Wyrd Sisters

Too much of the drink actually landed in his mouth.
    Judging by the taste in it, some incontinent creature of the night had also scored a direct hit.
    “Can you do it?” said Vitoller.
    Hwel smacked his lips to get rid of the taste.
    “I expect,” said Tomjon. “It sounded interesting, the way he told it. Wicked king ruling with the help of evil witches. Storms. Ghastly forests. True Heir to Throne in Life-and-Death Struggle. Flash of Dagger. Screams, alarums. Evil king dies. Good triumphs. Bells ring out.”
    “Showers of rose petals could be arranged,” said Vitoller. “I know a man who can get them at practically cost.”
    They both looked at Hwel, who was drumming his fingers on his stool. All three found their attention drawn to the bag of silver the Fool had given Hwel. Even by itself it represented enough money to complete the Dysk. And there had been talk of more to follow. Patronage, that was the thing.
    “You’ll do it then, will you?” said Vitoller.
    “It’s got a certain something,” Hwel conceded. “But…I don’t know…”
    “I’m not trying to pressure you,” said Vitoller. All three pairs of eyes swiveled 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…it’s very odd. His mouth says the words, and his eyes say something else. And I got the impression he’d much rather we believed his eyes.”
    “On the other hand,” said Vitoller hurriedly, “what harm could it do? The pay’s the thing.”
    Hwel raised his head.
    “What?” he said muzzily.
    “I said, the play’s the thing,” said Vitoller.
    There was silence again, except for the drumming of Hwel’s 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 wasn’t 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. I’ve got this idea about this ship wrecked on an island, where there’s this—”
    “Sorry.” Vitoller shook his head.
    “But we’ve had some huge audiences!” said Tomjon.
    “Sure, lad. Sure. But they pay in ha’pennies. The artificers want silver. If we wanted to be rich men—people,” 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.
    “He’s the one that has people’s limbs torn off!” said Tomjon.
    “How much do you owe him?” said Hwel.
    “It’s all right,” said Vitoller hurriedly, “I’m 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 doesn’t 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, they’re right. It’s no life out on the road, giving two performances a day to a bunch of farmers and going around with a hat afterward, what sort of future is that? I thought, we’ve got to get a place somewhere, with comfortable seats for the gentry, people who don’t throw potatoes at the stage. I said, blow the cost. I just wanted you to—”
    “All right, all right!” shouted Hwel. “I’ll write it!”
    “I’ll act it,” said Tomjon.
    “I’m not forcing you, mind,” said Vitoller. “It’s your own choice.”
    Hwel frowned at the table. There were, he had to admit, some nice touches. Three witches was good. Two wouldn’t be enough, four would be too many. They could