'The thing is—' Vitoller began, unnecessarily loudly.
'The way I see it—' Hwel began.
They both stopped.
'After you. Sorry.'
'It wasn't important. Go ahead.'
'I was going to say, we could afford to build the Dysk anyway,' said Hwel.
'Just the shell and the stage,' said Vitoller. 'But not all the other things. Not the trapdoor mechanism, or the machine for lowering gods out of heaven. Or the big turntable, or the wind fans.'
'We used to manage without all that stuff,' said Hwel. 'Remember the old days? All we had was a few planks and a bit of painted sacking. But we had a lot of spirit. If we wanted wind we had to make it ourselves.' He drummed his fingers for a while. 'Of course,' he added quietly, 'we should be able to afford a wave machine. A small one. I've got this idea about this ship wrecked on an island, where there's this—'
'Sorry.' Vitoller shook his head. '
'But we've had some huge audiences!' said Tomjon.
'Sure, lad. Sure. But they pay in ha'pennies. The artificers want silver. If we wanted to be rich men – people,' he corrected hurriedly, 'we should have been born carpenters.' Vitoller shifted uneasily. 'I already owe Chrystophrase the Troll more than I should.'
The other two stared.
'He's the one that has people's limbs torn off!' said Tomjon.
'How much do you owe him?' said Hwel.
'It's all right,' said Vitoller hurriedly, Tm keeping up the interest payments. More or less.'
'Yes, but how much does he want?'
'An arm and a leg.'
The dwarf and boy stared at him in horror. 'How could you have been so—'
'I did it for you two! Tomjon deserves a better stage, he doesn't want to go ruining his health sleeping in lattys and never knowing a home, and you, my man, you need somewhere settled, with all the proper things you ought to have, like trapdoors and . . . wave machines and so forth. You talked me into it, and I thought, they're right. It's no life out on the road, giving two performances a day to a bunch of farmers and going round with a hat afterwards, what sort of future is that? I thought, we've got to get a place somewhere, with comfortable seats for the gentry, people who don't throw potatoes at the stage. I said, blow the cost. I just wanted you to—'
'All right, all right!' shouted Hwel. 'I'll write it!'
'I'll act it,' said Tomjon.
'I'm not forcing you, mind,' said Vitoller. 'It's your own choice.'
Hwel frowned at the table. There were, he had to admit, some nice touches. Three witches was good. Two wouldn't be enough, four would be too many. They could be meddling with the destinies of mankind, and everything. Lots of smoke and green light. You could do a lot with three witches. It was surprising no-one had thought of it before.
n joined him at the window, and pointed down the length of the street.
'See all those tavern signs?' he said.
'Yes. Gosh. There's hundreds.'
'Right. See the one at the end, with the blue and white sign?'
'Yes. I think so.'
'Well, as far as I know, that's the only one around here that's ever closed.'
'Then pray allow me to treat you to a drink. It's the least I can do,' said the Fool nervously. 'And I'm sure the little fellow would like something to quaff.'