If anyone comes and asks for something, well, there will always be someone, often a dwarf, who knows where everything is, and almost always it’s right at the back of the arch in a darkness of stygian proportions. And when the right piece is found and brought out, well, some people would call it a piece of junk, but in the arch the junk has somehow metamorphosed into exactly the item that the buyer really, really wants – no one knows why. It is as if that piece had just been waiting for the right person to wander in.
The dwarfs Shrucker and Dave had relocated their established broomstick business to the second arch in the row, just after an arch where a passer-by’s ears were assaulted by the weird noises of musical instruments, and before one where the tang of a harness-maker’s fresh leather made its own happy raid on the nose.
It was Dave who rushed towards Tiffany when she came in with Geoffrey in tow. He recognized her immediately – he had had a bad moment when she’d called in a year or two back and let slip she knew the Feegles.fn1 Once a dwarf workshop gets the Feegles, well, they might as well just pack up and go back to the mountains. Taking a big axe with them.
Tiffany noticed how Dave’s eyes were everywhere. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t got any Nac Mac Feegles with me,’ she said, though she knew that this might not be quite accurate, for although she had told Rob Anybody that this was hag’s business and he and the Feegles had a geas to stay behind, there was no knowing if one hadn’t crept into the bristles of her stick somehow and would suddenly pop up waving a big stick and shouting ‘Crivens!’ But when she said they weren’t with her, she heard a sigh, and the dwarf almost grinned. Tiffany dodged a drip that fell merrily from the top of the arch, and added, ‘This is Geoffrey, and we’ve come to get him a stick.’ She looked along the row of arches. ‘Took a bit of finding you, actually. Your new workshop.’
Dave was eyeing Geoffrey up and down. ‘Good for us here,’ he said. ‘We gets our supplies quicker. And it’s easier to go see my old mum. Long journey though.’ A belch of smoke from a train steaming over the arches almost enveloped both the dwarf and Geoffrey, and when Tiffany could see them again, Dave – who now had bits of smut sticking to his face – had decided exactly what the lad would need. ‘A number three, I think,’ he said. ‘Reckon we’ve got just the one in stock. Top-of-the-range, you know. Wood all the way from the Ramtops. Special wizard wood.’ He stroked his beard, flicked the cinders off his nose, and walked around Geoffrey. ‘Training to be a wizard then, lad?’
Geoffrey didn’t quite know what to say. He looked over at Tiffany. Should he tell these men that he wanted to be a witch?
‘No,’ said Tiffany, the witch in her making her answer for Geoffrey. ‘My friend here is a calm-weaver.’
The dwarf scratched his iron helmet, stared at Geoffrey and said, ‘Oh, and what do they do, miss?’
Tiffany thought, then said, ‘At the moment, Geoffrey just helps me. And for that, gentlemen, he needs a broomstick.’ She had been holding two broomsticks, her own and one other, and now she held out the spare. ‘But we don’t want a new stick,’ she said. ‘You know how we witches hand our sticks down one to the other. Well, I’ve got this one, and I think it would do my friend very well with a bit of repair work on it.’
At the word ‘repair’ Shrucker loomed out of the workshop. He looked almost affronted. ‘Repair?’ he groaned, as though anyone choosing to reject the new sticks on offer was missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime. ‘You want the lad to begin his career on a used broomstick?’ And then he saw the stick, and reeled back on his heels, grimacing and clutching at his back. ‘That’s . . . Granny Weatherwax’s stick,’ he said. ‘That’s famous, that is.’
‘A challenge, then,’ said Tiffany smartly. ‘Or aren’t you gentlemen up to the task? I expect I can find someone else . . .’
‘Oh, there’s no need to be hasty,’ said Shrucker, taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead with a woolly cloth. He lit his pipe, giving himself time to think, and examined the stick in front of him.
‘I would be much obliged,’ said Tiffany.
Shrucker made the usual sucking noise through his teeth. ‘Well,’ he said slowly at last, ‘I could take the shell off. Perhaps a new staff?’
‘One of our gentlemen’s staffs,’ Dave added. He tapped his nose. ‘You know, with the . . . special indentation for the . . . delicate parts. A much smoother ride for the lad.’
‘Always wanted to get my hands on this stick,’ Shrucker said. ‘Do some proper work on it. But the dwarfs up there in the mountains said as Mistress Weatherwax always wanted, well . . .’
‘A bodge,’ Dave put in, his forehead creasing as if the word caused him actual pain.
‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘I am not that witch, but it’s always useful to be friends with any witch.’ She smiled sweetly and added, ‘I’m feeling friendly at the moment . . . but I might not later.’
This fell into a very handy pause as an almighty roar announced another train shooting overhead, smoke and smut billowing in the air.
‘Mistress Weatherwax was a powerful lady indeed,’ Shrucker said carefully once the noise had died down.