No-one ran up them wearing dirndls and singing. They were not nice mountains. They were the kind of mountains where winters went for their summer holidays.
âThereâs passes and things through them,â said Magrat uncertainly.
âBound to be,â said Nanny.
You can use two mirrors like this, if you know the way of it: you set them so that they reflect each other. For if images can steal a bit of you, then images of images can amplify you, feeding you back on yourself, giving you power . . .
And your image extends forever, in reflections of reflections of reflections, and every image is the same, all the way around the curve of light.
Except that it isnât.
Mirrors contain infinity.
Infinity contains more things than you think.
Everything, for a start.
Including hunger.
Because thereâs a million billion images and only one soul to go around.
Mirrors give plenty, but they take away lots.
Mountains unfolded to reveal more mountains. Clouds gathered, heavy and grey.
âIâm sure weâre going the right way,â said Magrat. Freezing rock stretched away. The witches flew along a maze of twisty little canyons, all alike.
âYeah,â said Granny.
âWell, you wonât let me fly high enough,â said Magrat.
âItâs going to snow like blazes in a minute,â said Nanny Ogg.
It was early evening. Light was draining out of the high valleys like custard.
âI thought . . . thereâd be villages and things,â said Magrat, âwhere we could buy interesting native produce and seek shelter in rude huts.â
âYou wouldnât even get trolls up here,â said Granny.
The three broomsticks glided down into a bare valley, a mere notch in the mountain side.
âAnd itâs bloody cold,â said Nanny Ogg. She grinned. âWhyâre they called rude huts, anyway?â
Granny Weatherwax climbed off her broomstick and looked at the rocks around her. She picked up a stone and sniffed it. She wandered over to a heap of scree that looked like any other heap of scree to Magrat, and prodded it.
âHmm,â she said.
A few snow crystals landed on her hat.
âWell, well,â she said.
âWhatâre you doing, Granny?â said Magrat.
âCogitatinâ.â
Granny walked to the valleyâs steep side and strolled along it, peering at the rock. Nanny Ogg joined her.
âUp here?â said Nanny.
âI reckon.â
ââS a bit high for âem, ainât it?â
âLittle devils get everywhere. Had one come up in my kitchen once,â said Granny. ââFollowing a seamâ, he said.â
âTheyâre buggers for that,â said Nanny.
âWould you mind telling me,â said Magrat, âwhat youâre doing? Whatâs so interesting about heaps of stones?â
The snow was falling faster now.
âThey ainât stones, theyâre spoil,â said Granny. She reached a flat wall of ice-covered rock, no different in Magratâs eyes from the rock available in a range of easy-to-die-on sizes everywhere in the mountains, and paused as if listening.
Then she stood back, hit the rock sharply with her broomstick, and spake thusly:
âOpen up, you little sods!â
Nanny Ogg kicked the rock. It made a hollow boom.
âThereâs people catching their death of cold out here!â she added.
Nothing happened for a while. Then a section of rock swung in a few inches. Magrat saw the glint of a suspicious eye.
âYes?â
âDwarfs?â said Magrat.
Granny Weatherwax leaned down until her nose was level with the eye.
âMy name,â she said, âis Granny Weatherwax.â
She straightened up again, her face glowing with self-satisfaction.
âWhoâs that, then?â said a voice from somewhere below the eye. Grannyâs expression froze.
Nanny Ogg nudged her partner.
âWe must be
Hundreds of Years to Reform a Rake