Free Witches Abroad by Terry Pratchett Page B

pointed cautiously to a smudged area.
    â€˜I think we’re here,’ she said.
    â€˜My word,’ said Nanny Ogg, whose grasp of the principles of cartography was even shakier than Granny’s. ‘Amazing how we can all fit on that little bit of paper.’
    â€˜I think perhaps it would be a good idea at the moment if we just followed the river,’ said Magrat. ‘Without in any way going on it,’ she added quickly.
    â€˜I suppose you didn’t find my bag?’ said Granny Weatherwax. ‘It had pers’nal items in.’
    â€˜Probably sank like a stone,’ said Nanny Ogg.
    Granny Weatherwax stood up like a general who’s just had news that his army has come second.
    â€˜Come on,’ she said. ‘Where to next, then?’
    What was next was forest – dark and ferociously coniferous. The witches flew over it in silence. There were occasional, isolated cottages half-hidden in the trees. Here and there a crag loomed over the sylvanian gloom, shrouded in mist even in mid-afternoon. Once or twice they flew past castles, if that’s what you could call them; they didn’t look built, more extruded from the landscape.
    It was the kind of landscape that had a particular type of story attached to it, featuring wolves and garlic and frightened women. A dark and thirsty story, a story that flapped wings against the moon . . .
    â€˜Der flabberghast,’ muttered Nanny.
    â€˜What’s that?’ said Magrat.
    â€˜It’s foreign for bat.’
    â€˜I’ve always liked bats,’ said Magrat. ‘In general.’
    The witches found that, by unspoken agreement, they were flying closer together.
    â€˜I’m getting hungry,’ said Granny Weatherwax. ‘And don’t no-one mention pumpkin.’
    â€˜There’s dwarf bread,’ said Nanny.
    â€˜There’s always the dwarf bread,’ said Granny. ‘I fancy something cooked this year, thank you all the same.’
    They flew past another castle, occupying the entire summit of a crag.
    â€˜What we need is a nice little town or something,’ said Magrat.
    â€˜But the one down there will have to do,’ said Granny.
    They looked down at it. It wasn’t so much a town as a huddle of houses, clustering together against the trees. It looked as cheerless as an empty hearth, but the shadows of the mountains were already speeding across the forest and something about the landscape tacitly discouraged night-time flying.
    â€˜Can’t see many people about,’ said Granny.
    â€˜Maybe they turn in early in these parts,’ said Nanny Ogg.
    â€˜It’s hardly even sunset,’ said Magrat. ‘Perhaps we ought to go up to that castle?’
    They all looked at the castle.
    â€˜No-o-o,’ said Granny slowly, speaking for all of them. ‘We know our place.’
    So they landed, instead, in what was presumably the town square. A dog barked, somewhere behind the buildings. A shutter banged closed.
    â€˜Very friendly,’ said Granny. She walked over to a larger building that had a sign, unreadable under the grime, over the door. She gave the woodwork a couple of thumps.
    â€˜Open up!’ she said.
    â€˜No, no, you don’t say that,’ said Magrat. She shouldered her way past, and tapped on the door. ‘Excuse me! Bona fide travellers!’
    â€˜Bona what?’ said Nanny.
    â€˜That’s what you need to say,’ said Magrat. ‘Any inn has got to open up for bona fide travellers and give them succour.’
    â€˜Has it?’ said Nanny, with interest. ‘That sounds like a thing worth knowing.’
    The door remained shut.
    â€˜Let me ’ave a go,’ said Nanny. ‘I know some foreign lingo.’
    She hammered on the door.
    â€˜Openny vous, gunga din, chop-chop, pretty damn quick,’ she said.
    Granny Weatherwax listened carefully.
    â€˜That’s speaking foreign, is it?’
    â€˜My