‘Our Jason slaughtered a pig yesterday, Esme.’
‘These look like perfectly good chitterlin’s to me, Gytha. There’s a couple of decent meals in them, if I’m any judge.’
‘Please, Granny.’
‘There’s plenty of starvin’ people in Klatch who wouldn’t turn up their nose at ‘em, that’s all I’m saying … All right, all right. “Whole grain wheat and lentils too, In the cauldron seethe and stew”? What happened to the toad?’
‘Please, Granny. You’re slowing it down. You know Goodie was against all unnecessary cruelty. Vegetable protein is a perfectly acceptable substitute.’
‘That means no newt or fenny snake either, I suppose?’
‘No, Granny.’
‘Or tiger’s chaudron?’
‘Here.’
‘What the hell’s this, excuse my Klatchian?’
‘It’s a tiger’s chaudron. Our Wane brought it off a merchant from forn parts.’
‘You sure?’
‘Our Wane asked special, Esme.’
‘Looks like any other chaudron to me. Oh, well. “Double hubble, stubble trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bub—”{56} WHY isn’t the cauldron bubbling, Magrat?’
Tomjon awoke, shivering. The room was dark. Outside a few stars pierced the mists of the city, and there was the occasional whistle of burglars and footpads as they went about their strictly lawful occasions.
There was silence from the next room, but he could see the light of a candle under the door.
He went back to bed.
Across the turgid river the Fool had also awakened. He was staying in the Fool’s Guild, not out of choice but because the duke hadn’t given him any money for anything else, and getting to sleep had been difficult in any case. The chilly walls had brought back too many memories. Besides, if he listened hard he could hear the muted sobs and occasional whimpers from the students’ dormitories, as they contemplated with horror the life that lay ahead of them.
He punched the rock-hard pillow, and sank into a fitful sleep. Perchance to dream.{57}
‘Slab and grue, yes. But it doesn’t say how slab and grue.’
‘Goodie Whemper recommended testing a bit in a cup of cold water, like toffee.’
‘How inconvenient that we didn’t think to bring one, Magrat.’
‘I think we should be getting on, Esme. The night’s nearly gone.’
‘Just don’t blame me if it doesn’t work properly, that’s all. Lessee … “Baboon hair and …” Who’s got the baboon hair? Oh, thank you, Gytha, though it looks more like cat hair to me, but never mind. “Baboon hair and mandrake root”, and if that’s real mandrake I’m very surprised, “carrot juice and tongue of boot”, I see, a little humour, I suppose …’
‘Please hurry!’
‘All right, all right. “Owl hoot and glow-worm glimmer. Boil—and then allow to simmer.”’
‘You know, Esme, this doesn’t taste half bad.’
‘You’re not supposed to drink it, you daft doyenne!’
Tomjon sat bolt upright in bed. That was them again, the same faces, the bickering voices, distorted by time and space.
Even after he looked out of the window, where fresh daylight was streaming through the city, he could still hear the voices grumbling into the distance, like old thunder, fading away …
‘I for one didn’t believe it about the tongue of boot.’
‘It’s still very runny. Do you think we should put some cornflour into it?’
‘It won’t matter. Either he’s on his way, or he isn’t …’
He got up and doused his face in the washbasin.
Silence rolled in swathes from Hwel’s room. Tomjon slipped on his clothes and pushed open the door.
It looked as though it had snowed indoors, great heavy flakes that had drifted into odd corners of the room. Hwel sat at his low table in the middle of the floor, his head pillowed on a pile of paper, snoring.
Tomjon tiptoed across the room and piled up a discarded ball of paper at random. He smoothed it out and read:
KING: Now, I’m just going to put the crown on this bush here, and you will tell me if anyone tries to take it, won’t you?
GROUNDLINGS: Yes!
KING: Now if I could just find my horsey …{58}
(1st assassin pops up behind rock.)
AUDIENCE: Behind you!
(1st assassin disappears.)
KING: You’re trying to play tricks on old Kingy, you naughty …
There was a lot of crossing out, and a large blot. Tomjon threw it aside and selected another ball at random.
KING: Is this a
1ST MURDERER: I’faith, it is not so.
2ND MURDERER: Thou speakest truth, sire.
Judging by the creases in the paper, this one had been thrown at the wall particularly hard. Hwel had once explained to Tomjon his theory about inspirations, and by the look of it a whole shower had fallen last night.
Fascinated by this insight into the creative processes, however, Tomjon tried a third discarded attempt:
QUEEN: Faith, there is a sound without! Mayhap it is my husband returning! Quick, into the garderobe, and wait not upon the order of your going!
MURDERER: Marry, but your maid still has my pantoufles!
MAID (opening door): The Archbishop, your majesty.
PRIEST (under bed): Bless my soul!
(Divers alarums)
Tomjon wondered vaguely what divers alarums, which Hwel always included somewhere in the stage directions, actually were. Hwel always refused to say. Perhaps they referred to dangerous depths, or lack of air pressure.
He sidled towards the table and, with great care, pulled the sheaf of paper from under the sleeping dwarf’s head, lowering it gently on to a cushion.
The top sheet read:
Characters:
Felmet, A Good King.
Verence, A Bad King.
Wethewacs, Ane Evil Witch
Hogg, Ane Likewise Evil Witch
Magerat, Ane Sirene …
Tomjon flicked over the page.
Scene:
The boy read for a while and then turned to the last page.
Gentles, leave us dance and sing, and wish good health unto the king. (Exeunt all, singing falala, etc. Shower of rose petals. Ringing of bells. Gods descend from heaven, demons rise from hell, much ado with turntable, etc.) The End.