“You compose poetry, Nedder?” Hesho asked. “I love the stuff,” Nedd said. “You do not compose poetry,” Arturo said, walking past. “Forgive him,” Nedd said. “ ‘His wit’s as thick as a Tewkesbury mustard.’ ” “As what?” I asked. “It’s Shakespeare,” Nedd said. Nearby, Arturo froze. He pulled out his datapad and looked through it, then looked back at Nedd, his jaw dropping. “It is Shakespeare. From Henry the Fourth.”
