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'Everyone seemed to think they knew you. Granny,' said Magrat.
Granny's broomstick jerked in the wind.
'They didn't!' she shouted. 'They never saw me before, all right?'
They flew on in troubled silence for a while.
Then Magrat, who in Nanny Ogg's opinion had an innocent talent for treading on dangerous ground, said: 'I wonder if we did the right thing? I'm sure it was a job for a handsome prince.'
'Hah!' said Granny, who was riding ahead. 'And what good would that be? Cutting your way through a bit of bramble is how you can tell he's going to be a good husband, is it? That's fairy godmotherly thinking, that is! Goin' around inflicting happy endings on people whether they wants them or not, eh?'
'There's nothing wrong with happy endings,' said Magrat hotly.
'Listen, happy endings is fine if they turn out happy,' said Granny, glaring at the sky. ' But you can't make 'em for other people. Like the only way you could make a happy marriage is by cuttin' their heads off as soon as they say “I do”, yes? You can't make happiness . . .'
Granny Weatherwax stared at the distant city.
'All you can do,' she said, 'is make an ending.'
They had breakfast in a forest clearing. It was grilled pumpkin. The dwarf bread was brought out for inspection. But it was miraculous, the dwarf bread. No-one ever went hungry when they had some dwarf bread to avoid. You only had to look at it for a moment, and instantly you could think of dozens of things you'd rather eat. Your boots, for example. Mountains. Raw sheep. Your own foot.
Then they tried to get some sleep. At least, Nanny and Magrat did. But all it meant was that they lay awake and listened to Granny Weatherwax muttering under her breath. They'd never seen her so upset.
ust be far enough from the river now,' said Magrat. 'Can't we land, Granny? No-one could have followed us!'
Granny Weatherwax looked down. The river in this countryside meandered in huge glistening curves, taking twenty miles to cover five. The land between the snaking water was a patchwork of hillsides and woodlands. A distant glow might have been Genua itself.
'Riding a broomstick all night is a right pain in the itinerant,' said Nanny.
'Oh, all right.'
'There's a town over there,' said Magrat. 'And a castle.'
'Oh, not another one . . .'
'It's a nice little castle,' said Magrat. 'Can't we just call in? I'm fed up with inns.'
Granny looked down. She had very good night vision.
'Are you sure that's a castle?' she said.
'I can see the turrets and everything,' said Magrat. 'Of course it's a castle.'
'Hmm. I can see more than turrets,' said Granny. 'I think we'd better have a look at this, Gytha.'
There was never any noise in the sleeping castle, except in the late summer when ripe berries fell off the bramble vines and burst softly on the floor. And sometimes birds would try to nest in the thorn thickets that now filled the throne room from floor to ceiling, but they never got very far before they, too, fell asleep. Apart from that, you'd need very keen hearing indeed to hear the growth of shoots and the opening of buds.
It had been like this for ten years. There was no sound in the -
'Open up there!'
'Bony fidy travellers seeking sucker!'
- no sound in the -
'Here, give us a leg up, Magrat. Right. Now . . .'
There was a tinkle of broken glass.
