To the outside observer, humanity might be seen to be discernible from its peers only by its countless bad habits. Etiquette, a belief in justice and cosmic harmony, alcoholism... personkind is unique in these respects. Another one is thinking that the darker, nastier kind of crimes are, somehow, romantic, maybe even heroic. This tends to get humanity in a lot of trouble, from time to time. Like moths flocking to a flame...

It was the sort of night that birthed ghost stories, and it settled like a shroud over the cart track. The track deserved better than to connect a hamlet to a town, really, what with its rolling views of the plains and history-worn ruts running in smooth parallel lines that train tracks could only ever achieve. It was the sort of road a mother could be proud of, but for some reason it was in the middle of nowhere, serving only to ferry supplies and the occasional cow making a break for it after having discovered how few beans it was worth. But at night, it may as well have been going from nowhere to a different nowhere, much farther away and through several hazardous terrains and so forth –

"Halt! Stand and deliver!"

The carriage clattered to a halt, and from outside of it there came the thump of the driver being turned unconscious via the cunning technique of hitting him very hard over the head. Inside the vehicle Lord Shrimp exhaled, an act that took up a great deal of time considering the largeness of his lungs and indeed all other parts of him, and stuck his head out of the window. "Let's get this over and done with, then," he said shortly, "I have places to be and I paid extra for minimalism, I think you'll…" he suddenly became very aware of the flintlock pistol trained directly between his eyebrows. It was amazing, how quickly something like that could grab your attention.

Eyes like amber gleamed at him from beneath black velvet that melted into the midnight air. "Hello," said a silky voice, "could you get on your knees and beg, please? I'd very much appreciate it."

"But…" Lord Shrimp spluttered, whose good breeding ensured he never let go of a point that favoured him, "but I specifically paid for no firearms, I think you'll find on this here receipt, young man, that –"

It was too dark to see the red of the blood, but the sound of the crossbow firing and the sudden fluttering of birds taking flight made it all too easy to imagine. Lord Shrimp shuddered and climbed out of the carriage, away from the carnage, and stared in shock as the shadowy figure stripped his recently vacated body of everything worth anything.

"Hardly the sort of last words a man could wish for," he said, as the surrounding landscape began to get hazy. "Always wanted something a little more witty, for myself."

AT LEAST YOU DIED AS YOU HAVE LIVED.

Lord Shrimp turned around, and beheld the figure standing beside him, its robe making the black of his murderer's look watery by comparison. Death grinned at him. It was only to be expected.

"And how would that be, pray?" Lord Shrimp asked, puffing up as much as a ghost could.

SCRUPULOUS TO THE EXTREME. The blue-gleaming blade rose, and sliced through the air with an echoing whisper. THAT BEING SAID, SCRUPLES MAY NOT DO YOU MUCH GOOD NOW.

"Why?" Lord Shrimp's voice already sounded distant, even to himself. The haze was encroaching everything, now.

I BELIEVE YOU ARE ABOUT TO FIND OUT.

As the ghost of Lord Shrimp faded, Death stood still and watched as the other black-clad figure mounted its black-clad horse, reared it up against the massive full moon, and galloped off down the track until the darkness welcomed it into invisibility.

INTERESTING, said Death, A PERFORMER TO AN ABSENT CROWD. VERY ROMANTIC. HMM. Skeletal digits drummed against the scythe with a sound remarkably akin to dice on a gambling table. THIS CAN ONLY END… UNUSUALLY. OR, PERHAPS, NOT.

Death shook his head a little, then walked over to a massive white horse that glowed in the night and saddled himself with surprising grace. The white horse kicked up into the pitch-black sky, and galloped until its colour became indistinguishable from the countless stars.

Things, as they say, were about to be afoot.

%

"But I don't want to be a witch! I don't see why anyone would!"

Nanny Ogg sipped from her cup of tea and did her best to act like she wasn't listening to the argument. Ramtops cottages were built to last, but interior walls were often an afterthought for those that didn't have to occasionally bring animals in from the harsher nights, and as such tended to be thin. "Odd weather we're having recently," she said to her companion, just loud enough that the arguers would hear, and know she was making an effort to show she wasn't paying attention to them. That was just manners, after all. "Hardly any fish, this last month."

"Hmm." Granny Weatherwax sat so stiffly she put the poker to shame and sipped the last of her tea from her saucer.

"Hope it clears up before Hogswatchnight," Nanny continued, edging her chair two inches closer to the adjacent room.

"It ain't yet harvest, Gytha."

"Does good to think ahead," Nanny responded absently, and then gave up. "She says it's all wiping bums and tricking old people, Esme."

"What is?"

"The craft!"

Granny carefully tipped some more tea into her saucer. "Well," she said, "she ain't wrong."

The two witches took a moment to listen to fresh developments in the argument.

"… The younger witches are bringing in a whole new age of it, I'm sure you'd love it if you gave it a chance –"

"But I don't want to give it a chance! It's stupid, mother!" The speaker had the shrill inflection to her voice that hinted that very soon someone was going to start crying, and it was now just a battle to see who would break first. "It's all mooning over star charts and getting starry-eyed at the moon, and pretending to summon demons! They don't actually do anything!"

Nanny sighed heavily, and emptied the last of the teapot into her cup. "You'd think she'd be thrilled," she said to her friend, "seein' as it's in her blood, and all. Old Mother Marrow was a damn good soothsayer, if I do say so meself. Could soothe the arse off a cow, that woman."

"But it ain't the only thing that's in her blood," Granny said, "is it, Gytha?"

Nanny shifted in her seat. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mighty surprisin', considering it were you who told me in the first place. Great big man on a horse comes galloping through, my, I'd say Gytha Ogg's the first to know about it."

"He had a lovely saddle," Nanny replied as the mists of nostalgia welcomed again, "all the ladies were swooning over it. His name preceded him and, as they say, he dint disappoint." They both glanced at the door. "Never even stayed the week, mind. Not that he needed to. Got all his business done overnight, so I heard."

"That's disgustin'."

"That's highwaymen for yer," Nanny said as she dragged herself back to the present, "nothing more than perfumed horse apples, to my mind. I hear they calls 'em dandies, down in the city."

"Fancy name for a horse apple."

"I was talkin' about the bandits," Nanny said, "dandies and fops, the lot of 'em."

"What about your little friend? Casserole?"

"Casanunda." She knew Esme got it wrong on purpose. If Nanny had had half the life experience and double the modesty she did, she would have blushed. "Nothing wrong with a bit off foppishness, from time to time," she said, "with the right seasonings."

Granny's lip curled downwards, and Nanny grinned. Besides, it sounded like the argument was drawing to a close, and sure enough the door connecting the tiny kitchen to the smaller parlour opened.

Sensibility Turnip could have done a lot worse, or at least that's what people always said. She was a proper goffik beauty, with lips as red as apples of the non-equine kind and a great deal of shiny black hair that, nowadays, was streaked with grey and tied back from a full, albeit thinning, face. She had been a real stunner, back in the day, and what with the gel's father everyone expected her only daughter to turn out the same.

Unfortunately, nobody had told Wilhelmina about this. She slunk into the room behind her mother with a face that had been built backwards from what was always either a scowl or a pout, and her dress hung off her frame like it was on the cheaper kind of coathanger. She folded her arms and sulked as her mother, who still looked slightly flushed, wrung her hands and approached the witches.

"I'm ever so sorry," she said, "but Mina doesn't – she isn't – she won't become a witch. I've tried to convince her, but…"

Granny Weatherwax held up a hand, and the woman fell silent. "In that case," she said, "I shan't hope to change her mind. Come, Gytha. We have other people to be a-seein', and I won't waste no more of these nice people's time."

Wilhelmina's eyes widened. "You're just going to go?" she asked, "that's really it?"

"You've made your opinions quite clear, young madam," Granny said firmly as she opened the front door. "I hopes you enjoy whatever you ends up doing."

The door slammed behind them and Nanny bobbed after Granny as she strode down the garden path. But, Nanny noticed, it was quite a slow stride. She started to count to ten under her breath, but got lost and just waited for what she knew was going to happen.

They made it to the broomsticks, and Nanny swung her leg over as Granny gave hers an experimental poke. Neither of them looked back, because they weren't expecting anything to happen, oh no. But still, Nanny listened so hard her ears popped for the sounds of running.

"At least there's a hat," she said, "every respectable pro-fesh-un's got a hat, them's the rules of the world." She watched as Granny gripped the stick in both hands and prepared to start running up and down with a lot more consideration than usual. "It's a triangle too, even if it is sideways. Could be worse, I s'pose – "

"Wait!"

Wilhelmina Turnip pounded down the garden path and staggered to a halt in front of them. "You know something," she said, "don't you? About my father. I heard you talking while me and Ma were arguing."

Ooh, Nanny thought, she's a good one. "What do you know about him, gel?"

"Nothing," Wilhelmina replied, "well, not much. I know his surname was Turnip and I know he married Ma, then took off."

Granny scrutinised the girl closely, who stuck her chin out and took it with barely a wavering. Not many people could do that. "What's the farthest you've ever travelled, Wilhelmina Turnip?" she asked, and the child looked rather taken aback by the question.

"I went to Slice for the market, once. It wasn't as exciting as people made out, though, it was just the same as Bad Ass but with twice the cows and the people had more teeth."

Granny grinned. Behind her, Nanny shuddered.

"I think," she said, "now's is a good time for a brief excursion to Ankh-Morpork. What says you, Gytha?"

"What? But you hate travelli – oh, right. Yes," she said, "right time of year for it. Any place in particular?"

"One," said Granny, "the Bandit's Guild."

Wilhelmina's jaw dropped.

A/N all I have to say about this is that I have no excuse to be publishing something new when I have like eight million things active and that it's going to most likely have very, very slow updates.