Hwel put his arms over his head in panic.

'I didn't 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 boy's 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 Hwel's 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 he'd written those words. He'd 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,' he'd said. 'A bit of zip and sizzle, y'know. Something to summon up the blood and put a bit of backbone in our friends in the ha'penny seats. And just long enough to give us time to change the set.'

He'd 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 man's 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 he'd written the words, they were his, no half-crazed king had ever really spoken like this. And he'd 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 don't 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 Patrician's palace tonight. And they'd 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 didn't 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. It's today that's young,' said the dwarf hurriedly.

'Well, I'm not going home yet. Isn't there somewhere a bit more friendly? We haven't actually drunk anything.'

Hwel sighed.

'A troll tavern,' said Tomjon. 'I've heard about them. There's some down in the Shades.[17] I'd like to see a troll tavern.'

They're for trolls only, boy. Molten lava to drink and rock music and cheese 'n' chutney flavoured pebbles.'

'What about dwarf bars?'

'You'd hate it,' said Hwel, fervently. 'Besides, you'd run out of headroom.'

'Low dives, are they?'

'Look at it like this – how long do you think you could sing about gold?'

' “It's yellow and it goes chink and you can buy things with it,” ' said Tomjon experimentally, as they strolled through the crowds on the Plaza of Broken Moons. 'Four seconds, I think.'

'Right. Five hours of it gets a bit repetitive.' Hwel kicked a pebble gloomily. He'd investigated a few dwarf bars last time they were in town, and hadn't approved. For some reason his fellow expatriates, who at home did nothing more objectionable than mine a bit of iron ore and hunt small creatures, felt impelled, once in the big city, to wear chain mail underwear, go around with axes in their belts, and call themselves names like Timkin Rumbleguts. And no-one could beat a city dwarf when it came to quaffing. Sometimes they missed their mouths altogether.

'Anyway,' he added, 'you'd get thrown out for being too creative. The actual words are, “Gold, gold, gold, gold, gold, gold”.'

'Is there a chorus?'

' “Gold, gold, gold, gold, gold”,' said Hwel.

'You left out a “gold” there.'

'I think it's because I wasn't cut out to be a dwarf.'

'Cut down, lawn ornament,' said Tomjon.

There was a little hiss of indrawn breath.

'Sorry,' said Tomjon hurriedly. 'It's just that father—'

'I've known your father for a long time,' said Hwel 'Through thick and thin, and there was a damn sight more thin than thick. Since before you were bor—' He hesitated 'Times were hard in those days,' he mumbled. 'So what I'm saying is . . . well, some things you earn.'

'Yes. I'm sorry.'

'You see, just—' Hwel paused at the mouth of a dark alley 'Did you hear something?' he said.

They squinted into the alley, once again revealing themselves as newcomers to the city. Morporkians don't look down dark alleys when they hear strange noises. If they see four struggling figures their first instinct is not to rush to anyone's assistance, or at least not to rush to the assistance of the one who appears to be losing and on the wrong end of someone else's boot. Nor do they shout 'Oi!' Above all, they don't look surprised when the assailants, instead of guiltily running off. flourish a small piece of cardboard in front of them.

'What's this?' said Tomjon.

'It's a clown!' said Hwel. 'They've mugged a clown!'

' “Theft Licence”?' said Tomjon, holding the card up to the light.

'That's right,' said the leader of the three. 'Only don't expect us to do you too, 'cos we're on our way home.'

'S'right,' said one of his assistants. 'It's the thingy, the quota.'

'But you were kicking him!'

'Worl, not a lot. Not what you'd call actual kicking.'

'More foot nudging, sort of thing,' said the third thief.

'Fair's fair. He bloody well went and fetched Ron here a right thump, didn't he?'

'Yeah. Some people have no idea.'

'Why, you heartless—' Hwel began, but Tomjon laid a cautioning hand on his head. The boy turned the card over. The obverse read:

J. H. 'Flannelfoot' Boggis and Nephews

Bespoke Thieves

'The Old Firm'

(Estblshd AM 1789)

All type Theft carryed out Professionly and

with Disgression

Houses cleared. 24-hr service. No job too small.

LET US QUOTE YOU FOR OUR FAMILY RATE

'It seems to be in order,' he said reluctantly.

Hwel paused in the act of helping the dazed victim to his feet.

'In order?' he shouted. 'To rob someone?'

'We'll give him a chitty, of course,' said Boggis. 'Lucky we found him first, really. Some of these newcomers in the business, they've got no idea.'[18]

'Cowboys,' agreed a nephew.

'How much did you steal?' said Tomjon.

Boggis opened the clown's purse, which was stuck in his belt. Then he went pale.

'Oh, bleeding hell,' he said, The Nephews clustered around.

'We're for it, sort of thing.'

'Second time this year, uncle.'

Boggis glared at the victim.

'Well, how was I to know? I wasn't to know, was I? I mean, look at him, how much would you expect him to have on him? Couple of coppers, right? I mean, we'd never have done for him, only it was on our way home. You try and do someone a favour, this is what happens.'

'How much has he got, then?' said Tomjon.

'There must be a hundred silver dollars in here,' moaned Boggis, waving a purse. 'I mean, that's not my league. That's not my class. I can't handle that sort of money. You've got to be in the Guild of Lawyers or something to steal that much. It's way over my quota, is that.'

'Give it back then,' said Tomjon.

'But I done him a receipt!'

'They've all got, you know, numbers on,' explained the younger of the nephews. 'The Guild checks up, sort of . . .'

Hwel grabbed Tomjon's 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. 'Who's gone mad? Them? Me? You?'

Tomjon explained.

'It's legal?'

'Up to a certain point. Fascinating, isn't it? Man in a pub told me about it, sort of thing.'

'But he's 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. 'I'll 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 it's 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 don't!—' 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 Tomjon's head at the Fool, who was now completely conscious and very angry. 'Very fair,' he said loudly. 'Statesmanlike. Much obliged, I'm sure.' He looked down at Tomjon. 'And anything for yourself, sir?' he added. 'Just say 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 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.

'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 die 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?'