tp.wyrd sisters-第8部分

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　She　stared　at　the　ball。
　Well；　she　could　make　a　start。
　'He　will　make　friends　easily；'　she　whispered。　It　wasn't　much；　she　knew；　but　it　was　something　she'd　never　been　able　to　get　the　hang　of。
　Nanny　Ogg；　sitting　alone　in　her　kitchen　with　her　huge　tomcat　curled　up　on　her　lap；　poured　herself　a　nightcap　and　through　the　haze　tried　to　remember　the　words　of　verse　seventeen　of　the　Hedgehog　song。　There　was　something　about　goats；　she　recalled；　but　the　details　eluded　her。　Time　abraded　memory。
　She　toasted　the　invisible　presence。
　'A　bloody　good　memory　is　what　he　ought　to　have；'　she　said。
　'He'll　always　remember　the　words。'
　And　Granny　Weatherwax；　striding　home　alone　through　the　midnight　forest；　wrapped　her　shawl　around　her　and　considered。　It　had　been　a　long　day；　and　a　trying　one。　The　theatre　had　been　the　worst　part。　All　people　pretending　to　be　other　people；　things　happening　that　weren't　real；　bits　of　countryside　you　could　put　your　foot　through　。　。　。　Granny　liked　to　know　where　she　stood；　and　she　wasn't　certain　she　stood　for　that　sort　of　thing。　The　world　seemed　to　be　changing　all　the　time。
　It　didn't　use　to　change　so　much。　It　was　bewildering。
　She　walked　quickly　through　the　darkness　with　the　frank　stride　of　someone　who　was　at　least　certain　that　the　forest；　on　this　damp　and　windy　night；　contained　strange　and　terrible　things　and　she　was　it。
　'Let　him　be　whoever　he　minks　he　is；'　she　said。　'That's　all　anybody　could　hope　for　in　this　world。'
　Like　most　people；　witches　are　unfocused　in　time。　The　difference　is　that　they　dimly　realise　it；　and　make　use　of　it。　They　cherish　the　past　because　part　of　them　is　still　living　there；　and　they　can　see　the　shadows　the　future　casts　before　it。
　Granny　could　feel　the　shape　of　the　future；　and　it　had　knives　in　it。
　
　It　began　at　five　the　next　morning。　Four　men　rode　through　the　woods　near　Granny's　cottage；　tethered　the　horses　out　of　earshot；　and　crept　very　cautiously　through　the　mists。
　The　sergeant　in　charge　was　not　happy　in　his　work。　He　was　a　Ramtops　man；　and　wasn't　at　all　certain　about　how　you　went　about　arresting　a　witch。　He　was　pretty　certain；　though；　that　the　witch　wouldn't　like　the　idea。　He　didn't　like　the　idea　of　a　witch　not　liking　the　idea。
　The　men　were　Ramtoppers　as　well。　They　were　following　him　very　closely；　ready　to　duck　behind　him　at　the　first　sign　of　anything　more　unexpected　than　a　tree。
　Granny's　cottage　was　a　fungoid　shape　in　the　mist。　Her　unruly　herb　garden　seemed　to　move；　even　in　the　still　air。　It　contained　plants　seen　nowhere　else　in　the　mountains；　their　roots　and　seeds　traded　across　five　thousand　miles　of　the　Discworld；　and　the　sergeant　could　swear　that　one　or　two　blooms　turned　towards　him。　He　shuddered。
　'What　now；　sarge？'
　'We　…　we　spread　out；'　he　said。　'Yes。　We　spread　out；　That's　what　we　do。'
　They　moved　carefully　through　the　bracken。　The　sergeant　crouched　behind　a　handy　log；　and　said；　'Right。　Very　good。　You've　got　the　general　idea。　Now　let's　spread　out　again；　and　this　time　we　spread　out　separately。'
　The　men　grumbled　a　bit；　but　disappeared　into　the　mist。　The　sergeant　gave　them　a　few　minutes　to　take　up　positions；　then　said；　'Right。　Now　we…'
　He　paused。
　He　wondered　whether　he　dared　shout；　and　decided　against　it。
　He　stood　up。　He　removed　his　helmet；　to　show　respect；　and　sidled　through　the　damp　grass　to　the　back　door。　He　knocked；　very　gently。
　After　a　wait　of　several　seconds　he　clamped　his　helmet　back　on　his　head；　said；　'No…one　in。　Blast'；　and　started　to　stride　away。
　The　door　opened。　It　opened　very　slowly；　and　with　the　maximum　amount　of　creak。　Simple　neglect　wouldn't　have　caused　that　depth　of　groan；　you'd　need　careful　work　with　hot　water　over　a　period　of　weeks。　The　sergeant　stopped；　and　then　turned　round　very　slowly　while　contriving　to　move　as　few　muscles　as　possible。
　He　had　mixed　feelings　about　the　fact　that　there　was　nothing　in　the　doorway。　In　his　experience；　doors　didn't　just　open　themselves。
　He　cleared　his　throat　nervously。
　Granny　Weatherwax；　right　by　his　ear；　said；　'That's　a　nasty　cough　you've　got　there。　You　did　right　in　ing　to　me。'
　The　sergeant　looked　up　at　her　with　an　expression　of　mad　gratitude。　He　said；　'Argle。'
　
　'She　did　what？'　said　the　duke。
　The　sergeant　stared　fixedly　at　an　area　a　few　inches　to　the　right　of　the　duke's　chair。
　'She　give　me　a　cup　of　tea；　sir；'　he　said。
　'And　what　about　your　men？'
　'She　give　them　one　too；　sir。'
　The　duke　rose　from　his　chair　and　put　his　arms　around　the　sergeant's　rusting　chain　mail　shoulders。　He　was　in　a　bad　mood。　He　had　spent　half　the　night　washing　his　hands。　He　kept　thinking　that　something　was　whispering　in　his　ear。　His　breakfast　oatmeal　had　been　served　up　too　salty　and　roasted　with　an　apple　in　it；　and　the　cook　had　hysterics　in　the　kitchen。　You　could　tell　the　duke　was　extremely　annoyed。　He　was　polite。　The　duke　was　the　kind　of　man　who　bees　more　and　more　agreeable　as　his　temper　drains　away；　until　the　point　is　reached　where　the　words　'Thank　you　so　much'　have　the　cutting　edge　of　a　guillotine。
　'Sergeant；'　he　said；　walking　the　man　slowly　across　the　floor。
　'Sir？'
　'I'm　not　sure　I　made　your　orders　clear；　sergeant；'　said　the　duke；　in　snake　tones。
　'Sir？'
　'I　mean；　it　is　possible　I　may　have　confused　you。　I　meant　to　say　〃Bring　me　a　witch；　in　chains　if　necessary〃；　but　perhaps　what　I　really　said　was　〃Go　and　have　a　cup　of　tea〃。　Was　this　in　fact　the　case？'
　The　sergeant　wrinkled　his　forehead。　Sarcasm　had　not　hitherto　entered　his　life。　His　experience　of　people　being　annoyed　with　him　generally　involved　shouting　and　occasional　bits　of　wood。
　'No；　sir；'　he　said。
　'I　wonder　why；　then；　you　did　not　in　fact　do　this　thing　that　I　asked？'
　'Sir？'
　'I　expect　she　said　some　magic　words；　did　she？　I've　heard　about　witches；'　said　the　duke；　who　had　spent　the　night　before　reading；　until　his　bandaged　hands　shook　too　much；　some　of　the　more　excitable　works　on　the　subject。＇3＇　'I　imagine　she　offered　you　visions　of　unearthly　delight？　Did　she　show　you…'　the　duke　shuddered　…　'dark　fascinations　and　forbidden　raptures；　the　like　of　which　mortal　men　should　not　even　think　of；　and　demonic　secrets　that　took　you　to　the　depths　of　man's　desires？'
　The　duke　sat　down　and　fanned　himself　with　his　handkerchief。
　'Are　you　all　right；　sir？'　said　the　sergeant。
　'What？　Oh；　perfectly；　perfectly。'
　'Only　you've　gone　all　red。'
　'Don't　change　the　subject；　man；'　snapped　the　duke；　pulling　himself　together　a　bit。　'Admit　it　…　she　offered　you　hedonistic　and　licentious　pleasures　known　only　to　those　who　dabble　in　the　carnal　arts；　didn't　she？'
　The　sergeant　stood　to　attention　and　stared　straight　ahead。
　'No；　sir；'　he　said；　in　the　manner　of　one　speaking　the　truth　e　what　may。　'She　offered　me　a　bun。'
　'A　bun？'
　'Yes；　sir。　It　had　currants　in　it。'
　Felmet　sat　absolutely　still　while　he　fought　for　internal　peace。　Finally；　all　he　could　manage　was；　'And　what　did　your　men　do　about　this？'
　'They　had　a　bun　too；　sir。　All　except　young　Roger；　who　isn't　allowed　fruit；　sir；　on　account　of　his　trouble。'
　The　duke　sagged　back　on　the　window　seat　and　put　his　hand　over　his　eyes。　I　was　born　to　rule　down　on　the　plains；　he　thought；　where　it's　all　flat　and　there　isn't　all　this　weather　and　everything　and　there　are　people　who　don't　appear　to　be　made　of　dough。　He's　going　to　tell　me　what　this　Roger　had。
　'He　had　a　biscuit；　sir。'
　The　duke　stared　out　at　the　trees。　He　was　angry。　He　was　extremely　angry。　But　twenty　years　of　marriage　to　Lady　Felmet　had　taught　him　not　simply　to　control　his　emotions　but　to　control　his　instincts　as　well；　and　not　so　much　as　the　twitching　of　a　muscle　indicated　the　workings　of　his　mind。　Besides；　arising　out　of　the　black　depths　of　his　head　was　an　emotion　that；　hitherto；　he　had　little　time　for。　Curiosity　was　flashing　a　fin。
　The　duke　had　managed　quite　well　for　fifty　years　without　finding　a　use　for　curiosity。　It　was　not　a　trait　much　encouraged　in　aristocrats。　He　had　found　certainty　was　a　much　better　bet。　However；　it　occurred　to　him　that　for　once　curiosity　might　have　its　uses。
　The　sergeant　was　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　floor　with　the　stolid　air　of　one　who　is　awaiting　a　word　of　mand；　and　who　is　quite　prepared　so　to　wait　until　continental　drift　budges　him　from　his　post。　He　had　been　in　the　undemanding　service　of　the　kings　of　Lancre　for　many　years；　and　it　showed。　His　body　was　standing　to　attention。　Despite　all　his　efforts　his　stomach　stood　at　ease。
　The　duke's　gaze　fell　on　the　Fool；　who　was　sitting　on　his　stool　by　the　throne。　The　hunched　figure　looked　up；　embarrassed；　and　gave　his　bells　a　half…hearted　shake。
　The　duke　reached　a　decision。　The　way　to　progress；　he'd　found；　was　to　find　weak　spots。　He　tried　to　shut　away　the　thought　that　these　included　such　things　as　a　king's　kidneys　at　the　top　of　a　dark　stairway；　and　concentrated　on　the　matter　in　hand。
　。　。　。　hand。　He'd　scrubbed　and　scrubbed；　but　it　seemed　to　have　no　effect。　Eventually　he'd　gone　down　to　the　dungeons　and　borrowed　one　of　the　torturer's　wire　brushes；　and　scrubbed　and　scrubbed　with　that；　too。　That　had　no　effect；　either。　It　made　it　worse。　The　harder　he　scrubbed；　the　more　blood　there　was。　He　was　afraid　he　might　go　mad　。　。　。
　He　wrestled　the　thought　to　the　back　of　his　mind。　Weak　spots。　That　was　it。　The　Fool　looked　all　weak　spot。
　'You　may　go；　sergeant。'
　'Sir；'　said　the　sergeant；　and　marched　out　stiffly。
　'Fool？'
　'Marry；　sir…'　said　the　Fool　nervously；　and　gave　his　hated　mandolin　a　quick　strum。
　The　duke　sat　down　on　the　throne。
　'I　am　already　extremely　married；'　he　said。　'Advise　me；　my　Fool。'
　'I'faith；　nuncle…'　said　the　Fool。
　'Nor　am　I　thy　nuncle。　I　feel　sure　I　would　have　remembered；'　said　Lord　Felmet；　leaning　down　until　the　prow　of　his　nose　was　a　few　inches　from　the　Fool's　stricken　face。　'If　you　preface　your　next　remark　with　nuncle；　i'faith　or　marry；　it　will　go　hard　with　you。'
　The　Fool　moved　his　lips　silently；　and　then　said；　'How　do　you　feel　about　Prithee？'
　The　duke　knew　when　to　allow　some　slack。　'Prithee　I　can　live　with；'　he　said。　'So　can　you。　But　no　capering。'　He　grinned　encouragingly。　'How　long　have　you　been　a　Fool；　boy？'
　'Prithee；　sirrah…'
　'The　sirrah；'　said　the　duke；　holding　up　a　hand；　'on　the　whole；　I　think　not。'
　'Prithee；　sirra　…　sir；'　said　the　Fool；　and　swallowed　nervously。　'All　my　life；　sir。　Seventeen　years　und