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Hwel didn't consider himself old。 His father had still been digging three tons of ore a day at the age of two hundred。
Now he felt old。 He watched Tomjon hobble off the stage； and for a fleeting instant knew what it was to be a fat old man； pickled in wine； fighting old wars that no…one cared about any more； hanging grimly on to the precipice of late middle…age for fear of dropping off into antiquity； but only with one hand； because with the other he was raising two fingers at Death。 Of course； he'd known that when he wrote the part。 But he hadn't known it。
The same magic didn't seem to infuse the new play。 They tried it a few times； just to see how it went。 The audience watched attentively； and went home。 They didn't even bother to throw anything。 It wasn't that they thought it was bad。 They didn't think it was anything。
But all the right ingredients were there； weren't they？ Tradition was full of people giving evil rulers a well…justified seeing to。 Witches were always a draw。 The apparition of Death was particularly good； with some lovely lines。 Mix them all together 。 。 。 and they seemed to cancel out； bee a mere humdrum way of filling the stage for a couple of hours。
Late at night； when the cast was alseep； Hwel would sit up in one of the carts and feverishly rewrite。 He rearranged scenes； cut lines； added lines； introduced a clown； included another fight； and tuned up the special effects。 It didn't seem to have any effect。 The play was like some marvellous intricate painting； a feast of impressions close to； a mere blur from the distance。
When the inspirations were sleeting fast he even tried changing the style。 In the morning the early risers grew accustomed to finding discarded experiments decorating the grass around the carts； like extremely literate mushrooms。
Tomjon kept one of the strangest：
1ST WITCHE： He's late。
（Pause）
2ND WITCHE： He said he would e。
（Pause）
3RD WITCHE： He said he would e but he hasn't。 This is my last newt。 I saved it for him。 And he hasn't e。
（Pause）
'I think；' said Tomjon； later； 'you ought to slow down a bit。 You've done what was ordered。 No…one said it had to sparkle。'
'It could； you know。 If I could just get it right。'
'You're absolutely sure about the ghost； are you？' said Tomjon。 The way he threw the line away made it clear that he wasn't。
'There's nothing wrong with the ghost；' snapped Hwel。 'The scene with the ghost is the best I've done。'
'I was just wondering if this is the right play for it； that's all。'
'The ghost stays。 Now let's get on； boy。'
Two days later； with the Ramtops a blue and white wall that was beginning to dominate the Hubward horizon； the pany was attacked。 There wasn't much drama； they had just manhandled the lattys across a ford and were resting in the shade of a grove of trees； which suddenly fruited robbers。
Hwel looked along the line of half a dozen stained and rusty blades。 Their owners seemed slightly uncertain about what to do next。
'We've got a receipt somewhere…' he began。
Tomjon nudged him。 'These don't look like Guild thieves；' he hissed。 'They definitely look freelance to me。'
It would be nice to say that the leader of the robbers was a black…bearded； swaggering brute； with a red headscarf and one gold earring and a chin you could clean pots with。 Actually it would be practically pulsory。 And； in fact； this was so。 Hwel thought the wooden leg was overdoing it； but the man had obviously studied the role。
'Well now；' said the bandit chief。 'What have we here； and do they have any money？'
'We're actors；' said Tomjon。
'That ought to answer both questions；' said Hwel。
'And none of your repartee；' said the bandit。 'I've been to the city； I have。 I know repartee when I see it and…' he half turned to his followers； raising an eyebrow to indicate that the next remark was going to be witty … 'if you're not careful I can make a few cutting remarks of my own。'
There was dead silence behind him until he made an impatient gesture with his cutlass。
'All right；' he said； against a chorus of uncertain laughter。 'We'll just take any loose change； valuables； food and clothing you might be having。'
'Could I say something？' said Tomjon。
The pany backed away from him。 Hwel smiled at his own feet。
'You're going to beg for mercy； are you？' said the bandit。
'That's right。'
Hwel thrust his hands deep into his pockets and looked up at the sky； whistling under his breath and trying not to break into a maniac grin。 He was aware that the other actors were also looking expectantly at Tomjon。
He's going to give them the mercy speech from The Troll's Tale； he thought 。 。 。
'The point I'd just like to make is that…' said Tomjon； and his stance changed subtly； his voice became deeper； his right hand flung out dramatically … ' 〃The worth of man lies not in feats of arms； Or the fiery hunger o' the ravening…〃 '
It's going to be like when that man tried to rob us back in Sto Lat； Hwel thought。 If they end up giving us their swords； what the hell can we do with them？ And it's so embarrassing when they start crying。
It was at this moment that the world around him took a green tint and he thought he could make out； right on the cusp of hearing； other voices。
'There's men with swords； Granny！'
'…rend with glowing blades the marvel of the world…' Tomjon said； and the voices at the edge of imagination said。 'No king of mine is going to beg anything off anyone。 Give me that milk jug； Magrat。'
'…the heart of passion； the kiss…'
'That was a present from my aunt。'
'…this jewel of jewels； this crown of crowns。'
There was silence。 One or two of the bandits were weeping silently into their hands。
Their chief said； 'Is that it？'
For the first time in his life Tomjon looked nonplussed。
'Well； yes；' he said。 'Er。 Would you like me to repeat it？'
'It was a good speech；' the bandit conceded。 'But I don't see what it's got to do with me。 I'm a practical man。 Hand over your valuables。'
His sword came up until it was level with Tomjon's throat。
'And all the rest of you shouldn't be standing there like idiots；' he added。 'e on。 Or the boy gets it。'
Wimsloe the apprentice raised a cautious hand。
'What？' said the bandit。
'A…are you s…sure you listened carefully； sir？'
'I won't tell you again！ Either I hear the clink of coins； or you hear a gurgle！'
In fact what they all heard was a whistling noise； high in the air； and the crash as a milk jug； its sides frosted with the ice of altitude； dropped out of the sky on to the spike atop the chief's helmet。
The remaining bandits took one look at the results； and fled。
The actors stared down at the recumbent bandit。 Hwel prodded a lump of frozen milk with his boot。
'Well； well；' he said weakly。
'He didn't take any notice！' whispered Tomjon。
'A born critic；' said the dwarf。 It was a blue and white jug。 Funny how little details stood out at a time like this。 It had been smashed several times in the past； he could see； because the pieces had been carefully glued together again。 Someone had really loved that jug。
'What we're dealing with here；' he said； rallying some shreds of logic； 'is