He shrugged. He seldom wasted time wondering why people wanted other people dead. It was just a living. “Who is your client, may I ask?” said Ymor.
Zlorf held up a hand. “Please!” he protested. “Professional etiquette.”
“Of course. By the way-“
“Yes?”
“I believe I have a couple of guards outside-“
“Had.”
“And some others in the doorway across the street-“
“Formerly.”
“And two bowmen on the roof.”
A flicker of doubt passed across Zlorf’s face, like the last shaft of sunlight over a badly ploughed field. The door flew open, badly damaging the assassin who was standing beside it.
“Stop doing that!” shrieked Broadman, from under his table.
Zlorf and Ymor stared up at the figure on the threshold. It was short, fat and richly dressed. Very richly dressed. There were a number of tall, big shapes looming behind it. Very big, threatening shapes.
“Who’s that?” said Zlorf.
“I know him,” said Ymor. “His name’s Rerpf. He runs the Groaning Platter tavern down by Brass Bridge. Stren - remove him.”
Rerpf held up a beringed hand. Stren Withel hesitated halfway to the door as several very large trolls ducked under the doorway and stood on either side of the fat man, blinking in the light. Muscles the size of melons bulged in forearms like flour sacks. Each troll held a double-headed axe. Between thumb and forefinger.
Broadman erupted from cover, his face Suffused with rage.
“Out!” he screamed. “Get those trolls out of here!” No-one moved. The room was suddenly quiet.
Broadman looked around quickly. It began to dawn on him just what he had said, and to whom. A whimper escaped from his lips, glad to be free. He reached the doorway to his cellars just as one of the trolls, with a lazy flick of one ham-sized hand, sent his axe whirling across the room. The slam of the door and its subsequent
splitting as the axe hit it merged into one sound.
“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Zlorf Flannelfoot.
“What do you want?” said Ymor.
“I am here on behalf of the Guild of Merchants and Traders,” said Rerpf evenly. “to protect our interests, you might say. Meaning the little man.”
Ymor wrinkled his brows.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought I heard you say the Guild of Merchants?”
“And traders,” agreed Rerpf. Behind him now, in addition to more trolls, were several humans that Ymor vaguely recognized. He had seen them, maybe, behind counters and bars. Shadowy figures, usually -easily ignored, easily forgotten. At the back of his mind a bad feeling began to grow. He thought about how it might be to be, say, a fox confronted with an angry sheep. A sheep, moreover, that could afford to employ wolves.
“How long has this - Guild - been in existence, may I ask?” he said.
“Since this afternoon,” said Rerpf. “I’m viceguildmaster in charge of tourism, you know.”
“What is this tourism of which you Speak?”
“Uh -we are not quite sure…” said Rerpf. An old bearded man poked his head over the guildmaster’s shoulder and cackled, “speaking on behalf of the winesellers of Morpork, Tourism means Business See?”
“Well?” said Ymor coldly.