'I think perhaps it would be a good idea to leave,' said the dwarf firmly. 'Before there's, you know, any trouble.'
There was a thump as someone landed on the table above them, and a tinkle of broken glass.
'Is it real roistering, do you suppose, or merely rollicking?' said Tomjon, grinning.
'It's going to be bloody murder in a minute, my lad!'
Tomjon nodded, and crawled back out into the fray. Hwel heard him thump on the bar counter with something and call for silence.
thing hasn't even got a name,' Vitoller had said. 'I should call it the Golde Mine, because that's what it's costing me. Where's the money going to come from, that's what I'd like to know.'
In fact they'd tried a lot of names, none of which suited Tomjon.
'It's got to be a name that means everything,' he said. 'Because there's everything inside it. The whole world on the stage, do you see?'
And Hwel had said, knowing as he said it that what he was saying was exactly right, 'The Disc.'
And now the Dysk was nearly done, and still he hadn't written the new play.
He shut the window and wandered back to his desk, picked up the quill, and pulled another sheet of paper towards him. A thought struck him. The whole world was a stage, to the gods . . .
Presently he began to write.
All the Disc it is but an Theater, he wrote, Aite alle men and wymmen are but Players. He made the mistake of pausing, and another inspiration sleeted down, sending his train of thought off along an entirely new track.
He looked at what he had written and added: Except Those who selle popcorn.
After a while he crossed this out, and tried: Like unto thee Staje of a Theater ys the World, whereon alle Persons strut as Players.
This seemed a bit better.
He thought for a bit, and continued conscientiously: Sometimes they walke on. Sometimes they walke off.
He seemed to be losing it. Time, time, what he needed was an infinity . . .
There was a muffled cry and a thump from the next room. Hwel dropped the quill and pushed open the door cautiously.
The boy was sitting up in bed, white-faced. He relaxed when Hwel came in.
'Hwel?'
'What's up, lad? Nightmares?'
'Gods, it was terrible! I saw them again! I really thought for a minute that—'
Hwel, who was absent-mindedly picking up the clothes that Tomjon had strewn around the room, paused in his work. He was keen on dreams. That was when the ideas came.
'That what?' he said.
'It was like . . . I mean, I was sort of inside something, like a bowl, and there were these three terrible faces peering in at me.'
'Aye?'
'Yes, and then they all said, “All hail . . .” and then they started arguing about my name, and then they said, “Anyway, who shall be king hereafter?” And then one of them said, “Here after what?” and one of the other two said, “Just hereafter, girl, it's what you're supposed to say in these circumstances, you might try and make an effort”, and then they all peered closer, and one of the others said, “He looks a bit peaky, I reckon it's all that foreign food”, and then the youngest one said, “Nanny, I've told you already, there's no such place as Thespia”, and then they bickered a bit, and one of the old ones said, “He can't hear us, can he? He's tossing and turning a bit”, and the other one said, “You know I've never been able to get sound on this thing, Esme”, and then they bickered some more, and it went cloudy, and then . . . I woke up . . .' he finished lamely. 'It was horrible, because every time they came close to the bowl it sort of magnified everything, so all you could see was eyes and nostrils.'
Hwel hoisted himself on to the edge of the narrow bed.
'Funny old things, dreams,' he said.