‘Damn thing’s all sparkly,’ she said, huffing on it and wiping it with her sleeve. Hilta peered over her shoulder.
‘That’s not sparkle, that means something,’ she said slowly.
‘What?’
‘I’m not sure. Can I try? It’s used to me.’ Hilta pushed a cat off the other chair and leaned forward to peer into the glass depths.
‘Mnph. Feel free,’ said Granny, ‘but you won’t find—’
‘Wait. Something’s coming through.’
‘Looks all sparkly from here,’ Granny insisted. ‘Little silver lights all floating around, like in them little snowstorms-in-a-bottle toys. Quite pretty, really.’
‘Yes, but look beyond the flakes …’
Granny looked.
This was what she saw.
The viewpoint was very high up and a wide swathe of country lay below her, blue with distance, through which a broad river wriggled like a drunken snake. There were silver lights floating in the foreground but they were, in a manner of speaking, just a few flakes in the great storm of lights that turned in a great lazy spiral, like a geriatric tornado with a bad attack of snow, and funnelled down, down to the hazy landscape. By screwing up her eyes Granny could just make out some dots on the river.
Occasionally some sort of lighting would sparkle briefly inside the gently turning funnel of motes.
Granny blinked and looked up. The room seemed very dark.
‘Odd sort of weather,’ she said, because she couldn’t really think of anything better. Even with her eyes shut the glittering motes still danced across her vision.
‘I don’t think it’s weather,’ said Hilta. ‘I don’t actually think people can see it, but the crystal shows it. I think it’s magic, condensing out of the air.’
‘Into the staff?’
‘Yes. That’s what a wizard’s staff does. It sort of distils magic.’
Granny risked another glance at the crystal.
‘Into Esk,’ she said, carefully.
‘Yes.’
‘There looks like quite a lot of it.’
‘Yes.’
Not for the first time, Granny wished she knew more about how wizards worked their magic. She had a vision of Esk filling up with magic, until every tissue and pore was bloated with the stuff. Then it would start leaking — slowly at first, arcing to ground in little bursts, but then building up to a great discharge of occult potentiality. It could do all kinds of damage.
‘Drat,’ she said. ‘I never did like that staff.’
‘At least she’s heading towards the University place,’ said Hilta. ‘They’ll know what to do.’
‘That’s as may be. How far down river do you reckon they are?’
‘Twenty miles or so. Those barges only go at walking pace. The Zoons aren’t in any hurry.’
‘Right.’ Granny stood up, her jaw set defiantly. She reached for her hat and picked up her sack of possessions.
‘Reckon I can walk faster than a barge,’ she said. ‘The river’s all bendy but I can go in straight lines.’
‘You’re going to walk after her?’ said Hilta, aghast. ‘But there’s forests and wild animals!’
‘Good, I could do with getting back to civilization. She needs me. That staff is taking over. I said it would, but did anyone listen?’
‘Did they?’ said Hilta, still trying to work out what Granny meant by getting back to civilization.
‘No,’ said Granny coldly.
His name was Amschat B’hal Zoon. He lived on the raft with his three wives and three children. He was a Liar.
What always annoyed the enemies of the Zoon tribe was not simply their honesty, which was infuriatingly absolute, but their total directness of approach. The Zoons had never heard about a euphemism, and wouldn’t understand what to do with it if they had one, except that they would certainly have called it ‘a nice way of saying something nasty’.
Their rigid adherence to the truth was apparently not enjoined on them by a god, as is usually the case, but appeared to have a genetic base. The average Zoon could no more tell a lie than breathe underwater and, in fact, the very concept was enough to upset them considerably; telling a Lie meant no less than totally altering the universe.
This was something of a drawback to a trading race and so, over the millennia, the elders of the Zoon studied this strange power that everyone else had in such abundance and decided that they should possess it too.
Young men who showed faint signs of having such a talent were encouraged, on special ceremonial occasions, to bend the Truth ever further on a competitive basis. The first recorded Zoon proto-lie was: ‘Actually, my grandfather is quite tall,’ but eventually they got the hang of it and the office of tribal Liar was instituted.
It must be understood that while the majority of Zoon cannot lie they have great respect for any Zoon who can say that the world is other than it is, and the Liar holds a position of considerable eminence. He represents his tribe in all his dealings with the outside world, which the average Zoon long ago gave up trying to understand. Zoon tribes are very proud of their Liars.
Other races get very annoyed about all this. They feel that the Zoon ought to have adopted more suitable titles, like ‘diplomat’ or ‘public relations officer’. They feel they are poking fun at the whole thing.
‘Is all that true?’ said Esk suspiciously, looking around the barge’s crowded cabin.
‘No,’ said Amschat firmly. His junior wife, who was cooking porridge over a tiny ornate stove, giggled. His three children watched Esk solemnly over the edge of the table.
‘Don’t you ever tell the truth?’
‘Do you?’ Amschat grinned his goldmine grin, but his eyes were not smiling. ‘Why do I find you on my fleeces? Amschat is no kidnapper. There will be people at home who will worry, yesno?’
‘I expect Granny will come looking for me,’ said Esk, ‘but I don’t think she will worry much. Just be angry, I expect. Anyway, I’m going to Ankh-Morpork. You can put me off the ship—’
‘—boat—’
‘—if you like. I don’t mind about the pike.’
‘I can’t do that,’ said Amschat.
‘Was that a lie?’
‘No! There is wild country around us, robbers and — things.’
Esk nodded brightly. ‘That’s settled, then,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind sleeping in the fleeces. And I can pay my way. I can do—’ She hesitated; her unfinished sentence hung like a little curl of crystal in the air while discretion made a successful bid for control of her tongue. ‘—helpful things,’ she finished lamely.
She was aware that Amschat was looking slightly sideways at his senior wife, who was sewing by the stove. By Zoon tradition she wore nothing but black. Granny would have thoroughly approved.
‘What sort of helpful things?’ he asked. ‘Washing and sweeping, yesno?’
‘If you like,’ said Esk, ‘or distillation using the bifold or triple alembic, the making of varnishes, glazes, creams, zuum-chats and punes, the rendering of waxes, the manufacture of candles, the proper selection of seeds, roots and cuttings, and most preparations from the Eighty Marvellous Herbs; I can spin, card, rett, fallow and weave on the hand, frame, harp and Noble looms and I can knit if people start the wool on for me, I can read soil and rock, do carpentry up to the three-way mortise and tenon, predict weather by means of beastsign and skyreck, make increase in bees, brew five types of mead, make dyes and mordants and pigments, including a fast blue, I can do most types of whitesmithing, mend boots, cure and fashion most leathers, and if you have any goats I can look after them. I like goats.’
Amschat looked at her thoughtfully. She felt she was expected to continue.
‘Granny never likes to see people sitting around doing nothing,’ she offered. ‘She always says a girl who is good with her hands will never want for a living,’ she added, by way of further explanation.