Soul Music - Terry Pratchett [92]
Coffin Henry, on the other hand, earned his money by not going anywhere. People organizing important social occasions sent him anti-invitations and little presents of money to ensure he wouldn’t turn up. This was because, if they didn’t, Henry had a habit of sidling ingratiatingly into the wedding party and inviting people to look at his remarkable collection of skin diseases. He also had a cough which sounded almost solid.
He had a sign on which was chalked “For sum muny I wunt follo you home. Coff Coff.”
Arnold Sideways had no legs. It was a lack that didn’t seem to figure largely among his concerns. He would grab people by their knees and say, “Have you got change for a penny?” invariably profiting by the ensuing cerebral confusion.
And the one they called the Duck Man had a duck on his head. No one mentioned it. No one drew attention to it. It seemed to be a minor feature of no consequence, like Arnold’s leglessness and Foul Ole Ron’s independent smell or Henry’s volcanic spitting. But it kept nagging at Death’s otherwise peaceful mind.
He wondered how to broach the subject.
AFTER ALL, he thought, HE MUST KNOW, MUSTN’T HE? IT’S NOT LIKE LINT ON YOUR JACKET OR SOMETHING…
By common agreement they’d called Death Mr. Scrub. He didn’t know why. On the other hand, he was among people who could hold a lengthy discussion with a door. There may have been a logical reason.
The beggars spent their day wandering invisibly around the streets, where people who didn’t see them carefully circled out of their way and threw them the occasional coin. Mr. Scrub fitted in very well. When he asked for money, people found it hard to say no.
Scrote didn’t even have a river. It existed simply because there’s only so much land you can have before you have to have something else.
It had two streets in the form of a cross, one tavern, one seed store, one forge, a couple of barns and, in a gesture of originality, one livery stable called SETH’S LIVERY STABLE.
Nothing moved. Even the flies were asleep. Long shadows were the only occupants of the streets.
“I thought you said dis was a one-horse town,” said Cliff, as they pulled up in the rutted, puddled area that was probably glorified by the name of Town Square.
“It must have died,” said Asphalt.
Glod stood up in the cart and spread his arms wide. He yelled:
“Hello, Scrote!”
The name board over the livery stable parted from its last nail and landed in the dust.
“What I like about this life on the road,” said Glod, “is the fascinating people and interesting places.”
“I expect it comes alive at night,” said Asphalt.
“Yes,” said Cliff. “Yes, I can believe dat. Yes. Dis looks like der kind of town dat comes alive at night. Dis looks like der whole town should be buried at dere crossroads with a stake through it.”
“Talking of steak…” said Glod.
They looked at the tavern. The cracked and peeling sign just managed to convey the words “The Jolly Cabbage.”
“I doubt it,” said Asphalt.
There were people in the dimly lit tavern, sitting in sullen silence. The travelers were served by the innkeeper, whose manner suggested that he hoped they died horribly just as soon as they left the premises. The beer tasted as if it was happy to connive at this state of affairs.
They huddled at one table, aware of the eyes on them.
“I’ve heard about places like this,” whispered Glod. “You go into this little town with a name like Friendly or Amity, and next day you’re spareribs.”
“Not me,” said Cliff. “I’m too stony.”
“Well, you’re in the rockery, then,” said the dwarf. He looked round at a row of furrowed faces and raised his mug theatrically.
“Cabbages doing well?” he said. “I see in the fields they’re nice and yellow. Ripe, eh? That’s good, eh?”
“That’s Root Fly, that is,” said someone in the shadows.
“Good, good,” said Glod. He was a dwarf. Dwarfs didn’t farm.
“We don’t like circuses in Scrote,” said another voice. It was a slow, deep voice.
“We’re not a circus,” said Glod brightly. “We’re musicians.”
“We don’t like musicians in Scrote,” said another voice.