Free Lords and Ladies by Terry Pratchett Page A

if I can fill any buckets with water, shall I?” said Nanny Ogg, to no one in particular.
    “I ’spect you’d know all about witchcraft,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    “I’m studying, yes,” said Diamanda.
    Nanny Ogg realized that she had removed her own hat and was biting nervously at the brim.
    “I ’spect you’re really good at it,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    “Quite good,” said Diamanda.
    “ Show me .”
    She is good, thought Nanny Ogg. She’s been facing down Esme’s stare for more’n a minute. Even snakes generally give up after a minute.
    If a fly had darted through the few inches of space between their stares it would have flashed into flame in the air.
    “I learned my craft from Nanny Gripes,” said Granny Weatherwax, “who learned it from Goody Heggety, who got it from Nanna Plumb, who was taught it by Black Aliss, who—”
    “So what you’re saying is, ” said Diamanda, loading the words into the sentence like cartridges in a chamber, “that no one has actually learned anything new ?”
    The silence that followed was broken by Nanny Ogg saying: “Bugger, I’ve bitten right through the brim. Right through.”
    “I see, ” said Granny Weatherwax.
    “Look,” said Nanny Ogg hurriedly, nudging the trembling Perdita, “right through the lining and everything. Two dollars and curing his pig that hat cost me. That’s two dollars and a pig cure I shan’t see again in a hurry.”
    “So you can just go away, old woman,” said Diamanda.
    “But we ought to meet again,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    The old witch and the young witch weighed one another up.
    “Midnight?” said Diamanda.
    “Midnight? Nothing special about midnight. Practic’ly anyone can be a witch at midnight,” said Granny Weatherwax. “How about noon?”
    “Certainly. What are we fighting for?” said Diamanda.
    “Fighting? We ain’t fighting . We’re just showing each other what we can do. Friendly like,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    She stood up.
    “I’d better be goin’,” she said. “Us old people need our sleep, you know how it is.”
    “And what does the winner get?” said Diamanda. There was just a trace of uncertainty in her voice now. It was very faint, on the Richter scale of doubt it was probably no more than a plastic teacup five miles away falling off a low shelf onto a carpet, but it was there.
    “Oh, the winner gets to win,” said Granny Weatherwax. “That’s what it’s all about. Don’t bother to see us out. You didn’t see us in.”
    The door slammed back.
    “Simple psychokinesis,” said Diamanda.
    “Oh, well. That’s all right then,” said Granny Weatherwax, disappearing into the night. “Explains it all, that does.”

    There used to be such simple directions, back in the days before they invented parallel universes—Up and Down, Right and Left, Backward and Forward, Past and Future…
    But normal directions don’t work in the multiverse, which has far too many dimensions for anyone to find their way. So new ones have to be invented so that the way can be found.
    Like: East of the Sun, West of the Moon.
    Or: Behind the North Wind.
    Or: At the Back of Beyond.
    Or: There and Back Again.
    Or: Beyond the Fields We Know.
    And sometimes there’s a short cut. A door or a gate. Some standing stones, a tree cleft by lightning, a filing cabinet.
    Maybe just a spot on some moorland somewhere…
    A place where there is very nearly here .
    Nearly, but not quite. There’s enough leakage to make pendulums swing and psychics get nasty headaches, to give a house a reputation for being haunted, to make the occasional pot hurl across a room. There’s enough leakage to make the drones fly guard.
    Oh, yes. The drones.
    There are things called drone assemblies. Sometimes, on fine summer days, the drones from hives for miles around will congregate in some spot, and fly circles in the air, buzzing like tiny early warning systems, which is what they are.
    Bees are sensible. It’s a human word. But bees