Who’d make up a thing like this? Okay, one of them was a cheese that rolled around of its own accord, but nobody was perfect.
“What am I going to have to do, Mr. Anybody?” he asked.
Rob Anybody had been worried about this bit. Words like “Underworld” can give people the wrong idea.
“Ye must rescue a…lady,” he said. “Not the big wee hag. Another…lady. We can take ye to the place where she bides. It’s like…undergroound, ye ken. She’s like…sleepin’. An’ all ye ha’ tae do is bring her up tae the surface, kind o’ thing.”
“Oh, you mean like Orpheo rescuing Euniphon from the Underworld?” said Roland.
Rob Anybody just stared.
“It’s a myth from Ephebe,” Roland went on. “It’s supposed to be a love story, but it’s really a metaphor for the annual return of summer. There’s a lot of versions of that story.”
They still stared. Feegles have very worrying stares. They’re even worse than chickens in that respect.*
“A metaphor is a kind o’ lie to help people understand what’s true,” said Billy Bigchin, but this didn’t help much.
“And he won her freedom by playing beautiful music,” Roland added. “I think he played a lute. Or maybe it was a lyre.”
“Ach, weel, that’ll suit us fine,” said Daft Wullie. “We’re experts at lootin’ an’ then lyin’ aboot it.”
“They’re musical instruments,” said Billy Bigchin. He looked up at Roland. “Can ye play one, mister?”
“My aunts have a piano,” said Roland doubtfully. “But I’ll get into real trouble if anything happens to it. They’ll tear the walls down.”
“Swords it is, then,” said Rob Anybody reluctantly. “Ha’ ye never fought against a real person, mister?”
“No. I wanted to practice with the guards, but my aunts won’t let them.”
“But ye have used a sword before?”
Roland looked embarrassed. “Not lately. Not as such. Er…not at all, in fact. My aunts say—”
“So how d’ye practice?” asked Rob in horror.
“Well, there’s a big mirror in my room, you see, and I can practice…the…actual…” Roland began, stopping when he saw their expressions. “Sorry,” he added. “I don’t think I’m the type you’re looking for….”
“Oh, I wouldna say that,” said Rob Anybody wearily. “Accordin’ tae the hag o’ hags, ye’re just the laddie. Ye just need someone tae fight with….”
Big Yan, always suspicious, looked at his brother and followed his gaze to the battered suit of armor.
“Oh aye?” he growled. “Weel, Ah’m no’ gonna be a knee!”
The next day was a good day, right up to the point where it became a tight little bowl of terror.
Tiffany got up early and lit the fires. When her mother came down, she was scrubbing the kitchen floor, very hard.
“Er…aren’t you supposed to do that sort of thing by magic, dear?” said her mother, who’d never really got the hang of what witchcraft was all about.
“No, Mum, I’m supposed not to,” said Tiffany, still scrubbing.
“But can’t you just wave your hand and make all the dirt fly away, then?”
“The trouble is getting the magic to understand what dirt is,” said Tiffany, scrubbing hard at a stain. “I heard of a witch over in Escrow who got it wrong and ended up losing the entire floor and her sandals and nearly a toe.”
Mrs. Aching backed away. “I thought you just had to wave your hands about,” she mumbled nervously.
“That works,” said Tiffany, “but only if you wave them about on the floor with a scrubbing brush.”
She finished the floor. She cleaned under the sink. She opened all the cupboards, cleaned them out, and put everything back. She cleaned the table, and then turned it over and cleaned it underneath. She even washed the bottoms of the legs, where they touched the floor. It was then that Mrs. Aching went and found things to do somewhere, because this was clearly not just about good housekeeping.
It wasn’t. As Granny Weatherwax once said, if you wanted to walk around with your head in the air, then you needed to have both feet on the ground. Scrubbing floors, cutting wood, washing clothes, making cheese—these things grounded you, taught you what was real. You could set a small part of your mind to them, giving your thoughts time to line up and settle down.
Was she safe here from the Wintersmith? Was here safe from the Wintersmith?
Sooner or later she’d have to face him again—a snowman who thought he was human and had the power of the avalanche. Magic could only slow him down for a while, and make him angry. No ordinary weapon would work, and she didn’t have many