Wyrd Sisters Read Free Page B

both wear this same badge. Two bears on a black and gold shield. Anyone know what that means?”
    “It’s the badge of King Verence,” said Magrat.
    “Who’s he?” said Granny Weatherwax.
    “He rules this country,” said Magrat.
    “Oh. That king,” said Granny, as if the matter was hardly worth noting.
    “Soldiers fighting one another. Doesn’t make sense,” said Nanny Ogg. “Magrat, you have a look in the coach.”
    The youngest witch poked around inside the bodywork and came back with a sack. She upended it, and something thudded onto the turf.
    The storm had rumbled off to the other side of the mountain now, and the watery moon shed a thin gruel of light over the damp moorland. It also gleamed off what was, without any doubt, an extremely important crown.
    “It’s a crown,” said Magrat. “It’s got all spiky bits on it.”
    “Oh, dear,” said Granny.
    The child gurgled in its sleep. Granny Weatherwax didn’t hold with looking at the future, but now she could feel the future looking at her.
    She didn’t like its expression at all.

    King Verence was looking at the past, and had formed pretty much the same view.
    “You can see me?” he said.
    “Oh, yes. Quite clearly, in fact,” said the newcomer.
    Verence’s brows knotted. Being a ghost seemed to require considerably more mental effort than being alive; he’d managed quite well for forty years without having to think more than once or twice a day, and now he was doing it all the time.
    “Ah,” he said. “You’re a ghost, too.”
    “Well spotted.”
    “It was the head under your arm,” said Verence, pleased with himself. “That gave me a clue.”
    “Does it bother you? I can put it back on if it bothers you,” said the old ghost helpfully. He extended his free hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Champot, King of Lancre.”
    “Verence. Likewise.” He peered down at the old king’s features and added, “Don’t seem to recall seeing your picture in the Long Gallery…”
    “Oh, all that was after my time,” said Champot dismissively.
    “How long have you been here, then?”
    Champot reached down and rubbed his nose. “About a thousand years,” he said, his voice tinged with pride. “Man and ghost.”
    “A thousand years!”
    “I built this place, in fact. Just got it nicely decorated when my nephew cut my head off while I was asleep. I can’t tell you how much that upset me.”
    “But…a thousand years…” Verence repeated, weakly.
    Champot took his arm. “It’s not that bad,” he confided, as he led the unresisting king across the courtyard. “Better than being alive, in many ways.”
    “They must be bloody strange ways, then!” snapped Verence. “I liked being alive!”
    Champot grinned reassuringly. “You’ll soon get used to it,” he said.
    “I don’t want to get used to it!”
    “You’ve got a strong morphogenic field,” said Champot. “I can tell. I look for these things. Yes. Very strong, I should say.”
    “What’s that?”
    “I was never very good with words, you know,” said Champot. “I always found it easier to hit people with something. But I gather it all boils down to how alive you were. When you were alive, I mean. Something called—” he paused—“animal vitality. Yes, that was it. Animal vitality. The more you had, the more you stay yourself, as it were, if you’re a ghost. I expect you were one hundred percent alive, when you were alive,” he added.
    Despite himself, Verence felt flattered. “I tried to keep myself busy,” he said. They had strolled through the wall into the Great Hall, which was now empty. The sight of the trestle tables triggered an automatic reaction in the king.
    “How do we go about getting breakfast?” he said.
    Champot’s head looked surprised.
    “We don’t,” he said. “We’re ghosts.”
    “But I’m hungry!”
    “You’re not, you know. It’s just your imagination.”
    There was a clattering from the kitchens. The cooks were already up