— more solid than he should do.
That was ridiculous, of course. The bar was solid, the floor was solid, the customers were as solid as you could wish for. Yet Mort, standing there looking rather embarrassed and casually sipping a liquid you could clean spoons with, seemed to emit a particularly potent sort of solidness, an extra dimension of realness. His hair was more hairy, his clothes more clothy, his boots the epitome of bootness. It made your head ache just to look at him.
However, Mort then demonstrated that he was human after all. The mug dropped from his stricken fingers and clattered on the flagstones, where the dregs of scumble started to eat its way through them. He pointed at the far wall, his mouth opening and shutting wordlessly.
The regulars turned back to their conversations and games of shovel-up, reassured that things were as they should be; Mort was acting perfectly normally now. The landlord, relieved that the brew had been vindicated, reached across the bar top and patted him companionably on the shoulder.
'It's all right,' he said. 'It often takes people like this, you'll just have a headache for a few weeks, don't worry about it, a drop of scumble'll see you all right again.'
It is a fact that the best remedy for a scumble hangover is a hair of the dog, although it should more accurately be called a tooth of the shark or possibly a tread of the bulldozer.
But Mort merely went on pointing and said, in a trembling voice, 'Can't you see it? It's coming through the wall! It's coming right through the wall!'
'A lot of things come through the wall after your first drink of scumble. Green hairy things, usually.'
'It's the mist! Can't you hear it sizzling?'
'A sizzling mist, is it?' The landlord looked at the wall, which was quite empty and unmysterious except for a few cobwebs. The urgency in Mort's voice unsettled him. He would have preferred the normal scaly monsters. A man knew where he stood with them.
'It's coming right across the room! Can't you feel it?'
The customers looked at one another. Mort was making them uneasy. One or two of them admitted later that they did feel something, rather like an icy tingle, but it could have been indigestion.
Mort backed away, and then gripped the bar. He shivered for a moment.
'Look,' said the landlord, 'a joke's a joke, but —'
'You had a green shirt on before!'
The landlord looked down. There was an edge of terror in his voice.
'Before what?' he quavered. To his astonishment, and before his hand could complete its surreptitious journey towards the blackthorn stick, Mort lunged across the bar and grabbed him by the apron.
'You've got a green shirt, haven't you?' he said. 'I saw it, it had little yellow buttons!'
'Well, yes. I've got two shirts.' The landlord tried to draw himself up a little. 'I'm a man of means,' he added. 'I just didn't wear it today.' He didn't want to know how Mort knew about the buttons.
Mort let him go and spun round.
'They're all sitting in different places! Where's the man who was sitting by the fire? It's all changed!'
He ran out through the door and there was a muffled cry from outside. He dashed back, wild-eyed, and confronted the horrified crowd.
'Who changed the sign? Someone changed the sign!'
The landlord nervously ran his tongue across his lips.
'After the old king died, you mean?' he said.
Mort's look chilled him, the boy's eyes were two black pools of terror.
'It's the name I mean!'
'We've – it's always been the same name,' said the man, looking desperately at his customers for support. 'Isn't that so, lads? The Duke's Head.'
There was a murmured chorus of agreement.
Mort stared at everyone, visibly shaking. Then he turned and ran outside again.