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‘You agrees with me?’ said Nanny Ogg, almost speechless.
‘Yes, my dear, I do.’
And Tiffany thought, At last, we will have peace. ‘Thank you, Geoffrey,’ she said under her breath. ‘Now we are all here,’ she said aloud, ‘I must tell you that I can’t manage Granny’s steading. I’m not going to sleep in Granny’s bed any more. Because I’m not her.’
Nanny grinned. ‘I wondered if’n you would do that, Tiff. You has to be your own woman after all.’
‘My roots are in the Chalk and the Chalk is my strength,’ Tiffany continued. ‘My bones will be part of these hills just like those of my Granny Aching.’
There was a murmur from the witches. They had all heard of Granny Aching by now.
‘And I have some very good boots too. Just as I cannot sleep in Granny Weatherwax’s bed, I cannot wear her boots either.’
Nanny chuckled. ‘I’ll collect ’em when I’m next up at the cottage, Tiff. I knows Esme’s boots, knows a young witch they’ll do very nicely for.’
‘Talking of young witches,’ Tiffany added, ‘Miss Tick has found me some girls with potential. May I send them up to the mountains to begin their training? I will have need of help in the Chalk in the future.’
The witches were nodding. Of course. For it was the way it was done: the young girls – Nancy Upright and Becky Pardon – would spend time with the senior witches and learn the beginning of their trade.
Tiffany took a deep breath. ‘And what I suggest is that Geoffrey be allowed to look after Granny Weatherwax’s cottage and steading for me,’ she said, looking at Nanny Ogg as she said that and getting a wink in return.
She glanced at Mrs Earwig and was surprised to see her nod and say, ‘He’s a very nice decent young man, and we have seen him at work, and now we live in the time of the railways so perhaps we should change our ways. Yes, I believe Mister Geoffrey should take care of Granny’s – Tiffany’s – steading in Lancre. He’s no witch, but he’s certainly much more than the usual sort of backhouse boy.’ And Tiffany could see Mrs Earwig’s mind working, and she felt certain that the next time she saw the witch, she would have a lad somewhere around her establishment.
Out loud, Nanny said, ‘What did you call him, Tiff? A calm-weaver? Shall we leave it at that for now?’
But Magrat wanted her say too. ‘Verence heard of what he did for the old men,’ she said. ‘He believes he should have a reward. And I think I know exactly what would suit . . .’
And thus, a few weeks later, Lord Swivel was most surprised to see his third son riding proudly up his long, long drive, a herald at his sidefn1 and a pennant with the royal insignia of Lancre fluttering in the breeze. The same insignia was also on a velvet coat over the flanks of Mephistopheles.
‘May I announce His Royal Ambassadorship Geoffrey Swivel,’ proclaimed the herald, breaking into a few notes on the trumpet he held.
Geoffrey’s mother sobbed with delight, while his father – a man on whom no calm-weaving would ever work – boiled inside with fury as he had to bow to the son he had treated as a nobody. But no one argued with the power of a crown.
There was a purpose to this visit, though. After the usual bowing, scraping and general knee-bending any royal emissary took as his due, Geoffrey grinned around at the assembled company and said, ‘Father, I have exciting news! Those of us in the country may oft feel neglected by those in the big city but let me assure you, this is not the case. There have, in fact, been important developments just recently in the field of . . . chicken runs. Some young people in Ankh-Morpork . . . young people whose parents have the power to indulge their wishes’ – and he tapped his nose with a finger to show that he expected his father to know these important parents – ‘feel that it may no longer be necessary to hunt sly old Mister Reynard to protect our chickens.’ He beamed. ‘They have come up with a new chicken run which is totally impervious to foxes. And you, Father, are the lucky, lucky landowner who has been chosen to test this new design.’
As his father spluttered, and his brother Hugh shouted ‘Hurrah!’ for no particular reason except that it felt like someone should, Geoffrey looked around. He could see his mother’s face. Normally she looked like someone the world had trodden on so many times that it was almost an invitation to tread on her yourself, but now she stood tall, her chin high.
‘Harold. Our son has worked wonders, and here is a king honouring him and treating him as a friend,’ she said proudly. ‘Don’t you look at me like that, Harold, for today I have spoken. And the Queen of Lancre has invited me to come and visit her,’ she added with satisfaction.
There was a bleat from Mephistopheles, and as Geoffrey’s father turned to stamp away, the goat turned its back and aimed a square set of devilish hooves right onto Lord Swivel’s rump. Followed by a raucous fart that almost – but not quite – covered up the noise of the man falling flat on his face.
‘A most usefully offensive goat,’ Geoffrey murmured to McTavish, who had come to stand by his side.
The old stable-lad looked around. ‘And one your father cannot touch,’ he said with a wink. ‘Not with that fancy coat on its back.’ He sniffed. ‘My word, though, Mephistopheles isn’t easy on the nose – he whiffs even worse than I remember.’
‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, ‘but he can climb trees. And use a privy. Even count. He’s a strange creature; he can turn a dark day into a clear one. Look into his eyes sometime.’
And McTavish looked, and then hastily looked away.
fn1 Shawn Ogg, in another of his royal duties.
EPILOGUE
A Whisper on the Chalk
TWO DAYS AFTER the battle, Tiffany led one of the farm horses up to the hills above the farm. It was a perfect early autumn?
??s day. There was a wonderful cerulean sky, buzzards screaming overhead and a clear view towards the distant mountains of Lancre, their tops still covered in snow even at this time of year.
