Hwel gripped the edge of the table and opened his mouth to roar.
And stopped.
He stared at the two figures. His mouth stayed open.
It closed again with a snap.
'Something the matter?' said Tomjon.
Hwel looked away. It had been a long night. 'Trick of the light,' he muttered. 'And I could do with a drink,' he added. 'A bloody good quaff.'
In fact, he thought, why fight it? 'I'll even put up with the singing,' he said.
'Was' the nex' wor'?'
'S'gold. I think.'
'Ah.'
Hwel looked unsteadily into his mug. Drunkenness had this to be said for it, it stopped the flow of inspirations.
'And you left out the “gold”,' he said.
'Where?' said Tomjon. He was wearing the Fool's hat.
Hwel considered this. 'I reckon,' he said, concentrating, 'it was between the “gold” and the “gold”. An' I reckon,' he peered again into the mug. It was. empty, a horrifying sight. 'I reckon,' he tried again, and finally gave up, and substituted, 'I reckon I could do with another drink.'
'My shout this time,' said the Fool. 'Hahaha. My squeak. Hahaha.' He tried to stand up, and banged his head.
In the gloom of the bar a dozen axes were gripped more firmly. The part of Hwel that was sober, and was horrified to see the rest of him being drunk, urged him to wave his hand at the beetling brows glaring at them through the gloom.
'S'all right,' he said, to the bar at large. 'He don't mean it, he ver' funny wossname, idiot. Fool. Ver' funny Fool, all way from wassisplace.'
'Lancre,' said the Fool, and sat down heavily on the bar.
'S'right. Long way away from wossname, sounds like foot disease. Don't know how to behave. Don't know many dwarfs.'
'Hahaha,' said the Fool, clutching his head. 'Bit short of them where I come from.'
Someone tapped Hwel on the shoulder. He turned and looked into a craggy, hairy face under an iron helmet. The dwarf in question was tossing a throwing axe up and down in a meaningful way.
'You ought to tell your friend to be a bit less funny,' he suggested. 'Otherwise he will be amusing the demons in Hell!'
Hwel squinted at him through the alcoholic haze.
'Who're you?' he said.
'Grabpot Thundergust,' said the dwarf, striking his chain-mailed torso. 'And I say—'
Hwel peered closer.
'Here, I know you,' he said. 'You got a cosmetics mill down Hobfast Street. I bought a lot of greasepaint off you last week—'
A look of panic crossed Thundergust's face. He leaned forward in panic. 'Shutup, shutup,' he whispered.
'That's right, it said the Halls of Elven Perfume and Rouge Co.,' said Hwel happily.
'Ver' good stuff,' said Tomjon, who was trying to stop himself from sliding off the tiny bench. 'Especially your No. 19, Corpse Green, my father swears it's the best. First class.'