'Not much funny about that one.'
'No, but I mean, last night, I had this dream about a little bandy-legged man walking down a road,' said Hwel. 'He had a little black hat on, and he walked as though his boots were full of water.'
Tomjon nodded politely.
'Yes?' he said. 'And—?'
'Well, that was it. And nothing. He had this little cane which he twirled and, you know, it was incredibly . . .'
The dwarfs voice trailed off. Tomjon's face had that familiar expression of polite and slightly condescending puzzlement that Hwel had come to know and dread.
'Anyway, it was very amusing,' he said, half to himself. But he knew he'd never convince the rest of the company. If it didn't have a custard pie in it somewhere, they said, it wasn't funny.
Tomjon swung his legs out of bed and reached for his britches.
'I'm not going back to sleep,' he said. 'What's the time?'
'It's after midnight,' said Hwel. 'And you know what your father said about going to bed late.'
'I'm not,' said Tomjon, pulling on his boots. Tm getting up early. Getting up early is very healthy. And now I'm going out for a very healthy drink. You can come too,' he added, 'to keep an eye on me.'
Hwel gave him a doubting look.
'You also know what your father says about going out drinking,' he said.
'Yes. He said he used to do it all the time when he was a lad. He said he'd think nothing of quaffing ale all night and coming home at 5 a.m., smashing windows. He said he was a bit of a roister-doister, not like these white-livered people today who can't hold their drink.' Tomjon adjusted his doublet in front of the mirror, and added, 'You know, Hwel, I reckon responsible behaviour is something to get when you grow older. Like varicose veins.'
Hwel sighed. Tomjon's memory for ill-judged remarks was legendary.
'All right,' he said. 'Just the one, though. Somewhere decent.'
'I promise.' Tomjon adjusted his hat. It had a feather in it.
'By the way,' he said, 'exactly how does one quaff?'
'I think it means you spill most of it,' said Hwel.
If the water of the river Ankh was rather thicker and more full of personality than ordinary river water, so the air in the Mended Drum was more crowded than normal air. It was like dry fog.
Tomjon and Hwel watched it spilling out into the street. The door burst open and a man came through backwards, not actually touching the ground until he hit the wall on the opposite side of the street.
An enormous troll, employed by the owners to keep a measure of order in the place, came out dragging two more limp bodies which he deposited on the cobbles, kicking them once or twice in soft places.
'I reckon they're roistering in there, don't you?' said Tomjon.
'It looks like it,' said Hwel. He shivered. He hated taverns. People always put their drinks down on his head.
They scurried in quickly while the troll was holding one unconscious drinker up by one leg and banging his head on the cobbles in a search for concealed valuables.
Drinking in the Drum has been likened to diving in a swamp, except that in a swamp the alligators don't pick your pockets first. Two hundred eyes watched the pair as they pushed their way through the crowd to the bar, a hundred mouths paused in the act of drinking, cursing or pleading, and ninety-nine brows crinkled with the effort of working out whether the newcomers fell into category A, people to be frightened of or B, people to frighten.
Tomjon walked through the crowd as though it was his property and, with the impetuosity of youth, rapped on the bar. Impetuosity was not a survival trait in the Mended Drum.
'Two pints of your finest ale, landlord,' he said, in tones so carefully judged that the barman was astonished to find himself obediently filling the first mug before the echoes had died away.
Hwel looked up. There was an extremely big man on his right, wearing the outside of several large bulls and more chains than necessary to moor a warship. A face that looked like a building site with hair on it glared down at him.
'Bloody hell,' it said. 'It's a bloody lawn ornament.'