No—this was still the interior of the Drum, its walls stained with smoke, its floor a compost of old rushes and nameless beetles, its sour beer not so much purchased as merely hired for a while. He tried to fit the image around the word “quaint”, or rather the nearest Trob equivalent, which was “that pleasant oddity of design found in the little coral houses of the sponge-eating pigmies on the Orohai peninsular”.

His mind reeled back from the effort. The visitor went on, “My name is Twoflower,” and extended his hand. Instinctively, the other three looked down to see if there was a coin in it.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Rincewind. “I’m Rincewind. Look, I wasn’t joking. This is a tough place.”

“Good! Exactly what I wanted!”

“Eh?”

“What is this stuff in the mugs?”

“This? Beer. Thanks, Broadman. Yes. Beer. You know. Beer.”

“Ah, the so-typical drink. A small gold piece will be sufficient payment, do you think? I do not want to cause offense.”

It was already half out of his purse.

“Yarrt,” croaked Rincewind. “I mean, no, it won’t cause Offense.”

“Good. You say this is a tough place. Frequented, you mean, by heroes and men of adventure?”

Rincewind considered this. “Yes?” he managed.

“Excellent. I would like to meet some.”

An explanation occurred to the wizard. “Ah,” he said. “You’ve come to hire mercenaries (“warriors who fight for the tribe with most milknut-meal”)?”

“Oh no. I just want to meet them. So that when I get home I can say that I did it.”

Rincewind thought that a meeting with most of the Drum’s clientele would mean that Twoflower never went home again, unless he lived downriver and happened to float past.

“Where is your home?” he inquired.

Broadman had slipped away into some back room, he noticed. Hugh was watching them suspiciously from a nearby table.

“Have you heard of the city of Des Palargic?”