“Wow,” said Shawn. “Thank you, sire. This is going to really come in handy, I can tell you. I mean, I've picked up bits and pieces here and there, but-”
Verence snatched the book from Shawn's hands and looked at the title page.
“'Martial Arts”? Martial Arts. But I'm sure I wrote Marit-"
“Sire?”
There was one exquisite moment while Verence fought for mental balance, but he won.
“Ah. Yes. Right. Uh. Well, yes. Uh. Of course. Yes. Well, you see, a well-trained army is . . . is essential to the security of any kingdom. That's right. Yes. Fine. Magrat and me, we thought. . . yes. It's for you, Shawn.”
“I'll start practicing right away, sire!”
“Um. Good.”
Jason Ogg awoke, and wished he hadn't.
Let's be clear. Many authorities have tried to describe a hangover. Dancing elephants and so on are often employed for this purpose. The descriptions never work. The always smack of, hoho, here's one for the lads, let's have some hangover machismo, hoho, landlord, another nineteen pints of lager, hey, we supped some stuff last night, hoho . . .
Anyway, you can't describe a scumble hangover. The best bit of it is a feeling that your teeth have dissolved and coated themselves on your tongue.
Eventually the blacksmith sat up and opened his eyes.[26]
His clothes were soaked with dew.
His head felt full of wisps and whispers.
He stared at the stones.
The scumble jar was lying in the leather. After a moment or two he picked it up, and took an experimental swig. It was empty.
He nudged Weaver in the ribs with his boot.
“Wake up, you old bugger. We've been up here all night!”
One by one, the Morris Men made the short but painful journey into consciousness.
“I'm going to get some stick from our Eva when I get home,” moaned Carter.
“You might not,” said Thatcher, who was on his hands and knees looking for his hat. “Maybe when you gets 'ome she'll have married someone else, eh?”
“Maybe a hundred years'll have gone past,” said Carter, hopefully.
“Cor, I hope so,” said Weaver, brightening up. “I had sevenpence invested in The Thrift Bank down in Ohulan. I'll be a millionaire at complicated interest. I'll be as rich as Creosote.”
“Who's Creosote?” said Thatcher.
“Famous rich bugger,” said Barker, fishing one of his boots out of a peat pool. “Foreign.”
“Wasn't he the one, everything he touched turned to gold?” said Carter.
“Nah, that was someone else. Some king or other. That's what happens in foreign parts. One minute you're all right, next minute, everything you touch turns to gold. He was plagued with it.”
Carter looked puzzled.
“How did he manage when he had to-”
“Let that be a lesson to you, young Carter,” said Baker. “You stay here where folks are sensible, not go gadding off abroad where you might suddenly be holding a fortune in your hands and not have anything to spend it on.”