Wyrd Sisters

the word. We’ve got a special on GBH this season. Practically painless, you’ll 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 grayness 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.
    “You’re a dwarf, aren’t you?”
    Hwel didn’t feel he could deny this.
    “I can tell you’re a Fool,” he said.
    “Yes. It’s the bells, isn’t it?” said the Fool wearily, rubbing his ribs.
    “Yes, and the bells.” Tomjon grimaced and kicked Hwel under the table.
    “Well, I’m very grateful,” said the Fool. He stood up, and winced. “I’d 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. There’s hundreds.”
    “Right. See the one at the end, with the blue and white sign?”
    “Yes. I think so.”
    “Well, as far as I know, that’s the only one around here that’s ever closed.”
    “Then pray allow me to treat you to a drink. It’s the least I can do,” said the Fool nervously. “And I’m 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? “I’ll even put up with the singing,” he said.

    “Was’ the nex’ wor’?”
    “S’gold. 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 Fool’s 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.
    “S’all right,” he said, to the bar at large. “He don’t 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.
    “S’right. Long way away from wossname, sounds like foot disease. Don’t know how to behave. Don’t 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.
    “Who’re you?” he said.
    “Grabpot Thundergust,” said the dwarf, striking his chain-mailed torso. “And I say—”
    Hwel peered closer.
    “Here, I know you,” he said. “You got a cosmetics mill down Hobfast Street. I bought a lot of greasepaint off you last week—”
    A look of panic crossed