Thursday, March 12, 2015

One of my favourite discworld books by the now late Terry Pratchett which includes this wonderfully written section:

The night was as black as the inside of a cat.  It was the kind of night, you could believe, on which the gods moved men as though they were pawns on the chessboard of fate.  In the middle of the elemental storm a fire gleamed among the dripping furze bushes like the madness in a weasel’s eye.  It illuminated three hunched figures.  As the cauldron bubbled an eldritch voice shrieked:  ‘When shall we three meet again?’
There was a pause.
Finally another voice said in far more ordinary tones:  ‘Well I can do next Tuesday.’

Things like crowns had a troublesome effect on clever folks; it was best to leave all the reigning to the kind of people whose eyebrows met in the middle.

Three witches gathered on a lonely heath. A king cruelly murdered, his throne usurped by his ambitious cousin. A child heir and the crown of the kingdom, both missing…

Witches don't have these kind of dynastic problems themselves – in fact, they don’t have leaders. Granny Weatherwax was the most highly-regarded of the leaders they didn't have. But even she found that meddling in royal politics was a lot more complicated than certain playwrights would have you believe, particularly when the blood on your hands just won't wash off and you're facing a future with knives in it...

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