Soul Music (22 page)

Her father had tried to change things, she knew. But only because he was, well, quite frankly, a bit soppy.

He'd been made a duke by Queen Keli of Sto Lat. Susan knew what the title meant – duke meant ‘war leader'. But her father never fought anyone. He seemed to spend all his time travelling from one wretched city state to another, all over the Sto Plains, just talking to people and trying to get them to talk to other people. He'd never killed anyone, as far as Susan knew, although he may have talked a few politicians to death. That didn't seem to be much of a job for a war leader. Admittedly there didn't seem to be all the little wars there used to be, but it was . . . well . . . not a
proud
kind of life.

She walked through the hall of lifetimers. Even those on the highest shelves rattled gently as she passed.

She'd save lives. The good could be spared, and the bad could die young. It would all balance up, too. She'd
show
him. As for responsibility, well . . . humans always made changes. That was what being human was all about.

Susan opened another door and stepped into the library.

It was a room even bigger than the hall of lifetimers. Bookcases rose like cliffs; a haze obscured the ceiling.

But of course it'd be childish, she told herself, to think that she could go in waving the scythe like a magic wand and turn the world into a better place overnight. It might take some time. So she should start in a small way and work up.

She held out a hand.

‘I'm not going to do the voice,' she said. ‘That's just unnecessary drama and really a bit stupid. I just want the book of Imp y Celyn, thank you very much.'

Around her the busyness of the library went on. Millions of books quietly carried on writing themselves, causing a rustle like that of cockroaches.

‘I'm waiting,' said Susan meaningfully.

She clenched her fists.

IMP Y CELYN,
she said.

The book appeared in front of her. She just managed to catch it before it fluttered to the floor.

‘Thank you,' she said.

She flicked through the pages of his life until she came to the last one, and stared. Then she hastily went back until she found, written neatly down, his death in the Drum. It was all there – all untrue. He hadn't died. The book was lying. Or – and this she knew was a far more accurate way of looking at it – the book was true and reality was lying.

What was more important was that from the moment of his death the book was writing music. Page after page had been covered with neat staves. While Susan watched, a clef drew itself in a series of careful loops.

What did it want? Why should it save his life?

And it was vitally important that she save him instead. She could feel the certainty like a ball-bearing in her mind. It was absolutely imperative. She'd never met him up close, she'd not exchanged a word with him, he was just one person, but it was
him
she had to save.

Grandfather had said she shouldn't do that sort of thing. What did he know about anything? He'd never
lived
.

Blert Wheedown made guitars. It was quiet, satisfying work. It took him and Gibbsson, the apprentice, about five days to make a decent instrument, if the wood was available and properly seasoned. He was a conscientious man who'd devoted many years to the perfection of one type of musical instrument, on which he himself was no mean performer.

In his experience, guitarists came in three categories. There were the ones he thought of as real musicians, who worked at the Opera House or for one of the small private orchestras. There were the folk singers, who couldn't play but that was all right because most of them couldn't sing either. Then there were the – hemhem – troubadours and other swarthy types who thought a guitar was, like a red rose in the teeth, a box of chocolates and a strategically placed pair of socks, another weapon in the battle of the sexes. They didn't play at all, apart from one or two chords, but they were regular customers. When leaping out of a bedroom window just ahead of an angry husband the one thing a paramour is least concerned about leaving behind is his instrument.

Blert thought he'd seen them all.

Mind you, first thing this morning he'd sold some to some wizards. That was unusual. Some of them had even bought Blert's guitar primer.

The bell rang.

‘Yes—' Blert looked at the customer, and made a huge mental effort ‘—sir?'

It wasn't just the leather jerkin. It wasn't just the wristbands with studs. It wasn't just the broadsword. It wasn't just the helmet with the spikes. It was the leather
and
the studs
and
the sword
and
the helmet. This customer couldn't possibly be in categories one or two, Blert decided.

The figure stood, looking uncertain, hands gripping convulsively, clearly not at home in a dialogue situation.

‘This a guitar shop?' it said.

Blert looked around at the merchandise hanging from walls and ceiling.

‘Er. Yes?' he said.

‘I wants one.'

As for category three, he didn't look like someone used to bothering with chocolates or roses. Or even ‘hello'.

‘Er . . .' Blert grabbed one at random and held it out in front of him. ‘One like this?'

‘I wants one that goes
blam-Blam-blamma-BLAM-blammmm-oooiiieeee
. Y'know?'

Blert looked down at the guitar. ‘I'm not sure it does that,' he said.

Two enormous black-nailed hands took it out of his grasp.

‘Er, you're holding it wro—'

‘Got a mirror?'

‘Er, no—'

One hairy hand was raised high in the air, and then plunged towards the strings.

Blert never wanted to repeat the next ten seconds. People shouldn't be allowed to do that sort of thing to a defenceless musical instrument. It was like raising a little pony, feeding it and grooming it properly, plaiting ribbons in its tail, giving it a nice field with bunnies and daisies in it, and then watching the first rider take it out with spurs and a whip.

The thug played as if he were searching for something. He didn't find it, but as the last discords faded away his features twisted into the determined expression of one who intends to go on looking.

‘Yer, right. How much?' he said.

It was on sale for fifteen dollars. But Blert's musical soul rebelled. He snapped.

‘Twenty-five dollars,' was what he snapped.

‘Yer, right. Will this be enough, then?'

A small ruby was produced from somewhere in a pocket.

‘I can't change that!'

Blert's musical soul was still protesting, but his business head stepped in and flexed its elbows.

‘But, but, but I'll throw in my guitar primer and a strap and a couple of pleckies, yes?' he said. ‘It's got pictures of where to put your fingers and everything, yes?'

‘Yer, right.'

The barbarian walked out. Blert stared at the ruby in his hand.

The bell rang. He looked up.

This one wasn't quite so bad. There were fewer studs, and the helmet had only two spikes.

Blert's hand shut around the jewel.

‘Don't tell me you want a guitar?' he said.

‘Yep. One of them that goes
whoweeecooiwweeeeoowwwwngngngng
.'

Blert looked around wildly.

‘Well, there's this one,' he said, grabbing the nearest instrument. ‘I don't know about
wooeeeoowweee
but here's my primer as well and a strap and some pleckies, that'll be thirty dollars and I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll throw in the space between the strings for free, okay?'

‘Yep. Er. Got a mirror?'

The bell rang.

And rang.

An hour later Blert leaned on the door-frame of his workshop, a manic grin on his face and his hands on his belt to stop the weight of money in his pockets pulling his trousers down.

‘Gibbsson?'

‘Yes, boss?'

‘You know those guitars you made? When you were learning?'

‘The ones you said sounded like a cat going to the toilet through a sewn-up bum, boss?'

‘Did you throw them away?'

‘No, boss. I thought: I'll keep them, so's in five years' time when I can make proper instruments, I'll be able to take 'em out and have a good laugh.'

Blert wiped his forehead. Several small gold coins fell out with his handkerchief.

‘Where did you put them, out of interest?'

‘Chucked 'em inna shed, boss. Along with that whaney timber you said was about as useful as a mermaid in a chorus line.'

‘Just fetch them out again, will you? And that timber.'

‘But
you
said—'

‘And bring me a saw. And then nip out and get me, oh, a couple of gallons of black paint. And some sequins.'

‘Sequins, boss?'

‘You can get them up at Mrs Cosmopilite's dress shop. And ask her if she's got any of those glittery ankhstones. And some fancy material for straps. Oh . . . and see if she can lend us her biggest mirror . . .'

Blert hitched up his trousers again.

‘And then go down to the docks and hire a troll and tell him to stand in the corner and if anyone else comes in and tries to play . . .' he paused, and then remembered, ‘Pathway to Paradise, I think they said it's called . . . he's to pull their head off.'

‘Shouldn't he give them a warning?' said Gibbsson.

‘That will
be
the warning.'

It was an hour later.

Ridcully had got bored and sent Tez the Terrible over to the kitchens to see about a snack. Ponder and the other two had been busying themselves around the flask, messing around with crystal balls and wire. And now . . .

There was a wire stretched between two nails on the bench. It was a blur as it twanged an interesting beat.

Big curved green lines hung in the air above it.

‘What's that?' said Ridcully.

‘That's what the sound looks like,' said Ponder.

‘Sound
looks
like,' said Ridcully. ‘Well, there's a thing. I never saw sound looking like that. This is what you boys used magic for, is it? Looking at sound? Hey, we've got some nice cheese in the kitchen, how about we go and listen to how it smells?'

Ponder sighed.

‘It's what sound would be if your ears were eyes,' he said.

‘Really?' said Ridcully, brightly. ‘Amazing!'

‘It looks
very
complicated,' said Ponder. ‘Simple when you look at it from a distance and up close, very complex. Almost . . .'

‘Alive,' said Ridcully, firmly.

‘Er . . .'

It was the one known as Skazz. He looked about seven stone and had the most interesting haircut Ridcully had ever seen, since it consisted of a shoulder-length fringe of hair all round. It was only the tip of his nose poking out which told the world which way he was facing. If he ever developed a boil on the back of his neck, people would think he was walking the wrong way.

‘Yes, Mr Skazz?' said Ridcully.

‘Er. I read something about this once,' said Skazz.

‘Remarkable. How did you manage that?'

‘You know the Listening Monks up in the Ramtops? They say that there's a background noise to the universe? A sort of echo of some sound?'

‘Sounds sensible to me. The whole universe starting up, bound to make a big bang,' said Ridcully.

‘It wouldn't have to be very loud,' said Ponder. ‘It'd just have to be everywhere, all at once. I read that book. Old Riktor the Counter wrote it. The Monks are still listening to it, he said. A sound that never fades away.'

‘Sounds like loud to me,' said Ridcully. ‘Got to be loud to be heard any distance. If the wind's in the wrong direction, you can't even hear the bells on the Assassins' Guild.'

‘It wouldn't have to be loud to be heard everywhere,' said Ponder. ‘The reason being, at that point
everywhere
was all in one place.'

Ridcully gave him the look people give conjurors who've just removed an egg from their ear.

‘Everywhere was all in one place?'

‘Yes.'

‘So where was everywhere else?'

‘That was all in one place, too.'

‘The same place?'

‘Yes.'

‘Crunched up very small?'

Ridcully was beginning to show certain signs. If he had been a volcano, natives living nearby would be looking for a handy virgin.

‘Haha, in fact you could say it was crunched up very big,' said Ponder, who always walked into it. ‘The reason being, space didn't exist until there was a universe, so anything there was, was everywhere.'

‘The same everywhere we had just now?'

‘Yes.'

‘All right. Go on.'

‘Riktor said he thought that the sound came first. One great big complicated chord. The biggest, most complicated sound there ever was. A sound so complex that you couldn't play it
within
a universe, any more than you can open a box with the crowbar that's inside it. One great chord which . . . as it were . . .
played
everything into being. Started the music, if you like.'

‘A sort of
ta-dahhh
?' said Ridcully.