"We used to manage without all that stuff," said Hwel. "Remember the old days? All we had was a few planks and a bit of painted sacking. But we had a lot of spirit. If we wanted wind we had to make it ourselves." He drummed his fingers for a while. "Of course," he added quietly, "we should be able to afford a wave machine. A small one. I've got this idea about this ship wrecked on an island, where there's this-"

"Sorry." Vitoller shook his head.

"But we've had some huge audiences!" said Tomjon.

"Sure, lad. Sure. But they pay in ha'pennies. The artificers want silver. If we wanted to be rich men-people," he corrected hurriedly, "we should have been born carpenters." Vitoller shifted uneasily. "I already owe Chrystophrase the Troll more than I should."

The other two stared.

"He's the one that has people's limbs torn off!" said Tomjon.

"How much do you owe him?" said Hwel.

"It's all right," said Vitoller hurriedly, "I'm keeping up the interest payments. More or less."

"Yes, but how much does he want?"

"An arm and a leg."

The dwarf and boy stared at him in horror. "How could you have been so-"

"I did it for you two! Tomjon deserves a better stage, he doesn't want to go ruining his health sleeping in lattys and never knowing a home, and you, my man, you need somewhere settled, with all the proper things you ought to have, like trapdoors and...wave machines and so forth. You talked me into it, and I thought, they're right. It's no life out on the road, giving two performances a day to a bunch of farmers and going around with a hat afterward, what sort of future is that? I thought, we've got to get a place somewhere, with comfortable seats for the gentry, people who don't throw potatoes at the stage. I said, blow the cost. I just wanted you to-"

"All right, all right!" shouted Hwel. "I'll write it!"

"I'll act it," said Tomjon.

"I'm not forcing you, mind," said Vitoller. "It's your own choice."

Hwel frowned at the table. There were, he had to admit, some nice touches. Three witches was good. Two wouldn't be enough, four would be too many. They could be meddling with the destinies of mankind, and everything. Lots of smoke and green light. You could do a lot with three witches. It was surprising no one had thought of it before.

"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 Please Yourself, saying they couldn't afford the muslin. And perhaps he could put Death in, too. Young Dafe would make a d.a.m.n good Death, with white make-up and platform soles...

"How far away did he say he'd come from?" he said.

"The Ramtops," and 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 favorites. And we could still be back by Soulcake Day. You could stay here and see to the theater, 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 pa.s.sing 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 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 subst.i.tute Granny. You're slowing it down. You know Goodie was against all unnecessary cruelty. Vegetable protein is a perfectly acceptable subst.i.tute."

"That means no newt or fenny snake either, I suppose?"

"No, Granny."

"Or tiger's chaudron?"

"Here."

"What the h.e.l.l's this, excuse my Klatchian?"

"It's a tiger's chaudron. Our Wane bought 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-' 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 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 humor, 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 s.p.a.ce.

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 corn-flour 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 picked 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 a.s.sa.s.sin pops up behind rock.) AUDIENCE: Behind you!

(1st a.s.sa.s.sin 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 duck knife duck knife dagger I see dagger I see behind beside in front of behind beside in front of before me, its before me, its beak beak handle pointing at handle pointing at me me my hand? my hand?1ST M MURDERER: I'faith, it is not so. Oh no it isn't! Oh no it isn't!2ND M MURDERER: Thou speakest truth, sire. Oh yes it is! 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.