The Wee Free Men (Discworld 30)

There was something in the way the toad said it. They don’t steal…

“Do you know who has taken my brother, then?” Tiffany demanded.

“No. But…they might,” said the toad. “Look, Miss Tick told me that you were not to—”

“My brother has been stolen,” said Tiffany sharply. “Are you going to tell me not to do anything about it?”

“No, but—”

“Good! Where are the Feegles now?”

“Lying low, I expect. The place is full of people searching, after all, but—”

“How can I bring them back? I need them!”

“Um, Miss Tick said—”

“How can I bring them back?”

“Er…you want to bring them back, then?” said the toad, looking mournful.

“Yes!”

“It’s just that’s something not many people have ever wanted to do,” said the toad. “They’re not like brownies. If you get Nac Mac Feegle in the house, it’s usually best to move away.” He sighed. “Tell me, is your father a drinking man?”

“He has a beer sometimes,” said Tiffany. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Only beer?”

“Well, I’m not supposed to know about what my father calls the Special Sheep Liniment,” said Tiffany. “Granny Aching used to make it in the old cowshed.”

“Strong stuff, is it?”

“It dissolves spoons,” said Tiffany. “It’s for special occasions. Father says it’s not for women because it puts hairs on your chest.”

“Then if you want to be sure of finding the Nac Mac Feegle, go and fetch some,” said the toad. “It will work, believe me.”

Five minutes later Tiffany was ready. Few things are hidden from a quiet child with good eyesight, and she knew where the bottles were stored and she had one now. The cork was hammered in over a piece of rag, but it was old and she was able to lever it out with the tip of a knife. The fumes made her eyes water.

She went to pour some of the golden-brown liquid into a saucer—

“No! We’ll be trampled to death if you do that,” said the toad. “Just leave the cork off.”

Fumes rose from the top of the bottle, wavering like the air over rocks on a hot day.

She felt it—a sensation, in the dim, cool room, of riveted attention.

She sat down on a milking stool and said, “All right, you can come out now.”

There were hundreds. They rose up from behind buckets. They lowered themselves on string from the ceiling beams. They sidled sheepishly from behind the cheese racks. They crept out from under the sink. They came out of places where you’d think a man with hair like an orange gone nova couldn’t possibly hide.

They were all about six inches tall and mostly colored blue, although it was hard to know if that was the actual color of their skins or just the dye from their tattoos, which covered every inch that wasn’t covered with red hair. They wore short kilts, and some wore other bits of clothing too, like skinny vests. A few of them wore rabbit or rat skulls on their heads, as a sort of helmet. And every single one of them carried, slung across his back, a sword nearly as big as he was.

However, what Tiffany noticed more than anything else was that they were scared of her. Mostly they were looking at their own feet, which was no errand for the faint-hearted because their feet were large, dirty, and half tied up with animal skins to make very bad shoes. None of them wanted to look her in the eye.

“You were the people who filled the water buckets?” she said.

There was a lot of foot shuffling and coughing and a chorus of ayes.