Feet of Clay - Terry Pratchett [52]
“Yes?”
“Like…deep grief, sir. Terrible, terrible sadness. Er.”
Vimes nodded, and pinched the bridge of his nose. It seemed to have been a long day and it was far from over yet.
He really, really needed a drink. The world was distorted enough as it was. When you saw it through the bottom of a glass, it all came back into focus.
“Have you had anything to eat today, sir?” said Angua.
“I had a bit of breakfast,” muttered Vimes.
“You know that word Sergeant Colon uses?”
“What? ‘Manky’?”
“That’s how you look. If you’re staying here at least let’s have some coffee and send out for figgins.”
Vimes hesitated at that. He’d always imagined that manky was how your mouth felt after three days on a regurgitated diet. It was horrible to think that you could look like that.
Angua reached for the old coffee tin that represented the Watch’s tea kitty. It was surprisingly easy to lift.
“Hey? There should be at least twenty-five dollars in here,” she said. “Nobby collected it only yesterday…”
She turned the tin upside-down. A very small dogend dropped out.
“Not even an IOU?” said Carrot despondently.
“An IOU? This is Nobby we’re talking about.”
“Oh. Of course.”
It had gone very quiet in the Mended Drum. Happy Hour had been passed with no more than a minor fight. Now everyone was watching Unhappy Hour.
There was a forest of mugs in front of Nobby. “I mean, I mean, what’s it worth whenallsaidandone?” he said.
“You could flog it,” said Ron.
“Good point,” said Sergeant Colon. “There’s plenty o’ rich folks who’d give a sack of cash for a title. I mean folks that’s already got the big house and that. They’d give anything to be as nobby as you, Nobby.”
The ninth pint stopped half-way to Nobby’s lips.
“Could be worth thousands of dollars,” said Ron encouragingly.
“At the very least,” said Colon. “They’d fight over it.”
“You play your cards right and you could retire on something like that,” said Ron.
The mug remained stationary. Various expressions fought their away around the lumps and excrescences of Nobby’s face, suggesting the terrible battle within.
“Oh, they would, would they?” he said at last.
Sergeant Colon tilted unsteadily away. There was an edge in Nobby’s voice he hadn’t heard before.
“Then you could be rich and common just like you said,” said Ron, who did not have quite the same eye for mental weather changes. “Posh folks’d be falling over themselves for it.”
“Sell m’ birthright for a spot of massage, is that it?” said Nobby.
“It’s ‘a pot of message’,” said Sergeant Colon.
“It’s ‘a mess of pottage’,” said a bystander, anxious not to break the flow.
“Hah! Well, I’ll tell you,” said Nobby, swaying, “there’s some things that can’t be sole. Hah! Hah! Who streals my prurse streals trasph, right?”
“Yeah, it’s the trashiest looking purse I ever saw,” said a voice.
(“What is a mess of pottage, anyway?”)
“’Cos…what good’d a lot of moneneney do me, hey?”
The clientele looked puzzled. This seemed to be a question on the lines of “Alcohol, is it nice?” or “Hard work, do you want to do it?”
“What’s messy about it then?”
“We—ell,” said a brave soul, uncertainly, “you could use it to buy a big house, lots of grub and…drink and…women and that.”
“That’s wha’ it takes to make a man happppeyey, is it?” said Nobby, glassy-eyed.
His fellow drinkers just stared. This was a metaphysical maze.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Nobby, the swaying now so regular that he looked like a inverted pendulum, “all that stuff’s nothing, nothing! I tell you, compared to pride inna man’s linneneage…eage.”
“Linneneageeage?” said Sergeant Colon.
“Ancescestors and that,” said Nobby. “’T means I’ve got ancescestors and that, which’s more’n you lot’ve got!”
Sergeant Colon choked on his pint.
“Everyone’s got ancestors,” said the barman calmly. “Otherwise they wouldn’t be here.”
Nobby gave him a glassy stare