tp.wyrd sisters-第12节

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　'Orgulous？'　said　the　duke；　absently。
　The　Fool　couldn't　stop　himself。　His　horrified　ears　heard　his　mouth　blurt　out：　Thick；　my　lord。　From　the　Latatian　orgulum；　a　soup　or　broth。'
　But　the　duke　wasn't　listening。　Listening　to　the　prattle　of　underlings　was　not；　in　his　experience；　particularly　worthwhile。
　'I　am　bored；　Fool。'
　'Let　me　entertain　you；　my　lord；　with　many　a　merry　quip　and　lightsome　jest。'
　'Try　me。'
　The　Fool　licked　his　dry　lips。　He　hadn't　actually　expected　this。　King　Verence　had　been　happy　enough　just　to　give　him　a　kick；　or　throw　a　bottle　at　his　head。　A　real　king。
　'I'm　waiting。　Make　me　laugh。'
　The　Fool　took　the　plunge。
　'Why；　sirrah；'　he　quavered；　'why　may　a　caudled　fillhorse　be　deemed　the　brother　to　a　hiren　candle　in　the　night？'
　The　duke　frowned。　The　Fool　felt　it　better　not　to　wait。
　'Withal；　because　a　candle　may　be　greased；　yet　a　fillhorse　be　without　a　fat　argier；'　he　said　and；　because　it　was　part　of　the　joke；　patted　Lord　Felmet　lightly　with　his　balloon　on　a　stick　and　twanged　his　mandolin。
　The　duke's　index　finger　tapped　an　abrupt　tattoo　on　the　arm　of　the　throne。
　'Yes？'　he　said。　'And　then　what　happened？'
　'That；　er；　was　by　way　of　being　the　whole　thing；'　said　the　Fool；　and　added；　'My　grandad　thought　it　was　one　of　his　best。'
　'I　daresay　he　told　it　differently；'　said　the　duke。　He　stood　up。　'Summon　my　huntsmen。　I　think　I　shall　ride　out　on　the　chase。　And　you　can　e　too。'
　'My　lord；　I　cannot　ride！'
　For　the　first　time　that　morning　Lord　Felmet　smiled。
　'Capital！'　he　said。　'We　will　give　you　a　horse　that　can't　be　ridden。　Ha。　Ha。'
　He　looked　down　at　his　bandages。　And　afterwards；　he　told　himself；　I'll　get　the　armourer　to　send　me　up　a　file。
　
　A　year　went　past。　The　days　followed　one　another　patiently。　Right　back　at　the　beginning　of　the　multiverse　they　had　tried　all　passing　at　the　same　time；　and　it　hadn't　worked。
　Tomjon　sat　under　Hwel's　rickety　table；　watching　his　father　as　he　walked　up　and　down　between　the　lattys；　waving　one　arm　and　talking。　Vitoller　always　waved　his　arms　when　he　spoke；　if　you　tied　his　hands　behind　his　back　he　would　be　dumb。
　'All　right；'　he　was　saying；　'how　about　The　King's　Brides？'
　'Last　year；'　said　the　voice　of　Hwel。
　'All　right；　then。　We'll　give　them　Mallo；　the　Tyrant　of　Klatch；'　said　Vitoller；　and　his　larynx　smoothly　changed　gear　as　his　voice　became　a　great　rolling　thing　that　could　rattle　the　windows　across　the　width　of　the　average　town　square。　'　〃In　blood　I　came；　And　by　blood　rule；　That　none　will　dare　assay　these　walls　of　blood…〃　'
　'We　did　it　the　year　before；'　said　Hwel　calmly。　'Anyway；　people　are　fed　up　with　kings。　They　want　a　bit　of　a　chuckle。'
　'They　are　not　fed　up　with　my　kings；'　said　Vitoller。　'My　dear　boy；　people　do　not　e　to　the　theatre　to　laugh；　they　e　to　Experience；　to　Learn；　to　Wonder…'
　'To　laugh；'　said　Hwel；　flatly。　'Have　a　look　at　this　one。'
　Tomjon　heard　the　rustle　of　paper　and　the　creak　of　wicker…work　as　Vitoller　lowered　his　weight　on　to　a　props　basket。
　'A　Wizard　of　Sons；'　Vitoller　read。　'Or；　Please　Yourself：
　Hwel　stretched　his　legs　under　the　table　and　dislodged　Tomjon。　He　hauled　the　boy　out　by　one　ear。
　'What's　this？'　said　Vitoller。　'Wizards？　Demons？　Imps？　Merchants？'
　'I'm　rather　pleased　with　Act　II；　Scene　IV；'　said　Hwel；　propelling　the　toddler　towards　the　props　box。　'ic　Washing　Up　with　Two　Servants。'
　'Any　death…bed　scenes？'　said　Vitoller　hopefully。
　'No…o；'　said　Hwel。　'But　I　can　do　you　a　humorous　monologue　in　Act　III。'
　'A　humorous　monologue！'
　'All　right；　there's　room　for　a　soliloquy　in　the　last　act；'　said　Hwel　hurriedly。　'I'll　write　one　tonight；　no　problem。'
　'And　a　stabbing；'　said　Vitoller；　getting　to　his　feet。　'A　foul　murder。　That　always　goes　down　well。'
　He　strode　away　to　organise　the　setting　up　of　the　stage。
　Hwel　sighed；　and　picked　up　his　quill。　Somewhere　behind　the　sacking　walls　was　the　town　of　Hangdog；　which　had　somehow　allowed　itself　to　be　built　in　a　hollow　perched　in　the　nearly　sheer　walls　of　a　canyon。　There　was　plenty　of　flat　ground　in　the　Ramtops。　The　problem　was　that　nearly　all　of　it　was　vertical。
　Hwel　didn't　like　the　Ramtops；　which　was　odd　because　it　was　traditional　dwarf　country　and　he　was　a　dwarf。　But　he'd　been　banished　from　his　tribe　years　ago；　not　only　because　of　his　claustrophobia　but　also　because　he　had　a　tendency　to　daydream。　It　was　felt　by　the　local　dwarf　king　that　this　is　not　a　valuable　talent　for　someone　who　is　supposed　to　swing　a　pickaxe　without　forgetting　what　he　is　supposed　to　hit　with　it；　and　so　Hwel　had　been　given　a　very　small　bag　of　gold；　the　tribe's　heartfelt　best　wishes；　and　a　firm　goodbye。
　It　had　happened　that　Vitoller's　strolling　players　had　been　passing　through　at　the　time；　and　the　dwarf　had　ventured　one　small　copper　coin　on　a　performance　of　The　Dragon　of　the　Plains。　He　had　watched　it　without　a　muscle　moving　in　his　face；　gone　back　to　his　lodgings；　and　in　the　morning　had　knocked　on　Vitoller's　latty　with　the　first　draft　of　King　Under　the　Mountain。　It　wasn't　in　fact　very　good；　but　Vitoller　had　been　perceptive　enough　to　see　that　inside　the　hairy　bullet　head　was　an　imagination　big　enough　to　bestride　the　world　and　so；　when　the　strolling　players　strolled　off；　one　of　them　was　running　to　keep　up　。　。　。
　Particles　of　raw　inspiration　sleet　through　the　universe　all　the　time。　Every　once　in　a　while　one　of　them　hits　a　receptive　mind；　which　then　invents　DNA　or　the　flute　sonata　form　or　a　way　of　making　light　bulbs　wear　out　in　half　the　time。　But　most　of　them　miss。　Most　people　go　through　their　lives　without　being　hit　by　even　one。
　Some　people　are　even　more　unfortunate。　They　get　them　all。
　Such　a　one　was　Hwel。　Enough　inspirations　to　equip　a　plete　history　of　the　performing　arts　poured　continuously　into　a　small　heavy　skull　designed　by　evolution　to　do　nothing　more　spectacular　than　be　remarkably　resistant　to　axe　blows。
　He　licked　his　quill　and　looked　bashfully　around　the　camp。　No…one　was　watching。　He　carefully　lifted　up　the　Wizard　and　revealed　another　stack　of　paper。
　It　was　another　potboiler。　Every　page　was　stained　with　sweat　and　the　words　themselves　scrawled　across　the　manuscript　in　a　trellis　of　blots　and　crossings…out　and　tiny　scribbled　insertions。　Hwel　stared　at　it　for　a　moment；　alone　in　a　world　that　consisted　of　him；　the　next　blank　page　and　the　shouting；　clamouring　voices　that　haunted　his　dreams。
　He　began　to　write。
　Free　of　Hwel's　never…too…stringent　attention。　Tomjon　pushed　open　the　lid　of　the　props　hamper　and；　in　the　methodical　way　of　the　very　young；　began　to　unpack　the　crowns。
　The　dwarf　stuck　out　his　tongue　as　he　piloted　the　errant　quill　across　the　ink…speckled　page。　He'd　found　room　for　the　star…crossed　lovers；　the　ic　gravediggers　and　me　hunchback　king。　It　was　the　cats　and　the　roller　skates　that　were　currently　giving　him　trouble　。　。　。
　A　gurgle　made　him　look　up。
　'For　goodness　sake；　lad；'　he　said。　'It　hardly　fits。　Put　it　back。'
　
　The　Disc　rolled　into　winter。
　Winter　in　the　Ramtops　could　not　honestly　be　described　as　a　magical　frosty　wonderland；　each　twig　laced　with　confections　of　brittle　ice。　Winter　in　the　Ramtops　didn't　mess　about；　it　was　a　gateway　straight　through　to　the　primeval　coldness　that　lived　before　the　creation　of　the　world。　Winter　in　the　Ramtops　was　several　yards　of　snow；　the　forests　a　mere　collection　of　shadowy　green　tunnels　under　the　drifts。　Winter　meant　the　ing　of　the　lazy　wind；　which　couldn't　be　bothered　to　blow　around　people　and　blew　right　through　them　instead。　The　idea　that　Winter　could　actually　be　enjoyable　would　never　have　occurred　to　Ramtop　people；　who　had　eighteen　different　words　for　snow。＇5＇
　The　ghost　of　King　Verence　prowled　the　battlements；　bereft　and　hungry；　and　stared　out　across　his　beloved　forests　and　waited　his　chance。
　It　was　a　winter　of　portents。　ets　sparkled　against　the　chilled　skies　at　night。　Clouds　shaped　mightily　like　whales　and　dragons　drifted　over　the　land　by　day。　In　the　village　of　Razorback　a　cat　gave　birth　to　a　two…headed　kitten；　but　since　Greebo；　by　dint　of　considerable　effort；　was　every　male　ancestor　for　the　last　thirty　generations　this　probably　wasn't　all　that　portentous。
　However；　in　Bad　Ass　a　cockerel　laid　an　egg　and　had　to　put　up　with　some　very　embarrassing　personal　questions。　In　Lancre　town　a　man　swore　he'd　met　a　man　who　had　actually　seen　with　his　own　eyes　a　tree　get　up　and　walk。　There　was　a　short　sharp　shower　of　shrimps。　There　were　odd　lights　in　the　sky。　Geese　walked　backwards。　Above　all　of　this　flared　the　great　curtains　of　cold　fire　that　were　the　Aurora　Coriolis；　the　Hublights；　whose　frosty　tints　illuminated　and　coloured　the　midnight　snows。
　There　was　nothing　the　least　unusual　about　any　of　this。　The　Ramtops；　which　as　it　were　lay　across　the　Disc's　vast　magical　standing　wave　like　an　iron　bar　dropped　innocently　across　a　pair　of　subway　rails；　were　so　saturated　with　magic　that　it　was　constantly　discharging　itself　into　the　environment。　People　would　wake　up　in　the　middle　of　the　night；　mutter；　'Oh；　it's　just　another　bloody　portent'；　and　go　back　to　sleep。
　Hogswatchnight　came　round；　marking　the　start　of　another　year。　And；　with　alarming　suddenness；　nothing　happened。
　The　skies　were　clear；　the　snow　deep　and　crisped　like　icing　sugar。
　The　freezing　forests　were　silent　and　smelled　of　tin。　The　only　things　that　fell