Carrot had gone pale.
“Dwarfs drinking? And fighting?” he said.
“You bet, ” said Nobby. “All the time. And they use the kind of language I wouldn’t even use to my own dear mother. You don’t want to mix it with them, they’re a poisonous bunch of-don’t go in there!”
…
No-one knows why dwarfs, who at home in the mountains lead quiet, orderly lives, forget it all when they move to the big city. Something comes over even the most blameless iron-ore miner and prompts him to wear chain-mail all the time, carry an axe, change his name to something like Grabthroat Shinkicker and drink himself into surly oblivion.
It’s probably because they do live such quiet and orderly lives back home. After all, probably the first thing a young dwarf wants to do when he hits the big city after seventy years of working for his father at the bottom of a pit is have a big drink and then hit someone.
The fight was one of those enjoyable dwarfish fights with about a hundred participants and one hundred and fifty alliances. The screams, oaths and the ringing of axes on iron helmets mingled with the sounds of a drunken group by the fireplace who-another dwarfish custom-were singing about gold.
Nobby bumped into the back of Carrot, who was watching the scene with horror.
“Look, it’s like this every night in here, ” said Nobby. “Don’t interfere, that’s what the sergeant says. It’s their ethnic folkways, or somethin’. You don’t go messin’ with ethnic folkways. ”
“But, but, ” Carrot stuttered, “these are my people. Sort of. It’s shameful, acting like this. What must everyone think?”
“We think they’re mean little buggers, ” said Nobby. “Now, come on!”
But Carrot had waded into the scuffling mass. He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed something in a language Nobby didn’t understand. Practically any language including his native one would have fitted that description, but in this case it was Dwarfish.
“Gr’duzk! Gr’duzk! aaK’zt ezem ke bur’k tze tzim?”[7]
The fighting stopped. A hundred bearded faces glared up at Carrot’s stooped figure, their annoyance mingled with surprise.
A battered tankard bounced off his breastplate. Carrot reached down and picked up a struggling figure, without apparent effort.
“J’uk, ydtruz-t’rud-eztuza, hudr’zddezek drez’huk, huzukruk ‘t b ‘tduz g ‘ke ‘k me ‘ek b ‘tduzt’ be ‘tk kce ‘drutk ke’hkt’d. aaDb’thuk?”[8]
No dwarf had ever heard so many Old Tongue words from the mouth of anyone over four feet high. They were astonished.
Carrot lowered the offending dwarf to the floor. There were tears in his eyes.
“You’re dwarfs!” he said. “Dwarfs shouldn’t be acting like this! Look at you all. Aren’t you ashamed?”
One hundred bone-hard jaws dropped.
“I mean, look at you!” Carrot shook his head. “Can you imagine what your poor, white-bearded old mother, slaving away back in her little hole, wondering how her son is getting on tonight, can you imagine what she’d think if she saw you now? Your own dear mothers, who first showed you how to use a pickaxe-”
Nobby, standing by the doorway in terror and amazement, was aware of a growing chorus of nose-blowings and muffled sobs as Carrot went on: “-she’s probably thinking, I expect he’s having a quiet game of dominoes or something-”
A nearby dwarf, wearing a helmet encrusted with six-inch spikes, started to cry gently into his beer.
“And I bet it’s a long time since any of you wrote her a letter, too, and you promised to write every week-”
Nobby absent-mindedly took out a grubby handkerchief and passed it to a dwarf who was leaning against the wall, shaking with grief.
“Now, then, ” said Carrot kindly. “I don’t want to be hard on anyone, but I shall be coming past here every night from now on and I shall expect to see proper standards of dwarf behaviour. I know what it’s like when you’re far from home, but there’s no excuse for this sort of thing. ” He touched his helmet. “G’hruk, t’uk. “[9]
He gave them all a bright smile and half-walked, half-crouched out of the bar. As he emerged into the street Nobby tapped him on the arm.
“Don’t you ever do anything like that to me again, ” he fumed. “You’re in the City Watch! Don’t give me any more of this law business!”
“But it is very important, ” said Carrot seriously, trotting after Nobby as he sidled into a narrower street.
“Not as important as stay in’ in one piece, ” said Nobby. “Dwarf bars! If you’ve got any sense, my lad, you’ll come in here. And shut up. ”
Carrot stared up at the building they had reached. It was set back a little from the mud of the street. The sounds of considerable drinking were coming from inside. A battered sign hung over the door. It showed a drum.
“A tavern, is it?” said Carrot, thoughtfully. “Open at this hour?”
“Don’t see why not, ” said Nobby, pushing open the door. “Damn useful idea. The Mended Drum. ”
“And more drinking?” Carrot thumbed hastily through the book.
“I hope so, ” said Nobby. He nodded to the troll which was employed by the Drum as a splatter, [10] “Eve-nin’, Detritus. Just showing the new lad the ropes. ”
The troll grunted, and waved a crusted arm.
The inside of the Mended Drum is now legendary as the most famous disreputable tavern on the Disc-world, and such a feature of the city that, after recent unavoidable redecorations, the new owner spent days recreating the original patina of dirt, soot and less identifiable substances on the walls and imported a ton of pre-rotted rushes for the floor. The drinkers were the usual bunch of heroes, cut throats, mercenaries, desperadoes and villains, and only microscopic analysis could have told which was which. Thick coils of smoke hung in the air, perhaps to avoid touching the walls.
The conversation dipped fractionally as the two guards wandered in, and then rose to its former level. A couple of cronies waved to Nobby.
He realised that Carrot was busy.
“What you doin’?” he said. “And no talkin’ about mothers, right?”
“I’m taking notes,” said Carrot, grimly. “I’ve got a notebook.”
“That’s the ticket,” said Nobby. “You’ll like this place. I comes here every night for my supper.”
“How do you spell ‘contravention’?” said Carrot, turning over a page.
“I don’t,” said Nobby, pushing through the crowds. A rare impulse to generosity lodged in his mind. “What d’you want to drink?”
“I don’t think that would be very appropriate,” said Carrot. “Anyway, Strong Drink is a Mocker.”
He was aware of a penetrating stare in the back of his neck, and turned and looked into the big, bland and gentle face of an orangutan.
It was seated at the bar with a pint mug and a bowl of peanuts in front of it. It tilted its glass amicably towards Carrot and then drank deeply and noisily by apparently forming its lower lip into a sort of prehensile funnel and making a noise like a canal being drained.
Carrot nudged Nobby.
“There’s a monk-” he began.
“Don’t say it!” said Nobby urgently. “Don’t say the word! It’s the Librarian. Works up at the University. Always comes down here for a nightcap of an evening.”
“And people don’t object?”
“Why should they?” said Nobby. “He always stands his round, just like everyone else.”
Carrot turned and looked at the ape again. A number of questions pressed for attention, such as: where does it keep its money? The Librarian caught his gaze, misinterpreted it, and gently pushed the bowl of peanuts towards him.
Carrot pulled himself to his full impressive height and consulted his notebook. The afternoon spent reading The Laws and Ordinances had been well spent.
“Who is the owner, proprietor, lessee, or landlord of these premises?” he said to Nobby.
“Wassat?” said the small guard. “Landlord? Well, I suppose Charley here is in charge tonight. Why?” He indicated a large, heavy-set man whose face was a net of scars; its owner paused in the act of spreading the dirt more evenly around some glasses by means of a damp cloth, and gave Carrot a conspiratorial wink.
“Charley, this is Carrot,” said Nobby. “He’s stopping along of Rosie Palm’s.”
“What, every night?” said Charley.
Carrot cleared his throat.
“If you are in charge,” he intoned, “then it is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest.”
“A rest of what, friend?” said Charley, still polishing.
“Under arrest,” said Carrot, “with a view to the presentation of charges to whit l)(i) that on or about 18th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street, you did a) serve or b) did cause to serve alcoholic beverages after the hours of 12 (twelve) midnight, contrary to the provisions of the Public Ale Houses (Opening) Act of 1678, and l)(ii) on or about 18th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street, you did serve or did cause to serve alcoholic beverages in containers other than of a size and capacity laid down by aforesaid Act, and 2)(i) that on or about 18th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street, you did allow customers to carry unsheathed edge weapons of a length greater than 7 (seven) inches, contrary to Section Three of said Act and 2)(ii) that on or about 18th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street, you did serve alcoholic beverages in premises apparently unlicensed for the sale and/or consumption of said beverages, contrary to Section Three of the aforesaid Act.”