'He doesn't clean his teeth properly, either,' said Sacharissa. 'I mean, I'm not one of those people who think cleanliness is next to godliness, but there are limits.'*
Dibbler shook his head sadly. 'I'm losin' my touch,' he said. 'Imagine - me, working for someone? I must've been mad. It's the cold weather getting to me, that's what it is. Even... wages,' he said the word with a shudder, 'looked attractive. D'you know,' he added, in a horrified voice, 'he was telling me what to do? Next time I'll have a quiet lie-down until the feeling goes away.'
'You are an immoral opportunist, Mr Dibbler,' said William.
'It's worked so far.'
'Can you sell some advertising for us?' said Sacharissa.
'I'm not going to work for anyone ag--'
'On commission,' snapped Sacharissa.
'What? You want to employ him?' said William.
'Why not? You can tell as many lies as you like if it's advertising. That's allowed,' said Sacharissa. 'Please? We need the money!'
'Commission, eh?' said Dibbler, rubbing his unshaven chin. 'Like... fifty per cent for you two and fifty per cent for me, too?'
'We'll discuss it, shall we?' said Goodmountain, patting him on the shoulder. Dibbler winced. When it came to hard bargaining, dwarfs were diamond-tipped.
'Have I got a choice?' he mumbled.
Goodmountain leaned forward. His beard was bristling. He
* Classically, very few people have considered that cleanliness is next to godliness, apart from in a very sternly abridged dictionary. A rank loincloth and hair in an advanced state of matted entanglement have generally been the badges of office of prophets whose injunction to disdain earthly things starts with soap. It wasn't currently holding a weapon but Dibbler could see, as it were, the great big axe that wasn't there.
'Absolutely,' he said.
'Oh,' said Dibbler. 'So... what would I be selling, exactly?'
'Space,' said Sacharissa.
Dibbler beamed again. 'Just space? Nothing? Oh, I can do that. I can sell nothing like anything]' He shook his head sadly. 'It's only when I try to sell something that everything goes wrong.'
'How did you come to be here, Mr Dibbler?' William asked.
He was not happy with the answer.
'That sort of thing could work both ways,' he said. 'You can't just dig into other people's property!' He glared at the dwarfs. 'Mr Boddony, I want that hole blocked up right now, understand?'
'We only--'
'Yes, yes, you did it for the best. And now I want it bricked up, properly. I want the hole to look as though it has never been there, thank you. I don't want anyone coming up the cellar ladder that didn't climb down it. Right now, please!
'I think I'm on to a real story,' said William, as the disgruntled dwarfs filed away. 'I think I'm going to see Wuffles. I've got--'
As he pulled out his notebook something dropped on to the floor with a tinkle.
'Oh, yes... and I got the key to our town house,' he said. 'You wanted a dress
'It's a bit late,' said Sacharissa. 'I'd forgotten all about it, to tell the truth.'
'Why not go and have a look while everyone else is busy? You could take Rocky, too. You know... to be on the safe side. But the place is empty. My father stays at his club if he has to come to town. Go on. There's got to be more to life than correcting copy.'
Sacharissa looked uncertainly at the key in her hand.
'My sister has quite a lot of dresses,' said William. 'You want to go to the ball, don't you?'
'I suppose Mrs Hotbed could alter it for me if I take it to her in the morning,' said Sacharissa, expressing mildly peeved reluctance while her body language begged to be persuaded.
'That's right,' said William. 'And I'm sure you can find someone to do your hair properly.'
Sacharissa's eyes narrowed. 'It's true, you know, you have got an amazing way with words,' she said. 'What are you going to do?'
'I'm going,' said William, 'to see a dog about a man.'
Sergeant Angua peered up at Vimes through the steam from the bowl in front of her.
'Sorry about this, sir,' she said.
'His feet won't touch the ground,' said Vimes.
'You can't arrest him, sir,' said Captain Carrot, putting a fresh towel over Angua's head.
'Oh? Can't arrest him for assaulting an officer, eh?'
'Well, that's where it gets tricky, doesn't it, sir?' said Angua.
'You're an officer, sergeant, whatever shape you happen to be currently in!'
'Yes, but... it's always been a bit convenient to let the werewolf thing stay a rumour, sir,' said Carrot. 'Don't you think so? Mr de Worde writes things down. Angua and I aren't particularly keen on that. Those who need to know, know.'
Then I'll ban him from doing it!'
'How, sir?'
Vimes looked a little deflated. 'You can't tell me that as commander of police I can't stop some little ti-- some idiot from writing down anything he likes?'
'Oh, no, sir. Of course you can. But I'm not sure you can stop him writing down that you stopped him writing things down,' said Carrot.
'I'm amazed. Amazed! She's your... your--'
'Friend,' said Angua, taking another deep sniff of the steam. 'But Carrot's right, Mister Vimes. I don't want this going any further. It was my fault for underestimating him. I walked right into it. I'll be fine in an hour or two.'
'I saw what you were like when you came in,' said Vimes. 'You were a mess.'
'It was a shock. The nose just shuts down. It was like walking around a corner and running into Foul Ole Ron.'
'Ye gods! That bad?'
'Maybe not quite as bad as that. Let it lie, sir. Please.'
'He's a quick learner, our Mr de Worde,' said Vimes, sitting down at his desk. 'He's got a pen and a printing press and everyone acts like he's suddenly a major player. Well, he's going to have to learn a bit more. He doesn't want us watching? Well, we won't, any more. He can reap what he sows for a while. We've got more than enough other things to do, heavens know.'
'But he is technically--'
'See this sign on my desk, captain? See it, sergeant? It says "Commander Vimes". That means the buck starts here. It was a command you just got. Now, what else is new?'
Carrot nodded. 'Nothing good, sir. No one's found the dog. The Guilds are all battening down. Mr Scrope has been getting a lot of visitors. Oh, and High Priest Ridcully is telling everyone that he thinks Lord Vetinari went mad because the day before he'd been telling him about a plan to make lobsters fly through the air.'
'Lobsters flying through the air,' said Vimes flatly.
'And something about sending ships by semaphore, sir.'
'Oh, dear. And what is Mr Scrope saying?'
'Apparently he says he's looking forward to a new era in our history and will put Ankh-Morpork back on the path of responsible citizenship, sir.'
'Is that the same as the lobsters?'
'It's political, sir. Apparently he wants a return to the values and traditions that made the city great, sir.'
'Does he know what those values and traditions were?' said Vimes, aghast.
'I assume so, sir,' said Carrot, keeping a straight face.
'Oh my gods. I'd rather take a chance on the lobsters.'
It was sleeting again, out of a darkening sky. The Misbegot Bridge was more or less empty; William lurked in the shadows, his hat pulled down over his eyes.
Eventually a voice out of nowhere said, 'So... you got your bit of paper?'
'Deep Bone?' said William, startled out of the reverie.
I'm sending a... a guide for you to follow,' said the hidden informant. 'Name of... name of... Trixiebell. Just you follow him and everything will be okay. Ready?'
'Yes.'
Deep Bone is watching me, William thought. He must be really close.
Trixiebell trotted out of the shadows.
It was a poodle. More or less.
The staff at Le Foil du Chien, the doggie beauty salon, had done their very best, and a craftsman will give of his or her all if it means getting Foul Ole Ron out of the shop any faster. They'd cut, blown, permed, crimped, primped, coloured, woven, shampooed, and the manicurist had locked herself in the lavatory and refused to come out.
The result was... pink. The pinkness was only one aspect of the thing, but it was so... pink that it dominated everything else, even the topiary-effect tail with the fluffy knob on the end. The front of the dog looked as though it had been fired through a large pink ball and had only got halfway. Then there was also the matter of the large glittery collar. It glittered altogether too much; sometimes glass glitters more than diamonds because it has more to prove.
All in all, the effect was not of a poodle but of malformed poodleosity. That is to say, everything about it suggested 'poodle' except for the whole thing itself, which suggested walking away.
'Yip,' it said, and there was something wrong with this, too. William was aware that dogs like this yipped, but this one, he was sure, had said 'yip'.
There's a good...' he began, and finished '... dog?'
'Yip yipyip sheesh yip,' said the dog, and walked off.
William wondered about the 'sheesh', but decided the dog must have sneezed.
It trotted away through the slush and disappeared down an alley.
A moment later its muzzle appeared around the corner.
'Yip? Whine?'
'Oh, yes. Sorry,' said William.
Trixiebell led the way down greasy steps to the old path that ran along the riverside. It was littered with rubbish, and anything that stays thrown away in Ankh-Morpork is real rubbish. The sun seldom got down here, even on a fine day. The shadows contrived to be freezing and running with water at the same time.
Nevertheless, there was a fire among the dark timbers under the bridge. William realized, as his nostrils shut down, that he was visiting the Canting Crew.
The old towpath had been deserted to start with, but Foul Ole Ron and the rest of them were the reason that it stayed that way. They had nothing to steal. They had precious little even to keep. Occasionally the Beggars' Guild considered running them out of town, but without much enthusiasm. Even beggars need someone to look down on, and the crew were so far down that in a certain light they sometimes appeared to be on top. Besides, the Guild recognized craftsmanship when they saw it; no one could spit and ooze like Coffin Henry, no one could be as legless as Arnold Sideways and nothing in the world could smell like Foul Ole Ron. He could have used oil of scallatine as a deodorant.
And, as that thought tripped through William's brain, he knew where Wuffles was. I
Trixiebell's ridiculous pink tail disappeared into the mass of old packing cases and cardboard known variously to the crew as 'What?', 'Bugrit!', Ttooi!' and Home.
William's eyes were already watering. There wasn't much breeze down here. He made his way to the pool of firelight.
'Oh... good evening, gentlemen,' he managed, nodding to the figures around the green-edged flames.
'Let's see the colour of your bit of paper,' commanded the voice of Deep Bone, from out of the shadows.
'It's, er, off-white,' said William, unfolding the cheque. It was taken by the Duck Man, who scanned it carefully and added noticeably to its off-whiteness.
'It seems to be in order. Fifty dollars, signed,' he said. 'I have explained the concept to my associates, Mr de Worde. It was not easy, I have to tell you.'
'Yeah, and if you don't put up we'll come to your house!' said Coffin Henry.
'Er... and do what?' said William.
'Stand outside for ever and ever and ever!' said Arnold Sideways.
'Lookin' at people in a funny way,' said the Duck Man.
'Gobbin' on their boots!' said Coffin Henry.
William tried not to think about Mrs Arcanum. He said: 'Now can I see the dog?'
'Show him, Ron,' commanded the voice of Deep Bone.
Ron's heavy coat fell open, revealing Wuffles blinking in the firelight.
'You had him?' said William. That was all there was to it?'
'Bugrit!'
'Who's going to search Foul Ole Ron?' said Deep Bone.
'Good point,' said William. 'Very good point. Or smell him out.'
'Now, you got to remember he's old,' said Deep Bone. 'An' he wasn't exactly Mr Brain to start with. I mean, we're talkin' dogs here - not talking dogs,' said the voice hurriedly, 'but talking about dogs, I mean - so don't expect a philosophical treatise, is what I'm sayin'.'
Wuffles begged geriatrically when he saw William looking at him.
'How did he come to be with you?' said William as Wuffles sniffed his hand.
'He came running out of the palace straight under Ron's coat,' said Deep Bone.
'Which is, as you point out, the last place anyone would look,' said William.
'You'd better believe it,'
'And not even a werewolf would find him there.' William took out his notebook, turned to a fresh page, and wrote: 'Wuffles,' He said, 'How old is he?'
Wuffles barked.
'Sixteen,' said Deep Bone. 'Is that important?'
'It's a newspaper thing,' said William. He wrote: 'Wuffles (16), formerly of The Palace, Ankh-Morpork,'
I'm interviewing a dog, he thought. Man Interviews Dog. That's nearly news.
'So... er, Wuffles, what happened before you ran out of the palace?' he said.
Deep Bone, from his hiding place, whined and growled. Wuffles cocked an ear and then growled back.
'He woke up and experienced a moment of horrible philosophical uncertainty,' said Deep Bone.
'I thought you said--'
'I'm translating right? And this was on account of there being two Gods in the room. That's two Lord Vetinaris, Wuffles being an old-fashioned kind of dog. But he knew one was wrong because he smelled wrong. And there were two other men. And then--'
William scribbled furiously.
Twenty seconds later Wuffles bit him hard on the ankle.
The clerk in Mr Slant's front office looked down from his high desk at the two visitors, sniffed and carried on with his laborious copperplate. He did not have a lot of time for the notion of customer service. The Law could not be hurried--
A moment later his head was rammed into the desktop and held down by some enormous weight.
Mr Pin's face appeared in his limited vision.
'I said,' said Mr Pin, 'that Mr Slant wants to see us...'
'Sngh,' said the clerk. Mr Pin nodded and the pressure was relieved slightly.
'Sorry? You were saying?' said Mr Pin, watching the man's hand creep along the edge of the desk.
'He's... not... seeing... anyone...' The words ended in a muffled yelp.
Mr Pin leaned down. 'Sorry about the fingers,' he said, 'but we can't have them naughty little things creeping to that little lever there, can we? No telling what might happen if you pulled that lever. Now... which one's Mr Slant's office?'
'Second... door... on... left...' the man groaned.
'See? It's so much nicer when we're polite. And in a week, two at the outside, you'll be able to pick up a pen again.' Mr Pin nodded to Mr Tulip, who let the man go. He slithered to the floor.
'You want I should --ing scrag him?'
'Leave him,' said Mr Pin. 'I think I'm going to be nice to people today.'
He had to hand it to Mr Slant. When the New Firm stepped into his office the lawyer looked up and his expression barely flickered.
'Gentlemen?' he said.
'Don't press a --ing thing,' said Mr Tulip.
'There's something you should know,' said Mr Pin, pulling a box out of his jacket.
'And what is that?' said Mr Slant.
Mr Pin flicked a catch on the side of the box.
'Let's hear about yesterday,' he said.
The imp blinked.
'... nyip... nyapnyip... nyapdit... nyip...' it said.
'It's just working its way backwards,' said Mr Pin.
'What is this?' said the lawyer.
'... nyapnyip... sipnyap... nip... is valuable, Mr Pin. So I will not spin this out. What did you do with the dog? Mr Pin's finger touched another lever. '... wheedlewheedle whee... My... clients have long memories and deep pockets. Other killers can be hired. Do you understand me?
There was a tiny 'Ouch' as the Off lever hit the imp on the head.
Mr Slant got up and walked across to an ancient cabinet.
'Would you like a drink, Mr Pin? I am afraid I have only embalming fluid
'Not yet, Mr Slant.'
'... and I think I probably have a banana somewhere
Mr Slant turned, smiling beatifically, at the sound of the smack of Mr Pin catching Mr Tulip's arm.
'I told you I'm gonna --ing kill him--'
'Too late, alas,' said the lawyer, sitting down again. 'Very well, Mr Pin. This is about money, is it?'
'All we're owed, plus another fifty thousand.'
'But you haven't found the dog.'
'Nor have the Watch. And they've got a werewolf. Everyone's looking for the dog. The dog's gone. But that doesn't matter. This little box matters.'
'That is very little in the way of evidence
'Really? You asking us about the dog? Talking about killers? I reckon that Vimes character will niggle away at something like that. He doesn't sound like the sort to let things go.' Mr Pin smiled humourlessly. 'You've got stuff on us but, well, between you and me,' he leaned closer, 'some of the things we've done might be considered, well, tantamount to crimes--'
'All them --ing murders, for a start,' said Mr Tulip, nodding.
'Which, since we are criminals, could be called typical behaviour. Whereas,' Pin went on, 'you're a respectable citizen. Doesn't look good, respectable citizens getting involved in this sort of thing. People talk.'
'To save... misunderstandings,' said Mr Slant, 'I will do you a draft of--'
'Jewels,' said Mr Pin.
'We like jewels,' said Mr Tulip.
'You have made copies of that... thing?' said Slant.
'I'm not saying anything,' said Mr Pin, who hadn't and didn't even know how. But he took the view that Mr Slant was in no position to be other than cautious, and it looked as though Mr Slant thought so too.
'I wonder if I can trust you?' said Mr Slant, as if to himself.
'Well, you see, it's like this,' said Mr Pin, as patiently as he could. His head was feeling worse. 'If news got around that we'd shopped a client, that wouldn't be good. People would say, you can't trust a person of that kind of ilk. They do not know how to behave. But if the people we deal with heard we'd scragged a client because the client had not played fair, then they would say to themselves, these are businessmen. They are businesslike. They do business
He stopped and looked at the shadows in the corner of the room.
'And?' said Mr Slant.
'And... and... the hell with this,' said Mr Pin, blinking and shaking his head. 'Give us the jewels, Slant, or Mr Tulip'll do the asking, understand? We're getting out of here, with your damn dwarfs and vampires and trolls and dead men walking. This city gives me the creeps! So give me the diamonds! Right now!'
'Very well,' said Mr Slant. 'And the imp?'
'It goes with us. We get caught, it gets caught. We die mysteriously, then... some people find out about things. When we are safely away... you're in no position to argue, Slant.' Mr Pin shuddered. 1 am not having a good day!'
Mr Slant pulled open a desk drawer and tossed three small velvet bags on to the leather top. Mr Pin mopped his brow with a handkerchief.
'Take a look at 'em, Mr Tulip.'
There was a pause while both men watched Mr Tulip pour the gems into one enormous palm. He scrutinized several through an eyeglass. He sniffed at them. He gingerly licked one or two.
Then he picked four out of the heap and tossed them back to the lawyer.
'You think I'm some kind of a --ing idiot?' he said.
'Don't even think of arguing,' said Mr Pin.
'Perhaps the jewellers made a mistake,' said Mr Slant.
'Yeah?' said Mr Pin. His hand darted into his jacket again, but this time came out holding a weapon.
Mr Slant looked into the muzzle of a spring-gonne. It was technically and legally a crossbow, in that human strength compressed the spring, but it had been reduced by patient technology to a point where it was more or less a pipe with a handle and a trigger. Anyone caught with one by the Assassins' Guild, it was rumoured, would find its ability to be hidden on the human body tested to extremes; any city watch that found one used against them would see to it that the offender's feet did not touch the ground but instead swung gently as the breeze pushed them around.
There must have been a switch in this desk, too. A door flew open and two men burst in, one armed with two long knives, one with a crossbow.
It was quite horrible, what Mr Tulip did to them.
It was, in its way, a kind of skill. When an armed man runs into a room in the knowledge that there is trouble he needs a fraction of a second to assess, to decide, to calculate, to think. Mr Tulip didn't need a fraction of a second. He didn't think. His hands moved by themselves.
It required, even for the calculating eyes of Mr Slant, a mental action replay. And even in the slow-mo of horror, it was hard to see Mr Tulip grab the nearest chair and swing it. At the end of the blur two men lay unconscious, one with an arm twisted in a disconcerting way, and a knife was shuddering in the ceiling.
Mr Pin hadn't turned round. He kept the gonne pointed at the zombie. But he produced from a pocket a small cigarette lighter in the shape of a dragon, and then Mr Slant... Mr Slant, who crackled when he walked and smelled of dust... Mr Slant saw, wrapped around the evil little bolt that just projected from the tube, a wad of cloth.
Without taking his eyes off the lawyer Mr Pin applied the flame. The cloth flared. And Mr Slant was very dry indeed.
This is a bad thing I'm about to do,' Pin said, as if hypnotized. 'But I've done so many bad things, this one'll hardly count. It's like... a killing is a big thing, but another killing, that's kind of half the size. You know? So it's, like, when you've done twenty killings, they barely notice, on average. But... it's a nice day today, the birds is singing, there's stuff like... kittens and stuff, and the sun is shining off the snow, bringin' the promise of spring to come, with flowers, and fresh grass, and more kittens and hot summer days an' the gentle kiss of the rain and wonderful clean things which you won't ever see if you don't give us what's in that drawer 'cos you'll burn like a torch you double-dealing twisty dried-up cheating son of a bitch!'
Mr Slant scrabbled in the drawer and threw down another velvet bag. Glancing nervously at his partner, who'd never even mentioned kittens before except in the same sentence as 'water barrel', Mr Tulip took it and examined the contents.
'Rubies,' he said. '--ing good ones.'
'Now go away from here,' rasped Mr Slant. 'Right away. Never come back. I've never heard of you. I've never seen you.'
He stared at the spluttering flame.
Mr Slant had faced many bad things in the last few hundred years, but right now nothing seemed more menacing than Mr Pin. Or more erratically deranged, either. The man was swaying, and his gaze kept flickering into the shadowy corners of the room.
Mr Tulip shook his partner's shoulder. 'Let's --ing scrag him and go?' he suggested.
Pin blinked. 'Right,' he said, appearing to return to his own head. 'Right.' He glanced at the zombie. 'I think I shall let you live today,' he said, blowing out the flame. 'Tomorrow... who knows?'
It wasn't a bad threat, but somehow his heart wasn't in it.
Then the New Firm had gone.
Mr Slant sat down and stared at the closed door. It was clear to him, and a dead man has experience in these matters, that his two armed clerks, veterans of many a legal battle, were beyond help. Mr Tulip was an expert.
He took a sheet of writing paper from a drawer, wrote a few words in block letters, sealed it in an envelope and sent for another clerk.
'Have arrangements made,' he said, when the man stared at his fallen colleagues, 'and then take this to de Worde.'
'Which one, sir?'
For a moment Mr Slant had forgotten that point.
'Lord de Worde,' he said. 'Definitely not the other one.'
William de Worde turned a page in his notebook and continued to scribble. The crew were watching him as if he was a public entertainment.
That's a grand gift you have there, sur,' said Arnold Sideways. 'It does the heart good to see the pencil waggling like that. I wish I had the knowing of it, but I've never been mechanical.'
'Would you care for a cup of tea?' said the Duck Man.
'You drink tea down here?'
'Of course. Why not? What kind of people do you think we are?' The Duck Man held up a blackened teapot and a rusty mug with an inviting smile.
It was probably a good moment to be polite, thought William. Besides, the water would have been boiled, wouldn't it?
'... no milk, though,' he said quickly. He could imagine what the milk would be like.
'Ah, I said you were a gentleman,' said the Duck Man, pouring a tarry brown liquid into the mug. 'Milk in tea is an abomination.' He picked up, with a dainty gesture, a plate and pair of tongs. 'Slice of lemon?' he added.
'Lemon? You have lemon?'
'Oh, even Mr Ron here would rather wash under his arms than have anything but lemon in his tea,' said the Duck Man, plopping a slice into William's mug.
'And four sugars,' said Arnold Sideways.
William took a deep draught of the tea. It was thick and stewed, but it was also sweet and hot. And slightly lemony. All in all, he considered, it could have been much worse.
'Yes, we're very fortunate when it comes to slices of lemon,' said the Duck Man, busily fussing over the tea things. 'Why, it is indeed a bad day when we can't find two or three slices floating down the river.'
William stared fixedly at the river wall.
Spit or swallow, he thought, the eternal conundrum.
'Are you all right, Mr de Worde?'
'Mmf.'
'Too much sugar?'
'Mmf,'
'Not too hot?'
William gratefully sprayed the tea in the direction of the river.
'Ah!' he said. 'Yes! Too hot! That's what it was! Too hot! Lovely tea but - too hot! I'll just put the rest down here by my foot to cool down, shall I?'
He snatched up his pencil and pad.
'So... er, Wuffles, which man was it that you bit on the leg?'
Wuffles barked.
'He bit all of them,' said the voice of Deep Bone. 'When you're biting, why stop?'
'Would you know them if you bit them again?'
'He says he would. He says the big man tasted of... you know...' Deep Bone paused, 'like a... wossname... big, big bowl with hot water and soap in it.'
'A bath?'
Wuffles growled.
'That'd... be the word,' said Deep Bone. 'An' the other one smelled of cheap hair oil. And the one who looked like G-- like Lord Vetinari, he smelled of wine,'
'Wine?'
'Yes. Wuffles also says he'd like to apologize for biting you just now, but he got carried away with the recollection. We-- that is to say, dogs have very physical memories, if you see what I mean,'
William nodded and rubbed his leg. The description of the invasion of the Oblong Office had been carried out in a succession of yelps, barks and growls, with Wuffles running around in circles and snapping at his own tail until he bumped into William's ankle.
'And Ron's been carrying him around in his coat ever since?'
'No one bothers Foul Ole Ron,' said Deep Bone.
'I believe you,' said William. He nodded at Wuffles.
'I want to get an iconograph of him,' he said. This is... amazing stuff. But we must have a picture to prove I've really talked to Wuffles. Well... via an interpreter, obviously. I wouldn't want people to think this is one of the Inquirer's stupid "talking dog" stories...'
There was some muttering amongst the crew. The request was not being favourably received.
This is a select neighbourhood, you know,' said the Duck Man. 'We don't allow just anybody down here,'
'But there's a path running right under the bridge!' said William. 'Anyone could walk right past!'
'Werll, yerss,' said Coffin Henry. They could.' He coughed and spat with great expertise into the fire. 'Only they don't no more.'
'Bugrit,' explained Foul Ole Ron. 'Choking a tinker? Garn! I told 'em. Millennium hand and shrimp!'
