Tomjon walked through the crowd as though it was his property and, with the impetuosity of youth, rapped on the bar. Impetuosity was not a survival trait in the Mended Drum.
‘Two pints of your finest ale, landlord,’ he said, in tones so carefully judged that the barman was astonished to find himself obediently filling the first mug before the echoes had died away.
Hwel looked up. There was an extremely big man on his right, wearing the outside of several large bulls and more chains than necessary to moor a warship. A face that looked like a building site with hair on it glared down at him.
‘Bloody hell,’ it said. ‘It’s a bloody lawn ornament.’
Hwel went cold. Cosmopolitan as they were, the people of Morpork had a breezy, no-nonsense approach to the non-human races,
‘Look at it like this—how long do you think you could sing about gold?’