- 1 - 20/ Terry Pratchett - Full Discworld compilation Books 1 - 20 : / Terry Pratchett
: Nigel Planer, Steven Briggs
: Fantasy
: ISIS, HarperCollins
: English
: : MP3 : Various
: . , , 35 , ! (Discworld). ( 256 ). , , CD. - 21 - 36 / Full Discworld compilation Books 21 - 36 . :
Book 01 - The Colour of Magic
Book 02 - Light Fantastic
Book 03 - Equal Rites
Book 04 - Mort
Book 05 - Sourcery
Book 06 - Wyrd Sisters
Book 07 - Pyramids
Book 08 - Guards Guards
Book 09 - Eric
Book 10 - Moving Pictures
Book 11 - Reaper Man
Book 12 - Witches Abroad
Book 13 - Small Gods
Book 14 - Lords and Ladies
Book 15 - Men at Arms
Book 16 - Soul Music
Book 17 - Intreresting Times
Book 18 - Maskerade
Book 19 - Feet Of Clay
Book 20 - Hogfather
57,65% - 59,02%
, , : And then she was through, vaulting so low over the last peak that one of her boots filled with snow, and barrelling down towards the lowlands. The mist, never far away in the mountains, was back again, but this time it was making a fight of it and had become a thick, silver sea in front of her. She groaned.
Somewhere in the middle of it Nanny Ogg floated, taking the occasional pull from a hip flask as a preventative against the chill.
And thus it was that Granny, her hat and iron-grey hair dripping with moisture, her boots shedding lumps of ice, heard the distant and muffled sound of a voice enthusiastically explaining to the invisible sky that the hedgehog had less to worry over than just about any other mammal. Like a hawk that has spotted something small and fluffy in the grass, like a wandering interstellar flu germ that has just seen a nice blue planet drifting by, Granny turned the stick and plunged down through the choking billows.
Come on! she screamed, drunk with speed and exhilaration, and the sound from five hundred feet overhead put a passing wolf severely off its supper. This minute, Gytha Ogg!
Nanny Ogg caught her hand with considerable reluctance and the pair of broomsticks swept up again and into the clear, starlit sky.
The Disc, as always, gave the impression that the Creator has designed it specifically to be looked at from above. Streamers of cloud in white and silver stretched away to the rim, stirred into thousand-mile swirls by the turning of the world. Behind the speeding brooms the sullen roof of the fog was dragged up into a curling tunnel of white vapour, so that the watching godsand they were certainly watchingcould see the terrible flight as a furrow in the sky.
A thousand feet and rising fast into the frosty air, the two witches were bickering again.
It was a bloody stupid idea, moaned Nanny. I never liked heights.
Did you bring something to drink?
Certainly. You said.
Well?
I drank it, didnt I, said Nanny. sitting around up there at my age. Our Jason would have a fit.
Granny gritted her teeth. Well, lets have the power, she said. Im running out of up. Amazing how
Grannys voice ended in a scream as; without any warning at all, her broomstick pinwheeled sharply across the clouds and dropped from sight. The Fool and Magrat sat on a log on a small outcrop that looked out across the forest. The lights of Lancre town were in fact not very far away, but neither of them had suggested leaving.
The air between them crackled with unspoken thoughts and wild surmisings.
Youve been a Fool long? said Magrat, politely. She blushed in the darkness. In that atmosphere it sounded the most impolite of questions.
All my life, said the Fool bitterly. I cut my teeth on a set of bells.
I suppose it gets handed on, from father to son? said Magrat.
I never saw much of my father. He went off to be Fool for the Lords of Quirm when I was small, said the Fool. Had a row with my grandad. He comes back from time to time, to see my mam.
Thats terrible.
There was a sad jingle as the Fool shrugged. He vaguely recalled his father as a short, friendly little man, with eyes like a couple of oysters. Doing something as brave as standing up to the old boy must have been quite outside his nature. The sound of two suits of bells shaken in anger still haunted his memory, which was full enough of bad scenes as it was.
Still, said Magrat, her voice higher than usual and with a vibrato of uncertainty, it must be a happy life. Making people laugh, I mean.
When there was no reply she turned to look at the man. His face was like stone. In a low voice, talking as though she was not there, the Fool spoke.
He spoke of the Guild of Fools and Joculators in Ankh-Morpork.
Most visitors mistook it at first sight for the offices of the Guild of Assassins, which in fact was the rather pleasant,- airy collection of buildings next door (the Assassins always had plenty of money); sometimes the young Fools, slaving at their rote in rooms that were always freezing, even in high summer, heard the young Assassins at play over the wall and envied them, even though, of course, the number of piping voices grew noticeably fewer towards the end of term (the Assassins also believed in competitive examination).
In fact all sorts of sounds managed to breach the high grim windowless walls, and from keen questioning of servants the younger Fools picked up a vision of the city beyond. There were taverns out there, and parks. There was a whole bustling world, in which the students and apprentices of the various Guilds and Colleges took a full ripe part, either by playing tricks on it, running through it shouting, or throwing parts of it up. There was laughter which paid no attention to the Five Cadences or Twelve Inflections. Andalthough the students debated this news in the dormitories at nightthere was apparently unauthorised humour, delivered freestyle, with no reference to the Monster Fun Book or the Council or anyone.
Out there, beyond the stained stonework, people were telling jokes without reference to the Lords of Misrule.
It was a sobering thought. Well, not a sobering thought in actual fact, because alcohol wasnt allowed in the Guild. But if it was, it would have been.
There was nowhere more sober than the Guild.
The Fool spoke bitterly of the huge, redfaced Brother Prankster, of evenings learning the Merry Jests, of long mornings in the freezing gymnasium learning the Eighteen Pratfalls and the accepted trajectory for a custard pie. And juggling. Juggling! Brother Jape, a man with a soul like cold boiled string, taught juggling. It wasnt that the Fool was bad at juggling that reduced him to incoherent fury. Fools were expected to be bad at juggling, especially if juggling inherently funny items like custard pies, flaming torches or extremely sharp cleavers. What had Brother Jape laying about him in red-hot, clanging rage was the fact that the Fool was bad at juggling because he wasn t any good at it.
Didnt you want to be anything else? said Magrat.
What else is there? said the Fool. I havent seen anything else I could be.
Student Fools were allowed out, in the last year of training, but under a fearsome set of restrictions. Capering miserably through the streets hed seen wizards for the first time, moving like dignified carnival floats. Hed seen the surviving assassins, foppish, giggling young men in black silk, as sharp as knives underneath; hed seen priests, their fantastic costumes only slightly marred by the long rubber sacrificial aprons they wore for major services. Every trade and profession had its costume, he saw, and he realised for the first time that the uniform he was wearing had been carefully and meticulously designed for no other purpose than making its wearer look like a complete and utter pillock.
21:02
60:31% - 61,53%
The subsequent silence was broken by Granny Weatherwax saying, dont you ever do that again, Gytha Ogg.
I promise.
Now turn us around. Were heading for Lancre Bridge, remember? Nanny obediently turned the broomstick, brushing the canyon walls as she did so.
Its still miles to go, she said.
I mean to do it, said Granny. Theres plenty of night left.
Not enough, Im thinking.
A witch doesnt know the meaning of the word failure". Gytha.
They shot up into the clear air again. The horizon was a line of golden light as the slow dawn of the Disc sped across the land, bulldozing the suburbs of the night.
Esme? said Nanny Ogg, after a while.
What?
It means lack of success".
They flew in chilly silence for several seconds.
I was speaking wossname. Figuratively, said Granny.
Oh. Well. You should of said.
The line of light was bigger, brighter. For the first time a flicker of doubt invaded Granny Weatherwaxs mind, puzzled to find itself in such unfamiliar surroundings.
I wonder how many cockerels there are in Lancre? she said quietly.
Was that one of them wossname questions?
I was just wondering.
Nanny Ogg sat back. There were thirty-two of crowing age, she knew. She knew because shed worked it out last nighttonight - and had given Jason his instructions. She had fifteen grown-up children and innumerable grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and theyd had most of the evening to get into position. It should be enough.
Did you hear that? said Granny. Over Razorback way?
Nanny looked innocently across the misty landscape. Sound travelled very clearly in these early hours.
What? she said.
Sort of an urk noise?
No.
Granny spun around.
Over there, she said. I definitely heard it this time. Something like cock-a-doo-arrgh".
Cant say I did, Esme, said Nanny, smiling at the sky. Lancre Bridge up ahead.
And over there! Right down there! It was a definite squawk!
Dawn chorus, Esme, I expect. Look, only half a mile to go.
Granny glared at the back of her colleagues head.
Theres something going on here, she said.
Search me, Esme.
Your shoulders are shaking!
Lost my shawl back there. Im a bit chilly. Look, were nearly there.
Granny glared ahead, her mind a maze of suspicions. She was going to get to the bottom of this. When she had time.
The damp logs of Lancres main link to the outside world drifted gently underneath them. From the chicken farm half a mile away came a chorus of strangled squawks and a thud.
And that? What was that, then? demanded Granny.
Fowl pest. Careful, Im bringing us down.
Are you laughing at me?
Just pleased for you, Esme. Youll go down in history for this, you know.
They drifted between the timbers of the bridge. Granny Weatherwax alighted cautiously on the greasy planking and adjusted her dress.
Yes. Well, she added, nonchalantly.
Better than Black Aliss, everyonell say, Nanny Ogg went on.
Some people will say anything, said Granny. She peered over the parapet at the foaming torrent far below, and then up at the distant outcrop on which stood Lancre Castle.
Do you think they will? she added, nonchalantly.
Mark my words.
Hmm.
But youve got to complete the spell, mind.
Granny Weatherwax nodded. She turned to face the dawn, raised her arms, and completed the spell. It is almost impossible to convey the sudden passage of fifteen years and two months in words.
Its a lot easier in pictures, when you just use a calendar with lots of pages blowing off, or a clock with hands moving faster and faster until they blur, or trees bursting into blossom and fruiting in a matter of seconds . . .
Well, you know. Or the sun becomes a fiery streak across the sky, and days and nights flicker past jerkily like a bad zoetrope, and the fashions visible in the clothes shop across the road whip on and off faster than a lunchtime stripper with five pubs to do.
There are any amount of ways, but they wont be required because, in fact, none of this happened.
The sun did jerk sideways a bit, and it seemed that the trees on the rimward side of the gorge were rather taller, and Nanny couldnt shake off the sensation that someone had just sat down heavily on her, squashed her flat, and then opened her out again.
This was because the kingdom did not, in so many words, move through time in the normal flickering sky, high-speed photography sense of the word. It moved around it, which is much cleaner, considerably easier to achieve, and saves all that travelling around trying to find a laboratory opposite a dress shop that will keep the same dummy in the window for sixty years, which has traditionally been the most time-consuming and expensive bit of the whole business.
The kiss lasted more than fifteen years.
Not even frogs can manage that.
The Fool drew back, his eyes glazed, his expression one of puzzlement.
Did you feel the world move? he said.
Magrat peered over his shoulder at the forest.
I think shes done it, she said.
Done what?
Magrat hesitated. Oh. Nothing. Nothing much, really.
Shall we have another try? I dont think we got it quite right that time.
Magrat nodded.
This time it lasted only fifteen seconds. It seemed longer. A tremor ran through the castle, shaking the breakfast tray from which the Duke Felmet, much to his relief, was eating porridge that wasnt too salty.
It was felt by the ghosts that now filled Nanny Oggs cottage like a rugby team in a telephone box.
It spread to every henhouse in the kingdom, and a number of hands relaxed their grip. And thirty-two purple-faced cockerels took a deep bream and crowed like maniacs, but they were too late, too late . . . I still reckon you were up to something, said Granny Weatherwax.
Have another cup of tea, said Nanny pleasantly.
You wont go and put any drink in it, will you, Granny said flatly. It was the drink what did it last night. I would never have put myself forward like that. Its shameful.
Black Aliss never done anything like it, said Nanny, encouragingly. I mean, it was a hundred years, all right, but it was only one castle she moved. I reckon anyone could do a castle.
28:52
62:87% - 64:16%
Hwel looked across a sort of misty sea in which buildings clustered like a sandcastle competition at high tide. Flares and lighted windows made pleasing patterns on the iridescent surface, but there was one glare of light, much closer to hand, which particularly occupied his attention.
On a patch of slightly higher ground by the river, bought by Vitoller for a ruinous sum, a new building was rising. It was growing even by night, like a mushroomHwel could see the cressets burning all along the scaffolding as the hired craftsmen and even some of the players themselves refused to let the mere shade of the sky interrupt their labours.
New buildings were rare in Morpork, but this was even a new type of building.
The Dysk.
Vitoller had been aghast at the idea at first, but young Tomjon had kept at him. And everyone knew that once the lad had got the feel of it he could persuade water to flow uphill.
But weve always moved around, laddie, said Vitoller, in the desperate voice of one who knows that, at the end of it all, hes going to lose the argument. I cant go around settling down at my time of life.
Its not doing you any good, said Tomjon firmly. All these cold nights and frosty mornings. Youre not getting any younger. We should stay put somewhere, and let people come to us. And they will, too. You know the crowds were getting now. Hwels plays are famous.
Its not my plays, Hwel had said. Its the players.
I cant see me sitting by a fire in a stuffy room and sleeping on feather beds and all that nonsense, said Vitoller, but hed seen the look on his wifes face and had given in.
And then there had been the theatre itself. Making water run uphill was a parlour trick compared to getting the cash out of Vitoller but, it was a fact, they had been doing well these days. Ever since Tomjon had been big enough to wear a ruff and say two words without his voice cracking.
Hwel and Vitoller had watched the first few beams of the wooden framework go up.
Its against nature, Vitoller had complained, leaning on his stick. Capturing the spirit of the theatre, putting it in a cage. Itll kill it.
Oh, I dont know, said Hwel diffidently. Tomjon had laid his plans well, hed devoted an entire evening to Hwel before even broaching the subject to his father, and now the dwarfs mind was on fire with the possibilities of backdrops and scenery changes and wings and flies and magnificent engines that could lower gods from the heavens and trapdoors that could raise demons from hell. Hwel was no more capable of objecting to the new theatre than a monkey was of resenting a banana plantation.
Damn thing hasnt even got a name, Vitoller had said. I should call it the Golde Mine, because thats what its costing me. Wheres the money going to come from, thats what Id like to know.
In fact theyd tried a lot of names, none of which suited Tomjon.
Its got to be a name that means everything, he said. Because theres 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 hadnt 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?
Whats 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, its what youre 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 its all that foreign food", and then the youngest one said, Nanny, Ive told you already, theres no such place as Thespia", and then they bickered a bit, and one of the old ones said, He cant hear us, can he? Hes tossing and turning a bit", and the other one said, You know Ive 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. Tomjons face had that familiar expression of polite and slightly condescending puzzlement that Hwel had come to know and dread.
12. Terry Pratchett - Wyrd Sisters.mp3:
06:42
A monkeys a monkey, said the bearded man, at which several of the Drums more percipient customers started to edge for the door. I mean, so what? But these bloody lawn ornaments
Hwels 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 Hwels 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 hadnt instantly jerked the thing from his grip and, with only a small amount of effort, bent it double.1
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 nights 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 theres, 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.
Its 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 didnt 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 boys 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 Hwels 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 hed written those words. Hed 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, hed said. A bit of zip and sizzle, yknow. Something to summon up the blood and put a bit of backbone in our friends in the hapenny seats. And just long enough to give us time to change the set.
Hed 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 mans 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 hed written the words, they were his, no half-crazed king had ever really spoken like this. And hed 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 dont 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 Patricians palace tonight. And theyd 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 didnt 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. Its today thats young, said the dwarf hurriedly.
Well, Im not going home yet. Isnt there somewhere a bit more friendly? We havent actually drunk anything.
Hwel sighed.
A troll tavern, said Tomjon. Ive heard about them. Theres some down in the Shades. (The Shades is an ancient part of Ankh-Morpork considered considerably more unpleasant and disreputable than the rest of the city. This always amazes visitors.) Id like to see a troll tavern.
Theyre for trolls only, boy. Molten lava to drink and rock music and cheese n chutney flavoured pebbles.
14:31
But I done him a receipt!
Theyve all got, you know, numbers on, explained the younger of the nephews. The Guild checks up, sort of . . .
Hwel grabbed Tomjons hand.
Will you excuse us a moment? he said to the frantic thief, and dragged Tomjon to the other side of the alley.
Okay, he said. Whos gone mad? Them? Me? You?
Tomjon explained.
Its legal?
Up to a certain point. Fascinating, isnt it? Man in a pub told me about it, sort of thing.
But hes stolen too much?
So it appears. I gather the Guild is very strict about it.
There was a groan from the victim hanging between them. He tinkled gently.
Look after him, said Tomjon. Ill sort this out.
He went back to the thieves, who were looking very worried.
My client feels, he said, that the situation could be resolved if you give the money back.
Ye-es, said Boggis, approaching the idea as if it was a brand new theory of cosmic creation. But its the receipt. see, we have to fill it up, time and place, signed and everything . . .
My client feels that possibly you could rob him of, let us say, five copper pieces, said Tomjon, smoothly.
I bloody dont! shouted the Fool, who was coming round.
That represents two copper pieces as the going rate, plus expenses of three copper pieces for time, call-out fees
Wear and tear on cosh, said Boggis.
Exactly.
Very fair. Very fair. Boggis looked over Tomjons head at the Fool, who was now completely conscious and very angry. Very fair, he said loudly. statesmanlike. Much obliged, Im sure. He looked down at Tomjon. And anything for yourself, sir? he added. Just say the word. Weve got a special on GBH this season. Practically painless, youll barely feel a thing.
Hardly breaks the skin, said the older nephew. Plus you get choice of limb.
I believe I am well served in that area, said Tomjon smoothly.
Oh. Well. Right you are then. No problem.
Which merely leaves, continued Tomjon, as the thieves started to walk away, the question of legal fees. The gentle greyness at the stump of the night flowed across Ankh-Morpork. Tomjon and Hwel sat on either side of the table in their lodgings, counting.
Three silver dollars and eighteen copper pieces in profit, I make it, said Tomjon.
That was amazing, said the Fool. I mean, the way they volunteered to go home and get some more money as well, after you gave them that speech about the rights of man.
He dabbed some more ointment on his head.
And the youngest one started to cry, he added. Amazing.
It wears off, said Hwel.
Youre a dwarf, arent you?
Hwel didnt feel he could deny this.
I can tell youre a Fool, he said.
Yes. Its the bells, isnt it? said the Fool wearily, rubbing his ribs.
Yes, and the bells. Tomjon grimaced and kicked Hwel under die table.
Well, Im very grateful, said the Fool. He stood up, and winced. Id really like to show my gratitude, he added. Is there a tavern open around here?
Tomjon joined him at the window, and pointed down the length of the street.
See all those tavern signs? he said.
Yes. Gosh. Theres hundreds.
Right. See the one at the end, with the blue and white sign?
Yes. I think so.
Well, as far as I know, thats the only one around here thats ever closed.
Then pray allow me to treat you to a drink. Its the least I can do, said the Fool nervously. And Im sure the little fellow would like something to quaff.
Hwel gripped the edge of the table and opened his mouth to roar.
And stopped.
He stared at the two figures. His mouth stayed open.
It closed again with a snap.
Something the matter? said Tomjon.
Hwel looked away. It had been a long night. Trick of the light, he muttered. And I could do with a drink, he added. A bloody good quaff.
In fact, he thought, why fight it? Ill even put up with the singing, he said. Was the nex wor?
Sgold. I think.
Ah.
Hwel looked unsteadily into his mug. Drunkenness had this to be said for it, it stopped the flow of inspirations.
And you left out the gold", he said.
Where? said Tomjon. He was wearing the Fools hat.
Hwel considered this. I reckon, he said, concentrating, it was between the gold and the gold". An I reckon, he peered again into the mug. It was. empty, a horrifying sight. I reckon, he tried again, and finally gave up, and substituted, I reckon I could do with another drink.
My shout this time, said the Fool. Hahaha. My squeak. Hahaha. He tried to stand up, and banged his head.
In the gloom of the bar a dozen axes were gripped more firmly. The part of Hwel that was sober, and was horrified to see the rest of him being drunk, urged him to wave his hand at the beetling brows glaring at them through the gloom.
Sall right, he said, to the bar at large. He dont mean it, he ver funny wossname, idiot. Fool. Ver funny Fool, all way from wassisplace.
Lancre, said the Fool, and sat down heavily on the bar.
Sright. Long way away from wossname, sounds like foot disease. Dont know how to behave. Dont know many dwarfs.
Hahaha, said the Fool, clutching his head. Bit short of them where I come from.
Someone tapped Hwel on the shoulder. He turned and looked into a craggy, hairy face under an iron helmet. The dwarf in question was tossing a throwing axe up and down in a meaningful way.
You ought to tell your friend to be a bit less funny, he suggested. Otherwise he will be amusing the demons in Hell!
Hwel squinted at him through the alcoholic haze.
Whore you? he said.
Grabpot Thundergust, said the dwarf, striking his chain-mailed torso. And I say
Hwel peered closer.
22:21
I'm not trying to pressure you, said Vitoller. All three pairs of eyes swivelled back to the money bag. It seems a bit fishy, Tomjon conceded. I mean, the Fool is decent enough. But the way he tells it . . . its very odd. His mouth says the words, and his eyes say something else. And I got the impression hed much rather we believed his eyes.
On the other hand, said Vitoller hurriedly, what harm could it do? The pays the thing.
Hwel raised his head.
What? he said muzzily.
I said, the plays the thing, said Vitoller.
There was silence again, except for the drumming of Hwels fingertips. The bag of silver seemed to have grown larger. In fact, it seemed to fill the room.
The thing is Vitoller began, unnecessarily loudly.
The way I see it Hwel began.
They both stopped.
After you. Sorry.
It wasnt important. Go ahead.
I was going to say, we could afford to build the Dysk anyway, said Hwel.
Just the shell and the stage, said Vitoller. But not all the other things. Not the trapdoor mechanism, or the machine for lowering gods out of heaven. Or the big turntable, or the wind fans.
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. Ive got this idea about this ship wrecked on an island, where theres this
Sorry. Vitoller shook his head.
But weve had some huge audiences! said Tomjon.
Sure, lad. Sure. But they pay in hapennies. The artificers want silver. If we wanted to be rich menpeople, 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.
Hes the one that has peoples limbs torn off! said Tomjon.
How much do you owe him? said Hwel.
Its all right, said Vitoller hurriedly, Tm 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 doesnt 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, theyre right. Its no life out on the road, giving two performances a day to a bunch of farmers and going round with a hat afterwards, what sort of future is that? I thought, weve got to get a place somewhere, with comfortable seats for the gentry, people who dont throw potatoes at the stage. I said, blow the cost. I just wanted you to
All right, all right! shouted Hwel. Ill write it!
Ill act it, said Tomjon.
Im not forcing you, mind, said Vitoller. Its your own choice.
Hwel frowned at the table. There were, he had to admit, some nice touches. Three witches was good. Two wouldnt 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 well do it, can we? said Vitoller, his hand on the bag of silver.
And of course you couldnt go wrong with a good storm. And there was the ghost routine that Vitoller had cut out of Please Yourself, saying they couldnt 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 hed come from? he said.
The Ramtops, said the playmaster. some little kingdom no-one has ever heard of. Sounds like a chest infection.
Itd take months to get there.
Id like to go, anyway, said Tomjon. Thats 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 others face.
Thats what you said, said the boy. When you did a tour of the mountains, you said.
Yes, but I cant 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. Itd be good for them, he said slyly. You always said some of the young lads dont know what a real acting life is like.
Hwels 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 cant work! Its 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.
13. Terry Pratchett - Wyrd Sisters.mp3
00:11
The top sheet read:
Verence Felmet Small Gods Eve A Night Of Knives Daggers Kings, by, Hwel of Vitollers 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. Its 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. Its 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. Hes a painter really. He just does this sort of thing for a hobby. I happened to hear that hes been working on this for months. I just snapped it up quick when he couldnt get it to fly.
They watched the mock waves turn.
Youre bent on going? said Vitoller, at last.
Yes. Tomjons still a bit wild. He needs an older head around the place.
Ill miss you, laddie. I dont mind telling you. Youve been like a son to me. How old are you, exactly? I never did know.
A hundred and two.
Vitoller nodded gloomily. He was sixty, and his arthritis was playing him up.
Youve been like a father to me, then, he said.
It evens out in the end, said Hwel diffidently. Half the height, twice the age. You could say that on the overall average we live about the same length of time as humans.
The playmaster sighed. Well, I dont know what I will do without you and Tomjon around, and thats a fact.
Its only for the summer, and a lot of the lads are staying. In fact its mainly the apprentices that are going. You said yourself itd be good experience.
Vitoller looked wretched and, in the chilly air of the half-finished theatre, a good deal smaller than usual, like a balloon two weeks after the party. He prodded some wood shavings distractedly with his stick.
We grow old, Master Hwel. At least, he corrected himself, I grow old and you grow older. We have heard the gongs at midnight.
Aye. You dont want him to go, do you?
I was all for it at first. You know. Then I thought, theres destiny afoot. Just when things are going well, theres always bloody destiny. I mean, thats where he came from.
Somewhere up in the mountains. Now fate is calling him back. I shant see him again.
Its only for the summer
Vitoller held up a hand. dont interrupt. Id got the right dramatic flow there.
Sorry.
Flick, flick, went the stick on the wood shavings, knocking them into the air.
I mean, you know hes not my flesh and blood.
Hes your son, though, said Hwel. This hereditary business isnt all its cracked up to be.
Its fine of you to say that.
I mean it. Look at me. I wasnt supposed to be writing plays. Dwarfs arent even supposed to be able to read. I shouldnt worry too much about destiny, if I was you. I was destined to be a miner. Destiny gets it wrong half the time.
But you said he looks like the Fool person. I cant see it myself, mark you.
The lights got to be right.
Could be some destiny at work there.
Hwel shrugged. Destiny was funny stuff, he knew. You couldnt trust it. Often you couldnt even see it. Just when you knew you had it cornered, it turned out to be something elsecoincidence, maybe, or providence. You barred the door against it, and it was standing behind you. Then just when you thought you had it nailed down it walked away with the hammer.
He used destiny a lot. As a tool for his plays it was even better than a ghost. There was nothing like a bit of destiny to get the old plot rolling. But it was a mistake to think you could spot the shape of it. And as for thinking it could be controlled . . .
08:02
Magrat was glad to get back home. No-one was about on the moors at night anyway, but over the last couple of months things had definitely been getting worse. On top of the general suspicion of witches, it was dawning on the few people in Lancre who had any dealings with the outside world that a) either more things had been happening than they had heard about before or b) time was out of joint. It wasnt easy to prove (Because of the way time was recorded among the various states, kingdoms and cities. After all, when over an area of a hundred square miles the same year is variously the Year of the Small Bat, and Anticipated Monkey, the Hunting Cloud, Fat Cows, Three Bright Stallions and at least nine numbers recording the time since* assorted kings, prophets, and strange events were either crowned, born or happened, and each year has a different number of months, and some of them dont have weeks, and one of them refuses to accept the day as a measure of time, the only thing it is possible to be sure of is that good sex doesnt last long enough.
____________________________
* The calendar of the Theocracy of Muntab counts down, not up. No-one knows why, but it might not be a good idea to hang around and find out.
Except for the Zabingo tribe of the Great Nef, of course.), but the few traders who came along the mountain tracks after the winter seemed to be rather older than they should have been. Unexplained happenings were always more or less expected in the Ramtops because of the high magical potential, but several years disappearing overnight was a bit of a first.
She locked the door, fastened the shutters, and carefully laid the green glass globe on the kitchen table.
She concentrated . . .
The Fool dozed under the tarpaulins of the river barge, heading up the Ankh at a steady two miles an hour. It wasnt an exciting method of transport but it got you there eventually.
He looked safe enough, but he was tossing and turning in his sleep.
Magrat wondered what it was like, spending your whole life doing something you didnt want to do. Like being dead, she considered, only worse, the reason being, you were alive to suffer it.
She considered the Fool to be weak, badly led and sorely in need of some backbone. And she was longing for him to get back, so she could look forward to never seeing him again.
It was a long, hot summer. They didnt rush things. There was a lot of country between Ankh-Morpork and the Ramtops. It was, Hwel had to admit, fun. It wasnt a word dwarfs were generally at home with.
Please Yourself went over well. It always did. The apprentices excelled themselves. They forgot lines, and played jokes; in Sto Lat the whole third act of Gretalina and Mellias was performed against the backdrop for the second act of The Mage Wars, but no-one seemed to notice that the greatest love scene in history was played on a set depicting a tidal wave sweeping across a continent. That was possibly because Tomjon was playing Gretalina. The effect was so disconcertingly riveting that Hwel made him swap roles for the next house, if you could apply the term to a barn hired for the day, and the effect still had more rivets than a suit of plate armour, including the helmet, and even though Gretalina in this case was now young Wimsloe, who was a bit simple and tended to stutter and whose spots might eventually clear up.
The following day, in some nameless village in the middle of an endless sea of cabbages, he let Tomjon play Old Miskin in Please Yourself, a role that Vitoller always excelled in. You couldnt let anyone play it who was under the age of forty, not unless you wanted an Old Miskin with a cushion up his jerkin and greasepaint wrinkles.
Hwel didnt consider himself old. His father had still been digging three tons of ore a day at the age of two hundred.
Now he felt old. He watched Tomjon hobble off the stage, and for a fleeting instant knew what it was to be a fat old man, pickled in wine, fighting old wars that no-one cared about any more, hanging grimly on to the precipice of late middle-age for fear of dropping off into antiquity, but only with one hand, because with the other he was raising two fingers at Death. Of course, hed known that when he wrote the part. But he hadnt known it.
The same magic didnt seem to infuse the new play. They tried it a few times, just to see how it went. The audience watched attentively, and went home. They didnt even bother to throw anything. It wasnt that they thought it was bad. They didnt think it was anything.
But all the right ingredients were there, werent they? Tradition was full of people giving evil rulers a well-justified seeing to. Witches were always a draw. The apparition of Death was particularly good, with some lovely lines. Mix them all together . . . and they seemed to cancel out, become a mere humdrum way of filling the stage for a couple of hours.
Late at night, when the cast was alseep, Hwel would sit up in one of the carts and feverishly rewrite. He rearranged scenes, cut lines, added lines, introduced a clown, included another fight, and tuned up the special effects. It didnt seem to have any effect. The play was like some marvellous intricate painting, a feast of impressions close to, a mere blur from the distance.
When the inspirations were sleeting fast he even tried changing the style. In the morning the early risers grew accustomed to finding discarded experiments decorating the grass around the carts, like extremely literate mushrooms.
Tomjon kept one of the strangest: 1ST WITCHE: Hes late.
(Pause)
2ND WITCHE: He said he would come.
(Pause)
3RD WITCHE: He said he would come but he hasnt. This is my last newt. I saved it for him. And he hasnt come.
(Pause) I think, said Tomjon, later, you ought to slow down a bit. Youve done what was ordered. No-one said it had to sparkle.
It could, you know. If I could just get it right.
Youre absolutely sure about the ghost, are you? said Tomjon. The way he threw the line away made it clear that he wasnt.
Theres nothing wrong with the ghost, snapped Hwel. The scene with the ghost is the best Ive done.
I was just wondering if this is the right play for it, thats all.
The ghost stays. Now lets get on, boy. Two days later, with the Ramtops a blue and white wall that was beginning to dominate the Hubward horizon, the company was attacked. There wasnt much drama; they had just manhandled the lattys across a ford and were resting in the shade of a grove of trees, which suddenly fruited robbers.
Hwel looked along the line of half a dozen stained and rusty blades. Their owners seemed slightly uncertain about what to do next.
Weve got a receipt somewhere he began.
Tomjon nudged him. These dont look like Guild thieves, he hissed. They definitely look freelance to me.
15:51
Just because I might have chuckled a . . . a bit roughly, sniffed Granny. She felt that she was being unduly defensive. Anyway, theres nothing wrong with cackling. In moderation. I think, said Tomjon, that were lost.
Hwel looked at the baking purple moorland around them, which stretched up to the towering spires of the Ramtops themselves. Even in the height of summer there were pennants of snow flying from the highest peaks. It was a landscape of describable beauty.
Bees were busy, or at least endeavouring to look and sound busy, in the thyme by the trackside. Cloud shadows flickered over the alpine meadows. There was the kind of big, empty silence made by an environment that not only doesnt have any people in it, but doesnt need them either.
Or signposts.
We were lost ten miles ago, said Hwel. Theres got to be a new word for what we are now.
You said the mountains were honeycombed with dwarf mines, said Tomjon. You said a dwarf could tell wherever he was in the mountains.
Underground, I said. Its all a matter of strata and rock formations. Not on the surface. All the landscape gets in the way.
We could dig you a hole, said Tomjon.
But it was a nice day and, as the road meandered through clumps of hemlock and pine, outposts of the forest, it was pleasant enough to let the mules go at their own pace. The road, Hwel felt, had to go somewhere.
This geographical fiction has been the death of many people. Roads dont necessarily have to go anywhere, they just have to have somewhere to start.
We are lost, arent we? said Tomjon, after a while.
Certainly not.
Where are we, then?
The mountains. Perfectly clear on any atlas.
We ought to stop and ask someone.
Tomjon gazed around at the rolling countryside. Somewhere a lonely curlew howled, or possibly it was a badgerHwel was a little hazy about rural matters, at least those that took place higher than about the limestone layer. There wasnt another human being within miles.
Who did you have in mind? he said sarcastically.
That old woman in the funny hat, said Tomjon, pointing. Ive been watching her. She keeps ducking down behind a bush when she thinks Ive seen her.
Hwel turned and looked down at a bramble bush, which wobbled.
Ho there, good mother, he said.
The bush sprouted an indignant head.
Whose mother? it said.
Hwel hesitated. Just a figure of speech, Mrs . . . Miss . . .
Mistress, snapped Granny Weatherwax. And Im a poor old woman gathering wood, she added defiantly.
She cleared her throat. Lawks, she went on. You did give me a fright, young master. My poor old heart.
There was silence from the carts. Then Tomjon said, Im sorry?
What? said Granny.
Your poor old heart what?
What about my poor old heart? said Granny, who wasnt used to acting like an old woman and had a very limited repertoire in this area. But its traditional that young heirs seeking their destiny get help from mysterious old women gathering wood, and she wasnt about to buck tradition.
Its just that you mentioned it, said Hwel.
Well, it isnt important. Lawks. I expect youre looking for Lancre, said Granny testily, in a hurry to get to the point.
Well, yes, said Tomjon. All day.
Youve come too far, said Granny. Go back about two miles, and take the track on the right, past the stand of pines.
Wimsloe tugged at Tomjons shirt.
When you m-meet a m-mysterious old lady in the road, he said, youve got to offer to s-share your lunch. Or help her across the r-river.
You have?
Its t-terribly b-bad luck not to.
Tomjon gave Granny a polite smile.
Would you care to share our lunch, good moold womaam?
Granny looked doubtful.
What is it?
Salt pork.
She shook her head. Thanks all the same, she said graciously. But it gives me wind.
She turned on her heel and set off through the bushes.
We could help you across the river if you like, shouted Tomjon after her.
What river? said Hwel. Were on the moor, there cant be a river in miles.
Y-youve got to get them on y-your side, said Wimsloe. Then t-they help you.
Perhaps we should have asked her to wait while we went and looked for one, said Hwel sourly.
They found the turning. It led into a forest criss-crossed with as many tracks as a marshalling yard, the sort of forest where the back of your head tells you the trees are turning around to watch you as you go past and the sky seems to be very high up and a long way off. Despite the heat of the day a dank, impenetrable gloom hovered among the tree trunks, which crowded up to the track as if intending to obliterate it completely.
They were soon lost again, and decided that being lost somewhere where you didnt know where you were was even worse than being lost in the open.
She could have given more explicit instructions, said Hwel.
Like ask at the next crone, said Tomjon. Look over there.
He stood up in the seat.
Ho there, old . . . good . . . he hazarded.
Magrat pushed back her shawl.
Just a humble wood gatherer, she snapped. She held up a twig for proof. Several hours waiting with nothing but trees to talk to hadnt improved her temper.
Wimsloe nudged Tomjon, who nodded and fixed his face in an ingratiating smile.
Would you care to share our lunch, old . . . good wo . . . miss? he said. Its only salt pork, Im afraid.
Meat is extremely bad for the digestive system, said Magrat. If you could see inside your colon youd be horrified.
I think I would, muttered Hwel.
Did you know that an adult male carries up to five pounds of undigested red meat in his intestines at all times? said Magrat, whose informative lectures on nutrition had been known to cause whole families to hide in the cellar until she went away. Whereas pine kernels and sunflower seeds
There arent any rivers around that you need helping over, are there? said Tomjon desperately.
Dont be silly, said Magrat. Im just a humble wood gatherer, lawks, collecting a few sticks and mayhap directing lost travellers on the road to Lancre.
Ah, said Hwel, I thought wed get to that.
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