‘Yes, good lad that, works hard and knows his stuff. He’ll go far. Here, Louis, go back up to number sixty-four, there’s a little white pearl there as bright as a penny. And you know what, it’s got your name on it. Be quick before some other bugger gets it.’
‘Thank you, Sir Harry,’ said Louis, disappearing up the road.
They reached the river where Sir Harry’s boat, Lady Euphemia, was moored at the landing. It was a large rowing boat with three liveried oarsmen and a coxswain at the stern. At the bow was a covered area with several seats, and amidships several large steel-lined wooden bins with a collection of nets, hooks and grappling irons alongside. ‘Just in case I see anything along the way I think should be mine,’ said Sir Harry, lighting another cigar.
They cast off, the coxswain negotiating the craft into the main channel of the river. Sir Harry changed his hat for a nautical peaked cap emblazoned with the word ‘captain’ and a small embroidered anchor. He took the large seat in the centre, all the while looking around to see who and what was floating in his vicinity. There was a bell beside him so he could attract the coxswain’s attention to give him instructions, via a speaking tube, as to any change of course.
Geoffrey had never travelled in a boat before and to be there with Sir Harry was his best adventure yet. There was a lot to see: the river was very busy with barges and small ferries and water taxis. He reached over and made to dangle his fingers in the brown sludge.
‘I’d keep your hands out of the water if I were you,’ warned Sir Harry. ‘Are you enjoying youself?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Geoffrey. ‘At home I don’t get to see anything like this.’
‘So what do you do to amuse yourself?’ asked Sir Harry.
‘Well, I’ve got lots of toys. I like playing with my soldiers and Papa bought me a Captain Carrot last Hogswatch, though I really wanted the Omnian Quisition game.’
‘When I was a lad we had to make our own amusement,’ said Harry. ‘On rainy days if we couldn’t play foot-the-ball and if we were lucky, and in the right place at the right time, we might spot a brace of floaters coming down in the gutters. Oh, we used to have some fun wagering which one would hit the grating first. Like men-o’-war they were, a convoy of pure delight for us kids. We called it poo sticks.’
As they approached the Ankh Bridge the coxswain shouted, ‘Umbers up, lads.’ The oarsmen, who could not see where they were going, but only where other people had been, without breaking their rhythm pulled up a large tarpaulin canopy over their heads.
‘Folks think it’s funny to take a potty shot at me and my boat,’ said Sir Harry. ‘They didn’t laugh so much the day I took a marksman with a crossbow along for the ride. There’s still a few fools that can’t sit comfortably for trying it on with Harry King.’
He saw the expression on Geoffrey’s face and said, ‘Don’t worry, it was only rock salt. They’ll get better when it works off.’
They continued downriver, where on either side there were tall warehouses and queues of barges waiting to be unloaded. Large sailing ships were anchored by the wharves, and lighters and other small craft darted to and fro on the scummy, barely moving water. Occasionally, a warning shout of ‘Watch out below’ was to be heard as the stevedores scurried over a ship like ants. Suddenly Sir Harry leapt to his feet. ‘By Offler’s tooth, lad, we’ve got a couple,’ he cried, pointing out a pair of floaters. ‘Look, there, I’ll bet you a dollar to a penny that the one nearer the bank will hit that wall first.’
With a practised eye they both studied the movement of their movements in the current.
‘Ah, well, I reckon that one’s yours, lad; I’ll settle up with you later. And thank you very much for letting an old man revisit his boyhood for a while.’
As they rowed through the ancient portal of the River Gate, Sir Harry was hailed by a group of watchmen who were huddled smoking in the lee of one of the old battlements. ‘Any chance of an extra pick-up, Sir Harry?’ one of them shouted. ‘Trap four is full and some of the lads had a Klatchian last night.’
‘What? I’m the bloody boss, ain’t I,’ said Harry, angrily. ‘There’s one of my lighters along in about fifteen minutes, they’ll help you out.’
Outside the city walls the view changed to ramshackle sheds and old farmhouses, reedy swamps and a tow-path. ‘Not far now,’ said Sir Harry. ‘You can just see the top of my biggest heap, over there.’
Geoffrey looked afresh at what he’d taken to be a small hill in the distance. As they drew nearer he could see smoke rising, and the general miasma of smells grew much more concentrated. They came to what looked like a small city of shacks and lean-tos. ‘I let some of my workers live there free,’ said Sir Harry. ‘It means they’re always willing to make an effort and squeeze out the last drop, so to speak, and they’re never late for work.’
The boat turned towards a landing quay where the oarsmen helped Geoffrey, who was carrying Widdler under his arm, to disembark.
‘Now hold my hand, lad,’ said Sir Harry. ‘There’s a lot going on; you need to keep your wits about you.’
A maze of moving belts criss-crossed the vast yard and carts were being loaded and unloaded from various bins and heaps of rubbish. Above Geoffrey’s head pulleys with rows of buckets rattled along on heavy chains. The whole world around him seemed to be moving and, from the stink, Geoffrey guessed it was mainly poo on the move. There were two golems working on giant treadmills and more golems and trolls and humans and goblins working at the moving belts. Every now and then one of them would reach out, pick something off the belt and put it into one of several bins alongside them. Gnolls, with brushes and buckets and wearing muzzles over their mouths to stop them eating everything in sight – including the brush – were clearing anything that fell from the great creaking edifice.
Geoffrey and Sir Harry climbed some steep stairs to Sir Harry’s office, which was like a crow’s nest with windows all around, designed so that he could see everything that was going on in every corner of his empire.
‘I’ve a couple of jobs I need to attend to,’ said Sir Harry, ‘so I’ll get my foreman to give you a guided tour and I’ll join you later.’
Sir Harry opened one of the windows and, looking down, shouted, ‘Barker? Come on up here if you please, I’ve a job for you.’ He then held out a pair of stout waders. ‘Right, you better put these boots on, Geoffrey, and it’s probably best if you leave little Widdler in my office. I’ve got dogs down there that would have him for lunch.’
A short man with a broad grin but unsmiling, steely eyes came up the steps to the office. He was wearing a flat cap, a much-patched tweedy jacket, a big leather apron tied up with string and long boots. He looked at Geoffrey as if calculating how much he’d be worth in his component parts.
‘Would you show my young friend around the works for me, Barker? He’s a keen student of the world of waste. Make sure he comes to no harm and keep him well away from the thaumic dump,’ warned Sir Harry as he picked up his overcoat and disappeared down the stairs.
‘What’s the thaumic dump, Mister Barker?’ asked Geoffrey, as they descended into the maelstrom of the busy yard.
‘That’s where we store waste from the University. We have to keep it in a lead-lined pit or it gets out and crawls all over the place. Sir Harry doesn’t mind having it here because it generates so much heat, so it’s never cold down here, even in winter. Admittedly things walk around on their own, but I suppose that’s progress, that is.’
‘Where exactly is it?’ asked Geoffrey, looking around keenly.
‘More than my job’s worth to take you there,’ said Barker, shaking his head. ‘We’ll start at goods inwards, shall we? You stay close beside me, don’t talk to anyone and don’t pick up anything. And I mean anything, right?’ They made their way, through large gates guarded by trolls and big fierce dogs, to the riverside, where men were shovelling the cargo from the barges into the backs of carts.
‘Right, as you see, most solid waste comes in b
y river these days and it’s all taken by cart to the moving belts for sorting.’
Geoffrey’s eyes were everywhere. ‘How do you know where it’s all come from?’ he asked.
‘Barge-master’s got a docket, but we can usually tell by the colour and smell. After you’ve worked here a few years you get to know if it’s from the privies in the Shades or down The Soake or from the Park Lane cesspits. It’s all down to diet in the end: what goes in must come out. This barge is from the Cable Street area, that’s mostly dwarfs, very concentrated and compact, needs to stand a bit before we can use it. The other problem is that some of the deep-downers use fine chain-mail for the paperwork and if a few links drop in and aren’t picked out it causes merry hell with the grinding machine.’
They walked back into the yard and Barker pointed to a covered area where several people with clipboards were walking up and down a long trestle table making notes and occasionally sniffing the contents of long-handled, saucer-like containers. ‘Over there are the nosers,’ he said. ‘They can tell, almost to the street, where the stuff comes from and what’s in it, then they can blend the right mix to go to the tanners or the dyers or perfume makers or whatever. Clever blokes. And you see that big heap of fish bones? That’s come from the Temple of Offler; it’s been a big feast day up there. And over here is the remains of last year’s beetroot festival that the folks from Uberwald staged. The tanners had a real problem with pink leather until we separated it out for them.’
‘What happens to the stuff from the Menagerie?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘We keep that separate too, that comes under exotics, along with the stuff from the College of Heralds. Good thing is the elephant poo is bagged up and sold for compost as soon as it comes in, otherwise it’d take over the place.’
As Geoffrey and Barker walked along by one of the moving belts, Sir Harry joined them again. He’d taken off his hat and overcoat and was wearing a brown cotton smock with a row of cigars in the top pocket, a flat cap and leather boots. ‘I hope you’re impressed by what you’ve seen, lad?’ he asked.
Before Geoffrey could answer, a dwarf climbed up to a platform in the centre of the yard and blew an enormous horn. ‘That’s old Helmhammerhand sounding the shift change,’ said Sir Harry, looking at his watch. ‘It must be time for a spot of lunch. Right, young lad, let’s go and see what we have to eat today. On your way up to my office use the facilities. Here’s the key, make sure you lock it after you.’
In this lavatory, Geoffrey was interested to see there was a large wad of old newspaper hanging on a hook; but the soap was scented and the towel was clean. He smiled and thought: Sir Harry King doesn’t waste anything.
The moment Geoffrey arrived back in the office Sir Harry lifted a large wicker hamper on to his desk, pulled out a packet of sandwiches and two slices of cake, and passed them across.
‘And here’s a bottle of lemonade and a glass, Geoffrey,’ said Sir Harry.
‘Are you going to have some?’ asked Geoffrey politely.
‘No, lad, I’m having a bottle of beer. As for food, I have to tell you, young man, that what I like most is leftovers. I love leftovers and my good lady wife, who has Cook send lunch up every day, has trained her in the art of creating leftovers without the necessity of the posh meal beforehand. I’ve got cold mutton chops with Merkle and Stingbat’s very fine brown sauce. Lovely! Tuck in, lad, and then I’ll get you taken home.’
‘Thank you very much indeed, Sir Harry,’ said Geoffrey, finishing every drop of his lemonade so that there would be no leftover. ‘It’s been a really interesting day and I think I must have seen more poo than any other boy in the world!’
‘Well, then, here’s a present for you,’ said Sir Harry. ‘I owe you a dollar for the poo-sticks race, and no doubt young Widdler has been leaving me a few presents around the place, so this here paperweight is a very special item indeed. They call them Pearls of the Pavement; I got young Derek Proust to do me a one-off.’ He handed Geoffrey a perfect replica of a small white dog turd in which a large gold dollar was embedded. ‘Put this in your museum, lad, it’s the only one of its kind and worth a bob or two. I’ve enjoyed our time together, Geoffrey, and if you ever want to come and work for me I’d take you like a shot. You’d have to start at the bottom, though,’ he said with a wink.
He escorted Geoffrey to where his coach was waiting. ‘Take the boy home now,’ he ordered the coachman. ‘And make sure you see him in the door.’ Geoffrey thanked Sir Harry again and waved from the coach until he was out of sight.
As they passed the River Gate guard-house on their way back into the city, Geoffrey was pleased to see one of Harry King’s carts parked outside.
They drove through a busy market and Geoffrey noticed a horse stop in the road. After a day spent with Sir Harry, he had no hesitation in politely asking the coachman to halt so that he could gather some fresh horse apples for Plain Old Humphrey to put on the roses.
When they got home, while the coachman waited, Widdler relieved himself on the gatepost then Geoffrey picked him up and carried him up the steps to the front door. To his great surprise and delight it was opened by his Mama even before he’d pulled the bell.
‘I’ve been looking out for you, Geoffrey!’ she cried. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’
Geoffrey knew he was theoretically too old for a kiss but he threw himself into her arms and she gathered him up. Over her shoulder he saw Grand-mama holding a very young baby. ‘This is your new sister Holly,’ said Grand-mama. ‘She’s very pretty, but she smells a bit. I’ll get Nanny to change her, shall I?’
Geoffrey looked at his Mama and Grand-mama. ‘Can I help?’ he asked, picking up his bucket.
The End
Now don’t forget to wash your hands …
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
A Random House Group Company
www.transworldbooks.co.uk
First published in Great Britain
in 2012 by Doubleday
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Terry and Lyn Pratchett and The Discworld Emporium 2012
Illustrations by Peter Dennis
Discworld® and Unseen University® are trademarks registered by Terry Pratchett
Terry Pratchett and the partnership known as The Discworld Emporium have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781448127221
ISBN 9780857521217
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk
The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Terry Pratchett, The World of Poo
(Series: Discworld # 39.50)
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends