'So we can tell this Fool that we'll do it, can we?' said Vitoller, his hand on the bag of silver.
And of course you couldn't go wrong with a good storm. And there was the ghost routine that Vitoller had cut out of Please Yourself, saying they couldn't afford the muslin. And perhaps he could put Death in, too. Young Dafe would make a damn good Death, with white makeup and platform soles . . .
'How far away did he say he'd come from?' he said.
'The Ramtops,' said the playmaster. 'Some little kingdom no-one has ever heard of. Sounds like a chest infection.'
'It'd take months to get there.'
'I'd like to go, anyway,' said Tomjon. 'That's where I was born.'
Vitoller looked at the ceiling. Hwel looked at the floor. Anything was better, just at that moment, than looking at each other's face.
'That's what you said,' said the boy. 'When you did a tour of the mountains, you said.'
'Yes, but I can't remember where,' said Vitoller. 'All those little mountain towns looked the same to me. We spent more time pushing the lattys across rivers and dragging them up hills than we ever did on the stage.'
'I could take some of the younger lads and we could make a summer of it,' said Tomjon. 'Put on all the old favourites. And we could still be back by Soulcake Day. You could stay here and see to the theatre, and we could be back for a Grand Opening.' He grinned at his father. 'It'd be good for them,' he said slyly. 'You always said some of the young lads don't know what a real acting life is like.'
'Hwel's still got to write the play,' Vitoller pointed out.
Hwel was silent. He was staring at nothing at all. After a while one hand fumbled in his doublet and brought out a sheaf of paper, and then disappeared in the direction of his belt and produced a small corked ink pot and a bundle of quills.
They watched as, without once looking at them, the dwarf smoothed out the paper, opened the ink pot, dipped a quill, held it poised like a hawk waiting for its prey, and then began to write.
Vitoller nodded at Tomjon.
Walking as quietly as they could, they left the room.
Around mid-afternoon they took up a tray of food and a bundle of paper.
The tray was still there at teatime. The paper had gone.
A few hours later a passing member of the company reported hearing a yell of 'It can't work! It's back to front!' and the sound of something being thrown across the room.
Around supper Vitoller heard a shouted request for more candles and fresh quills.
Tomjon tried to get an early night, but sleep was murdered by the sound of creativity from the next room. There were mutterings about balconies, and whether the world really needed wave machines. The rest was silence, except for the insistent scratching of quills.
Eventually, Tomjon dreamed.
'Now. Have we got everything this time?'
'Yes, Granny.'
'Light the fire, Magrat.'
'Yes, Granny.'
'Right. Let's see now—'
'I wrote it all down, Granny.'
'I can read, my girl, thank you very much. Now, what's this. “Round about the cauldron go, In the poisoned entrails throw . . .” What are these supposed to be?'
'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 nubble, stubble trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bub—” 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.
'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 begettingon, 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 tune 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 . . .
(1st assassin pops up behind rock.)
AUDIENCE: Behind you!
(1st assassin disappears.)
KING: You're trying to play tricks on old Kingy, you...
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 duck knife dagger I see behind beside in front of before me, its beak handle pointing at me my hand?
1ST MURDERER: I'faith, it is not so. Oh, no it isn't!
2ND MURDERER: Thou speakest truth, sire. Oh, yes it is!
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 dwarfs head, lowering it gently on to a cushion.
The top sheet read:
Verence Felmet Small God's Eve A Night Of Knives Daggers Kings, by, Hwel of Vitoller's Men. A Comedy Tragedy in Eight Five Six Three Nine Acts.
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: A Drawing Room Ship at See Street in Pseudopolis Blasted Moor. Enter Three Witches . . .
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.
Hwel snored.
In his dreams gods rose and fell, ships moved with cunning and art across canvas oceans, pictures jumped and ran together and became flickering images; men flew on wires, flew without wires, great ships of illusion fought against one another in imaginary skies, seas opened, ladies were sawn in half, a thousand special effects men giggled and gibbered. Through it all he ran with his arms open in desperation, knowing that none of this really existed or ever would exist and all he really had was a few square yards of planking, some canvas and some paint on which to trap the beckoning images that invaded his head.
Only in our dreams are we free. The rest of the time we need wages.
'It's a good play,' said Vitoller, 'apart from the ghost.'
'The ghost stays,' said Hwel sullenly.
'But people always jeer and throw things. Anyway, you know how hard it is to get all the chalk dust out of the clothes.'
'The ghost stays. It's a dramatic necessity.'
'You said it was a dramatic necessity in the last play.'
'Well, it was.'
'And in Please Yourself, and in A Wizard of Ankh, and all the rest of them.'
'I like ghosts.'
They stood to one side and watched the dwarf artificers assembling the wave machine. It consisted of half a dozen long spindles, covered in complex canvas spirals painted in shades of blue and green and white, and stretching the complete width of the stage. An arrangement of cogs and endless belts led to a treadmill in the wings. When the spirals were all turning at once people with weak stomachs had to look away.
'Sea battles,' breathed Hwel. 'Shipwrecks. Tritons. Pirates!'
'Squeaky bearings, laddie,' groaned Vitoller, shifting his weight on his stick. 'Maintenance expenses. Overtime.'
'It does look extremely . . . intricate,' Hwel admitted. 'Who designed it?'
'A daft old chap in the Street of Cunning Artificers,' said Vitoller. 'Leonard of Quirm. He's a painter really. He just does this sort of thing for a hobby. I happened to hear that he's been working on this for months. I just snapped it up quick when he couldn't get it to fly.'
They watched the mock waves turn.
'You're bent on going?' said Vitoller, at last.