“No.” Which was true. Lancre's only other singer of note was Nanny Ogg, whose attitude to songs was purely ballistic. You just pointed your voice at the end of the verse and went for it.
Whisper, whisper.
“Sing us a few scales, dear.”
The blush was at chest?height now, thundering across the rolling acres…
“Scales?”
Whisper. Muffled laugh.
“Do?Re?Mi? You know, dear? Starting low? La?la?lah?”
“Oh. Yes.”
As the armies of embarrassment stormed her neckline, Agnes pitched her voice as low as she could and went for it.
She concentrated on the notes, working her way stolidly upwards from sea?level to mountaintop, and took no notice at the start when a chair vibrated across the stage or, at the end, when a glass broke somewhere and several bats fell out of the roof.
There was silence from the big emptiness, except for the thud of another bat and, far above, a gentle tinkle of glass.
“Is… is that your full range, lass?”
People were clustering in the wings and staring at her.
“No.”
“No.”
“If I go any higher people faint,” said Agnes. “And if I go lower everyone says it makes them feel uncomfortable.”
Whisper, whisper. Whisper,
“And, er, any other—?”
“I can sing with myself in thirds. Nanny Ogg says not everyone can do that.”
“Sorry?” 'Up here?
“Like… Do?Mi. At the same time.”
“Show us, lass.”
“ ? Laaaaaa ? ”
The people at the side of the stage were talking excitedly.
The voice from the darkness said: “Now, your voice projection—”
“Oh, I can do
“I'm sorry? We're talking about—”
Agnes ground her teeth. She
“To here?”
“Or there?”
“Or here?”
It wasn't that much of a trick, she thought. It could be very impressive if you put the words in the mouth of a nearby dummy, like some of the travelling showmen did, but you couldn't pitch it far away and still manage to fool a whole audience.
Now that she was accustomed to the gloom she could just make out people turning around in their seats, bewildered.
“What's your name again, dear?” The voice, which had at one point shown traces of condescension, had a distinct beaten?up sound.
“Ag? Per… Perdita,” said Agnes. “Perdita Nitt. Perdita X… Nitt.”
“We may have to do something about the Nitt, dear.”
Granny Weatherwax's door opened by itself.
Jarge Weaver hesitated. Of course, she
He didn't like it. But he didn't like his back, either, especially when his back didn't like him. It came to something when your vertebrae ganged up on you.
He eased himself forward, grimacing, balancing himself on two sticks.
The witch was sitting in a rocking chair, facing away from the door.
Jarge hesitated.
“Come on in, Jarge Weaver,” said Granny Weatherwax, “and let me give you something for that back of yours.”
The shock made him try to stand upright, and this made something white?hot explode somewhere in the region of his belt.
Granny Weatherwax rolled her eyes, and sighed. “Can you sit down?” she said.
“No, miss. I can fall over on a chair, though.”
Granny produced a small black bottle from an apron pocket and shook it vigorously. Jarge's eyes widened.
“You got that all ready for me?” he said.
“Yes,” said Granny truthfully. She'd long ago been resigned to the fact that people expected a bottle of something funny?coloured and sticky. It wasn't the medicine that did the trick, though. It was, in a way, the spoon.
“This is a mixture of rare herbs and suchlike,” she said. “Including suckrose and akwa.”
“My word,” said Jarge, impressed.
“Take a swig now.”
He obeyed. It tasted faintly of liquorice.
“You got to take another swig last thing at night,” Granny went on. “An' then walk three times round a chestnut tree.”
“…three times round a chestnut tree…”
“An'…an' put a pine board under your mattress. Got to be pine from a twenty?year?old tree, mind.”
“…twenty?year?old tree…” said Jarge. He felt he should make a contribution. “So's the knots in me back end up in the pine?” he hazarded.
Granny was impressed. It was an outrageously ingenious bit of folk hokum worth remembering for another occasion.
“You got it exactly right,” she said.
“And that's it?”
“You wanted more?”
“I… thought there were dancin' and chantin' and stuff.”
“Did that before you got here,” said Granny.
“My word. Yes. Er… about payin'…”
“Oh, I don't want payin',” said Granny. “ 'S bad luck, taking money.”
“Oh. Right.” Jarge brightened up.
“But maybe… if your wife's got any old clothes, p'raps, I'm a size 12, black for preference, or bakes the odd cake, no plums, they gives me wind, or got a bit of old mead put by, could be, or p'raps you'll be killing a hog about now, best back's my favourite, maybe some ham, a few pig knuckles… anything you can spare, really. No obligation. I wouldn't go around puttin' anyone under obligation, just 'cos I'm a witch. Everyone all right in your house, are they? Blessed with good health, I hope?”
She watched this sink in.
“And now let me help you out of the door,” she added.
Weaver was never quite certain about what happened next. Granny, usually so sure on her feet, seemed to
