.

"Hmm," she said. "We will, will we?"

"Yes, and if you don't," said Magrat, "you can get thrown in prison."

"My word," said Granny. "Deary deary me. I wouldn't like that. I wouldn't like that at all."

All three of them knew that the castle dungeons, which in any case had never been its most notable feature, were now totally unused. Verence II was the most amiable monarch in the history of Lancre. His subjects regarded him with the sort of good-natured contempt that is the fate of all those who work quietly and conscientiously for the public good. Besides, Verence would rather cut his own leg off than put a witch in prison, since it'd save trouble in the long run and probably be less painful.

"Queen Magrat, eh?" said Nanny Ogg, trying to lighten the atmosphere a bit. "Cor. Well, the old castle could do with a bit of lightening up-"

"Oh, it'll lighten up all right," said Granny.

"Well, anyway, I don't have to bother with this sort of thing," said Magrat. "Whatever it is. It's your business. I just shan't have time, I'm sure."

"I'm sure you can please yourself, your going-to-be-majesty," said Granny Weatherwax.

"Hah!" said Magrat. "I can! You can jol – you can damn well find another witch for Lancre! All right? Another soppy girl to do all the dreary work and never be told anything and be talked over the head of the whole time. I've got better things to do!"

"Better things than being a witch?" said Granny

Magrat walked into it. "Yes!"

"Oh, dear," murmured Nanny

"Oh. Well, then I expect you'll be wanting to be off," said Granny, her voice like knives. "Back to your palace, I'll be bound."

"Yes!"

Magrat picked up her broomstick.

Granny's arm shot out very fast and grabbed the handle.

"Oh, no," she said, "you don't. Queens ride around in golden coaches and whatnot. Each to their own. Brooms is for witches."

"Now come on, you two," began Nanny Ogg, one of nature's mediators. "Anyway, someone can be a queen and a w-"

"Who cares?" said Magrat, dropping the broomstick. "I don't have to bother with that sort of thing anymore."

She turned, clutched at her dress, and ran. She became a figure outlined against the sunset.

"You daft old besom, Esme," said Nanny Ogg. "Just because she's getting wed."

"You know what she'd say if we told her," said Granny Weatherwax. "She'd get it all wrong. The Gentry. Circles. She'd say it was . . . nice. Best for her if she's out of it."

"They ain't been active for years and years," said Nanny. "We'll need some help. I mean . . . when did you last go up to the Dancers?"

"You know how it is," said Granny "When it's so quiet. . . you don't think about 'em."

"We ought to have kept 'em cleared."

"True."

"We better get up there first thing tomorrow," said Nanny Ogg.

"Yes."

"Better bring a sickle, too."

There isn't much of the kingdom of Lancre where you could drop a football and not have it roll away from you. Most of it is moor land and steeply forested hillside, giving way to sharp and ragged mountains where even trolls wouldn't go and valleys so deep that they have to pipe the sunlight in.

There was an overgrown path up to the moor land where the Dancers stood, even though it was only a few miles from the town. Hunters tracked up there sometimes, but only by accident. It wasn't that the hunting was bad but, well – there were the stones.

Stone circles were common enough everywhere in the mountains. Druids built them as weather computers and since it was always cheaper to build a new 33-MegaLith circle than upgrade an old slow one there were generally plenty of ancient ones around.

No druids ever came near the Dancers.

The stones weren't shaped. They weren't even positioned in any particularly significant way. There wasn't any of that stuff about the sun striking the right stone at dawn on the right day. Someone had just dragged eight red rocks into a rough circle.

But the weather was different. People said that, if it started to rain, it always began to fall inside the circle a few seconds after it had started outside, as if the rain was coming from further away. If clouds crossed the sun, it'd be a moment or two before the light faded inside the circle.

William Scrope is going to die in a couple of minutes. It has to be said that he shouldn't have been hunting deer out of season, and especially not the fine stag he was tracking, and certainly not a fine stag of the Ramtop Red species, which is officially endangered although not as endangered, right now, as William Scrope.

It was ahead of him, pushing through the bracken, making so much noise that a blind man could have tracked it.

Scrope waded through after it.

Mist was still hanging around the stones, not in a blanket but in long raggedy strings.

The stag reached the circle now, and stopped. It trotted back and forth once or twice, and then looked up at Scrope.

He raised the crossbow.

The stag turned, and leapt between the stones.

There were only confused impressions from then on. The first was of–

–distance. The circle was a few yards across, it shouldn't suddenly appear to contain so much distance.

And the next was of–

–speed. Something was coming out of the circle, a white dot growing bigger and bigger.