'Please, Granny.'
'There's plenty of starvin' people in Klatch who wouldn 't
turn up their nose at 'em, that's all I'm saying . . .
All right, all right. 'Whole grain wheat and lentils too, In the cauldron seethe and stew'? What happened to the toad?'
'Please, Granny. You 're slowing it down. You know Goodie was against all unnecessary cruelty. Vegetable protein is a perfectly acceptable substitute.'
'That means no newt or fenny snake either, I suppose?'
'No, Granny.'
'Or tiger's chaudron?'
'Here.'
'What the hell's this, excuse my Klatchian?'
'It's a tiger's chaudron, Our Wane brought it off a merchant from forn parts.'
'You sure?'
'Our Wane asked special, Esme.'
'Looks like any other chaudron to me. Oh, well. 'Double nubble, stubble trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bub—' WHY isn't the cauldron bubbling, Magrat?'
Tomjon awoke, shivering. The room was dark. Outside a few stars pierced the mists of the city, and there was the occasional whistle of burglars and footpads as they went about their strictly lawful occasions.
There was silence from the next room, but he could see the light of a candle under the door.
He went back to bed.
Across the turgid river the Fool had also awakened. He was staying in the Fool's Guild, not out of choice but because the duke hadn't given him any money for anything else, and getting to sleep had been difficult in any case. The chilly walls had brought back too many memories. Besides, if he listened hard he could hear the muted sobs and occasional whimpers from the students' dormitories, as they contemplated with horror the life that lay ahead of them.
He punched the rock-hard pillow, and sank into a fitful sleep. Perchance to dream.
'Slab and grue, yes. But it doesn 't say
how slab and grue.'
'Goodie Whemper recommended testing a bit in a cup of cold water, like toffee.'
