'Could I say something?' said Tomjon.
The company 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 compassion, 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. 'Come 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.