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'Oh,' said Granny darkly, 'one of them things.'
' But no-one can stop Mardi Gras,' she read.' If anything canne be done it be on Samedi Nuit Morte, the last night of carnivale, the night halfway between the Living and the Dead, when magic flows in the streets. If L. is vooneruble it is then, for carnivale is everythinge she hates . . .'
Granny Weatherwax pulled her hat down over her eyes to shield them from the sun.
'It says here they have a great big carnival every year,' she said. 'Mardi Gras, it's called.'
'That means Fat Lunchtime,' said Nanny Ogg, international linguist. 'Garkon! Etcetra gross Mint Tulip avec petit bowl de peanuts, pour favour!'
Granny Weatherwax shut the book.
She would not of course admit it to a third party, least of all another witch, but as Genua drew nearer Granny was becoming less and less confident.
She was waiting in Genua. After all this time! Staring at her out of the mirror! Smiling!
The sun beat down. She tried defying it. Sooner or later she was going to have to give in, though. It was going to be time to remove another vest.
Nanny Ogg sat and drew cards for her relatives for a while, and then yawned. She was a witch who liked noise and people around her. Nanny Ogg was getting bored. It was a big boat, more like a floating inn, and she felt certain there was some excitement somewhere.
She laid her bag on her seat and wandered away to look for it.
The trolls plodded on.
The sun was red, fat and low when Granny Weatherwax awoke. She looked around guiltily from the shelter of her hatbrim in case anyone had noticed her asleep. Falling asleep during the day was something only old women did, and Granny Weatherwax was an old woman only when it suited her purposes.
The only spectator was Greebo, curled up on Nanny's chair. His one good eye was fixed on her, but it wasn't so terrifying as the milky white stare of his blind one.
'Just considerin' our strategy,' she muttered, just in case.
She closed the book and strode off to their cabin. It wasn't a big one. Some of the staterooms looked huge, but what with the herbal wine and everything Granny hadn't felt up to using any Influence to get one.
Magrat and Nanny Ogg were sitting on a bunk, in gloomy silence.
'I feels a bit peckish,' said Granny. 'I smelled stew on the way here, so let's go and have a look, eh? What about that?'
The other two continued to stare at the floor.
'I suppose there's always pumpkin,' said Magrat. 'And there's always the dwarf bread.'
'There's always dwarf bread,' said Nanny automatically. She looked up, her face a mask of shame.
'Er, Esme ... er ... you know the money . . .'
'The money what we all gave you to keep in your knickers for safety?' said Granny. Something about the way the conversation was going suggested the first few pebbles slipping before a major landslide.
'That's the money I'm referrin' to ... er ..."
'The money in the big leather bag that we were goin' to be very careful about spendin'?' said Granny.
'You see . . . the money . . .'
'Oh, that money,' said Granny.
'. . . is gone . . .' said Nanny.
'Stolen?'
'She's been gambling,' said Magrat, in tones of smug horror. 'With men.'
