Well, I haven't had any plot bunnies at all for AGES, and suddenly, this little... dear pops out of nowhere with another chapter for this decidedly improbable tale. It started off as a couple of potentially amusing one-shots, but it now seems that there is a small possibility that it might even develop into an actual story. Who knows how plot bunnies work? But as Crowley observed in an earlier chapter, where one Winchester is, sooner or later the other one will turn up...
They Might Be Giants. Or Not.
One day, the Ice Giants would come again. Everybody knew that, the same way everybody knows that one day Great A'Tuin would reach its destination; whether or not they returned the lawnmower to Dunmanifestin, one day the giants would escape their prison, and roam the Disc once more.
Perched on the side of the Ramtops as Lancre country was, it would be amongst the first to encounter the giants when they burst free. It occurred to King Verence II, what with him being a conscientious ruler, that his senior government should formulate an Ice Giants Future Encounter Policy, which would require consulting a panel of subject matter experts on what preparations Lancre should make and what measures the country should put in place against the eventuality.
So he sent Shawn Ogg to ask Mistress Weatherwax, Mrs Ogg and Miss Nitt to join himself and Queen Magrat for morning tea and a chat, at their convenience, with Shawn on hand to take the minutes (or, if there were cakes and biscuits supplied until Nanny Ogg had eaten enough, he could end up taking the hours).
"I'm really not sure what you think we can do about it, Your Majesty," said Granny after Verence explained his concerns in an earnest tone. "Make the tea, Agnes. It'll happen when it happens, my lad, just like everything else in this world, big or small."
"I think that what His Majesty is suggesting," began Agnes, taking the teapot from Magrat (who had begun to make the tea out of long entrenched habit), "Is that, given that we know it will happen one day, at some unspecified time in the future, he would prefer to have some sort of plan for dealing with it, just in case."
"Exactly," agreed Verence, "Just like The Muntab Question - as unlikely as it is that we will be affected, we cannot rule the possibility out, and therefore it would be prudent to have a policy in place, to best position the citizens of Lancre to deal with the event..."
"If you want to 'position' people to deal with that event, I suggest that you position 'em as far away as possible when it 'appens," humphed Granny.
"Either that, or tell 'em to bend over," suggested Nanny Ogg, "So they can kiss their arses goodbye. Just six spoons for me, Agnes, thanks, dear."
"There's no need to be crude, Gytha," snapped Granny.
"I'm not bein' crude, I'm bein' realistic," Nanny replied equably. "Sometimes, that's what witches is for, Esme, bein' realistic even when nobody wants to hear it. Oh, are those the little bat biscuits like you used to make? Pass 'em over, Magrat."
"I think what Verence means," Magrat cut in as she passed the plate of biscuits to Nanny, "Is that with the eventual return of the giants sure to happen one day, it is the duty of the king, in his responsibility for the welfare of his people, to have some sort of disaster plan in place."
"Oh, you won't have to plan that disaster," chuckled Nanny Ogg, "It'll be about as disastrous as it's possible to get, without any plannin' from you."
"I could try reasonin' with 'em," Granny suggested, "Or if I'm not here, her as comes after me, or after her, or after her. There's some as think the giants are gods, but some who think they're a type of troll. Catch 'em on a good day, trolls can be very reasonable people – they're a lot like humans, in that respect."
"We could send a message uphill," suggested Agnes, "Ask the Abbot for suggestions."
"You think the History Monks would be able to help us?" asked Verence.
Oh, definitely, confirmed Perdita in the confines of Agnes's head. It's that form of exercise they do, mainly stretching and imitating animals – with enough practice, even Nanny Ogg, even you, could become flexible enough to bend over and kiss your arse goodbye...
"It's funny you should say that," Nanny grinned, "Because when I was young I went up past the snowline to help a lady troll with a difficult birth, twins it was, and I met a young monk, well, 'e was more a member of the hired help, really, what was his name, Tze, something Tze, I think, and we were snowed in for a day or two, and he showed me the most amazing thing he could do with his..."
"The point is," Granny glared Nanny into giggling subsidence, "The point is, that one day, the giants will show up, unexpected like, and we'll just have to deal with it, same way as we deal with anything." Her expression softened at the look on Verence's face. "People are amazin'ly resilient, you'll find," she told him, "Lancre people more so than many, what with living where we do. You have enough to do with worrying about ruling today, Your Majesty – worry about gettin' that right, without thinkin' up extra problems for tomorrow.
"Or next week, or next year, or next century," added Nanny. "Or next, you know, milennienniennium. Sometime in the future. Gods work on different time scales, Your Majesty. But Lancre has witches for a reason, my lad – think of them as your plan for dealing with whatever disaster comes along next. Oh, yes, pass those over, Magrat, are they the ones with the cream cheese frosting?"
"You've already got a pocketful of biscuits Gytha, you're not fooling anyone."
"Those are for Ron."
"Ron? Your Ron who's married to Ethel?"
"No, I mean for later-ron."
The high powered meeting might've ended without a satisfactory policy being formulated (although Nanny Ogg's scorched tray policy was efficiently deployed and ruthlessly effective), but Verence found himself reassured nonetheless; if the country's most respected witch wasn't worried, then he probably shouldn't be either.
This had the happy side effect of reassuring Shawn Ogg, too.
Right up until he came face to face with his first giant.
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It was Millie Chillum who raised the alarm, arriving just on midday, not with a message that lunch was served but instead a breathless account of a terrible invasion.
"Giants!" she wheezed, bobbing an anxious curtsey, "Giants, Your Majesties!"
"Giants?" echoed Verence, glancing out the window – the ominous roar of onrushing avalanches, dealing violent icy destruction to all before them as harbingers of the arrival of the old gods riding their tame glaciers, failed to shake the foundations of the castle with a terrifying thunderous din. "What, here?"
"Yes Your Majesty!" Millie gasped for breath. "Giants!"
Verence, still looking out the window in case he'd missed something, listened carefully for the tortured groan of the ancient stonework of Lancre Castle under the heavy and relentless footfalls of ancient feet, in case he'd just been so wrapped up in planning his next attempt to cut a bread roll into two more or less equal pieces with the edgeless knife that was always provided for the purpose that he hadn't noticed the shuddering impacts. "Millie, are you sure?"
Magrat followed her husband's line of sight out the window. "Um, could you be mistaken, Millie?" she asked. "Could it be something that, er, looked a bit like giants?"
"That is a very good point, my dear," Verence smiled at his wife, "Have you ever seen giants before, Millie?"
"No, Your Majesty!" She bobbed again.
"Well, how do you know what giants looks like, then?"
Millie's mouth opened and shut a few times, then she bobbed again, like a particularly anxious cork. "Because they'd be... gigantic, Your Majesty!"
"Well, yes, I suppose so," Verence didn't sound completely convinced. "I think perhaps I should deploy the Army."
"Shall I fetch him, Your Majesty?" asked Millie.
"Yes, fetch Shawn," confirmed Verence, "Tell him to bring his trumpet, so he can sound the call to arms for himself."
Millie bobbed again. "Then shall I run and fetch Mistress Weatherwax?" she asked. "If we have giants, we'll need a witch..."
At the other end of the table, Magrat pushed back her chair carefully and slowly rose to her feet with great poise, much the same way that a man drinking in the pub will do before politely inviting somebody else outside for a further discussion on a matter of contention. "There will be no need to rush," she said firmly, "I shall assess matters, and, you may go and tell Granny that I have the matter in hand." She paused. "Tell Nanny, too. And Miss Nitt. In case Granny wants tea."
"I think it would be prudent to let the military deal with any immediate threat, dear," Verence said with a worried smile, "Though of course I acknowledge that an educated professional woman can have a career as well fulfil the role of mother and wife."
Shawn was in the kitchen, working on the latest incarnation of the Lancrastian Army Knife (tinkering with the addition of a Device for Muddying the waters) because it was warmer in the kitchen than the guard room and also closer to the kettle and the biscuit tin. When he received the message from Millie, Mrs Scorbic the cook insisted that he go outside to sound the call to arms because she wasn't going to put up with that sort of racket in her kitchen, so he went out to a courtyard with his trumpet, blew an urgent fanfare, then headed to the guard room to don his armour and report to the king.
In the throne room, Verence was still quizzing Millie about giants when Shawn arrived.
"Your Majesty!" he announced himself, saluting and pushing the helmet back from where it had fallen over his eyes. The action was somewhat complicated by the array of weaponry he'd brought, including sword, pike, crossbow, and the Lancrastian Army Knife, and he had to juggle these around to move his right arm.
"Ah, Shawn," Verence smiled, "Millie here tells me that we have giants in the castle."
"In the castle, sire?" echoed Shawn.
"Apparently so," confirmed Verence. "In the library, according to Millie."
Shawn was a conscientious soldier, meaning that he followed orders and didn't muck around with time-wasting activity like thinking about a situation or questioning anything he was told, but even to one so diligent as he, that was unexpected. "The library?" He blinked. "Er, what would giants be doing in the library?"
"That is actually a very good question," Verence mused. "Millie, what exactly were the giants doing in the library?"
"Looking at the book shelves, Your Majesty!" Millie bobbed anxiously.
"I see." Verence didn't have any real experience of warfare, but he'd read a lot of books just in case – he racked his brain to see if he could remember anything Tacticus might've had to say on the situation of finding some interloping barbarians browsing through the library. "Did they look like they were perusing the shelves, selecting the largest and most flammable volumes for the purpose of starting a raging conflagration?"
"Oh no, Your Majesty," replied Millie, "It didn't look like there was going to be any dancing at all!"
"What I mean, Millie," Verence went on patiently, "Is, did it look as though they were planning to use big books to start a fire to try to burn the castle down?"
"No, Your Majesty!" replied Millie, "It was just looking!"
"It?" Verence blinked. "Um, 'it' was just looking?"
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
"Just one giant then?"
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
"Looking at the books?"
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
"Would you say that this giant was looking at books in a way that could be deemed to be in any way, well, warlike?"
"I don't know, Your Majesty!"
"It could be a spy," suggested Shawn, "A spy, come to spy on us, looking through our books, and find out our weak points before invading us! By spying!"
Verence considered that. "I think that the giants probably already know everything they need to know about our weak points, in that respect."
"Really, Your Majesty?" Shawn sounded horrified. "How much do you think they know about us?"
"Well, most importantly, Shawn, they know that we aren't giants." Verence paused and thought. "I think it would be prudent for you to go along and arrest this giant, before it can do any invading," he pronounced. "Then maybe I, and our witches of course, can have a bit of a chat with it. So, you have your orders, Shawn."
"Yes, Your Majesty!" Shawn saluted, adjusted his helmet, then picked up his pike, then picked up the crossbow he'd dropped whilst picking up the pike, then marched off to save Lancre from the giants.
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The Army of Lancre marched along the corridor, and when he got to the heavy door, he paused, and regarded the library.
When it comes to regarding libraries, or indeed any place where a certain minimum number of books are gathered together, people have divided opinions, often formed at a very early age. Those opinions exist on what Nanny Ogg would no doubt refer to as a continuinuinuum.
At one end, there are some who think that such places are magical and wondrous, containing knowledge and infuriating stupidity and astonishment and outrage and unforeseen challenge and hilarity and inspiration and wisdom and ridiculous joy, every aspect of thought and endeavour under the sun – these people seek out such places, and would probably move in permanently if they could figure out a way to do so whilst still earning enough to eat regularly and maintaining satisfactory personal hygiene. They find anybody who doesn't think this way to be, well, frankly, a bit weird.
At t'other end there are some who regard such places with suspicion and trepidation, knowing that terrible peril, or soul-sucking tedium, maybe even the sum total of human misery – or perhaps just advanced calculus – is contained therein, ready to trap the unwary, drag them into its clutches where time slows down and you can feel like you've been trapped there forever. They find anybody who doesn't think this way to be, well, frankly, a bit weird.
Shawn Ogg was definitely closer to t'other end in his opinion on libraries. He could read and write, but regarded it with the sort of cautious maxim that his mum would often quote (though not in reference to herself, of course): just because you can doesn't mean you should.
The really weird thing, of course, is that everybody's opinion on the subject of libraries is correct.
A man in a natty hat once made the observation that a good book-shop is just a quantum singularity that's learned some manners – what he was getting at was that books can be dangerous. Sometimes, they can be dangerous by virtue of prompting people to think and learn; otherwise, they can be dangerous in far more mundane ways, like bending the fabric of the space-time continuum across the multiverse and possible narrative realities.
Sometimes, this effect manifests as simple time distortion: a person goes into a library, and is sure they've only been there for about half an hour, but when they look up hours have passed and the librarian is pointedly closing down computer terminals.
Other times, the effect is more pronounced – it can connect times, places and realities that don't have anything to do with each other in boring old three-dimensional linear time existence.
This is L-Space.
Only the most dedicated bibliophiles know about it, only the most capable understand it, and only those who are unusually talented, exceptionally knowledgeable, highly experienced and intelligent enough to be frightened of it have any chance of utilising it. Even then, that's no guarantee of success, or even safety. L-space is strewn with bookbags, library cards and spectacle cases, the possessions of its victims, and anyone who ventures into it will unavoidably see these artefacts the same way climbers scaling Mount Everest see frozen corpses as they undertake their own expedition.
But for the rare individuals who understand it and use it, those trite and somewhat patronising posters put up in the children's section of the library when you were a kid were true: books really can take you places.
Every reality has its individuals who are acquainted with the Things that, ordinarily, people ought not wot of. They're not just acquainted; they are on first name familiarity and recipe-swapping terms with those Things. They don't do it for fun, although the ones who are good at it may find a certain job satisfaction in it; they do it because it has to be done, to keep everybody else safe, and they're the only ones who can do it, so they get on with the wotting so others don't have to.
These individuals, whatever reality they occupy, have many titles, many descriptions.
Shaman. Priest. Wise Woman. Clever Man.
Librarian. Wizard. Witch.
Hunter...
But right then and there, standing in front of the library, was Shawn Ogg.
He took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.
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His brother was gone.
Tearing headlong after the monster, with no regard for his own safety, driven by an impetus that bordered on pathological, the need to chase it down and stop it before it could kill again, he had set off in pursuit, more determined and ruthless than a Hellhound sent to fetch a dealmaker's soul.
Saving people, Hunting things. The family business.
His brother was gone. And he had to go after him. Because if he even survived, there was no way, no way in any hell, that he could ever find his own way back.
Swearing under his breath, he summoned his courage, stared at the wall of books lining the wall, put his hand to an ancient tome, and pushed...
As he stepped forward the books closed in around him. He could hear the damned things sniggering at him, at his presumption. He ignored them, looking around at the shelves that ran off in five dimensions, defying gravity and sanity and the rule about putting books back according to the Dewey decimal system.
The pages rustled around him, the aisles bent away from him as he approached.
Smiling grimly, Sam turned until he was facing due Dean, and set off.
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Shawn wasn't quite sure what he was expecting. Well, he was expecting a giant, obviously, and he had been warned that it was looking at books, so he expected that, clearly.
What he wasn't expecting was for the enemy to hurry forward, catch the pike as it fell when Shawn fumbled it, then hold the door for him so he could make an entrance.
"Uh, hi there," it said.
"HALT!" bellowed Shawn. "Who goes there?" He pulled the trigger on the crossbow for good measure.
He and the giant both watched the quarrel embed itself in the heavy wood of a bookshelf.
"Oh, er, I'm Sam," said the giant, with a remarkably engaging smile as it stuck out a hand. "I'm Sam Winchester. And you would be...?"
Shawn gawped; there hadn't been anything in the books the king had bought for him about what to do if an enemy force invaded your library, then introduced itself politely. "Um, I'm Shawn," he stammered, juggling the crossbow to extend his own hand.
"Great, well, Shawn, I hope you can help me," the giant said earnestly, "Look, I know this will sound weird, but I'm looking for my brother..."
"There's another one?" yelped Shawn, looking around anxiously. "Millie said there was only one!"
The giant looked confused. "Only one what?" it asked.
"One of you!" Shawn yipped, peering behind a shelf, "Only one giant!"
"Only one?..." the giant paused, sighed, and pulled the sort of face that his cousin Dierdre pulled when her husband tried to explain why it had been utterly necessary for him to spend the day fishing with his friends when she had told him that the privy needed moving. "Look, I'm, in kind of a hurry, I'm looking for my brother, so if you could ask, uh, Millie was it, was she the girl who came in here and screamed, if you could ask Millie if she's seen anyone else..."
"You're invading us!" Shawn barked as authoritatively as he could whilst attempting to reload the crossobow . "Stop it! I'm taking you prisoner! You are now officially a prisoner of the Lancrastian Army!"
"Uh, okay," said the giant dubiously, looking behind Shawn and peering out the door, "So, is there someone in charge I can speak to? A senior officer?"
Shawn considered that. "I am the senior officer," he said, struggling with the cocking mechanism.
"Where are your enlisted troops?" the giant seemed genuinely curious.
"Oh, I'm that as well," Shawn informed him, grimacing at the uncooperative weapon as he wrestled with it.
"Exactly how many members are there in the, uh, Lancrastian Army?" asked the giant.
"That's a state secret!" snapped Shawn indignantly, "I won't tell you anything! No matter what you do, you won't get any information out of me!"
The giant's face crinkled in confusion. "Hang on, I thought I was your prisoner?"
"Yes, you are!" insisted Shawn, using a word under his breath that probably would've gotten him a clip round the ear from his mother if she'd been there to hear it, "And I will take you before the king, just as soon as I've, er, hang on..."
"Here," the giant reached down, took the weapon from Shawn's hands, cocked it expertly, then handed it back. "You had the safety locked, you can't cock it with that engaged. No, line up the vane on the quarrel with the barrel, it goes on the bottom..."
Under the giant's guidance, Shawn got his crossbow loaded. "Um, thank you?"
"You're welcome. Now," the giant went on in a determinedly cheerful voice, "Why don't you take me before... uh, who's you're OIC?"
"My what?" asked Shawn.
"Who tells you what to do?" clarified the giant. "Who gives you orders?"
"My mum," Shawn replied promptly.
The giant sighed. "Okaaaay, what I mean was, who gives you your military orders? Who told you to come in here and take me prisoner?"
"Oh, that was the king," Shawn told him, on firmer ground, "He commands the Army, of course."
"Good! Great! So..." the giant gestured at the door meaningfully, "Why don't you, you know, march me off to the king, so he can, uh, tell me to stop invading his, uh, library?"
Shawn glared up at the giant suspiciously. "Are you surrendering, then?"
"Yes! Yes!" The giant agreed readily, nodding vigorously. "I am surrendering! I am surrendering to the Army of Lancaster!"
"Lancre."
"Sorry, Lancre! I am surrendering to you! Take me to your leader!" The giant grinned cheerfully and clapped its hands in a businesslike fashion, "So, let's go."
"All right. Um," Shawn peered around the library again.
"Is there something else?" prompted his prisoner.
"Your, um, your glacier," Shawn said, feeling a bit sheepish, "Only, the stories all say that you would arrive riding on a tame glacier. I was just wondering..."
"Yes?"
"Do you name them?"
"What?"
"Your glaciers, do name them?"
"Glaciers? As in, rivers of ice, running down mountains, carving out valleys over thousands of years, that sort of glacier?"
"Yes. Do you name them? Do giants name their glaciers? I mean, people name their horses, even the ones who don't get ridden and just pull wagons, and if you have tame ones, I was just wondering, do you give them names?"
It was the giant's turn to gawp like a goldfish. "Why don't we... why don't we just, just, go and find the king," he suggested, "And he can ask me all about, er, glaciers. Oh, here, let me give you a hand..."
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Verence was in the throne room, because it seemed like the appropriate place to receive a vanquished foe, when Shawn arrived with his prisoner.
"I've captured the giant, your Majesty!" beamed the Lancrastian Army, "He has surrendered, and is now your prisoner, and is prepared to tell you all about the glaciers!"
The prisoner smiled, and inclined his head politely. "Hello, Your Majesty," he said. "I hope you will excuse any breach of protocol, but I'm afraid I've never met royalty before."
"Er, yes, well done, Shawn," Verence commended his beaming soldier, "Very well done indeed. You may go now."
"What?" Shawn looked horrified. "I can't leave you all alone with him, Your Majesty! Who will protect you?"
Verence considered the question. "Well, considering that, at this moment, he is currently holding your pike and your sword for you, he probably could."
"Uh, Shawn was having some trouble with the crossbow," the prisoner explained, "And we had to keep stopping to pick things up – this seemed like the most efficient arrangement."
Verence turned a reassuring smile to his universal soldier. "Rest assured, should I feel myself in any danger at all, I shall summon you at once," he said firmly. "Right now, I want you to find your mother and Mistress Weatherwax and Miss Nitt, tell them that King Verence presents his compliments and would they please attend him and the queen at their earliest convenience?" He turned back to his prisoner. "Now, tell me, what is your name?"
"Winchester. Sam Winchester."
"Very good. Have you had lunch yet, Mr Winchester?"
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"I really am very sorry about frightening Millie," Sam reiterated over lunch.
"Well, there is quite a lot of you, young man," Nanny Ogg beamed as she helped herself to another mutton chop.
"Millie means well, but she can be, well, a bit prone to exaggeration," said Agnes.
Millie just used the wrong word, suggested Perdita, That's no giant, the word she was looking for was 'hunk'. Grrrrrrr-owl...
"So it's not surprising that she mistook you for a giant."
Are you absolutely sure he's not? Maybe you should check more closely.
"You really are quite a tall gentleman."
At least get his shirt off, give him a good prod to make sure, those biceps look damned suspicious to me...
"Much taller, and more, er, yes, than most around here."
Ye gods, girl, that body is built – it could pick this body up and not even notice the weight, and all you can do is make polite chit-chat about his height?
"I'm kind of sorry to have disappointed Shawn by not having a pet glacier," Sam said, "He seemed to be quite interested in the idea."
"Well, frankly, you probably count as some sort of giant to most of the people around 'ere, except maybe for our Jason," Granny reached for the mustard, "And you must be close to as wide as 'im. Big all over, you are..."
"Gytha," growled Granny.
Back off, old woman, growled Perdita.
"I'm just saying, Esme, that young Sam here, well, I aint surprised Millie got a fright. You got very big feet, you have. And you know what they say about men with big feet..."
"What do they say about men with big feet?" asked Magrat with genuine curiosity.
"It means I have to wear big shoes, Your Majesty," Sam replied a bit shortly, having found himself somewhat discomfited to meet an elderly woman who could teach his brother a thing or two about shameless innuendo and blatant single entendres.
"Exactly," snapped Granny Weatherwax, giving Sam a grim nod of approval, but getting straight to business. "But the more important issue here is, what were you doing mucking about in L-Space, my lad?"
Nanny Ogg was suddenly attentive. "L-Space? What makes you think 'e's been messing around with L-Space, Esme?"
"Stands to reason," Granny shrugged, "He appeared out of nowhere in the library. She turned a steely gaze on Sam. "I do hope you aint been paddlin' with the occult, young man," she said sternly. "I can't be havin' with that, when amateurs go paddlin' with the occult. Causes no end of trouble..." She stared at him until he started to feel uncomfortable. "No," she said eventually, "You aint been paddlin'. You aint a paddler, are you, Mr Winchester? You came out of L-Space with all four limbs, and still attached where they're supposed to be, that aint something an amateur can pull off."
"Is that true, Mr Winchester?" asked Verence. "Because you, well, I don't want to be rude, but you don't really, well, look like a wizard..."
"I'm not!" Sam cut in, "I mean, sometimes I have to use spells, but not if I can avoid it, and I only went into L-Space because my brother went in, he's the reason I'm here, I'm looking for him because he's..." their strange visitor seemed to run out of words. "I'm worried that something will happen to him. Or that he'll happen to somebody. I have to find him. And get us back home."
"Where exactly is 'home', Mr Winchester?" asked Agnes.
And how big is your bed? asked Perdita.
"I'm... not sure I can explain," Sam replied hesitantly. "To myself, let alone to anybody else. But..." he looked around. "It's not... here."
"How do know that your brother is here?" Granny rapped out. "He went into L-Space, he could be anywhere. If he made it out at all."
"I know," Sam said with great certainty. "He's my brother, and... I know." He paused. "I know that he's... here, wherever here is, but there's no guarantee that he's exactly, geographically here, in here."
Granny watched Sam shrewdly. "So, your brother's a wizard, then?"
"What? Dean? No!" Sam practically yelped. "He's, uh, let's just say that spellcraft is not exactly his forte."
"But he managed to get into L-Space," Nanny pointed out reasonably.
"Not by himself," Sam corrected, "He followed somebody."
"Not a wizard, then," Granny sniffed, "Just a fool with a death wish."
"He's not!" Sam shot back hotly. "He was trying to stop somebody!"
Granny let out a mirthless snort of laughter. "Whoever 'e was following went into L-Space, that's enough to stop most folks permanently," she observed.
"This guy is a Librarian," Sam told her, "A very senior Librarian. He's a vampire, with more than a lifetime's worth of knowledge."
"Then what the hells was your brother doin' followin' a very senior Librarian into L-Space?" demanded Granny. "If not committin' suicide."
"Trying to stop him," Sam glared back, "This assh... this Librarian has been killing people, where I'm from, not even out of necessity, but because he's come to enjoy it. We were tracking him, we cornered him, then he headed into L-Space, and Dean followed him, but I was too slow..." An expression of guilt crossed his face. "I have to find him."
"But you must be a Librarian yourself," Agnes pointed out, "If you were able to move through L-Space without getting hurt. You're not a, um, paddler, like Granny said."
"Oh, he aint a Librarian," Granny positively cackled, still watching Sam closely. "He's something quite different, aint you, Mr Winchester? Different, if quite similar."
Sam remained silent.
"Been a while," mused Nanny Ogg, "You remember that year we had that problem with the troll 'flu? Just before Nanny Gripes passed on..."
"Maysherestinpeace."
"...And we had another young man come and visit us from... not here, what was his name, Robbie Sanger, or something, had a very nice pair of legs if a woman cared to look, even if he was wearing those peculiar trousers..."
"Mr Winchester here is a Hunter," confirmed Granny. "And you could find a billy goat with good legs if you 'cared to look', Gytha, you revoltin' old besom."
"A good dancer, as I do recall," Nanny sighed in memory, "Drank like a fish, and very respectful of witches, 'e was. O' course, 'e was practically a witch himself..."
"A hunter?" Magrat looked doubtful. "What were you intending to hunt, Mr Winchester? You didn't bring any weapons with you."
"Oh yes he did," Granny actually grinned, "You just can't see 'em."
Body search! Body search! chanted Perdita, as Agnes furiously thought imprecations to shut up.
"Hunters don't go anywhere without weapons. Take 'em away, and the good ones are still armed to the teeth, eh, Mr Winchester? 'E's Hunting a vampire."
"Er, Uberwald is that way," Verence pointed, "And as you are a visitor to our... here, I feel that I must point out that our sanguinivorous neighbours do not, on the whole, cause us any trouble, well, no more than is to be expected of vampires, and I cannot possibly condone hunting them for your personal amusement."
"Oh, he aint here for his personal amusement," Granny pronounced dismissively, "And he aint 'hunting', neither – he's Hunting. And the vampire he's chasin' aint one of ours – he's a killer."
"All vampires are killers, Granny," Magrat pointed out.
"So are trolls, and so are humans, and so are dwarves, for that matter," Granny replied promptly, offering Sam a knowing smile of recognition. "But this one isn't just a killer – he's a monster. Right, Mr Winchester?"
An incongruously feral grin, like you might expect on the front end of a friendly shark inviting you to dinner, spread across Sam Winchester's face. Agnes steadied herself against the table as Perdita swooned. Take me, take me now!
"Yes, Ma'am."
"And that's what Hunters do. Kill monsters to keep people safe. Which means," Granny pronounced, "That we have to help 'im find his brother – Dean was it? – yes, we have to help him to find Dean. And make sure they stop this vampire. Because that's what witches do."
"But... how?" asked Magrat. "If someone has just... popped out of L-Space, he could be anywhere on the Disc!"
"He'll be in Ankh-Morpork," Nanny stated with utter conviction, "You mark my words, girl, if 'e's anywhere, it will be in Ankh-Morpork."
"Well, given knowledge of the fact that a murderer is possibly on the loose in Ankh-Morpork, Lancre must act in assistance, as an act of diplomatic good-will and good international citizenship," agreed Verence. "What would you suggest, Granny?"
"First things first," declared Granny, "We prioritise, then we act."
"So, should we scry to find his brother?" suggested Magrat.
"Should we get a message to Ankh-Morpork, to the Watch, or the Patrician, to warn them?" suggested Agnes.
Could we interrogate the prisoner for further information? suggested Perdita, Or at least tie him to a chair, just for a little while...
"Our first priority," Nanny Ogg answered, "Is to finish lunch. Because any crisis is best dealt with on a full stomach."
"Exactly," agreed Granny, "Then we need to get back to the library."
"I'd rather not try to use L-Space to get closer to my brother, if there is any possible alternative," Sam warned, "It would be much safer and more sensible to use, uh, ordinary physical space."
Nanny sighed happily. "All this, and brains too," she sighed, "I tell you, if I was fifty years younger..."
"You'd still be a disgustin' old baggage," Granny snapped. "Because you were born a disgustin' old baggage, Gytha. We aint going to mess with L-Space, but we are going to find an atlas of the Discworld.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Their strange visitor, Sam Winchester the Hunter, seemed a bit dubious about the concept of a disc balanced on elephants balanced on a turtle as a world, but he studied the large highly ornamented map along with the witches and the king.
"Er, how does the water work?"
"What?"
"The water, Mistress Weatherwax. Here. In the seas and oceans. The, er, Rimfall. The water falls off the edge – either there's a continuous supply of newly... manifested water coming from somewhere, or the water that falls off the edge is somehow recycled back onto the Disc. How does that work?"
"Ah, we asked one of Esme's old friends about this..."
"Gytha!"
"...Local boy made good, runs a university now, and he explained it."
"Yeah? So how does it work?"
"Well, Mustrum said that the most erudite minds of the Disc hand considered the problem and worked it out."
"And?"
"He said... 'Arrangements Are Made'."
"Ah. Okaaaaay. Well, considering that the one other person I actually know from here is a Librarian who's an orangutan, maybe I shouldn't be completely surprised by that." He studied the map. "So, we're here, and this other place, what was it, Ankh..."
"Ankh-Morpork," supplied Nanny Ogg, pointing it out, "About five hundred miles, as the dragon flies."
Sam's face looked stricken. "That's... a long way," he said slowly. "Even in a straight line, let alone across a mountain range." He turned a pleading look to the witches. "Do people travel much, here?"
"There's the stagecoach," suggested Agnes.
"I don't have any, uh, local currency," Sam replied.
Tell him I know a way he could earn some! insisted Perdita. How much have you got in the bottom of the tea caddy, there would have to be enough to get him at least half way there...
"That aint the problem," Granny snapped, "If 'e was travelling on witches' business, and whatever you call it where you come from, young man, you're on our turf now, and this is witches' business, well, people can be remarkably understandin' about things like ticket fares when you remind 'em that witches is a valuable public service..."
"Like not turning them into goats so long as they do what you want," noted Magrat reproachfully, not ever having been completely at ease with Granny's use of advanced headology to get a job done. "Like you did to Mr Throcketbong."
"I never did!" Granny snapped. "Just made 'im think he was a goat for a while, 'til 'e remembered his manners, and stopped letting his goats get into Widder Shingles' vegetable patch."
"He says it was actually quite educational," Nanny pointed out, "And he still rather enjoys rock climbing, very healthy outdoor pursuit, that, and he's developed a taste for nettle soup, which is a very sensible and nourishin' meal prepared with little expense or time required for a busy housewife like his missus..."
"The problem is," Granny went on, "It would take too long. Mr Winchester here needs to catch up with his brother quick."
"You're not suggesting that we take him there?" asked Agnes dubiously.
I am! All aboard Air Perdita! All handsome and hunky passengers are asked to hang on nice and tight...
"Course not," Granny sniffed disdainfully. "There's a bit much of 'im to ride pillion over a distance like that – don't you say a thing, Gytha."
"Pillion?" Sam looked confused. "You have motorcycles here?"
Oh, gods, look at that expression, he's that tall, but he looks like he's peeking up at you through all that hair, it's just adorable...
"What the Disc is a 'motorcycle'?" asked Verence.
"Oh, eh, well, it's a vehicle. A conveyance," Sam explained. "With wheels. Two wheels."
"Like a buggy?" asked Granny.
"Oh, no, it doesn't need a horse," Sam elaborated. "The wheels are in line, one in front of the other. It has an engine."
"What's an engine?" asked Verence.
A number of expressions passed across Sam's face as he looked at the people around the table, and recalled the type of weapons that Shawn had held – if he'd had a small dog to hand, he might well have told it that he suspected he was no longer in his home state. "It's... a source of power that can make an inanimate object move," he said in the end.
"How fast do they go, then?" asked Granny, a speculative look on her face.
"Well, some of them can travel at speeds well in excess of a hundred miles an hour," Sam told her, "Though that would be considered, uh, not very sensible, in most situations."
"It sounds terribly dangerous," Magrat sounded worried, "With just two wheels. It could fall over! You could fall off! If that happened while you were moving along, quite fast, you could be seriously hurt!"
"Well, yeah, if you're being an idiot and not paying attention," Sam agreed, "It's like anything, really, it's about making sure you know what you're doing, and not trying to ride beyond your own ability."
"Indeed," pressed Verence. "It sounds like a most unlikely conveyance, positively hazardous to the unwary. How does it stay upright to... convey you?"
"Well, you, er, you sit on it, and it pretty much balances by itself once it's moving, and you steer it by pointing it where you want to go, and it, uh, it takes you there."
Granny looked at Sam thoughtfully. "So, you know how to ride one of these 'motorcycles' by yourself, do you?"
Sam looked surprised at the question. "Well, yeah, it's actually not that hard, once you learn to relax and let the machine do the work. If I'm honest, it can be kind of fun."
To his surprise, Granny smiled widely. "Mr Winchester – what do you know about broomsticks?"
Good grief, who next? Send reviews, and maybe another plot bunny will come hopping along to dictate a further chapter...