Tiffany Aching Complete Collection, page 107
Tiffany moved aimlessly from group to group, and when the Duchess finally left to go upstairs, she didn’t follow her. She was quite emphatic to herself that she wasn’t following. She just happened to be going in the same direction. And, when she darted across the stone floor to reach the door of the Duchess’s room, just after it closed behind the woman, she wasn’t doing this in order to eavesdrop. Certainly not.
She was just in time to hear the beginning of an angry scream, and then Mrs. Proust’s voice: “Why, Deirdre Parsley! Long time, no sequins! Can you still high kick a man’s top hat off his head?” And then there was silence. And Tiffany left hurriedly, because the door was very thick and someone would be bound to notice if she stood there any longer with her ear pressed to it.
So she went back down in time to talk to Long Tall Short Fat Sally and Mrs. Happenstance, who she now realized was blind, which was unfortunate but not—for a witch—too much of a tragedy. They always had a few extra senses to spare.
And then she went down into the crypt.
There were flowers all around the old Baron’s tomb, but not on it because the marble lid was so beautifully made that it would be a shame even to cover it with roses. On the stone, stonemasons had carved the Baron himself, in armor and holding his sword; it was so perfectly done that it looked as if he might, at any moment, get up and walk away. At the four corners of the slab, candles burned.
Tiffany walked to and fro past other dead barons in stone. Here and there was a wife, carved with her hands peacefully folded; it was . . . strange. There were no gravestones on the Chalk. Stone was too precious. There were burying grounds, and in the castle somewhere was an ancient book of faded maps that showed where people had been put. The only common person to have a memorial, who was in most respects an extremely uncommon person, was Granny Aching; the cast-iron wheels and pot-bellied stove, which were all that remained of her shepherding hut, would certainly survive for another hundred years. It had been good metal, and the endlessly nibbling sheep kept the ground around it as smooth as a tabletop, and besides, the grease from the sheep’s fleeces as they rubbed up against the wheels was as good as oil for keeping the metal as fine as the day it was cast.
In the old days, before a knight became a knight, he would spend a night in his hall with his weapons, praying to whichever gods were listening to give him strength and good wisdom.
She was sure she heard those words spoken, at least in her head if not in her ears. She turned and looked at the sleeping knights, and she wondered if Mrs. Proust was right, and stone had a memory.
And what are my weapons? she thought. And the answer came to her instantly: pride. Oh, you hear them say it’s a sin; you hear them say it goes before a fall. And that can’t be true. The blacksmith prides himself on a good weld; the carter is proud that his horses are well turned out, gleaming like fresh chestnuts in the sunshine; the shepherd prides himself on keeping the wolf from the flock; the cook prides herself on her cakes. We pride ourselves on making a good history of our lives, a good story to be told.
And I also have fear—the fear that I will let others down—and because I fear, I will overcome that fear. I will not disgrace those who have trained me.
And I have trust, even though I am not sure what it is I am trusting.
“Pride, fear, and trust,” she said aloud. And in front of her the four candles streamed fire, as if driven by the wind, and for a moment she was certain, in the rush of light, that the figure of an old witch was melting into the dark stone. “Oh, yes,” said Tiffany. “And I have fire.”
And then, not knowing exactly why, she said, “When I am old, I shall wear midnight. But not today.”
Tiffany held up her lantern and the shadows moved, but one, which looked very much like an old woman in black, faded completely. And I know why the hare leaps into the fire, and tomorrow . . . no, today, I am leaping into it too. She smiled.
When Tiffany got back to the hall, the witches were all watching her from the stairs. Tiffany had wondered how Granny and Mrs. Proust would get on, given that both of them were as proud as a cat full of sixpences. But they seemed to be getting on well enough in a talking-about-the-weather, the-manners-of-young-people-these-days, and the-scandalous-price-of-cheese sort of way. But Nanny Ogg looked unusually worried. Seeing Nanny Ogg looking worried was worrying. It was past midnight—technically speaking, the witching hour. In real life, every hour was a witching hour, but nevertheless the way the two hands on the clock stood straight up was slightly eerie.
“I hear that the lads came back from their stag-night fun,” said Nanny, “but it seems to me they’ve forgotten where they left the groom. I don’t think he is going to go anywhere, though. They are pretty certain they took his trousers down and tied him to something.” She coughed. “That’s generally the usual procedure. Technically the best man is supposed to remember where, but they found him and he can’t remember his own name.”
The clock in the hall struck midnight; it was never on time. Each strike may as well have hit Tiffany’s backbone.
And there, marching toward her, was Preston. And it seemed to Tiffany that for quite some time, wherever she had looked, there was Preston, looking smart and clean and—somehow—hopeful.
“Look, Preston,” she said. “I haven’t got time to explain things, and I’m not certain you would believe them—no, you probably would believe them if I told you. I have to go out there to kill that monster before it kills me.”
“Then I will protect you,” said Preston. “Anyway, my commander in chief might be out there somewhere in the pigsty with a sow sniffing his unmentionables! And I represent the temporal power here!”
“You?” Tiffany snapped.
Preston stuck out his chest, although it didn’t go very far. “As a matter of fact, yes. The lads made me Officer of the Watch so that they could all have a drink, and right now the sergeant is in the kitchen, throwing up in the sink. He thought he could outdrink Mrs. Ogg!” He saluted. “I’m going out there with you, miss. And you can’t stop me. No offense meant, of course. However, by virtue of the power vested in me by the sergeant, in between him throwing up into the sink, I would like to commandeer you and your broomstick to assist me in my search, if that is all right with you?”
It was a dreadful question to ask a witch. On the other hand, it was being asked by Preston. “All right then,” she said, “but do try not to scratch it. And there is one thing that I have to do first. Do excuse me.” She walked a little way over to the open door of the hall and leaned against the cold stonework. “I know there are Feegles listening to me,” she said.
“Oh, aye,” said a voice about one inch from her ear.
“Well, I don’t want you to help me tonight. This is a hag thing, you understand?”
“Oh, aye, we seen the big posse of hags. It’s a big hag night.”
“I must—” Tiffany began. And then an idea struck her. “I have to fight the man with no eyes. And they are here to see how good a fighter I am. And so I mustn’t cheat by using Feegles. That’s an important hag rule. Of course, I respect the fact that cheating is an honorable Feegle tradition, but hags don’t cheat,” she went on, aware that this was a huge lie. “If you help me, they will know, and all the hags will put me to scorn.”
And Tiffany thought, And if I lose, it will be Feegles versus hags, and that’s a battle that the world will remember. No pressure, eh?
Aloud, she said, “You understand, right? This once, just this once, you will do as I tell you and not help me.”
“Aye, we understand ye. But ye ken that Jeannie says we must look out for ye at all times, because ye are our hag o’ the hills,” said Rob.
“I’m sorry to say that the kelda is not here,” said Tiffany, “but I am, and I have to tell you that if you help me this once, I will no longer be your hag o’ the hills. I’m under a geas, ye ken. It’s a hag geas, and that’s a big geas indeed.” She heard a group groan, and added, “I mean it. The chief hag is Granny Weatherwax, and you know her.” There was another groan. “There you are then,” said Tiffany. “This time, please, let me do things my way. Is that understood?”
There was a pause, and then the voice of Rob Anybody said, “Och, aye.”
“Very well,” said Tiffany, and took a deep breath and went to find her broomstick.
Taking Preston with her didn’t seem such a good idea as they rose above the roofs of the castle.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were scared of flying?” she said.
“That’s hardly fair,” said Preston. “This is the first time I’ve ever flown.”
When they were at a decent height, Tiffany looked at the weather. There were clouds above the mountains, and the occasional flash of summer lightning. She could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. You were never far from a thunderstorm in the mountains. The mist had lifted, and the moon was up; it was a perfect night. And there was a breeze. She had hoped for this. And Preston had his arms around her waist; she wasn’t sure whether she had hoped for that or not.
They were well down onto the plains at the foot of the Chalk now, and even by moonlight Tiffany could see dark rectangles where earlier fields had been cleared. The men were always meticulous about not letting the fires get out of hand; nobody wanted wildfire—there was no telling what that would burn. The field they reached was the very last one. They always called it the King. Usually when the King was burned, half the village was waiting to catch any game that fled the flames. That should have happened today, but everybody had been . . . otherwise occupied.
The chicken houses and the pigsty were in a field just above it at the top of a bank, and it was said that the King grew such bountiful crops because the men found it much easier to cart the mulch onto the King rather than take it all to the lower fields.
They landed by the pigsties, to the usual ferocious screaming of piglets, who believe that no matter what is actually happening, the world is trying to saw them in half.
She sniffed. The air smelled of pig; she was sure, absolutely sure, that she would nevertheless smell the ghost if and when he was here. Mucky though they were, the pigs had a natural smell; the smell of the ghost, on the other hand, would make a pig smell like violets by comparison. She shuddered. The wind was getting up.
“Are you sure you can kill it?” whispered Preston.
“I think I can make it kill itself. And Preston, I absolutely forbid you to help me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Preston. “Temporal power, you understand. You can’t give me orders, Miss Aching, if that’s all right by you.”
“You mean your sense of duty and your obedience to your commander mean that you must help me?” she said.
“Well, yes, miss,” said Preston, “and a few other considerations.”
“Then I really need you, Preston, I really do. I think I could do this myself, but it will make it so much easier if you help me. What I want you to do is—”
She was almost certain that the ghost would not be able to overhear, but she lowered her voice anyway, and Preston absorbed her words without blinking and simply said, “That sounds pretty straightforward, miss. You can rely on the temporal power.”
“Yuck! How did I end up here?”
Something gray and sticky and smelling very much of pig and beer tried to pull itself over the pigsty wall. Tiffany knew it was Roland, but only because it was highly improbable that two bridegrooms had been thrown into the pigsty tonight. And he rose like something nasty from the swamp, dripping . . . well, just dripping; there was hardly any necessity to go into details. Bits of him splashed off.
He hiccupped. “There appears to be an enormous pig in my bedroom, and it would seem that I have mislaid my trousers,” he said, his voice baffled by alcohol. The young Baron peered around, understanding not so much dawning as bursting. “I don’t think this is my bedroom, is it?” he said, and slowly slipped back into the sty,
She smelled the ghost. Over and above the mix of smells coming from the pigsty, it stood out like a fox among chickens. And now the ghost spoke, in a voice of horror and decay. I can feel you here, witch, and others, too. I do not care about them, but this new body, while not very robust, has . . . a permanent agenda of its own. I am strong. I am coming. You cannot save everybody. I doubt if your fiendish flying stick can carry four people. Who will you leave behind? Why not leave them all? Why not leave the tiresome rival, the boy who spurned you, and the persistent young man? Oh, I know how you think, witch!
But I don’t think that way, Tiffany thought to herself. Oh, I might have liked to see Roland in the pigsty, but people aren’t just people; they are people surrounded by circumstances.
But you aren’t. You’re not even people anymore.
Beside her, with a horrible sucking noise, Preston pulled Roland out of the pigsty, against the protest of the sow. How lucky for both of them that they couldn’t hear the voice.
She paused. Four people? The tiresome rival? But there was only herself, Roland, and Preston, wasn’t there?
She looked toward the far end of the field, in the moon shadow of the castle. A white figure was running toward them at top speed.
It had to be Letitia. Nobody around here wore so much billowing white all the time. Tiffany’s mind spun with the algebra of tactics.
“Preston, off you go. Take the broomstick.”
Preston nodded and then saluted, with a grin. “At your service, miss.”
Letitia arrived in a flurry and expensive white slippers. She stopped dead when she saw Roland, who was sober enough to try to cover, with his hands, what Tiffany knew she would always now think of as his passionate parts. This simply made a squelching noise, since he was thickly encrusted in pig muck.
“One of his chums told me they threw him in the pigsty for a laugh!” Letitia said indignantly. “And they call themselves his friends!”
“I think they think that’s what friends are for,” said Tiffany absentmindedly. To herself she thought, Is this going to work? Have I overlooked something? Have I understood what I should do? Who do I think I’m talking to? I suppose I’m looking for a sign, just a sign.
There was a rustling noise. She looked down. A hare looked up at her and then, without panicking, lost herself in the stubbles.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” said Tiffany, and felt panicked herself. After all, was that an omen, or was it just a hare who was old enough not to run instantly when she saw people? And it wasn’t good manners, she was sure, to ask for a second sign to tell you if the first sign wasn’t just a coincidence . . . was it?
At this point, this very point, Roland started to sing, possibly because of drink, but also perhaps because Letitia was industriously wiping him down while keeping her eyes closed so that, as an unmarried woman, she wouldn’t see anything unseemly or surprising. And the song that Roland sang went: “Tis pleasant and delightful on the bright summer’s morn, to see the fields and meadows all covered in corn, and the small birds were singing on every green spray, and the larks they sang melodious, at the dawning of the day. . . .” He paused. “My father used to sing that quite a lot when we walked in these fields . . .” he said. He was at that stage when drunken men start to cry, and the tears left little trails of pink behind as the muck was washed from his cheeks.
But Tiffany thought, Thank you. An omen was an omen. You picked the ones that worked. And this was the big field, the field where they burned the last of the stubbles. And the hare runs into the fire. Oh, yes, the omens. They were always so important.
“Listen to me, both of you. I am not going to be argued with by you, because you, Roland, are rascally drunk and you, Letitia, are a witch”—Letitia beamed at that point—“who is junior to me, and therefore both of you will do what I tell you. And that way, all of us may get back to the castle alive.”
They both stopped and listened, Roland swaying gently.
“When I shout,” Tiffany continued, “I want you to each grab one of my hands and run! Turn if I turn, stop if I stop, although I doubt very much that I shall want to stop. Above all, don’t be afraid, and trust me. I’m almost sure I know what I’m doing.” Tiffany realized that this wasn’t the best assurance, but they didn’t seem to notice. She added, “And when I say leap, leap as if a devil is behind you, because it will be.”
The stink was suddenly unbearable. The sheer hatred in it seemed to beat on Tiffany’s brain. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes, she thought as she stared into the nighttime gloom. By the stinking of my nose, something evil this way goes, she added, to stop herself from gibbering as she scanned the distant hedge for movement.
And there was a figure.
There, heavyset, walking toward them down the length of the field. It moved slowly but was gathering speed. There was an awkwardness about it. “When he takes over a body, the owner of the body becomes a part of it, too. No escape, no release.” That’s what Eskarina had told her. Nothing good, nothing capable of redemption, could have thoughts that stank like that. She gripped the hands of the arguing couple and dragged them into a run. The . . . creature was between them and the castle. And was going more slowly than she’d expected. She risked another look and saw the glint of metal in its hands. Knives.
“Come on!”
“These aren’t very good shoes for running in,” Letitia pointed out.
“My head aches,” Roland supplied as Tiffany towed them toward the bottom of the field, ignoring all complaints as dry cornstalks snatched at them, caught hair, scratched legs, and stung feet. They were barely going at a jog. The creature was following them doggedly. As soon as they turned to run up toward the castle and safety, it would gain on them. . . .
