Witches Abroad

The dance floor was thronged. Decorations hung from every pillar, but they were black and silver, the colours of the festival of Samedi Nuit Mort. An orchestra was playing on a balcony. Dancers whirled. The din was immense.

A waiter with a tray of drinks suddenly found that he was a waiter without a tray of drinks. He looked around, and then down to a small fox under a huge white wig.

"Bugger off and get us some more," said Nanny pleasantly. "Can you see her, your ladyship?"

"There's too many people."

"Well, can you see the Duc?"

"How do I know? Everyone's got masks on!"

"Hey, is that food over there?"

Many of the less energetic or more hungry of the Genua nobility were clustered around the long buffet. All they were aware of, apart from sharp digs with a pair of industrious elbows, was an amiable monotone at chest height, on the lines of "... mind your backs... stand aside there... comin' through."

Nanny fought her way to the table and nudged a space for Granny Weatherwax.

"Cor, what a spread, eh?" she said. "Mind you, they have tiny chickens in these parts." She grabbed a plate.

"Them's quails."

"I'll ‘ave three. "Ere, charlie chan!"

A flunkey stared at her.

"Got any pickles?"

"I'm afraid not, ma'am."

Nanny Ogg looked along a table which included roast swans, a roasted peacock that probably wouldn't have felt any better about it even if it had known that its tail feathers were going to be stuck back in afterwards, and more fruits, boiled lobsters, nuts, cakes, creams and trifles than a hermit's dream.

"Well, got any relish?"

"No, ma'am."

"Tomato ketchup?"

"No, ma'am."

"And they call this a gormay paradise," muttered Nanny, as the band struck up the next dance. She nudged a tall figure helping himself to the lobster. "Some place, eh?"

VERY NICE.

"Good mask you've got there."

THANK YOU.

Nanny was spun around by Granny Weatherwax's hand on her shoulder.

"There's Magrat!"

"Where? Where?" said Nanny.

"Over there... sitting by the potted plants."

"Oh, yes. On the chassy longyew," said Nanny. "That's "sofa" in foreign, you know," she added.

"What's she doing?"

"Being attractive to men, I think."

"What, Magrat?"

"Yeah. You're really getting good at that hypnotism, ain't you."

Magrat fluttered her fan and looked up at the Compte de Yoyo.

"La, sir," she said. "You may get me another plate of lark's eggs, if you really must."

"Like a shot, dear lady!" The old man bustled off in the direction of the buffet.

Magrat surveyed her empire of admirers, and then extended a languorous hand towards Captain de Vere of the Palace Guard. He stood to attention.

"Dear captain," she said, "you may have the pleasure of the next dance."

"Acting like a hussy," said Granny disapprovingly.

Nanny gave her an odd look.

"Not really," she said. "Anyway, a bit of hussing never did anyone any harm. At least none of those men look like the Duc. "Ere, what you doing?"

This was to a small bald-headed man who was trying surreptitiously to set up a small easel in front of them.

"Uh... if you ladies could just hold still for a few minutes," he said shyly. "For the woodcut?"

"What woodcut?" said Granny Weatherwax.

"You know," said the man, opening a small penknife. "Everyone likes to see their woodcut in the broadsheets after a ball like this? "Lady Thing enjoying a joke with Lord Whatsit", that sort of thing?"

Granny Weatherwax opened her mouth to reply, but Nanny Ogg laid a gentle hand on her arm. She relaxed a little and sought for something more suitable to say.

"I knows a joke about alligator sandwiches," she volunteered, and shook Nanny's hand away. "There was a man, and he went into an inn and he said "Do you sell alligator sandwiches?" and the other man said "Yes" and he said, "Then give me an alligator sandwich - and don't be a long time about it!""

She gave him a triumphant look.

"Yes?" said the woodcutter, chipping away quickly, "And then what happened?"

Nanny Ogg dragged Granny away quickly, searching for a distraction.

"Some people don't know a joke when they hear it," said Granny.

As the band launched into another number Nanny Ogg rumbled in a pocket and found the dance card that belonged to an owner now slumbering peacefully in a distant room.

"This is," she turned the card round, her lips moving wonderingly, "Sir, Roger the Coverley?"

"Ma'am?"

Granny Weatherwax looked around. A plump military man with big whiskers was bowing to her. He looked as though he'd enjoyed quite a few jokes in his time.

"Yes?"

"You promised me the honour of this dance, m'lady?"

"No I didn't."

The man looked puzzled. "But I assure you, Lady D'Arrangement... your card... my name is Colonel Moutarde..."

Granny gave him a look of deep suspicion, and then read the dance card attached to her fan.

"Oh."

"Do you know how to dance?" hissed Nanny.

"Of course."

"Never seen you dance," said Nanny.

Granny Weatherwax had been on the point of giving the colonel as polite a refusal as she could manage. Now she threw back her shoulders defiantly.

"A witch can do anything she puts her mind to, Gytha Ogg. Come, Mr Colonel."