Chapter 2: Tonks and the Witches

Summary:

Midnight of the full moon. Same time as Remus arrives.

Chapter Text

When the mail coach from Lancre pulled into the Ankh-Morpork post office yard at midnight, all was in turmoil. A large woman with hair coiled up into a shape like a snail over each ear shouted to smaller men.

"Light torches! Bring out blankets! Draw water!"

The crowd prevented Magrat from viewing more than a smidgen of what lay on the ground, but it was appallingly enough.

She thrust open the mail coach door, winced as she stretched her stiff legs, and approached the crowd. Five years ago she would have murmured, "scuse me," but being a queen and mother had extinguished that Magrat.

"MOVE PLEASE." The voice didn't command as much as the leaden tones of Death, of course, but was impressive coming from a thin nondescript woman, with an unruly mass of frizz and split ends that still awaited a Good Hair Day. When the men nearest her stared, she raised a decisive eyebrow, and they scurried out of her way.

There was a woman in the mail office yard, head lolled to one side, unmoving, with arms and legs sprawled. Oddly dressed in a red leather coat which hung almost to her ankles, she was full-figured, wearing a black buttonless sweater, and…black trousers? She also wore a thick pair of boots, much heavier than Magrat's. Her face, left shoulder, and chest had a long slash across them—no, a deep burn in a wicked slice. She wasn't breathing and her face was dull blue. Magrat had no way of knowing it, but Tonks's killer had only struck her down, not minced her as Dolohov had done to Remus. She pressed forward until she could kneel by the woman and placed her hands over the still form. Black aura, black aura, black—red! A tiny, single spark of red over her heart! It flickered, faltered, faded to a pinpoint.

"Verence!" Magrat bellowed. "Bring my bag!"

She didn't see him, but felt the wave of his presence as he roughly shouldered away the gawking men. Five years as king had changed him as well.

Without looking up, Magrat reached out her hand for her medical bag. "Get around to the other side!" She placed her hand on the woman's chest. It felt creaky, and she could tell ribs had been broken. She'd have to be careful, she thought grimly, but broken ribs couldn't hold her back.

She yanked a leather device from the bag and tossed it to Verence. it was like a clown's squeaky horn with the squeaker removed.

"She's not completely dead—get it over her mouth, go!"

Verence was the monarch and absolutely ruler of Lancre and a very smart man. Without a word he grabbed the object and skootched over to the woman's head. He kneeled and fitted the soft leather horn over the woman's mouth and nose and pressed its bulb slowly. It hissed over her lips, and he adjusted it tighter, then repeated.

Magrat closed her eyes, gathering power as she inhaled. She centered her hands at the bottom edge of the sternum, away from the deep burn, closed one fist around the other, and eased them down. She and Verence had created this technique to save those nearly drowned in Lancre River. This had to be deep and firm, but not too quick, or more ribs might shatter. One, two, three, four, five—she continued up to fifteen, and then motioned for Verence to pump the horn again.

Then she positioned her hands palms-out above the body at heart level, and swept them toward head and foot. She recast the spell five more times. She and Verence copied the cycle three times more before she stopped to check the aura again. Black, black—red! A faint circle over the heart throbbed weakly, and a network of red glowed throughout the body.

It worked!, thought Magrat. She'd never tried this on a human before, but she'd saved a newborn lamb this way. Transport the blood away from the heart, and it found its own path. She thrust her left hand out to the side, palm up, not looking, and barked, "Scumble!" in the same manner that a chirurgeon might snap "Scalpel!"

The small plump figure she knew was at her side pulled up her skirt and extracted a small bottle from her interior clothes. Nanny Ogg pulled the cork out and carefully deposited the open bottle in Magrat's hand. Magrat planted a finger over the bottle opening, inverted it, and when Verence retracted the horn, carefully traced a line of liquid below the woman's nose. If scumble didn't work—if they needed to do presses again, Verence would do it alone because she'd have to rummage through her bag. Had she packed the sage? The marigold, the white willow, and the foxglove? No reaction. She grimly tried another thin line, and the nostrils fluttered. "Here." Another voice spoke from the right side. "It's my triple distilled white mountain peach brandy. Try it on her lips."

Good idea. Granny Weatherwax's peach brandy was feared as a powerful stimulant. Magrat reached for this second bottle. Scumble would kick you in the teeth, but the peach brandy would march down your throat, demanding respect from each inch of tissue it passed. She held the woman's lower lip down gently and pressed two drops there. No change, no change— Magrat deposited two more drops of peach brandy. They heard a harsh strangle. Another gulp of air, rough, shallow. Verence began to replace the horn, but Magrat gave her one more drop and the breath steadied. For a second her hair, previously a matted dull brown, flashed bright pink. Everyone startled, and Nanny Ogg and Granny narrowed their eyes. If the woman created that effect nearly dead—what was she?

The big woman with the snail hair buns murmured to Magrat. "Ma'am? What can we do? We've a bed ready for her inside."

"Thank you. I'm Magrat, Queen of Lancre, and my husband here is King Verence. I must check her further before moving her. And you are—?

"Miss Iodine Maccalariat, your majesty. I've never seen anyone switch their hair like that. Is she a witch?" The big woman sounded horrified and a bit disgusted.

"I will let you know when she can be moved. Please bring blankets-do you have any hot water bottles? Have your workers put together a stretcher for her. And the four of us need tea." Magrat's expression was pleasant, but you couldn't call it a smile. Miss Maccalariat curtsied awkwardly and backed away in a shuffle.

Granny and Nanny Ogg smirked viciously at each other. Magrat was no longer the wet hen she'd been as the third of the coven-they-did-not-have. Though she fussed about the fiddly potions she refined, and wore more magical jewelry and charms than a witch should need, she had the queening all down. Granny was the better witch because she knew the amounts of herbs and potions didn't matter—and Magrat was the better healer because she knew they did.

"A witch, huh," muttered Nanny as Magrat shook out a small white cloth from her bag. "Bet Magrat would like to get that spell off her. But where'd she come from? No pink-haired witches I've ever heard of."

Magrat tapped her cloth with a wand (Who used a wand! That was a show-off child's toy, Nanny and Granny agreed. Magrat was still a wet drip in some ways.) The cloth sprang into a low holding table. It sprouted out empty bottles, vials of red, blue, and amber liquids, and measuring spoons. The colors were pure Boffo, inactive floral tints. Magrat understood that belief in a potion was almost as good as the potion itself, another change from five years earlier. A mixing tray popped up, with batches of herbs tied up in red ribbons. Another tray emerged, this one lined with healing stones and crystals, including the tiny chips Magrat had reverently received from the young trolls Miss Fire Agate and Miss Blue Lace Agate. She hadn't even looked up to see whether the Maccalariat woman had retreated.

Nanny snorted.

"Gytha Ogg, don't you dare laugh. You'll distract her."

At this moment Magrat looked up from her table with a desperate expression. "Granny, Nanny, can you manage her here? I must mix the herbs correctly, and it will take a few minutes." Twin glares lighted on Magrat, and she froze. A witch never commented on another witch's power, and Magrat had just implied the older witches had less than she. In another circumstance this would be a horrifying mistake—she'd only made it because she was frantic to mix the potion.

Panic-stricken, she sputtered, "I mean, if you keep her alive, and she doesn't need the herbs, I'll, I'll, make up my mixture and stopper it." Her voice was agitated. "But I think she may need it, it will help her strength. Please." Nanny was the first to move, not because she had less pride than Granny, but because she could see that the situation was unstable, touch-and-go. Nanny had taken a person from Death three times in all her years, and it had dissipated her strength for over a week every time. Magrat had restarted the breath and heart, and forced the blood to move again—no time to sit back and cackle.

She hauled herself to her feet, bustled around to the opposite side, lifted the woman's hand and gripped it. Because Death hadn't popped up didn't mean he wasn't hiding near them.

I NEVER POP. TOO HARD ON THE KNEES.

"Your Lordship! No place for you here, sir." Nanny was always polite. "She's got her heartbeat and breath, and you can leave. She's ours. You've never faced all three of us at once, and we'll give you a hard time. You'll want Esme to readjust your back someday, and we'd appreciate it if you'd mosey away." She reached into her bosom and pulled up a small bag. Death was amazed that the contents were not sugar cubes, of which he disapproved, but dried apple slices. Nanny shook out several and brought them to the white horse's mouth. Binky lipped them up and butted her hand for more. She stroked the velvet-soft nose.

The hooded seven-foot skeleton considered this. Certainly he could scythe the blue cord linking body to soul—it was thin and wavery. But he'd waited out the witches before, and it gave him a headache to play that many games of Cripple Mr. Onion. He could always come back. I WILL REMOVE FOR A TIME. IF I RETURN, SHE WILL COME TO ME. His eyes glowed blue.

"Thank you, your Lordship, and I have these for the cats." He received another soft bag which crackled when he grasped it. "It's deer heart, rubbed with bear fat and covered in chicken skin, then roasted slowly to mix the juices. Then I dried it for two weeks."

I DID NOT KNOW BEARS LIVED HERE.

Nanny snorted. "They don't."

Death accepted the bag and faded from view. I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT IN KLATCH. I WILL TRY THE CURRY.

Nanny exhaled. If Death had refused the deer chips she had made, there was the dwarf bread she'd ground finely and re-baked with tiny snippets of lamb and mint. Another travel mix she created, it was good for months. When she soaked it with cider, the dwarf bread minerals would drop to the bottom of the pot and leave their grain fillers at the top with the lamb. Dwarf bread itself was nearly impossible to eat, and she didn't think he'd break his teeth on it, but in the dry form it was only satisfying for dwarfs.

In her conversation with Death Nanny hadn't noticed that Verence had shifted away. Esme had migrated to the girl's head, knelt, and eased her hands around each side of the face. Nanny had seen her perform headology many times to manipulate someone's mind, but never on an unconscious person. She didn't know whether the senior witch had ever tried it. Granny whispered as her hands cradled the deathly-ill witch's head. Her eyes were squinted almost shut. Gytha Ogg guarded the inert form and hung onto her hand, thinking. Magrat used herbals and crystal magic, and Esme performed headology. Her specialty was that she possessed a ferocious love of life and grasped all the pleasure she could from it.

"Well, missy, I don't know if you have a mister to go back to, but with your bosom and that hair, I don't see why you wouldn't." She kissed the limp hand, caressed it. "He's probably frantic to find you, missing you somethin' terrible, and you need to get back to him. You've got plenty o' time ahead of you now that Binky and his Master have buggered off."

AHEM

"I thought you were going for that curry, and I don't smell it now, sir. If she's a witch from a place with different rules, mebbe she has a wizard there and we all know what that means." With that she launched into the infamous ditty "A Wizard's Staff Has a Knob on the End." She didn't hear a sound, but the air trembled and she smelled a desert. The sands would be sparkling black, and it could go on forever. But she felt a presence withdraw and breathed deeply. No one here was passing through the dark door today.