Soul Music (40 page)

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Authors: Terry Pratchett

BOOK: Soul Music
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‘We got nearly twenty sausages,' said Arnold Sideways.
Coffin Henry coughed a cough with bones in it.
‘Buggrem?' said Foul Ole Ron. ‘I told 'em, spyin' on me with rays!'
Something bounded across the trodden turf towards Mr Scrub, ran up his robe and grabbed either side of his hood with both paws.
There was the hollow sound of two skulls meeting.
Mr Scrub staggered backwards.
SQUEAK
!
Mr Scrub blinked and sat down suddenly.
The beggars stared down at the little figure jumping up and down on the cobbles. Being of an invisible nature themselves, they were naturally good at seeing things unseen by other men or, in the case of Foul Ole Ron, by any known eyeball.
‘That's a rat,' said the Duck Man.
‘Buggrit,' said Foul Ole Ron.
The rat pranced in circles on its hind legs, squeaking loudly. Mr Scrub blinked again . . . And Death stood up.
I HAVE TO GO,
he said.
SQUEAK
!
Death strode away, stopped, and came back. He pointed a skeletal finger at the Duck Man.
WHY,
he said,
ARE YOU WALKING AROUND WITH THAT DUCK?
‘What duck?'
AH. SORRY.
‘Listen, how can it go wrong?' said Crash, waving his hands frantically. ‘It's
got
to work. Everyone
knows
that when you get your big chance because the star is ill or something, then the audience'll go mad for you. It happens every time, right?'
Jimbo, Noddy and Scum peered around the curtain at the pandemonium. They nodded uncertainly.
Of
course
things always went well when you had your big chance . . .
‘We
could
do “Anarchy in Ankh-Morpork”,' said Jimbo doubtfully.
‘We haven't got that right,' said Noddy.
‘Yeah, but there's nothing new about that.'
‘I suppose we could give it a try . . .'
‘Excellent!' said Crash. He raised his guitar defiantly. ‘We
can
do it! For the sake of sex and drugs and Music With Rocks In!'
He was aware of their disbelieving stares.
‘You never said you'd had any drugs,' said Jimbo accusingly.
‘If it comes to that,' said Noddy, ‘I don't reckon you've ever had—'
‘One out of three ain't bad!' shouted Crash.
‘Yes it is, it's only thirty-three per—'
‘Shut up!'
People were stamping their feet and clapping their hands derisively.
Ridcully squinted along his staff.
‘There was the Holy St Bobby,' he said. ‘I suppose
he
was a righteous ass, come to think about it.'
‘Sorry?' said Ponder.
‘He was a donkey,' said Ridcully. ‘Hundreds of years ago. Got made a bishop in the Omnian church for carrying some holy man, I believe. Can't get more righteous than that.'
‘No . . . no . . . no . . . Archchancellor,' said Ponder. ‘It's just a sort of military saying. It means . . . the . . . you know, sir . . . backside.'
‘I wonder how we tell which bit that is,' Ridcully said. ‘The creatures from the Dungeon Dimensions have legs and things all over the place.'
‘I don't know, sir,' said Ponder wearily.
‘Perhaps we'd just better kick everything, to be on the safe side.'
Death caught up with the rat near the Brass Bridge.
No one had disturbed Albert. Since he was in the gutter, he'd become nearly as invisible as Coffin Henry.
Death rolled his sleeve up. His hand moved through the fabric of Albert's coat as if it was mist.
DAFT OLD FOOL ALWAYS TOOK IT WITH HIM,
he muttered.
I CAN'T IMAGINE WHAT HE THOUGHT I'D DO WITH IT . . .
The hand came out, cupping a fragment of curved glass. A pinch of sand glittered on it.
THIRTY-FOUR SECONDS,
said Death. He handed the glass to the rat.
FIND SOMETHING TO PUT THIS IN. AND DON'T DROP IT.
He stood up and surveyed the world.
There was the
glong-glong-glong
noise of an empty beer bottle bouncing on the stones as the Death of Rats trotted back out of the Mended Drum.
Thirty-four seconds of sand orbited slightly erratically inside it.
Death hauled his servant to his feet. No time was passing for Albert. His eyes were glazed, his bodyclock idled. He hung from his master's arm like a cheap suit.
Death snatched the bottle from the rat and tilted it gently. A bit of life began to flow.
WHERE IS MY GRANDDAUGHTER?
he said.
YOU HAVE TO TELL ME. OTHERWISE I CAN'T KNOW.
Albert's eyes clicked open.
‘She's trying to save the boy, Master!' he said. ‘She doesn't know the meaning of the word Duty—'
Death tipped the bottle back. Albert froze in midsentence.
BUT WE DO, DON'T WE?
said Death bitterly.
YOU AND ME.
He nodded to the Death of Rats.
LOOK AFTER HIM,
he said.
Death snapped his fingers.
Nothing happened, apart from the click.
ER. THIS IS VERY EMBARRASSING. SHE HAS SOME OF MY POWER. I DO SEEM MOMENTARILY UNABLE TO . . . ER . . .
The Death of Rats squeaked helpfully.
NO. YOU LOOK AFTER HIM. I KNOW WHERE THEY'RE GOING. HISTORY LIKES CYCLES.
Death looked at the towers of Unseen University, rising over the rooftops.
AND SOMEWHERE IN THIS TOWN IS A HORSE I CAN RIDE.
‘Hold on. Something's coming . . .' Ridcully glared at the stage. ‘What are
they
?'
Ponder stared.
‘I think . . . they
may
be human, sir.'
The crowd had stopped stamping its collective feet and was watching in a sullen ‘this had better be good' silence.
Crash stepped forward with a big mad glossy grin on his face.
‘Yes, but any minute they'll split down the middle and gharstely creatures will come out,' said Ridcully hopefully.
Crash hefted his guitar and played a chord.
‘My word!' said Ridcully.
‘Sir?'
‘That sounded
exactly
like a cat trying to go to the lavatory through a sewn-up bum.'
Ponder looked aghast. ‘Sir, you're not telling me you ever—'
‘No, but that's what it'd sound like, sure enough. Exactly like that.'
The crowd hovered, uncertain of this new development.
‘Hello, Ankh-Morpork!' said Crash. He nodded at Scum, who hit his drums at the second attempt.
Ande Supporting Bandes
launched into its first and, in the event, last number. Three last numbers, in fact. Crash was trying for ‘Anarchy in Ankh-Morpork', Jimbo had frozen because he couldn't see himself in a mirror and was playing the only page he could remember from Blert Wheedown's book, which was the index, and Noddy had got his fingers caught in the strings.
As far as Scum was concerned, tunes' names were things that happened to other people. He was concentrating on the rhythm. Most people don't have to. But for Scum, even clapping his hands was an exercise in concentration. So he played in a small contented world of his own, and didn't even notice the audience rise like a bad meal and hit the stage.
Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs were on duty at the Deosil Gate, sharing a comradely cigarette and listening to the distant roar of the Festival.
‘Sounds like a big night,' said Sergeant Colon.
‘Right enough, sarge.'
‘Sounds like some trouble.'
‘Good job we're out of it, sarge.'
A horse came clattering up the street, its rider struggling to keep on. As it got closer they made out the contorted features of C. M. O. T. Dibbler, riding with the ease of a sack of potatoes.
‘Did a cart just go through here?' he demanded.
‘Which one, Throat?' said Sergeant Colon.
‘What do you mean, which one?'
‘Well, there was two,' said the sergeant. ‘One with a couple of trolls in, and one with Mr Clete just after that. You know, the Musicians' Guild—'
‘Oh, no!'
Dibbler pummelled the horse into action again and bounced off into the night.
‘What was that about?' said Nobby.
‘Someone probably owes him a penny,' said Sergeant Colon, leaning on his spear.
There was the sound of another horse approaching. The watchmen flattened themselves against the wall as it thundered past.
It was big, and white. The rider's black cloak streamed in the air, as did her hair. There was a rush of wind and then they were gone, out on to the plains.
Nobby stared after it.
‘That was
her
,' he said.
‘Who?'
‘Susan Death.'
The light in the crystal faded to a dot and winked out.
‘That's three days' worth of magic I won't see again,' the Senior Wrangler complained.
‘Worth every thaum,' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
‘Not as good as seeing them live, though,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ‘There's something about the way the sweat drips on you.'
‘
I
thought it ended just as it was getting good,' said the Chair. ‘I thought—'
The wizards went rigid as the howl rang through the building. It was slightly animal but also mineral, metallic, edged like a saw.
Eventually the Lecturer in Recent Runes said, ‘Of course, just because we've heard a spine-chilling bloodcurdling scream of the sort to make your very marrow freeze in your bones doesn't automatically mean there's anything wrong.'
The wizards looked out into the corridor.
‘It came from downstairs somewhere,' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, heading for the staircase.
‘So why are you going
upstairs
?'
‘Because I'm not daft!'
‘But it might be some terrible emanation!'
‘You don't say?' said the Chair, still accelerating.
‘All right, please yourself. That's the students' floor up there.'
‘Ah. Er—'
The Chair came down slowly, occasionally glancing fearfully up the stairs.
‘Look, nothing can get in,' said the Senior Wrangler. ‘This place is protected by very powerful spells.'
‘That's right,' said Recent Runes.
‘And I'm sure we've all been strengthening them periodically, as is our duty,' said the Senior Wrangler.
‘Er. Yes. Yes. Of course,' said Recent Runes.
The sound came again. There was a slow pulsating rhythm in the roar.
‘The Library, I think,' said the Senior Wrangler.
‘Anyone seen the Librarian lately?'
‘He always seems to be carrying something when I see him. You don't think he's up to something occult, do you?'
‘This
is
a magical university.'
‘Yes, but
more
occult is what I mean.'
‘Keep together, will you?'
‘
I am
together.'
‘For if we are united, what can possibly harm us?'
‘Well, (1), a great big—'
‘Shut up!'
The Dean opened the library door. It was warm, and velvety quiet. Occasionally, a book would rustle its pages or clank its chains restlessly.
A silvery light was coming from the stairway to the basement. There was also the occasional ‘ook'.
‘He doesn't sound very upset,' said the Bursar.
The wizards crept down the steps. There was no mistaking the door – the light streamed from it.
The wizards stepped into the cellar.
They stopped breathing.
It was on a raised dais in the centre of the floor, with candles all around it.
It
was
Music With Rocks In.
A tall dark figure skidded around the corner into Sator Square and, accelerating, pounded through the gateway of Unseen University.
It was seen only by Modo the dwarf gardener, as he happily wheeled his manure barrow through the twilight. It had been a good day. Most days were, in his experience.
He hadn't heard about the Festival. He hadn't heard about Music With Rocks In. Modo didn't hear about most things, because he wasn't listening. He liked compost. Next to compost he liked roses, because they were something to compost the compost for.
He was by nature a contented dwarf, who took in his short stride all the additional problems of gardening in a high magical environment, such as greenfly, whitefly
and
lurching things with tentacles. Proper lawn maintenance could be a real problem when things from another dimension were allowed to slither over it.
Someone pounded across it and disappeared through the doorway of the library.
Modo looked at the marks and said, ‘Oh, dear.'
The wizards started breathing again.
‘Oh, my,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
‘Rave In . . .' said the Senior Wrangler.
‘Now
that's
what I call Music With Rocks In,' sighed the Dean. He stepped forward with the rapt expression of a miser in a goldmine.
The candlelight glittered off black and silver. There was a lot of both.
‘Oh, my,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. It was like some kind of incantation.
‘I say, isn't that my nose-hair mirror?' said the Bursar, breaking the spell. ‘That's my nose-hair mirror, I'm sure—'

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