Soul Music (18 page)

CHOCOLATE,
said Death.
DO YOU LIKE CHOCOLATE?

‘I think it's possible to have too much,' said Susan.

Susan nodded. Her mother's favourite dish had been Genocide by Chocolate.

‘Oh, yes. I . . . remember things. About how to be Death. About how it's all supposed to work. Look, just then you said you
remembered
about the rat, and it hasn't even happ—'

Death stood up and strode across to the model of the Discworld.

MORPHIC RESONANCE,
he said, not looking at Susan.
DAMN. PEOPLE DON'T BEGIN TO UNDERSTAND IT. SOUL HARMONICS. IT'S RESPONSIBLE FOR SO MANY THINGS.

Susan pulled out Imp's lifetimer. Blue smoke was still pouring through the pinch.

‘Can you help me with this?' she said.

Death spun around.

‘Why did you?'

Death shrugged.

He took Buddy's lifetimer from her and held it up.

‘Do you know what it means, Grandad?'

I'VE NOT COME ACROSS IT BEFORE, BUT I SUPPOSE IT'S POSSIBLE. IN CERTAIN CIRCUMSTANCES. IT MEANS . . . SOMEHOW . . . THAT HE HAS RHYTHM IN HIS SOUL . . .
GRANDAD
?

‘Oh, no. That can't be right. That's just a figure of speech. And what's wrong with grandad?'

Death waved the hourglass vaguely.

FOR EXAMPLE,
he said,
MANY
THINGS ARE BETTER THAN A POKE IN THE EYE WITH A BLUNT STICK. I'VE NEVER UNDERSTOOD THE PHRASE. SURELY A SHARP STICK WOULD BE EVEN WORSE
—

Death stopped.

‘But I
am
a human.'

‘You're an expert, are you?' said Susan hotly.

I MAY HAVE ALLOWED MYSELF SOME FLICKER OF EMOTION IN THE RECENT PAST,
said Death,
BUT I CAN GIVE IT UP ANY TIME I LIKE.

He held up the hourglass again.

IT'S AN INTERESTING FACT THAT MUSIC,
BEING OF ITS NATURE IMMORTAL,
CAN SOMETIMES PROLONG THE LIFE OF THOSE INTIMATELY ASSOCIATED WITH IT,
he said.
I'VE NOTICED THAT FAMOUS COMPOSERS IN PARTICULAR HANG ON FOR A LONG TIME. DEAF AS POSTS, MOST OF THEM, WHEN I COME CALLING. I EXPECT SOME GOD SOMEWHERE FINDS THAT VERY AMUSING.
Death contrived to look disdainful.
IT'S THEIR KIND OF JOKE.
¹⁶

He set the glass down and twanged it with a bony digit.

It went
whauuummmmeeee-chida-chida-chida
.

‘Music's taken him over?'

‘Making his life longer?'

‘He played something, on some sort of stringed instrument like a guitar—'

Death turned.

‘Is that important?'

‘Is it something I should know?'

‘What do you mean, resolve themselves?'

Susan stared at the lifetimer.

‘But that's dreadful!'

‘What? No! I've only ever seen him once!'

‘No! Of course not.'

‘Because he matt— because he's a human being, that's why,' said Susan, surprised at herself. ‘I don't see why people should be messed around like that,' she added lamely. ‘That's all. Oh, I don't know.'

He leaned down again until his skull was on a level with her face.

The blue glow was bottomless. It seemed to be sucking her own thoughts out of her mind.

‘No,' whispered Susan, ‘no, I've never thought like that.'

Death stood up abruptly and turned away.
YOU MAY FIND THAT IT HELPS,
he said.

‘But it's all just
chaos
,' said Susan. ‘There's no sense to the way people die. There's no justice!'

‘
You
take a hand,' she persisted. ‘You just saved my father.'

Death still hadn't turned to face her.

‘I don't see why we shouldn't change things if it makes the world better,' said Susan.

‘Are you too
scared
to change the world?'

Death turned. The very sight of his expression made Susan back away.

He advanced slowly towards her. His voice, when it came, was a hiss.

YOU SAY THAT TO
ME
? YOU STAND THERE IN YOUR PRETTY DRESS AND SAY THAT TO
ME
? YOU? YOU PRATTLE ON ABOUT CHANGING THE WORLD? COULD YOU FIND THE COURAGE TO ACCEPT IT? TO KNOW WHAT
MUST BE DONE
AND DO IT, WHATEVER THE COST? IS THERE ONE HUMAN ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD WHO KNOWS WHAT DUTY
MEANS
?

His hands opened and shut convulsively.

‘That's just an excuse!'

Susan glared at the tall figure. Then she turned and marched out of the room.

She stopped halfway across the floor, but didn't turn around.

‘Yes?'

‘Yes!'

It was probably the first. piano case that'd ever been made, and made out of a carpet at that. Cliff swung it easily on to his shoulder and picked up his sack of rocks in the other hand.

‘Is it heavy?' said Buddy.

Cliff held the piano up on one hand and weighed it reflectively.

‘A bit,' he said. The floorboards creaked underneath him. ‘Do you think we should've took all dem bits out?'

‘It's bound to work,' said Glod. ‘It's like . . . a coach. The more bits you take off, the faster it goes. Come on.'

They set out. Buddy tried to look as inconspicuous as a human can look if he is accompanying a dwarf with a big horn, an ape, and a troll carrying a piano in a bag.

‘I'd like a coach,' said Cliff, as they headed for the Drum. ‘Big black coach with all dat liver on it.'

‘Liver?' said Buddy. He was beginning to get accustomed to the name.

‘Shields and dat.'

‘Oh. Livery.'

‘And dat.'

‘What'd you get if you had a pile of gold, Glod?' said Buddy. In its bag the guitar twanged gently to the sound of his voice.

Glod hesitated. He wanted to say that for a dwarf the whole point of having a pile of gold was, well, to have a pile of gold. It didn't have to do anything other than be just as oraceous as gold could be.

‘Dunno,' he said. ‘Never thought I'd have a pile of gold. What about you?'

‘I swore I'd be the most famous musician in the world.'

‘Dat's dangerous, dat kinda swear,' said Cliff.

‘Oook.'

‘Isn't it what every artist wants?' said Buddy.

‘In my experience,' said Glod, ‘what every true artist wants, really
wants
, is to be paid.'

‘And famous,' said Buddy.

‘Famous I don't know about,' said Glod. ‘It's hard to be famous and alive. I just want to play music every day and hear someone say, “Thanks, that was great, here is some money, same time tomorrow okay?”'

‘Is that all?'

‘It's a lot. I'd like people to say, “We need a good horn man, get Glod Glodsson!”'

‘Sounds a bit dull,' said Buddy.

‘I like dull. It lasts.'

They reached the side door of the Drum and entered a gloomy room that smelled of rats and second-hand beer. There was a distant murmur of voices from the bar.

‘Sounds like there's a lot of people in,' said Glod.

Hibiscus bustled up. ‘You boys ready, then?' he said.

‘Hold on a minute,' said Cliff. ‘We ain't discussed our pay.'

‘I said six dollars,' said Hibiscus. ‘What d'you expect? You aren't Guild, and the Guild rate is eight dollars.'

‘We wouldn't ask you for eight dollars,' said Glod.

‘Right!'

‘We'll take sixteen.'

‘Sixteen? You can't do that! That's almost twice Guild rate!'

‘But there's a lot of people out there,' said Glod. ‘I bet you're renting a lot of beer. We don't mind going home.'

‘Let's talk about this,' said Hibiscus. He put his arm around Glod's head and led him to a corner of the room.

Buddy watched the Librarian examine the piano. He'd never seen a musician begin by trying to eat his instrument. Then the ape lifted the lid and regarded the keyboard. He tried a few notes, apparently for taste.

Glod returned, rubbing his hands.

‘That's sorted
him
out,' he said. ‘Hah!'

‘How much?' said Cliff.

‘Six dollars!' said Glod.

There was some silence.

‘Sorry,' said Buddy. ‘We were waiting for the “-teen”.'

‘I had to be firm,' said Glod. ‘He got down to two dollars at one point.'

Some religions say that the universe was started with a word, a song, a dance, a piece of music. The Listening Monks of the Ramtops have trained their hearing until they can tell the value of a playing card by listening to it, and have made it their task to listen intently to the subtle sounds of the universe to piece together, from the fossil echoes, the very first sounds.

There was certainly, they say, a very strange noise at the beginning of everything.

But the keenest ears (the ones who win most at poker), who listen to the frozen echoes in ammonites and amber, swear they can detect some tiny sounds before that.

It sounded, they say, like someone counting: One, Two, Three, Four.

The very best one, who listened to basalt, said he thought he could make out, very faintly, some numbers that came even earlier.

When they asked him what it was, he said: ‘It sounds like One, Two.'

No one ever asked what, if there
was
a sound that called the universe into being, happened to it afterwards. It's mythology. You're not supposed to ask that kind of question.

On the other hand, Ridcully believed that everything had come into being by chance or, in the particular case of the Dean, out of spite.

Senior wizards didn't usually drink in the Mended Drum except when they were off duty. They were aware that they were here tonight in some sort of ill-defined official capacity, and were seated rather primly in front of their drinks.

There was a ring of empty seats around them, but it was not very big because the Drum was unusually crowded.

‘Lot of ambience in here,' said Ridcully, looking around. ‘Ah, I see they do Real Ale again. I'll have a pint of Turbot's Really Odd, please.'

The wizards watched him as he drained the mug. Ankh-Morpork beer has a flavour all its own; it's something to do with the water. Some people say it's like consommé, but they are wrong. Consommé is cooler.

Ridcully smacked his lips happily.

‘Ah, we certainly know what goes into good beer in Ankh-Morpork,' he said.

The wizards nodded. They certainly did. That's why they were drinking gin and tonic.

Ridcully looked around. Normally at this time of night there was a fight going on somewhere, or at least a mild stabbing. But there was just a buzz of conversation and everyone was watching the small stage at the far end of the room, where nothing was happening in large amounts. There was theoretically a curtain across it; it was only an old sheet, and there was a succession of thuds and thumps from behind it.