tp.wyrd sisters-第35节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　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　newers　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；　leering。　'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　petition　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　plicated　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。
　'e　away　now；　you　fool；'　he　hissed。　'Before　it　wears　off。'
　He　grasped　the　boy　firmly　by　the　arm；　handed　a　couple　of　plimentary　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'