'I like ghosts.'
They stood to one side and watched the dwarf artificers assembling the wave machine. It consisted of half a dozen long spindles, covered in complex canvas spirals painted in shades of blue and green and white, and stretching the complete width of the stage. An arrangement of cogs and endless belts led to a treadmill in the wings. When the spirals were all turning at once people with weak stomachs had to look away.
'Sea battles,' breathed Hwel. 'Shipwrecks. Tritons. Pirates!'
'Squeaky bearings, laddie,' groaned Vitoller, shifting his weight on his stick. 'Maintenance expenses. Overtime.'
'It does look extremely . . . intricate,' Hwel admitted. 'Who designed it?'
'A daft old chap in the Street of Cunning Artificers,' said Vitoller. 'Leonard of Quirm. He's a painter really. He just does this sort of thing for a hobby. I happened to hear that he's been working on this for months. I just snapped it up quick when he couldn't get it to fly.'
They watched the mock waves turn.
'You're bent on going?' said Vitoller, at last.
'Yes. Tomjon's still a bit wild. He needs an older head around the place.'
'I'll miss you, laddie. I don't mind telling you. You've been like a son to me. How old are you, exactly? I never did know.'
'A hundred and two.'
Vitoller nodded gloomily. He was sixty, and his arthritis was playing him up.
'You've been like a father to me, then,' he said.
'It evens out in the end,' said Hwel diffidently. 'Half the height, twice the age. You could say that on the overall average we live about the same length of time as humans.'
The playmaster sighed. 'Well, I don't know what I will do without you and Tomjon around, and that's a fact.'
'It's only for the summer, and a lot of the lads are staying. In fact it's mainly the apprentices that are going. You said yourself it'd be good experience.'
Vitoller looked wretched and, in the chilly air of the half-finished theatre, a good deal smaller than usual, like a balloon two weeks after the party. He prodded some wood shavings distractedly with his stick.
'We grow old, Master Hwel. At least,' he corrected himself, 'I grow old and you grow older. We have heard the gongs at midnight.'
'Aye. You don't want him to go, do you?'
'I was all for it at first. You know. Then I thought, there's destiny afoot. Just when things are going well, there's always bloody destiny. I mean, that's where he came from.
Somewhere up in the mountains. Now fate is calling him back. I shan't see him again.'
'It's only for the summer—'
Vitoller held up a hand. 'Don't interrupt. I'd got the right dramatic flow there.'
'Sorry.'
Flick, flick, went the stick on the wood shavings, knocking them into the air.
'I mean, you know he's not my flesh and blood.'
'He's your son, though,' said Hwel. 'This hereditary business isn't all it's cracked up to be.'
'It's fine of you to say that.'
'I mean it. Look at me. I wasn't supposed to be writing plays. Dwarfs aren't even supposed to be able to read. I shouldn't worry too much about destiny, if I was you. I was destined to be a miner. Destiny gets it wrong half the time.'
'But you said he looks like the Fool person. I can't see it myself, mark you.'