The Wee Free Men

This seemed to work. The peacock-headed dancer bobbed a little bow, said, 'Mwa waf waf' sadly, and wandered off.

Somewhere in here is the drome, said Tiffany to herself. And it must be a pretty good one. This is a big dream.

Little things were wrong, though. There were hundreds of people in the room, but the ones in the distance, although they were moving about in quite a natural way, seemed the same as the trees—blobs and swirls of colour. You had to look hard to notice this, though.

First Sight, Tiffany thought.

People in brilliant costumes and still more masks walked arm in arm past her, as if she were just another guest. Those that weren't joining the new dance were heading for the long tables at one side of the hall, which were piled with food.

Tiffany had only seen such food in pictures. People didn't starve on the farm, but even when food was plentiful, at Hogswatch or after harvest, it never looked like this. The farm food was mostly shades of white or brown. It was never pink and blue, and never wobbled.

There were things on sticks, and things that gleamed and glistened in bowls. Nothing was simple. Everything had cream on it, or chocolate whirls, or thousands of little coloured balls. Everything was spun or glazed or added to or mixed up. This wasn't food; it was what food became if it had been good and had gone to food heaven.

It wasn't just for eating, it was for show. It was piled up against mounds of greenery and enormous arrangements of flowers. Here and there huge transparent carvings were landmarks in this landscape of food. Tiffany reached up and touched a glittering cockerel. It was ice, damp under her fingertips. There were others, too... a jolly fat man, a bowl of fruits all carved in ice, a swan...

Tiffany was, for a moment, tempted. It seemed a very long time since she had eaten anything. But the food was too obviously not food at all. It was bait. It was supposed to say: Hello, little kiddie. Eat me.

I'm getting the hang of this, thought Tiffany. Good job the creature didn't think of cheese—

— and there was cheese. Suddenly, cheese had always been there.

She'd seen pictures of lots of different cheeses in the Almanack. She was good at cheese and had always wondered what the others tasted like. They were faraway cheeses with strange sounding names, cheeses like Treble Wibbley, Waney Tastey, Old Argg, Red Runny and the legendary Lancre Blue, which had to be nailed to the table to stop it attacking other cheeses.

Just a taste wouldn't hurt, surely. It wasn't the same as eating, was it? After all, she was in control, wasn't she? She'd seen right through the dream straight away, hadn't she? So it couldn't have any effect, could it?

And... well, cheese was hardly temptation for anyone...

OK, the drome must've put the cheese in as soon as she'd thought of it, but...

She was already holding the cheese knife. She didn't quite remember picking it up.

A drop of cold water landed on her hand. It made her glance up at the nearest glittering ice carving.

Now it was a shepherdess, with a saddlebag dress and a big bonnet. Tiffany was sure it had been a swan when she'd looked at it before.

The anger came back. She'd nearly been fooled! She looked at the cheese knife. 'Be a sword,' she said. After all, the drome was making her dream, but she was doing the dreaming. She was real. Part of her wasn't asleep.

There was a clang.

'Correction,' said Tiffany. 'Be a sword that isn't so heavy.' And this time she got something she could actually hold.

There was a rustling in the greenery and a red-haired face poked out.

'Psst,' it whispered. 'Dinnae eat the canapés!'

'You're a bit late!'

'Ach, weel, it's a cunnin' ol' drome ye're dealin' with here,' said Rob Anybody. 'The dream wouldnae let us in unless we wuz properly dressed...'

He stepped out, looking very sheepish in a black suit with a bow tie. There was more rustling and other pictsies pushed their way out of the greenery. They looked a bit like red-headed penguins.

'Properly dressed?' said Tiffany.

'Aye,' said Daft Wullie, who had a piece of lettuce on his head. 'An' these troosers are a wee bit chafin' around the nethers, I don't mind tellin' ye.'

'Have ye spotted the creature yet?' said Rob Anybody.

'No! It's so crowded!'

'We'll help ye look,' said Rob Anybody. 'The thing cannae hide if ye're right up close. Be careful, mind you! If it thinks ye're gonna whap it one, there's nae tellin' what it'll try! Spread oot, lads, and pretend ye're enjoying the cailey.'

'Whut? D'ye mean get drunk an' fight an' that?' said Daft Wullie.

'Crivens, ye wouldna' believe it,' said Rob Anybody, rolling his eyes. 'Nae, ye pudden'! This is a posh party, ye ken? That means ye mak' small talk an' mingle!'

'Ach, I'm a famous mingler! They won't even know we're here!' said Daft Wullie. 'C'mon!'

Even in a dream, even at a posh ball, the Nac Mac Feegle knew how to behave. You charged in madly, and you screamed... politely.