They helped one another out through the hole.
Saturday was on the other side of a small courtyard, striding towards the sound of the ball.
And there was something behind him, trailing out like the tail of a comet.
'What's that?'
'Mrs Gogol's doing,' said Granny Weatherwax grimly.
Behind Saturday, widening as it snaked through the palace grounds to the gate, was a stream of deeper darkness in the air. At first sight it seemed to contain shapes, but closer inspection indicated that they weren't shapes at all but a mere suggestion of shapes, forming and reforming. Eyes gleamed momentarily in the swirl. There was the cluttering of crickets and the whine of mosquitoes, the smell of moss and the stink of river mud.
'It's the swamp,' said Magrat.
'It's the idea of the swamp,' said Granny. 'It's what you have to have first, before you have the swamp.'
'Oh, dear,' said Nanny. She shrugged. 'Well, Ella's got away and so have we, so this is the part where we escape, yes? That's what we're supposed to do.'
None of them moved.
'They aren't very nice people in there,' said Magrat, after a while, 'but they don't deserve alligators."
'You witches stand right there,' said a voice behind them. Half a dozen guards were crowded around the hole in the wall.
'Life's certainly busier in the city,' said Nanny, pulling another hatpin from her hat.
'They've got crossbows,' warned Magrat. 'There's not much you can do against crossbows. Projectile weapons is Lesson Seven and I haven't had that yet.'
'They can't pull triggers if they think they've got flippers,' said Granny menacingly.
'Now,' said Nanny, 'let's not have any of that, eh? Everyone knows the good ones always win specially when they're outnumbered.'
The guards emerged.
As they did so a tall black shape dropped noiselessly from the wall behind them.
'There,' said Nanny, 'I said he wouldn't go far from his mummy, didn't I?'
One or two of the guards realized that she was staring proudly past them, and turned.
As far as they were concerned, they confronted a tall, broad-shouldered man with a mane of black hair, an eyepatch and a very wide grin.
He stood with his arms casually folded.
He waited until he had their full attention, and then Greebo let his lips part slowly.
Several of the men took a step backwards then.
One of them said, 'Why worry? It's not as if he's got a weap - '
Greebo raised one hand.
Claws make no noise as they slide out, but they ought to. They ought to make a noise like 'tzing'.
Greebo's grin widened.
Ah! These still worked . . .
One of the men was bright enough to raise his crossbow but stupid enough to do it with Nanny Ogg standing behind him with a hatpin. Her hand moved so swiftly that any wisdom-seeking saffron-clad youth would have started the Way of Mrs Ogg there and then. The man screamed and dropped the bow.
'Wrowwwl. . .'
Greebo leapt.
Cats are like witches. They don't fight to kill, but to win. There is a difference. There's no point in killing an opponent. That way, they won't know they've lost, and to be a real winner you have to have an opponent who is beaten and knows it. There's no triumph over a corpse, but a beaten opponent, who will remain beaten every day of the remainder of their sad and wretched life, is something to treasure.
Cats do not, of course, rationalize this far. They just like to send someone limping off minus a tail and a few square inches of fur.
Greebo's technique was unscientific and wouldn't have stood a chance against any decent swordsmanship, but on his side was the fact that it is almost impossible to develop decent swordsmanship when you seem to have run into a food mixer that is biting your ear off.
The witches watched with interest.
'I think we can leave him now,' said Nanny. 'I think he's having fun.'
They hurried towards the hall.
The orchestra was in the middle of a complicated number when the lead violinist happened to glance towards the door, and then dropped his bow. The cellist turned to see what had caused this, followed his colleague's fixed stare, and in a moment of confusion tried to play his instrument backwards.
In a succession of squeaks and flats, the orchestra stopped playing. The dancers continued for a while out of sheer momentum, and then stopped and milled about in confusion. And then, one by one, they too looked up.
Saturday stood at the top of the steps.
In the silence came the drumming, making the music that had gone before seem as insignificant as the cluttering of crickets. This was the real blood music; every other music that had ever been written was merely a pitiful attempt to sing along.
It poured into the room, and with it came the heat and the warm, vegetable smell of the swamp. There was a suggestion of alligator in the air - not the presence of them, but the promise.
The drumming grew louder. There were complex counter-rhythms, much more felt than heard.
Saturday brushed a speck of dust off the shoulder of his ancient coat, and reached out an arm.
The tall hat appeared in his hand.
He reached out his other hand.
The black cane with the silver top whirred out of the empty air and was snatched up triumphantly.
He put the hat on his head. He twirled the cane.
The drums rolled. Except that . . . maybe it wasn't drums now, maybe it was a beat in the floor itself, or in the walls, or in the air. It was fast and hot and people in the hall found their feet moving of their own accord, because the drumming seemed to reach the toes via the hindbrain without ever passing near the ears.
Saturday's feet moved too. They beat out their own staccato rhythms on the marble floor.
He danced down the steps.
He whirled. He leapt. The tails of his coat whipped through the air. And then he landed at the foot of the step, his feet striking the ground like the thud of doom.
And only now was there a stirring.
There was a croak from the Prince.
'It can't be him! He's deadl Guards! Kill him!'
He looked around madly at the guards by the stairs.
The guard captain went pale.
'I, uh, again? I mean, I don't think . . .' he began.
'Do it now!'
The captain raised his crossbow nervously. The point of the bolt wove figures-of-eight in front of his eyes.
'I said do it!'
The bow twanged.
There was a thud.
Saturday looked down at the feathers buried in his chest, and then grinned and raised his cane.
The captain looked up with the certain terror of death in his face. He dropped his bow and turned to run, and managed two steps before he toppled forward.
'No,' said a voice behind the Prince. 'This is how you kill a dead man.'
Lily Weatherwax stepped forward, her face white with fury.
'You don't belong here any more,' she hissed. 'You're not part of the story.'
She raised a hand.
Behind her, the ghost images suddenly focused on her, so that she became more iridescent. Silver fire leapt across the room.
Baron Saturday thrust out his cane. The magic struck, and coursed down him to earth, leaving little silver trails that crackled for a while and then winked out.
'No, ma'am,' he said, 'there ain't no way to kill a dead man.'
The three witches watched from the doorway.
'I felt that,' said Nanny. 'It should have blown him to bits!'
'Blown what to bits?' said Granny. 'The swamp? The river? The world? He's all of them! Ooh, she's a clever one, that Mrs Gogol!'
'What?' said Magrat. 'What do you mean, all of them?'
Lily backed away. She raised her hand again and sent another fireball towards the Baron. It hit his hat and burst off it like a firework.
'Stupid, stupid!' muttered Granny. 'She's seen it doesn't work and she's still trying it!'
'I thought you weren't on her side,' said Magrat.
'I ain't! But I don't like to see people being stupid. That kind of stuff's no use, Magrat Garlick, even you can . . . oh, no, surely not again . . .'
The Baron laughed as a third attempt earthed itself harmlessly. Then he raised his cane. Two courtiers tumbled forward.
Lily Weatherwax, still backing away, came up against the foot of the main staircase.
The Baron strolled forward.
'You want to try anything else, lady?' he said.
Lily raised both hands.
All three witches felt it - the terrible suction as she tried to concentrate all the power in the vicinity.
Outside, the one guard remaining upright found that he was no longer fighting a man but merely an enraged tomcat, although this was no consolation. It just meant that Greebo had an extra pair of claws.
The Prince screamed.
It was a long, descending scream, and ended in a croak, somewhere around ground level.
Baron Saturday took one heavy, deliberate step forward, and there was no more croak.
The drums stopped abruptly.
And then there was a real silence, broken only by the swish of Lily's dress as she fled up the stairs.
A voice behind the witches said, 'Thank you, ladies. Could you step aside, please?'
They looked around. Mrs Gogol was there, holding Embers by the hand. She had a fat, gaily-embroidered bag over her shoulder.
All three watched as the voodoo woman led the girl down into the hall and through the silent crowds.
"That's not right either,' said Granny under her breath.
'What?' said Magrat. 'What?'
Baron Saturday thumped his stick on the floor.
'You know me,' he said. 'You all know me. You know I was killed. And now here I am. I was murdered and what did you do -?'
'How much did you do, Mrs Gogol?' muttered Granny. 'No, we ain't having this.'
'Ssh, I can't hear what he's saying,' said Nanny.
'He's telling them they can have him ruling them again, or Embers,' said Magrat.
'They'll have Mrs Gogol,' muttered Granny. 'She'll be one o' them eminences greases.'
'Well, she's not too bad,' said Nanny.
'In the swamp she's not too bad,' said Granny. 'With someone to balance her up she's not too bad. But Mrs
Gogol tellin' a whole city what to do ... that's not right. Magic's far too important to be used for rulin' people. Anyway, Lily only had people killed - Mrs Gogol'd set 'em to choppin' wood and doin' chores afterwards. I reckon, after you've had a busy life, you ort to be able to relax a bit when you're dead.'
'Lie back and enjoy it, sort of thing,' said Nanny.
Granny looked down at the white dress.
'I wish I had my old clothes on,' she said. 'Black's the proper colour for a witch.'
She strode down the steps, and then cupped her hands around her mouth.
'Coo-ee! Mrs Gogol!'
Baron Saturday stopped speaking. Mrs Gogol nodded at Granny.
'Yes, Miss Weatherwax?'
'Mistress,' snapped Granny, and then softened her voice again.
'This ain't right, you know. She's the one who ought to rule, fair enough. And you used magic to help her this far, and that's all right. But it stops right here. It's up to her what happens next. You can't make things right by magic. You can only stop making them wrong.'
Mrs Gogol pulled herself up to her full, impressive height. 'Who's you to say what I can and can't do here?'
'We're her godmothers,' said Granny.
'That's right,' said Nanny Ogg.
'We've got a wand, too,' said Magrat.
'But you hate godmothers, Mistress Weatherwax,' said Mrs Gogol.
'We're the other kind,' said Granny. 'We're the kind that gives people what they know they really need, not what we think they ought to want.'
Among the fascinated crowd several pairs of lips moved as people worked this out.
'Then you've done your godmothering,' said Mrs Gogol, who thought faster than most. 'You did it very well."