There had been plenty of singers whose high notes could smash a glass, but Nanny's high C could clean it.
The Lancre Morris Men sat glumly on the turf, passing an earthenware jug between them. It had not been a good rehearsal.
“Don't work, does it?” said Thatcher. “'S'not funny, that I do know,” said Weaver. “Can't see the king killing himself laughing at us playing a bunch of mechanical artisans not being very good at doin' a play.”
“You're just no good at it,” said Jason. “We're sposed to be no good at it,” said Weaver. “Yeah, but you're no good at acting like someone who's ho good at acting,” said Tinker. “I don't know how, but you ain't. You can't expect all the fine lords and ladies-”
A breeze blew over the moor, tasting of ice at midsummer.
“-to laugh at us not being any good at being no good at acting.”
“I don't see what's funny about a bunch of rude artisans trying to do a play anyway,” said Weaver.
Jason shrugged.
“It says all the gentry-”
A tang on the wind, the sharp tin taste of snow . . .
“-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 . . .