'If you do confess,' said the duchess, 'you will merely be burned at the stake. And, please, no humorous remarks.'

'What false rumours?'

The duke closed his eyes, but the visions were still there 'Concerning the accidental death of the late King Verence.' he whispered hoarsely. The air swirled again.

Nanny sat with her head cocked to one side, as though listening to a voice only she could hear. Except that the duke was certain that he could hear something too, not exactly a voice, something like the distant sighing of the wind.

'Oh, I don't know nothing false,' she said. 'I know you stabbed him, and you gave him the dagger. It was at the top of the stairs.' She paused, head cocked, nodded, and added, 'Just by the suit of armour with the pike, and you said, "If it's to be done, it's better if it's done quickly", or something, and then you snatched the king's own dagger, the very same what is now lying on the floor, out of his belt and—'

'You lie! There were no witnesses. We made . . . there was nothing to witness! I heard someone in the dark, but there was no-one there! There couldn't have been anyone seeing anything!' screamed the duke. His wife scowled at him.

'Do shut up, Leonal,' she said. 'I think within these four walls we can dispense with that sort of thing.'

'Who told her? Did you tell her?'

'And calm down. No-one told her. She's a witch, for goodness sake, they find out about these things. Second glance, or something.'

'Sight,' said Nanny.

'Which you will not possess much longer, my good woman, unless you tell us who else knows and indeed, assist us on a number of other matters,' said the duchess grimly. 'And you will do so, believe me. I am skilled in these things.'

Granny glanced around the dungeon. It was beginning to get crowded. King Verence was bursting with such angry vitality that he was very nearly apparent, and was furiously trying to get a grip on a knife. But there were others behind – wavering, broken shapes, not exactly ghosts but memories, implanted in the very substances of the walls themselves by sheer pain and terror.

'My own dagger! The bastards! They killed me with my own dagger,' said the ghost of King Verence silently, raising his transparent arms and imploring the netherworld in general to witness this ultimate humiliation. 'Give me strength...'

'Yes,' said Nanny. 'It's worth a try.'

'And now we will commence,' said the duchess.

'What?' said the guard.

'I SAID,' said Magrat, 'I've come to sell my lovely apples. Don't you listen?'

'There's not a sale on, is there?' The guard was extremely nervous since his colleague had been taken off to the infirmary. He hadn't taken the job in order to deal with this sort of thing.

It dawned on him.

'You're not a witch, are you?' he said, fumbling awkwardly with his pike.

'Of course not. Do I look like one?'

The guard looked at her occult bangles, her lined cloak, her trembling hands and her face. The face was particulary worrying. Magrat had used a lot of powder to make her face pale and interesting. It combined with the lavishly applied mascara to give the guard the impression that he was looking at two flies that had crashed into a sugar bowl. He found his fingers wanted to make a sign to ward off the evil eyeshadow.

'Right,' he said uncertainly. His mind was grinding through the problem. She was a witch. Just lately there'd been a lot of gossip about witches being bad for your health. He'd been told not to let witches pass, but no-one had said anything about apple sellers. Apple sellers were not a problem. It was witches that were the problem. She'd said she was an apple seller and he wasn't about to doubt a witch's word.

Feeling happy with this application of logic, he stood to one side and gave an expansive wave.

'Pass, apple seller,' he said.

'Thank you,' said Magrat sweetly. 'Would you like an apple?'

'No, thanks. I haven't finished the one the other witch gave me.' His eyes rolled. 'Not a witch. Not a witch, an apple seller An apple seller. She ought to know.'

'How long ago was this?'

'Just a few minutes . . .'

Granny Weatherwax was not lost. She wasn't the kind of person who ever became lost. It was just that, at the moment, while she knew exactly where SHE was, she didn't know the position of anywhere else. Currently she had arrived in the kitchens again, precipitating a breakdown in the cook, who was trying to roast some celery. The fact that several people had tried to buy apples from her wasn't improving her temper.

Magrat found her way to the Great Hall, empty and deserted at this time of day except for a couple of guards who were playing dice. They wore the tabards of Felmet's own personal bodyguard, and stopped their game as soon as she appeared.

'Well, well,' said one, leering. 'Come to keep us company have you, my pretty[12].'

'I was looking for the dungeons,' said Magrat, to whom the words 'sexual harassment' were a mere collection of syllables.

'Just fancy,' said one of the guards, winking at the other. 'I reckon we can help you there.' They got up and stood either side of her; she was aware of two chins you could strike matches on and an overpowering smell of stale beer. Frantic signals from outlying portions of her mind began to break down her iron-hard conviction that bad things only happened to bad people.

They escorted her down several flights of steps into a maze of dank, arched passageways as she sought hurriedly for some polite way of disengaging herself.

'I should warn you,' she said, 'I am not, as I may appear, a simple apple seller.'

'Fancy that.'

'I am, in fact, a witch.'

This did not make the impression she had hoped. The guards exchanged glances.

'Fair enough,' said one. 'I've always wondered what it was like to kiss a witch. Around here they do say you gets turned into a frog.'

The other guard nudged him. 'I reckon, then,' he said, in the slow, ripe tones of one who thinks that what he is about to say next is going to be incredibly funny, 'you kissed one years ago.'

The brief guffaw was suddenly interrupted when Magrat was flung against the wall and treated to a close up view of the guard's nostrils.

'Now listen to me, sweetheart,' he said. 'You ain't the first witch we've had down here, if witch you be, but you could be lucky and walk out again. If you are nice to us, d'you see?'

There was a shrill, short scream from somewhere nearby.

'That, you see,' said the guard, 'was a witch having it the hard way. You could do us all a favour, see? Lucky you met us, really.'

His questing hand stopped its wandering. 'What's this?' he said to Magrat's pale face. 'A knife? A knife? I reckon we've got to take that very seriously, don't you, Hron?'

'You got to tie her hands and gag her,' said Hron hurriedly.

'They can't do no magic if they can't speak or wave their hands about . . .'

'You can take your hands off her!'

All three stared down the passage at the Fool. He was jingling with rage.

'Let her go this minute!' he shouted. 'Or I'll report you!'

'Oh, you'll report us, will you?' said Hron. 'And will anyone listen to you, you earwax-coloured little twerp?'

12

No-one knows why men say things like this. Any minute now he is probably going to say he likes a girl with spirit.