A Hat Full Of Sky - Terry Pratchett [67]
“It seems to me that you’ve already had enough to drink, friend,” said the barman, whose hand had crept to the cudgel he kept under the bar for special customers.
“Who’re ye calling ‘friend,’ pal?” roared the figure, trying to pull itself up. “That’s fightin’ talk, that is! And I havena had enough to drink, pal, ’cuz if I have, why’ve I still got all this money, eh? Answer me that!”
A hand sagged into a coat pocket, came out jerkily, and slammed down onto the top of the bar. Ancient gold coins rolled in every direction, and a couple of silver spoons dropped out of the sleeve.
The silence of the bar became a lot deeper. Dozens of eyes watched the shiny discs as they spun off the bar and rolled across the floor.
“An’ I want an ounce o’ Jolly Sailor baccy,” said the figure.
“Why, certainly, sir,” said the barman, who had been brought up to be respectful to gold coins. He felt under the bar and his expression changed.
“Oh. I’m sorry, sir, we’ve sold out. Very popular, Jolly Sailor. But we’ve got plenty of—”
The figure had already turned around to face the rest of the room.
“Okay, I’ll gie a handful o’ gold to the first scunner who gi’es me a pipeful o’ Jolly Sailor!” it yelled.
The room erupted. Tables scraped. Chairs overturned.
The scarecrow man grabbed the first pipe and threw the coins into the air. As fights immediately broke out, he turned back to the bar and said: “And I’ll ha’ that wee drop o’ whisky before I go, barman. Ach, no you willna, Big Yan! Shame on ye! Hey, youse legs can shut up right noo! A wee pint of whisky’ll do us no harm! Oh, aye? Who deid and made ye Big Man, eh? Listen, ye scunner, oour Rob is in there! Aye, and he’d have a wee drink, too!”
The customers stopped pushing one another out the way to get at the coins, and got up to face a whole body arguing with itself.
“Anywa’, I’m in the heid, right? The heid’s in charge. I dinna ha’ tae listen to a bunch o’ knees! I said this wuz a bad idea, Wullie. Ye ken we ha’ trouble getting oout of pubs! Well, speaking on behalf o’ the legs, we’re not gonna stand by and watch the heid get pished, thank ye so veerae much!”
To the horror of the customers the entire bottom half of the figure turned around and started to walk toward the door, causing the top half to fall forward. It gripped the edge of the bar desperately, managed to say, “Okay! Is a deep-fried pickled egg totally oout o’ the question?” and then the figure—
—tore itself in half. The legs staggered a few steps toward the door and fell over.
In the shocked silence a voice from somewhere in the trousers said: “Crivens! Time for offski!”
The air blurred for a moment and the door slammed.
After a while one of the customers stepped forward cautiously and prodded the heap of old clothes and sticks that was all that remained of the visitor. The hat rolled off, and he jumped back.
A glove that was still hanging on to the bar fell to the floor with a thwap! that sounded very loud.
“Well, look at it this way,” said the barman. “Whatever it was, at least it’s left its pockets.”
From outside came the sound of:
Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh…
The broomstick hit the thatched roof of Miss Level’s cottage hard and stuck in it. Feegles fell off, still fighting.
In a struggling, punching mass they rolled into the cottage, conducted guerrilla warfare all the way up the stairs, and ended up in a head-butting, kicking heap in Tiffany’s bedroom, where those who’d been left behind to guard the sleeping girl and Miss Level joined in out of interest.
Gradually the fighters became aware of a sound. It was the skirl of the mousepipes, cutting through the battle like a sword. Hands stopped gripping throats, fists stopped in mid punch, kicks hovered in midair.
Tears ran down Awf’ly Wee Billy’s face as he played “The Bonny Flowers,” the saddest song in the world. It was about home, and mothers, and good times gone past, and faces no longer there. The Feegles let go of one another and stared down at their feet as the forlorn notes wound about them, speaking of betrayal and treachery and the breaking