Moving Pictures

Thousands, Yea, Even Tens of Thousands, Ruler of the Golden River, Master of the Bridges, Delver in Dark Places, Crusher of Many Enemies,’” he took a deep breath, “‘in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?’”
    Victor’s forehead creased.
    “I don’t get it,” he said.
    “Perhaps I not translate properly,” said Rock. He took a pull of molten sulfur. “I hear Untied Alchemists is casting for—”
    “Rock, there’s something very odd about this place,” said Victor urgently. “Can’t you feel it?”
    “What odd?”
    “Everything seems to, well, fizz . No one acts like they should. Did you know there was a great city here once? Where the sea is. A great city. And it’s just gone!”
    Rock rubbed his nose thoughtfully. It looked like a Neanderthal Man’s first attempt at an axe.
    “And there’s the way everyone acts!” said Victor. “As if who they are and what they want are the most important things in the world!”
    “I’m wondering—” Rock began.
    “Yes?” said Victor.
    “I’m wondering, would it be worth takin’ half a inch off my nose? My cousin Breccia knows this stonemason, fixed his ears a treat. What do you fink?”
    Victor stared dully at him.
    “I mean, on the one hand, it’s too big, but on the other hand, it’s definit’ly your stereotyped troll nose, right? I mean, maybe I’ll look better, but in this business maybe it best to look just as troll as you can. Like, Morry’s had his touched up with cement, now he got a face you wouldn’t want to meet on a dark night. What you fink? I value your opinion, because you a human with ideas.”
    He gave Victor a bright silicon smile.
    Eventually Victor said: “It’s a great nose, Rock. With you behind it, it could go a long way.”
    Rock gave a big grin, and took another pull of sulfur. He extracted a small steel swizzle stick and sucked the amethyst off it.
    “You really fink—” he began, and was then aware of the small area of empty space. Victor had gone.

    “I don’t know nuffin about no one,” said the horse-holder, looking shiftily at the looming presence of Detritus.
    Dibbler chewed on his cigar. It had been a bumpy journey from Ankh, even in his new coach, and he’d missed lunch.
    “Tall lad, bit dopey, thin mustache,” he said. “He was working for you, right?” The horse-holder gave in.
    “He’ll never make a good ’oss-’older, anyway,” he said.
    “Lets his work get on top of him. I think he went to get something to eat.”

    Victor sat in the dark alley, his back pressed against the wall, and tried to think.
    He remembered staying out in the sun too long, once, when he was a boy. The feeling he’d got afterward was something like this.
    There was a soft flopping noise in the packed sand by his feet.
    Someone had dropped a hat in front of him. He stared at it.
    Then someone started playing the harmonica. They weren’t very good at it. Most of the notes were wrong, and those that were right were cracked. There was a tune in there somewhere, in the same way that there’s a bit of beef in a hamburger grinder.
    Victor sighed and fumbled in his pocket for a couple of pennies. He tossed them into the hat.
    “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Very good. Now go away.”
    He was aware of a strange smell. It was hard to place, but could perhaps have been a very old and slightly damp nursery rug.
    He looked up.
    “Woof bloody woof,” said Gaspode the Wonder Dog.

    Borgle’s commissary had decided to experiment with salads tonight. The nearest salad growing district was thirty slow miles away.
    “What dis?” demanded a troll, holding up something limp and brown.
    Fruntkin the short-order chef hazarded a guess.
    “Celery?” he said. He peered closer. “Yeah, celery.”
    “It brown .”
    “’S’right. ’S’right! Ripe celery ort to be brown,” said Fruntkin, quickly. “Shows it’s ripe,” he added.
    “It should be green .”
    “Nah. Yore finking about the tomatoes,” said Fruntkin.
    “Yeah, and what’s this runny stuff?” said a man in the queue.
    Fruntkin drew himself up to his full height.
    “That,” he said, “is the mayonnaisey. Made it myself. Out of a book ,” he added proudly.
    “Yeah, I expect you did,” said the man, prodding it.
    “Clearly oil, eggs and vinegar were not involved, right?”
    “Specialitay de lar mayson,” said Fruntkin.
    “Right, right,” said the man. “Only it’s attacking my lettuce.”
    Fruntkin grasped his ladle