Chapter 2 - Visiting Relatives
------------------
Notes/Disclaimer: The Discworld and all its characters are the sole property of Terry Pratchett. If I could worship him as a God, I would, but I'm not quite sure how he'd take that. At any rate, no money is being made off of this.
Warning: Little bit of Greebo/Vimes, little bit of Greebo/Vetinari, possibly a little Vetinari/Vimes, probably not.
------------------
"Greebo, there you are ookums," said Nanny Ogg, smiling as the misshapen tomcat padded back into view, looking inordinately pleased with himself. She scooped the murderous beast into her arms and began to scratch his ears. "Who's Mommy's little snuggums, huh? You are, yes you are." Greebo's purr sounded like a goat digesting glass.
"You didn't have to bring that thing with you," said Granny Weatherwax peevishly.
"Of course I did!" Nanny Ogg clutched Greebo close to her chest, burying him in her breasts. "I love my ookums! Besides," she continued, her voice dropping out of the baby talk register, "no one will watch him anymore, after what happened to the last cat-sitter."
"You could always leave him to fend for himself," Granny Weatherwax suggested.
Nanny Ogg looked horrified. "Fend for himself? He's just a little kitty-cat! How would he survive?"
Granny eyed the hideous one-eyed beast in Nanny's Ogg and didn't say the first few replies that came to mind. As she often did, she Granny wondered to herself about Nanny Ogg's blind spot where Greebo was concerned. She was normally such a perceptive witch.
"Anyway," said Granny, deciding to change the subject, "where are we going? You haven't gone and gotten us lost, have you?" She'd better not have; it had long since gotten dark, and the alleys of Ankh-Morpork were no place for two elderly ladies after dark. Luckily, no thugs had tried to attack the poor, defenseless women, she thought with a trifle of disappointment. (1)
"Certainly not," said Nanny Ogg, sniffing primly. She pulled out a sodden and over-creased map of the city and peered at it, squinting. "Our Michael's house should be right over… there." She pointed triumphantly. Granny Weatherwax just sighed and followed.
Roughly forty minutes and three redirects later, they were knocking at the door of Michael Ogg, one of the few of Nanny Ogg's brood that had decided to leave home (3)and come to the city. After a few minutes the door opened a crack and an eye peered out. At the sight of the two witches standing cheerfully and gloweringly (respectively) out in the cold drizzle of the early morning darkness, the door slammed closed again. There was the sound of a chain being removed, and then the door swung open widely. The man who stood there had short dark blond hair, a strapping body built for moving heavy things at the behest of his mother, and a face that would have been handsome but for a rather unfortunate nose.
"Ah- Mum, you're here. Er. Didn't expect you quite so… quite so… early. Come in, won't you?" He stepped aside. As they walked in, Greebo poked his head over Nanny Ogg's arms, then wriggled about she loosened her grip and leapt down to the floor. He prowled the room thoughtfully, sniffing anything that looked vaguely suspicious.
"Ahaha," said Michael nervously, his voice pitching dramatically higher, "I see you've brought the mon- the cat."
"Well, I couldn't very well leave him behind," said Nanny distractedly. She was peering about the room in much the same manner as Greebo.
"Of course." Michael sounded painfully resigned to the whole affair.
"Would you mind showing us our beds?" Granny cut into the small talk. To Granny Weatherwax, manners were something that happened to other people. "We'd like to get to sleep. Busy day tomorrow." She threw Nanny Ogg a meaningful look, and Nanny's expression turned serious.
"Sure thing," said Michael, the desperate smile still firmly fixed onto his frozen face. He gestured for the witches to follow him and led them up the stairs to the guest bedroom.
(1) Actually, they had. The first group had been just about to dramatically step into the pool of moonlight when they saw the broomsticks. The mission had been feverishly aborted via some frantic hand-signals and seldom used aural cues. They were lucky the witches had never been into the city before, and therefore did not realize that the Klatchian black-throated warbler seldom made its home in Ankh-Morpork. (2)
The second group of thugs had not been as lucky; the second group had run into Greebo.
(2) Like most sensible birds.
(3) managed to escape after several desperate tries
Previous Chapter I Next Chapter