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aplomb that nearly convinced you that his velvet-and-vermine robes were in the wash just at the moment. In one hand he held a towel, with which he had clearly been removing the make-up that still greased his features.
    “I know you,” said Granny. “You done the murder.” She looked sideways at Magrat, and admitted, grudgingly, “Leastways, it looked like it.”
    “ So glad. It is always a pleasure to meet a true connoisseur. Olwyn Vitoller, at your service. Manager of this band of vagabonds,” said the man and, removing his moth-eaten hat, he treated her to a low bow. It was less an obeisance than an exercise in advanced topology.
    The hat swerved and jerked through a series of complex arcs, ending up at the end of an arm which was now pointing in the direction of the sky. One of his legs, meanwhile, had wandered off behind him. The rest of his body sagged politely until his head was level with Granny’s knees.
    “Yes, well,” said Granny. She felt that her clothes had grown a bit larger and much hotter.
    “I thought you was very good, too,” said Nanny Ogg. “The way you shouted all them words so graciously. I could tell you was a king.”
    “I hope we didn’t upset things,” said Magrat.
    “My dear lady,” said Vitoller. “Could I begin to tell you how gratifying it is for a mere mummer to learn that his audience has seen behind the mere shell of greasepaint to the spirit beneath?”
    “I expect you could,” said Granny. “I expect you could say anything, Mr. Vitoller.”
    He replaced his hat and their eyes met in the long and calculating stare of one professional weighing up another. Vitoller broke first, and tried to pretend he hadn’t been competing.
    “And now,” he said, “to what do I owe this visit from three such charming ladies?”
    In fact he’d won. Granny’s mouth fell open. She would not have described herself as anything much above “handsome, considering.” Nanny, on the other hand, was as gummy as a baby and had a face like a small dried raisin. The best you could say for Magrat was that she was decently plain and well-scrubbed and as flat-chested as an ironing board with a couple of peas on it, even if her head was too well stuffed with fancies. Granny could feel something, some sort of magic at work. But not the kind she was used to.
    It was Vitoller’s voice. By the mere process of articulation it transformed everything it talked about.
    Look at the two of them, she told herself, primping away like a couple of ninnies. Granny stopped her hand in the process of patting her own iron-hard bun, and cleared her throat meaningfully.
    “We’d like to talk to you, Mr. Vitoller.” She indicated the actors, who were dismantling the set and staying well out of her way, and added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Somewhere private.”
    “Dear lady, but of a certain,” he said. “Currently I have lodgings in yonder esteemed watering hole.”
    The witches looked around. Eventually Magrat risked, “You mean in the pub?”

    It was cold and drafty in the Great Hall of Lancre Castle, and the new chamberlain’s bladder wasn’t getting any younger. He stood and squirmed under the gaze of Lady Felmet.
    “Oh, yes,” he said. “We’ve got them all right. Lots.”
    “And people don’t do anything about them?” said the duchess.
    The chamberlain blinked. “I’m sorry?” he said.
    “People tolerate them?”
    “Oh, indeed,” said the chamberlain happily. “It’s considered good luck to have a witch living in your village. My word, yes.”
    “Why?”
    The chamberlain hesitated. The last time he had resorted to a witch it had been because certain rectal problems had turned the privy into a daily torture chamber, and the jar of ointment she had prepared had turned the world into a nicer place.
    “They smooth out life’s little humps and bumps,” he said.
    “Where I come from, we don’t allow witches,” said the duchess sternly. “And we don’t propose to allow them here.