Wyrd Sisters

was hilarious.
    He laid down the pen and rubbed his eyes. It must be nearly midnight, and the habit of a lifetime told him to spare the candles although, for a fact, they could afford all the candles they could eat now, whatever Vitoller might say.
    Hour gongs were being struck all across the city and night-watchmen were proclaiming that it was indeed midnight and also that, in the face of all the evidence, all was well. Many of them got as far as the end of the sentence before being mugged.
    Hwel pushed open the shutters and looked out at Ankh-Morpork.
    It would be tempting to say the twin city was at its best this time of year, but that wouldn’t be entirely correct. It was at its most typical .
    The river Ankh, the cloaca of half a continent, was already pretty wide and silt laden when it reached the city’s outskirts. By the time it left it didn’t so much flow as exude. Owing to the accretion of the mud of centuries the bed of the river was in fact higher than some of the low lying areas and now, with the snow melt swelling the flow, many of the low-rent districts on the Morpork side were flooded, if you can use that word for a liquid you could pick up in a net. This sort of thing happened every year and would have caused havoc with the drains and sewage systems, so it is just as well that the city didn’t have very many. Its inhabitants merely kept a punt handy in the back yard and, periodically, built another story on the house.
    It was reckoned to be very healthy there. Very few germs were able to survive.
    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 mushroom—Hwel 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 labors.
    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 we’ve always moved around, laddie,” said Vitoller, in the desperate voice of one who knows that, at the end of it all, he’s going to lose the argument. “I can’t go around settling down at my time of life.”
    “It’s not doing you any good,” said Tomjon firmly. “All these cold nights and frosty mornings. You’re not getting any younger. We should stay put somewhere, and let people come to us. And they will, too. You know the crowds we’re getting now. Hwel’s plays are famous.”
    “It’s not my plays,” Hwel had said. “It’s the players.”
    “I can’t see me sitting by a fire in a stuffy room and sleeping on feather beds and all that nonsense,” said Vitoller, but he’d seen the look on his wife’s face and had given in.
    And then there had been the theater itself. Making water run uphill was a parlor 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.
    “It’s against nature,” Vitoller had complained, leaning on his stick. “Capturing the spirit of the theater, putting it in a cage. It’ll kill it.”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” said Hwel diffidently. Tomjon had laid his plans well, he’d devoted an entire evening to Hwel before even broaching the subject to his father, and now the dwarf’s 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 theater than a monkey was of resenting a banana plantation.
    “Damn thing hasn’t even got a name,” Vitoller had said. “I should call it the Golde Mine , because that’s what it’s costing me. Where’s the money going to come from, that’s what I’d like to know.”
    In fact