‘But what about my passengers?’ said the driver.

All four of them looked into the back of the bus and realized that they were the subject of at least a dozen fascinated stares. ‘Go for the kiss!’ said a woman, holding a large laundry basket in front of her.

‘And the money!’ said one of the men.

‘I don’t give a stuff if she kisses him or hits him on the head with the lead pipe, so long as they drop us off first,’ said an old man towards the back of the bus.

‘Do any of us get kissed as well?’ said one half of a couple of giggling boys.

‘If you like,’ said Glenda viciously. They slumped back into their seats.

Juliet grabbed the driver’s face and there was, for what seemed slightly too long, by the internal clocks of both Glenda and Trev, the sound of a tennis ball being sucked through the strings of a tennis racket. Juliet stepped back. The driver was smiling, in a slightly stunned and cross-eyed way. ‘Well, that was pretty much of a lead pipe!’

‘Perhaps I’d better drive,’ said Trev.

The driver smiled at him. ‘I’ll drive, thank you very much, and don’t kid yourself, mister, I know a dicey one when I see one and you don’t come close. My old mum would be more likely to hit me with a lead pipe than you. Throw it away, why don’t you, or someone will give you a centre parting you won’t forget in a hurry.’

He winked at Juliet. ‘What with one thing or another it’s a good idea to give the horses a bit of a run every now and again. All aboard for Sto Lat.’

The horse buses did not usually travel very fast and the driver’s definition of a run was only marginally faster than what most people would call a walk, but he managed to get them up to something that at least meant they did not have the time to get bored by a passing tree.

The bus was for people, as the driver had pointed out, who couldn’t afford speed but could afford time. In its construction, therefore, no expense had been attempted. It was really no more than a cart with double seats all the way along it from the driver’s slightly elevated bench. Tarpaulins on either side kept out the worst of the weather but fortunately still let in enough of the wind to mitigate the smell of the upholstery, which had experienced humanity in all its manifold moods and urgencies.

Glenda got the impression that some of the travellers were regulars. An elderly woman was sitting quietly knitting. The boys were still engaged in the furtive giggling appropriate to their age, and a dwarf was staring out of the window without looking at anything in particular. No one really bothered about talking to anybody, except a man right at the back, who was having a continuous conversation with himself.

‘This isn’t fast enough!’ Glenda shouted after ten minutes of bouncing over the potholes. ‘I could run faster than this.’

‘I don’t think he’s gonna get that far,’ said Trev.

The sun was going down and the shadows were already drawing across the cabbage fields, but there was a figure on the road ahead, struggling. Trev jumped off.

‘Awk! Awk!’

‘It’s those wretched things,’ said Glenda, running up behind him. ‘Give me that lead pipe.’

Nutt was half crouched in the dust on the road. The Sisters of Perpetual Velocity were half flying and half flapping around him while he tried to protect his face with his hands. The passengers of the bus were quite unnoticed until the lead pipe arrived, followed very shortly by Glenda. It didn’t have the effect she’d hoped. The Sisters were indeed like birds. She couldn’t so much hit them as bat them through the air.

‘Awk! Awk!’

‘You stop trying to hurt him!’ she screamed. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong!’

Nutt raised an arm and grabbed her wrist. There wasn’t much pressure, but somehow she couldn’t move it at all. It was as if it had suddenly been embalmed in stone. ‘They’re not here to hurt me,’ he said. ‘They’re here to protect you.’

‘Who from?’

‘Me. At least that’s how it’s supposed to go.’

‘But I don’t need any protection from you. That doesn’t make any sense.’

‘They think you might,’ said Nutt. ‘But that is not the worst of it.’

The creatures were circling and the other passengers, sharing the endemic Ankh-Morpork taste for impromptu street theatre, had piled out and had become an appreciative audience, which clearly discomforted the Sisters.

‘What is the worst of it, then?’ said Glenda, waving the pipe at the nearest Sister, which jumped back out of the way.

‘They may be right.’

‘All right, so you’re an orc,’ said Trev. ‘So they used to eat people. Have you eaten anyone lately?’

‘No, Mister Trev.’

‘Well, there you are, then.’

‘You can’t arrest someone for something he hasn’t done,’ said one of the bus passengers, nodding sagely. ‘A fundamental law, that.’

‘What’s an orc?’ said the lady next to him.

‘Oh, back in the olden days up in Uberwald or somewhere they used to tear people to bits and eat them.’

‘That’s foreigners for you,’ said the woman.

‘But they’re all dead now,’ said the man.

‘That’s nice,’ said the woman. ‘Would anyone like some tea? I’ve got a flask.’

‘All dead, except me. But I am afraid that I am an orc,’ said Nutt. He looked up at Glenda. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You have been very kind, but I can see that being an orc will follow me around. There will be trouble. I would hate you to be involved.’

‘Awk! Awk!’

The woman unscrewed the top of her flask. ‘But you’re not about to eat anyone, are you, dear? If you feel really hungry I’ve got some macaroons.’ She looked at the nearest Sister and said, ‘What about you, love? I know none of us can help how we’re made, but how come you’ve been made to look like a chicken?’

‘Awk! Awk!’

‘Danger! Danger!’

‘Dunno about that,’ said another passenger. ‘I don’t reckon he’s going to do anything.’

‘Please, please,’ said Nutt. There was a box lying on the road beside him. He tore it open frantically and started to pull things out of it.

They were candles. Knocking them over in his haste, picking them up in shaking fingers only to knock them over again, he finally had them upright on the flints of the road. He pulled matches out of another pocket, knelt down and once again got his shaking fingers tangled in themselves as he struggled to strike a match. Tears streamed down his face as the light of the candles rose.

Rose… and changed.

Blues, yellows, greens. They would go out for a few smoky seconds and then light again a different colour, to the oohs and aahs of the crowd.

‘See! See!’ said Nutt. ‘You like them? You like them?’

‘I think you could make yourself a lot of money out of that,’ said one of the passengers.

‘They’re lovely,’ said the old lady. ‘Honestly, the things you young people can do today.’

Nutt turned to the nearest Sister and spat, ‘I am not worthless, I have worth.’

‘My brother-in-law runs a novelty shop down in the smoke,’ said the erstwhile expert in orcs. ‘I’ll write his address down for you if you like? But I reckon that thing would go down very well on the kiddies’ birthday circuit.’

Glenda had watched all of this open-mouthed, as the kind of democracy practised by reasonable and amiable but not very clever people, the people whose education had never involved a book but had involved lots of other people, surrounded Nutt in its invisible, beneficent arms.

It was heartwarming, but Glenda’s heart was a little bit calloused on this score. It was the crab bucket at its best. Sentimental and forgiving; but get it wrong–one wrong word, one wrong liaison, one wrong thought–and those nurturing arms could so easily end in fists. Nutt was right: at best, being an orc was to live under a threat.

‘You lot have got no right treating the poor little devil like that,’ said the old lady, waving a finger at the nearest Sister. ‘If you want to live here, you have to do things our way, all right? And that means no pecking at people. That’s not how we do things in Ankh-Morpork.’