Witches Abroad

A little old man cowered between two guards.

There's always someone willing to be a guard, even in places like Genua. Besides, you got a really smart uniform, with blue trousers and a red coat and a high black hat with a cockade in it.

"But I... I can't whistle," quavered the old man. "I... I didn't know it was compulsory..."

"But you are a toymaker," said the Duc. "Toymakers whistle and sing the whole day long." He glanced at Lilith. She nodded.

"I don't know any... s-songs," said the toymaker. "I never got taught s—songs. Just how to make toys. I was ‘prenticed at making toys. Seven years before the little hammer, man and boy..."

"It says here," said the Duc, making a creditable impersonation of someone reading the charge sheet in front of him, "that you don't tell the children stories."

"No-one ever told me about telling... s-stories," said the toymaker. "Look, I just make toys. Toys. That's all I'm good at. Toys. I make good t-toys. I'm just a t-toymaker."

"You can't be a good toymaker if you don't tell stories to the children," said Lilith, leaning forward.

The toymaker looked up at the veiled face.

"Don't know any," he said.

"You don't know any?

"I could t-tell ‘em how to make toys," the old man quavered.

Lilith sat back. It was impossible to see her expression under the veil.

"I think it would be a good idea if the People's Guards here took you away," she said, "to a place where you will certainly learn to sing. And possibly, after a while, you might even whistle. Won't that be nice?"

The old Baron's dungeons had been disgusting. Lilith had had them repainted and refurnished. With a lot of mirrors.

When the audience was over one member of the crowd slipped out through the palace kitchens. The guards on the side gate didn't try to stop her. She was a very important person in the small compass of their lives.

"Hello, Mrs Pleasant."

She stopped, reached into her basket and produced a couple of roast chicken legs.

"Just tryin' a new peanut coating," she said. "Would value your opinions, boys."

They took them gratefully. Everyone liked to see Mrs Pleasant. She could do things with a chicken that would almost make it glad it had been killed.

"And now I'm just going out to get some herbs," she said.

They watched her as she went like a fat, determined arrow in the direction of the market place, which was right on the edge of the river. Then they ate the chicken legs.

Mrs Pleasant bustled among the market stalls; and she took great care to bustle. Even in Genua there were always people ready to tell a tale. Especially in Genua. She was a cook, so she bustled. And made sure she stayed fat and was, fortunately, naturally jolly. She made sure she had floury arms at all times. If she felt under suspicion, she'd say things like ‘Lawks!" She seemed to be getting away with it so far.

She looked for the sign. And there it was. Perched up on die roof pole of a stall that was otherwise stacked with cages of hens, gazoots, Wheely cranes and other fowl, was a black cockerel. The voodoo doctor was In.

Even as her eye found it the cockerel's head turned to look at her.

Set a little way back from the rest of the stalls was a small tent, similar to many around the market. A cauldron bubbled in front of it on a charcoal fire. There were bowls beside it, and a ladle, and beside them a plate with coins on it. There were quite a lot of coins; people paid for Mrs Gogol's cooking whatever they thought it was worth, and the plate was hardly big enough.

The thick liquid in the cauldron was an unappetizing brown. Mrs Pleasant helped herself to a bowlful, and waited. Mrs Gogol had certain talents.

After a while a voice from the tent said, "What's new, Mrs Pleasant?"

"She's shut up the toymaker," said Mrs Pleasant, to the air in general. "And yesterday it was old Devereaux the innkeeper for not being fat and not having a big red face. That's four times this month."

"You come in, Mrs Pleasant."

It was dark and hot inside the tent. There was another fire in there, and another pot. Mrs Gogol was hunched over it, stirring. She motioned the cook to a pair of bellows.

"Blow up the coals a tad, and we'll see what's what," she said.

Mrs Pleasant obeyed. She didn't use magic herself, other than that necessary to get a roux to turn or bread to rise, but she respected it in others. Especially in the likes of Mrs Gogol.

The charcoal blazed white. The thick liquid in the pot began to churn. Mrs Gogol peered into the steam.

"What're you doing, Mrs Gogol?" said the cook anxiously.

"Trying to see what's goin' to happen," said the voodoo woman. The voice dropped into the rolling growl of the psychically gifted.

Mrs Pleasant squinted into the roiling mass.

"Someone's going to be eatin' shrimp?" she said helpfully.

"Ye see that bit of okra?" said Mrs Gogol. "Ye see the way the crab legs keep coming up just there?"

"You never were one to stint the crab meat," said Mrs Pleasant.

"See the way the bubbles is so thick by the okuh leaves? See the way it all spirals around that purple onion?"