Sourcery by Terry Pratchett Page B

indicated that the hostelry behind the small dark door was the Troll’s Head.
    It might be thought that the Mended Drum, scene of unseemly scuffles only an hour ago, was a seedy disreputable tavern. In fact it was a reputable disreputable tavern. Its customers had a certain rough-hewn respectability—they might murder each other in an easygoing way, as between equals, but they didn’t do it vindictively. A child could go in for a glass of lemonade and be certain of getting nothing worse than a clip around the ear when his mother heard his expanded vocabulary. On quiet nights, and when he was certain the Librarian wasn’t going to come in, the landlord was even known to put bowls of peanuts on the bar.
    The Troll’s Head was a cesspit of a different odor. Its customers, if they reformed, tidied themselves up and generally improved their image out of all recognition might, just might, aspire to be considered the utter dregs of humanity. And in the Shades, a dreg is a dreg.
    By the way, the thing on the pole isn’t a sign. When they decided to call the place the Troll’s Head, they didn’t mess about.
    Feeling sick, and clutching the grumbling hatbox to his chest, Rincewind stepped inside.
    Silence. It wrapped itself around them, nearly as thickly as the smoke of a dozen substances guaranteed to turn any normal brain to cheese. Suspicious eyes peered through the smog.
    A couple of dice clattered to a halt on a tabletop. They sounded very loud, and probably weren’t showing Rincewind’s lucky number.
    He was aware of the stares of several score of customers as he followed the demure and surprisingly small figure of Conina into the room. He looked sideways into the leering faces of men who would kill him sooner than think, and in fact would find it a great deal easier.
    Where a respectable tavern would have had a bar there was just a row of squat black bottles and a couple of big barrels on trestles against the wall.
    The silence tightened like a tourniquet. Any minute now, Rincewind thought.
    A big fat man wearing nothing but a fur vest and a leather loincloth pushed back his stool and lurched to his feet and winked evilly at his colleagues. When his mouth opened, it was like a hole with a hem.
    “Looking for a man, little lady?” he said.
    She looked up at him.
    “Please keep away.”
    A snake of laughter writhed around the room. Conina’s mouth snapped shut like a letterbox.
    “Ah,” the big man gurgled, “that’s right, I likes a girl with spirit—”
    Conina’s hand moved. It was a pale blur, stopping here and here : after a few seconds of disbelief the man gave a little grunt and folded up, very slowly.
    Rincewind shrank back as every other man in the room leaned forward. His instinct was to run, and he knew it was an instinct that would get him instantly killed. It was the Shades out there. Whatever was going to happen to him next was going to happen to him here. It was not a reassuring thought.
    A hand closed around his mouth. Two more grabbed the hatbox from his arms.
    Conina spun past him, lifting her skirt to place a neat foot on a target beside Rincewind’s waist. Someone whimpered in his ear and collapsed. As the girl pirouetted gracefully around she picked up two bottles, knocked out their bottoms on the shelf and landed with their jagged ends held out in front of her. Morpork daggers, they were called in the patois of the streets.
    In the face of them, the Troll’s Head’s clientele lost interest.
    “Someone got the hat,” Rincewind muttered through dry lips, “They slipped out of the back way.”
    She glared at him and made for the door. The Head’s crowd of customers parted automatically, like sharks recognizing another shark, and Rincewind darted anxiously after her before they came to any conclusion about him.
    They ran out into another alley and pounded down it. Rincewind tried to keep up with the girl; people following her tended to tread on sharp things, and he wasn’t sure she’d