Witches Abroad by Terry Pratchett Page A

foreigner, yesterday she took her shawl off, next thing it will be dancing on tables. This is a picture of some famous bridge or other. Lots of love, MUM .
    The sun beat down on the cobbled street, and particularly on the courtyard of a little inn.
    “It’s hard to imagine,” said Magrat, “that it’s autumn back home.”
    “Garkon? Mucho vino aveck zei, grassy ass.”
    The innkeeper, who did not understand one word and was a good-natured man who certainly did not deserve to be called a garkon, smiled at Nanny. He’d smile at anyone with such an unlimited capacity for drink.
    “I don’t hold with putting all these tables out in the street, though,” said Granny Weatherwax, although without much severity. It was pleasantly warm. It wasn’t that she didn’t like autumn, it was a season she always looked forward to, but at her time of life it was nice to know that it was happening hundreds of miles away while she wasn’t there.
    Underneath the table Greebo dozed on his back with his legs in the air. Occasionally he twitched as he fought wolves in his sleep.
    “It says in Desiderata’s notes,” said Magrat, turning the stiff pages carefully, “that in the late summer here they have this special traditional ceremony where they let a lot of bulls run through the street.”
    “That’d be something worth seeing,” said Granny Weatherwax. “Why do they do it?”
    “So all the young men can chase them to show how brave they are,” said Magrat. “Apparently they pull their rosettes off.”
    A variety of expressions passed across Nanny Ogg’s wrinkled face, like weather over a stretch of volcanic badlands.
    “Sounds a bit strange,” she said at last. “What do they do that for?”
    “She doesn’t explain it very clearly,” said Magrat. She turned another page. Her lips moved as she read on. “What does cojones mean?”
    They shrugged.
    “Here, you want to slow down on that drink,” said Granny, as a waiter put down another bottle in front of Nanny Ogg. “I wouldn’t trust any drink that’s green.”
    “It’s not like proper drink,” said Nanny. “It says on the label it’s made from herbs. You can’t make a serious drink out of just herbs. Try a drop.”
    Granny sniffed the opened bottle.
    “Smells like aniseed,” she said.
    “It says ‘Absinthe’ on the bottle,” said Nanny.
    “Oh, that’s just a name for wormwood,” said Magrat, who was good at herbs. “My herbal says it’s good for stomach diforders and prevents sicknefs after meals.”
    “There you are, then,” said Nanny. “Herbs. It’s practic’ly medicine.” She poured a generous measure for the other two. “Give it a go, Magrat. It’ll put a cheft on your cheft.”
    Granny Weatherwax surreptitiously loosened her boots. She was also debating whether to remove her vest. She probably didn’t need all three.
    “We ought to be getting on,” she said.
    “Oh, I’m fed up with the broomsticks,” said Nanny. “More than a couple of hours on a stick and I’ve gone rigid in the dairy air.”
    She looked expectantly at the other two. “That foreign for bum,” she added. “Although, it’s a funny thing, in some foreign parts ‘bum’ means ‘tramp’ and ‘tramp’ means ‘hobo’. Funny things, words.”
    “A laugh a minute,” said Granny.
    “The river’s quite wide here,” said Magrat. “There’s big boats. I’ve never been on a proper boat. You know? The kind that doesn’t sink easily?”
    “Broomsticks is more witchy,” said Granny, but not with much conviction. She did not have Nanny Ogg’s international anatomical vocabulary, but bits of her she wouldn’t even admit to knowing the names of were definitely complaining.
    “I saw them boats,” said Nanny. “They looked like great big rafts with houses on. You wouldn’t hardly know you’re on a boat, Esme. ’Ere, what’s he doing?”
    The innkeeper had hurried out and was taking the jolly little tables back inside. He nodded at Nanny and spoke