“-in Ankh-Morpork laughed at it for weeks and weeks,” he said. “It was on Broad Way for three months.”
“What's Broad Way?”
“That's where all the theatres are. The Dysk, Lord Wynkin's Men, the Bearpit . . .”
“They'd laugh at any damn thing down there,” said Weaver. “Anyway, they all think we're all simpletons up here. They all think we say oo-aah and sings daft folk songs and has three brain cells huddlin' together for warmth 'cos of drinking scumble all the time.”
“Yeah. Pass that jug.”
“Swish city bastards.”
“They don't know what it's like to be up to the armpit in a cow's backside on a snowy night. Hah!”
“And there ain't one of 'em that - what're you talking about? You ain't got a cow.”
“No, but I know what it's like.”
“They don't know what it's like to get one wellie sucked off in a farmyard full of gyppoe and that horrible moment where you waves the foot around knowin' that wherever you puts it down it's going to go through the crust.”
The stoneware jug glugged gently as it was passed from hand to unsteady hand.
“True. That's very true. And you ever seen 'em Morris dancing? ”Muff to make you hang up your hanky."
“What, Morris dancing in a city?”
“Well, down in Sto Helit, anyway. Bunch o' soft wizards and merchants. I watched 'em a whole hour and there wasn't even a groinin'.”
“Swish city bastards. Comin' up here, takin' our jobs. . .”
“Don't be daft. They don't know what a proper job is.”
The jug glugged, but with a deeper tone, suggesting that it contained a lot of emptiness.
“Bet they've never been up to the armpit-”
“The point is. The point is. The point. The point is. Hah. All laughin' at decent rude artisans, eh? I mean. I mean. I mean. What's it all about? I mean. I mean. I mean. Play's all about some mechanical. . . rude buggers makin' a pig's ear out of doin' a play about a bunch of lords and ladies-”
A chill in the air, sharp as icicles . . .
“It needs something else.”
“Right. Right.”
“A mythic element.”
“Right. My point. My point. My point. Needs a plot they can go home whistlin'. Exactly.”
“So it should be done here, in the open air. Open to the sky and the hills.”
Jason Ogg wrinkled his brows. They were always pretty wrinkled anyway, whenever he was dealing with the complexities of the world. Only when it came to iron did he know exactly what to do. But he held up a wavering finger and tried to count his fellow thespians. Given that the jug was now empty, this was an effort. There seemed, on average, to be seven other people. But he had a vague, nagging feeling that something wasn't right.
“Out here,” he said, uncertainly.
“Good idea,” said Weaver.
“Wasn't it your idea?” said Jason.
“I thought you said it.”