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: