'Damn thing hasn't even got a name,' Vitoller had said. 'I should call it the Golde Mine, because that's what it's costing me. Where's the money going to come from, that's what I'd like to know.'
In fact they'd tried a lot of names, none of which suited Tomjon.
'It's got to be a name that means everything,' he said. 'Because there's everything inside it. The whole world on the stage, do you see?'
And Hwel had said, knowing as he said it that what he was saying was exactly right, 'The Disc.'
And now the Dysk was nearly done, and still he hadn't written the new play.
He shut the window and wandered back to his desk, picked up the quill, and pulled another sheet of paper towards him. A thought struck him. The whole world was a stage, to the gods . . .
Presently he began to write.
All the Disc it is but an Theater, he wrote, Aite alle men and wymmen are but Players. He made the mistake of pausing, and another inspiration sleeted down, sending his train of thought off along an entirely new track.
He looked at what he had written and added: Except Those who selle popcorn.
After a while he crossed this out, and tried: Like unto thee Staje of a Theater ys the World, whereon alle Persons strut as Players.
This seemed a bit better.
He thought for a bit, and continued conscientiously: Sometimes they walke on. Sometimes they walke off.
He seemed to be losing it. Time, time, what he needed was an infinity . . .
There was a muffled cry and a thump from the next room. Hwel dropped the quill and pushed open the door cautiously.
The boy was sitting up in bed, white-faced. He relaxed when Hwel came in.
'Hwel?'
'What's up, lad? Nightmares?'
'Gods, it was terrible! I saw them again! I really thought for a minute that—'
Hwel, who was absent-mindedly picking up the clothes that Tomjon had strewn around the room, paused in his work. He was keen on dreams. That was when the ideas came.
'That what?' he said.
'It was like . . . I mean, I was sort of inside something, like a bowl, and there were these three terrible faces peering in at me.'
'Aye?'
'Yes, and then they all said, "All hail . . ." and then they started arguing about my name, and then they said, "Anyway, who shall be king hereafter?" And then one of them said, "Here after what?" and one of the other two said, "Just hereafter, girl, it's what you're supposed to say in these circumstances, you might try and make an effort", and then they all peered closer, and one of the others said, "He looks a bit peaky, I reckon it's all that foreign food", and then the youngest one said, "Nanny, I've told you already, there's no such place as Thespia", and then they bickered a bit, and one of the old ones said, "He can't hear us, can he? He's tossing and turning a bit", and the other one said, "You know I've never been able to get sound on this thing, Esme", and then they bickered some more, and it went cloudy, and then . . . I woke up . . .' he finished lamely. 'It was horrible, because every time they came close to the bowl it sort of magnified everything, so all you could see was eyes and nostrils.'
Hwel hoisted himself on to the edge of the narrow bed.
'Funny old things, dreams,' he said.
'Not much funny about that one.'
'No, but I mean, last night, I had this dream about a little bandy-legged man walking down a road,' said Hwel. 'He had a little black hat on, and he walked as though his boots were full of water.'
Tomjon nodded politely.
'Yes?' he said. 'And—?'
'Well, that was it. And nothing. He had this little cane which he twirled and, you know, it was incredibly . . .'
The dwarfs voice trailed off. Tomjon's face had that familiar expression of polite and slightly condescending puzzlement that Hwel had come to know and dread.
'Anyway, it was very amusing,' he said, half to himself. But he knew he'd never convince the rest of the company. If it didn't have a custard pie in it somewhere, they said, it wasn't funny.
Tomjon swung his legs out of bed and reached for his britches.
'I'm not going back to sleep,' he said. 'What's the time?'
'It's after midnight,' said Hwel. 'And you know what your father said about going to bed late.'
'I'm not,' said Tomjon, pulling on his boots. Tm getting up early. Getting up early is very healthy. And now I'm going out for a very healthy drink. You can come too,' he added, 'to keep an eye on me.'
Hwel gave him a doubting look.
'You also know what your father says about going out drinking,' he said.
'Yes. He said he used to do it all the time when he was a lad. He said he'd think nothing of quaffing ale all night and coming home at 5 a.m., smashing windows. He said he was a bit of a roister-doister, not like these white-livered people today who can't hold their drink.' Tomjon adjusted his doublet in front of the mirror, and added, 'You know, Hwel, I reckon responsible behaviour is something to get when you grow older. Like varicose veins.'
Hwel sighed. Tomjon's memory for ill-judged remarks was legendary.
'All right,' he said. 'Just the one, though. Somewhere decent.'
'I promise.' Tomjon adjusted his hat. It had a feather in it.
'By the way,' he said, 'exactly how does one quaff?'
'I think it means you spill most of it,' said Hwel.
If the water of the river Ankh was rather thicker and more full of personality than ordinary river water, so the air in the Mended Drum was more crowded than normal air. It was like dry fog.
Tomjon and Hwel watched it spilling out into the street. The door burst open and a man came through backwards, not actually touching the ground until he hit the wall on the opposite side of the street.
An enormous troll, employed by the owners to keep a measure of order in the place, came out dragging two more limp bodies which he deposited on the cobbles, kicking them once or twice in soft places.
'I reckon they're roistering in there, don't you?' said Tomjon.
'It looks like it,' said Hwel. He shivered. He hated taverns. People always put their drinks down on his head.
They scurried in quickly while the troll was holding one unconscious drinker up by one leg and banging his head on the cobbles in a search for concealed valuables.
Drinking in the Drum has been likened to diving in a swamp, except that in a swamp the alligators don't pick your pockets first. Two hundred eyes watched the pair as they pushed their way through the crowd to the bar, a hundred mouths paused in the act of drinking, cursing or pleading, and ninety-nine brows crinkled with the effort of working out whether the newcomers fell into category A, people to be frightened of or B, people to frighten.
Tomjon walked through the crowd as though it was his property and, with the impetuosity of youth, rapped on the bar. Impetuosity was not a survival trait in the Mended Drum.
'Two pints of your finest ale, landlord,' he said, in tones so carefully judged that the barman was astonished to find himself obediently filling the first mug before the echoes had died away.
Hwel looked up. There was an extremely big man on his right, wearing the outside of several large bulls and more chains than necessary to moor a warship. A face that looked like a building site with hair on it glared down at him.
'Bloody hell,' it said. 'It's a bloody lawn ornament.'
Hwel went cold. Cosmopolitan as they were, the people of Morpork had a breezy, no-nonsense approach to the non-human races, i.e., hit them over the head with a brick and throw them in the river. This did not apply to trolls, naturally, because it is very difficult to be racially prejudiced against creatures seven feet tall who can bite through walls, at least for very long. But people three feet high were absolutely designed to be discriminated against.
The giant prodded Hwel on the top of his head.
'Where's your fishing rod, lawn ornament?' he said.
The barman pushed the mugs across the puddled counter.
'Here you are,' he said, leer
ing. 'One pint. And one half pint.'
Tomjon opened his mouth to speak, but Hwel nudged him sharply in the knee. Put up with it, put up with it, slip out as soon as possible, it was the only way . . .
'Where's your little pointy hat, then?' said the bearded man.
The room had gone quiet. This looked like being cabaret time.
'I said, where's your pointy hat, dopey?'
The barman got a grip of the blackthorn stick with nails in which lived under the counter, just in case, and said, 'Er—'
'I was talking to the lawn ornament here.'
The man took the dregs of his own drink and poured them carefully over the silent dwarfs head.
'I ain't drinking here again,' he muttered, when even this tailed to have any effect. 'It's bad enough they let monkeys drink here, but pygmies—'
Now the silence in the bar took on a whole new intensity in which the sound of a stool being slowly pushed back was like the creak of doom. All eyes swivelled to the other end of the room, where sat the one drinker in the Mended Drum who came into category C.
What Tomjon had thought was an old sack hunched over the bar was extending arms and – other arms, except that they were its legs. A sad, rubbery face turned towards the speaker, its expression as melancholy as the mists of evolution. Its funny lips curled back. There was abolutely nothing funny about its teeth.
'Er,' said the barman again, his voice frightening even him in that terrible simian silence. 'I don't think you meant that, did you? Not about monkeys, eh? You didn't really, did you?'
'What the hell's that?' hissed Tomjon.
'I think it's an orang-utan,' said Hwel. 'An ape.'
'A monkey's a monkey,' said the bearded man, at which several of the Drum's more percipient customers started to edge for the door. 'I mean, so what? But these bloody lawn ornaments—'
Hwel's fist struck out at groin height.
Dwarfs have a reputation as fearsome fighters. Any race of three-foot tall people who favour axes and go into battle as into a championship tree-felling competition soon get talked about. But years of wielding a pen instead of a hammer had relieved Hwel's punches of some of their stopping power, and it could have been the end of him when the big man yelled and drew his sword if a pair of delicate, leathery hands hadn't instantly jerked the thing from his grip and, with only a small amount of effort, bent it double[16].
When the giant growled, and turned around, an arm like a couple of broom handles strung together with elastic and covered with red fur unfolded itself in a complicated motion and smacked him across the jaw so hard that he rose several inches in the air and landed on a table.
By the time that the table had slid into another table and overturned a couple of benches there was enough impetus to start the night's overdue brawl, especially since the big man had a few friends with him. Since no-one felt like attacking the ape, who had dreamily pulled a bottle from the shelf and smashed the bottom off on the counter, they hit whoever happened to be nearest, on general principles. This is absolutely correct etiquette for a tavern brawl.
Hwel walked under a table and dragged Tomjon, who was watching all this with interest, after him.
'So this is roistering. I always wondered.'
'I think perhaps it would be a good idea to leave,' said the dwarf firmly. 'Before there's, you know, any trouble.'
There was a thump as someone landed on the table above them, and a tinkle of broken glass.
'Is it real roistering, do you suppose, or merely rollicking?' said Tomjon, grinning.
'It's going to be bloody murder in a minute, my lad!'
Tomjon nodded, and crawled back out into the fray. Hwel heard him thump on the bar counter with something and call for silence.
Hwel put his arms over his head in panic.
'I didn't mean—' he began.
In fact calling for silence was a sufficiently rare event in the middle of a tavern brawl that silence was what Tomjon got. And silence was what he filled.
Hwel started as he heard the boy's voice ring out, full of confidence and absolutely first-class projection.
'Brothers! And yet may I call all men brother, for on this night—'
The dwarf craned up to see Tomjon standing on a chair, one hand raised in the prescribed declamatory fashion. Around him men were frozen in the act of giving one another a right seeing-to, their faces turned to his.
Down at tabletop height Hwel's lips moved in perfect synchronisation with the words as Tomjon went through the familiar speech. He risked another look.
The fighters straightened up, pulled themselves together, adjusted the hang of their tunics, glanced apologetically at one another. Many of them were in fact standing to attention.
Even Hwel felt a fizz in his blood, and he'd written those words. He'd slaved half a night over them, years ago, when Vitoller had declared that they needed another five minutes in Act III of The King of Ankh.
'Scribble us something with a bit of spirit in it,' he'd said. 'A bit of zip and sizzle, y'know. Something to summon up the blood and put a bit of backbone in our friends in the ha'penny seats. And just long enough to give us time to change the set.'
He'd been a bit ashamed of that play at the time. The famous Battle of Morpork, he strongly suspected, had consisted of about two thousand men lost in a swamp on a cold, wet day, hacking one another into oblivion with rusty swords. What would the last King of Ankh have said to a pack of ragged men who knew they were outnumbered, outflanked and outgeneralled? Something with bite, something with edge, something like a drink of brandy to a dying man; no logic, no explanation, just words that would reach right down through a tired man's brain and pull him to his feet by his testicles.
Now he was seeing its effect.
He began to think the walls had fallen away, and there was a cold mist blowing over the marshes, its choking silence broken only by the impatient cries of the carrion birds . . .
And this voice.
And he'd written the words, they were his, no half-crazed king had ever really spoken like this. And he'd written all this to fill in a gap so that a castle made of painted sacking stretched over a frame could be shoved behind a curtain, and this voice was taking the coal dust of his words and filling the room with diamonds.
I made these words, Hwel thought. But they don't belong to me. They belong to him.
Look at those people. Not a patriotic thought among them, but if Tomjon asked them, this bunch of drunkards would storm die Patrician's palace tonight. And they'd probably succeed.
I just hope his mouth never falls into the wrong hands . . .
As the last syllables died away, their white-hot echoes searing across every mind in the room, Hwel shook himself and crawled out of hiding and jabbed Tomjon on the knee.
'Come away now, you fool,' he hissed. 'Before it wears off.'
He grasped the boy firmly by the arm, handed a couple of complimentary tickets to the stunned barman, and hurried up the steps. He didn't stop until they were a street away.
'I thought I was doing rather well there,' said Tomjon.
'A good deal too well, I reckon.'
The boy rubbed his hands together. 'Right. Where shall we go next?'
'Next?'
'Tonight is young!'
'No, tonight is dead. It's today that's young,' said the dwarf hurriedly.
'Well, I'm not going home yet. Isn't there somewhere a bit more friendly? We haven't actually drunk anything.'
Hwel sighed.
'A troll tavern,' said Tomjon. 'I've heard about them. There's some down in the Shades[17]. I'd like to see a troll tavern.'
They're for trolls only, boy. Molten lava to drink and rock music and cheese 'n' chutney flavoured pebbles.'
'What about dwarf bars?'
'You'd hate it,' said Hwel, fervently. 'Besides, you'd run out of headroom.'
'Low dives, are they?'
'Look at it like this – how long do you think you could sing about gold?'
' "It'
s yellow and it goes chink and you can buy things with it," ' said Tomjon experimentally, as they strolled through the crowds on the Plaza of Broken Moons. 'Four seconds, I think.'
'Right. Five hours of it gets a bit repetitive.' Hwel kicked a pebble gloomily. He'd investigated a few dwarf bars last time they were in town, and hadn't approved. For some reason his fellow expatriates, who at home did nothing more objectionable than mine a bit of iron ore and hunt small creatures, felt impelled, once in the big city, to wear chain mail underwear, go around with axes in their belts, and call themselves names like Timkin Rumbleguts. And no-one could beat a city dwarf when it came to quaffing. Sometimes they missed their mouths altogether.
'Anyway,' he added, 'you'd get thrown out for being too creative. The actual words are, "Gold, gold, gold, gold, gold, gold".'
'Is there a chorus?'
' "Gold, gold, gold, gold, gold",' said Hwel.
'You left out a "gold" there.'
'I think it's because I wasn't cut out to be a dwarf.'
'Cut down, lawn ornament,' said Tomjon.
There was a little hiss of indrawn breath.
'Sorry,' said Tomjon hurriedly. 'It's just that father—'
'I've known your father for a long time,' said Hwel 'Through thick and thin, and there was a damn sight more thin than thick. Since before you were bor—' He hesitated 'Times were hard in those days,' he mumbled. 'So what I'm saying is ... well, some things you earn.'
'Yes. I'm sorry.'
'You see, just—' Hwel paused at the mouth of a dark alley 'Did you hear something?' he said.
They squinted into the alley, once again revealing themselves as newcomers to the city. Morporkians don't look down dark alleys when they hear strange noises. If they see four struggling figures their first instinct is not to rush to anyone's assistance, or at least not to rush to the assistance of the one who appears to be losing and on the wrong end of someone else's boot. Nor do they shout 'Oi!' Above all, they don't look surprised when the assailants, instead of guiltily running off. flourish a small piece of cardboard in front of them.
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