Victor stared. Ruby undulated down from the tiny stage and glided among the customers, a small mountain in a four-wheel skid. She must weigh two tons, he thought. If she sits on my knee they'll have to roll me off the floor like a carpet.
'What did she just say to that troll?' he said, as a deep wave of laughter rolled across the room.
Rock scratched his nose. 'Is play on words,' he said. 'Very hard to translate. But basically, she say “Is that the legendary Sceptre of Magma who was King of the Mountain, Smiter of Thousands, Yea, Even Tens of Thousands, Ruler of the Golden River, Master of the Bridges, Delver in Dark Places, Crusher of Many Enemies”,' he took a deep breath, “'in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?”' Victor's forehead creased. 'I don't get it,' he said.
'Perhaps I not translate properly,' said Rock. He took a pull of molten sulphur. 'I hear Untied Alchemists is casting for-'
'Rock, there's something very odd about this place,' said Victor. urgently. 'Can't you feel it?' 'What odd?'
'Everything seems to, well, fizz. No-one acts like they should. Did you know there was a great city here once? Where the sea is. A great city. And it's just gone!'
Rock rubbed his nose thoughtfully. It looked like a Neanderthal Man's first attempt at an axe.
'And there's the way everyone acts!' said Victor. 'As if who they are and what they want are the most important things in the world!' 'I'm wondering-' Rock began.
'Yes?' said Victor.
'I'm wondering, would it be worth takin' half a inch off my nose? My cousin Breccia knows this stonemason, fixed his ears a treat. What do you fink?'
Victor stared dully at him.
'I mean, on the one hand, it's too big, but on the other hand, it's definit'ly your stereotyped troll nose, right? I mean, maybe I'll look better, but in this business maybe it best to look just as troll as you can. Like, Morry's had his touched up with cement, now he got a face you wouldn't want to meet on a dark night. What you fink? I value your opinion, because you a human with ideas.'
He gave Victor a bright silicon smile.
Eventually Victor said: 'It's a great nose, Rock. With you behind it, it could go a long way.'
Rock gave a big grin, and took another pull of sulphur. He extracted a small steel swizzle stick and sucked the amethyst off it.
'You really fink-' he began, and was then aware of the small area of empty space. Victor had gone.
'I don't know nuffin about no-one,' said the horse-holder, looking shiftily at the looming presence of Detritus.
Dibbler chewed on his cigar. It had been a bumpy journey from Ankh, even in his new coach, and he'd missed lunch.
'Tall lad, bit dopey, thin moustache,' he said. 'He was working for you, right?' The horse-holder gave in.
'He'll never make a good 'oss-'older, anyway,' he said. 'Lets his work get on top of him. I think he went to get something to eat.'
Victor sat in the dark alley, his-back pressed against the wall, and tried to think.
He remembered staying out in the sun too long, once, when he was a boy. The feeling he'd got afterwards was something like this.
There was a soft flopping noise in the packed sand by his feet.
Someone had dropped a hat in front of him. He stared at it.
Then someone started playing the harmonica. They weren't very good at it. Most of the notes were wrong, and those that were right were cracked. There was a tune in there somewhere, in the same way that there's a bit of beef in a hamburger grinder.
Victor sighed and fumbled in his pocket for a couple of pennies. He tossed them into the hat.
'Yeah, yeah,' he said. 'Very good. Now go away.'
He was aware of a strange smell. It was hard to place, but could perhaps have been a very old and slightly damp nursery rug.
He looked up.
'Woof bloody woof,' said Gaspode the Wonder Dog.
Borgle's commissary had decided to experiment with salads tonight. The nearest salad growing district was thirty slow miles away.
'What dis?' demanded a troll, holding up something limp and brown.
Fruntkin the short-order chef hazarded a guess.
'Celery?' he said. He peered closer. 'Yeah, celery.'
'It brown.'
' Wright. Wright! Ripe celery ort to be brown,' said Fruntkin, quickly. 'Shows it's ripe,' he added.
'It should be green.'
'Nah. Yore finking about the tomatoes,' said Fruntkin.
'Yeah, and what's this runny stuff?' said a man in the queue.
Fruntkin drew himself up to his full height.
'That', he said, 'is the mayonnaisey. Made it myself. Out of a book,' he added proudly.
'Yeah, I expect you did,' said the man, prodding it. 'Clearly oil, eggs and vinegar were not involved, right?'
'Specialitay de lar mayson,' said Fruntkin.
'Right, right,' said the man. 'Only it's attacking my lettuce.'
Fruntkin grasped his ladle angrily.
'Look-' he began.
'No, it's all right,' said the prospective diner. 'The slugs have formed a defensive ring.'
There was a commotion by the door. Detritus the troll waded through the diners, with Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler strutting along behind him.
The troll shouldered the queue aside and glared at Fruntkin.
'Mr Dibbler want a word,' he said, and reached across the counter, lifted the dwarf up by his food-encrusted shirt, and dangled him in front of Throat.
'Anyone seen Victor Tugelbend?' said Throat. 'Or that girl Ginger?'
Fruntkin opened his mouth to swear, and thought better of it.
'The boy was in here half an hour ago,' he squeaked. 'Ginger works here mornings. Don't know where she goes.'
'Where'd Victor go?' said Throat. He pulled a bag out of his pocket. It jingled. Fruntkin's eyes swivelled towards it as though they were ball bearings and it was a powerful magnet.
'Dunno, Mr Throat,' he said. 'He just went out again when she wasn't here.'
'Right,' said Throat. 'Well, if you see him again, tell him I'm looking for him and I'm going to make him a star, right?'
'Star. Right,' said the dwarf.
Throat reached into his moneybag and produced a tendollar piece.
'And I want to order dinner for later on,' he added.