The Shepherd's Crown (Discworld #41)(25)

Hearing the cheers, the men who had gone out came back in again, looking curious – and Mephistopheles’s hoof registered each one as he entered. The barman laughed. ‘This trick deserves a meal for you and your remarkable goat, mister. What does he like?’

‘It’s no trick, I assure you, but thank you. Mephistopheles will eat almost anything – he’s a goat. Some scraps would be most acceptable. And for myself, just some bread would be welcome.’

A bowl of kitchen scraps was produced for Mephistopheles and Geoffrey sat down beside him with his pint and a slab of bread and butter, chatting to some of the men who were interested in the goat. An interest which only deepened when Mephistopheles went out in the direction of the privy and after a while came back again.

‘You actually managed to get him to do that?’ said one of them in wonder.

‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I trained him from when he was very small. He’s quite docile really. Well, if I’m around.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It means he does what he’s told, but he has a mind of his own as well. I wouldn’t lose him for anything.’

Just then, there were raised voices at the other end of the bar as one drinker, filled with the bluster that ale can give to a man, started a fight with someone else who had just come in. The more sensible people moved away as the two began to trade blows, seemingly intent on beating one another to death, while the barman bellowed about the damage to his furniture and threatened to wallop them with his grandfather’s knobkerrie, a souvenir from the Klatchian campaign, if they didn’t stop.

Mephistopheles was suddenly alert at Geoffrey’s side, and every drinker who was sober understood in his soul that this was no time to be unpleasant to the lad. They didn’t know how they knew, but there was a kind of visceral power there waiting to be unleashed.

‘Why are they fighting? What’s wrong?’ Geoffrey asked his neighbour.

‘An old grudge about a young lady,’ said the man, rolling his eyes. ‘A bad business. Someone’s going to get hurt, you mark my words.’

To everyone’s astonishment Geoffrey strolled across the pub, his goat watching his every step, dodged the wildly swinging blows and stood between the two men, saying, ‘There’s no need to fight, you know.’

The barman’s face fell – he knew what happened to people who tried to get between two idiots smelling blood. And then he could hardly believe his eyes, for the two men abruptly stopped fighting and were standing there, looking rather bemused.

‘Why don’t you two just meet the young lady and see what she thinks before you start beating each other to death?’ Geoffrey said softly.

The men looked at one another and the bigger of the two said: ‘He’s right, you know.’

And the pub audience laughed as the two looked around at the wreckage, seemingly amazed that this could have had anything to do with them.

‘There, that was easy, wasn’t it?’ said Geoffrey, returning to the bar.

‘Ah,’ said the landlord, astonished that he wasn’t having to pick a battered Geoffrey off the floor. ‘You’re not a wizard, are you?’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It’s a knack. It happens to me all the time, when I need it.’ He smiled. ‘Mostly with animals and sometimes with people.’ But alas, he thought to himself, not with my father, never with him.

‘Well, you must be some kind of wizard,’ said the barman. ‘You’ve broken up a fight between two of the nastiest bruisers we have around here.’ He glared at the two miscreants. ‘As for you two,’ he said, ‘don’t come back here until you are sober. Look at the mess you’ve made.’ He grabbed both of them and pushed them out the door.

The rest of the drinkers got back to their pints.

The barman turned back to Geoffrey and looked at him in shrewd appraisal.

‘You want a job, lad? No pay, but you get your keep.’

‘I can’t take a job, but I’d be happy to stay for a few days,’ said Geoffrey with alacrity. ‘If you can find some vegetables for me – I eat no meat. And can there be a place for Mephistopheles as well? He’s not very smelly.’

‘Probably no worse than the people we have in here,’ said the barman, laughing. ‘I tell you what. You and your goat can stay in the barn and I’ll give you your dinner and breakfast, and then after that, we’ll see.’ The man held out a rather dirty hand. ‘A deal, then?’

‘Oh yes, thank you. My name is Geoffrey.’

The man hesitated. ‘My name’s Darling. Darling Dove.’ He looked at Geoffrey mournfully and said, ‘Have a laugh about it, will you? Everyone does. Might as well get it out of the way.’

‘Why?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Darling is a kind word and so is Dove. How can these be anything to worry about?’

That night, Mr Dove told his wife, ‘I got us a new bar boy. Funny cove he is too. But he seems, well, harmless. Sort of easy to talk to.’

‘Can we afford it, Darling?’ his wife said.

‘Oh,’ said Darling Dove, ‘he just wants feeding – doesn’t even want meat – and somewhere to sleep. And he’s got a goat. Quite a smart one, really. Does tricks and all. Might bring some more customers in.’