Soul Music (25 page)

‘Er—' Dibbler began.

‘Mr Chrysoprase don't like being kept waiting.'

‘I know, it—'

‘He gets sad if he's kept waiting—'

‘All
right
!' shouted Dibbler. ‘Free! And that's cutting my own throat. You do know that, don't you?'

Buddy played a chord. It seemed to leave little lights in the air.

‘Let's go,' he said softly.

‘I know this city,' Dibbler mumbled, as The Band With Rocks In hurried towards the vibrating stage. ‘Tell people something's free and you'll get thousands of them turning up—'

Needing to eat, said a voice in his head. It had a twang.

Needing to drink.

Needing to buy Band With Rocks In shirts . . .

Dibbler's face, very slowly, rearranged itself into a grin.

‘A
free
festival,' he said. ‘Right! It's our public duty. Music
should
be free. And sausages in a bun should be a dollar each, mustard extra. Maybe a dollar-fifty. And that's cutting my own throat.'

In the wings, the noise of the audience was a solid wall of sound.

‘There's
lots
of them,' said Glod. ‘I never played for that many in my entire life!'

Asphalt was arranging Cliff's rocks on the stage and getting massive applause and catcalls.

Glod glanced up at Buddy. He hadn't let go of the guitar all this time. Dwarfs weren't given to deep introspection, but Glod was suddenly aware of a desire to be a long way from here, in a cave somewhere.

‘Best of luck, you guys,' said a flat little voice behind them.

Jimbo was bandaging Crash's arm.

‘Er, thanks,' said Cliff. ‘What happened to you?'

‘They threw something at us,' said Crash.

‘What?'

‘Noddy, I think.'

What could be seen of Crash's face broke into a huge and terrible smile.

‘We done it, though!' he said. ‘We done music with rocks in all right! That bit where Jimbo smashed his guitar, they
loved
that bit!'

‘Smashed his guitar?'

‘Yeah,' said Jimbo, with the pride of the artist. ‘On Scum.'

Buddy had his eyes closed. Cliff thought he could see a very, very faint glow surrounding him, like a thin mist. There were tiny points of light in it.

Sometimes, Buddy looked very elvish.

Asphalt scurried off the stage.

‘OK, all done,' he said.

The others looked at Buddy.

He was still standing with his eyes shut, as if he was asleep on his feet.

‘We'll . . . get on out there, then?' said Glod.

‘Yes,' said Cliff, ‘we'll get on out there, will we? Er. Buddy?'

Buddy's eyes snapped open suddenly.

‘Let's rock,' he whispered.

Cliff had thought that the sound was loud before, but it hit him like a club as they trooped out of the wings.

Glod picked up his horn. Cliff sat down and found his hammers.

Buddy walked to the centre of the stage and, to Cliff's amazement, just stood there looking down at his feet.

The cheering began to subside.

And then died away altogether. The huge hall was filled with the hush of hundreds of people holding their breath.

Buddy's fingers moved.

He picked out three simple little chords.

And then he looked up.

‘Hello, Ankh-Morpork!'

Cliff felt the music rise up behind him and rush him forward into a tunnel of fire and sparks and excitement. He brought his hammers down. And it was Music With Rocks In.

C. M. O. T. Dibbler stood out in the street so that he didn't have to hear the music. He was smoking a cigar and doing calculations on the back of an overdue bill for stale buns.

Lessee . . . Okay, have it outside somewhere, so there's no rent . . . maybe ten thousand people, one sausage-inna-bun each at a dollar-fifty, no, say a dollar-seventy-five, mustard tenpence extra – ten thousand Band With Rocks In shirts at five dollars each, make that ten dollars . . . add stall rental for other traders, because people who like Music With Rocks In could probably be persuaded to buy
anything
 . . .

He was aware of a horse coming along the street. He paid it no attention until a female voice said: ‘How do I get in here?'

‘No chance. Tickets all sold out,' said Dibbler, without turning his head. Even Band With Rocks In posters, people had been offering
three dollars
just for posters, and Chalky the troll could knock out a hundred a—

He looked up. The horse, a magnificent white one, watched him incuriously.

Dibbler looked around. ‘Where'd she go?'

There were a couple of trolls lounging just inside the entrance. Susan ignored them. They ignored her.

In the audience, Ponder Stibbons looked both ways and cautiously opened a wooden box.

The stretched string inside began to vibrate.

‘This is all wrong!' he shouted in Ridcully's ear. ‘This is
not
according to the laws of sound!'

‘Maybe they're not laws!' screamed Ridcully. People a foot away couldn't hear him. ‘Maybe they're just guidelines!'

‘No! There
have
to be laws!'

Ridcully saw the Dean try to climb on the stage in the excitement. Asphalt's huge troll feet landed heavily on his fingers.

‘Oh, I say, good shot,' said the Archchancellor.

A prickling sensation on the back of his neck made him look around.

Although the Cavern was crowded, a space seemed to have formed in the floor. People were pressed together but, somehow, this circle was as inviolate as a wall.

In the middle of it was the girl he'd seen in the Drum. She was walking across the floor, holding her dress daintily.

Ridcully's eyes watered.

He stepped forward, concentrating. You could do almost anything if you concentrated. Anyone could have stepped into the circle if their senses had been prepared to let them know it was there. Inside the circle the sound was slightly muted.

He tapped her on the shoulder. She spun around, startled.

‘Good evening,' said Ridcully. He looked her up and down, and then said, ‘I'm Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University. I can't help wondering who you are.'

‘Er . . .' The girl looked panicky for a moment. ‘Well, technically . . . I suppose I'm Death.'

‘Technically?'

‘Yes. But not on duty at the moment.'

‘Very glad to hear that.'

There was a shriek from the stage as Asphalt threw the Lecturer in Recent Runes into the audience, which applauded.

‘Can't say I've seen that much of Death,' said Ridcully. ‘But in so far as I have, he's tended to be . . . well,
he
, to start with. And a good deal thinner . . . ?'

‘He's my grandfather.'

‘Ah. Ah. Really? I didn't even know he was—' Ridcully stopped. ‘Well, well, well, fancy that. Your grandfather? And you're in the family firm?'

‘Shut up, you stupid man,' said Susan. ‘Don't you dare patronize me. You see him?' She pointed to the stage, where Buddy was in mid-riff. ‘He's going to die soon because . . . because of
silliness
. And if you can't do anything about it, go
away
!'

Ridcully glanced at the stage. When he looked back, Susan had vanished. He made a mighty effort and thought he caught a glimpse of her a little way off, but she knew he was looking for her and he had no chance of finding her now.

Asphalt got back into the dressing room first. There is something very sad about an empty dressing room. It's like a discarded pair of underpants, which it resembles in a number of respects. It's seen a lot of activity. It may even have witnessed excitement and a whole gamut of human passions. And now there's nothing much left but a faint smell.

The little troll dumped the bag of rocks on the floor and bit the top off a couple of beer bottles.

Cliff entered. He got halfway across the floor and then fell over, hitting the boards with every part of his body at once. Glod stepped over him and flopped on to a barrel.

He looked at the beer bottles. He took off his helmet. He poured the beer into the helmet. Then he let his head flop forward.

Buddy entered and sat down in the corner, leaning against the wall.

And Dibbler followed. ‘Well, what can I say? What
can
I say?' he said.

‘Don't ask us,' said Cliff from his prone position. ‘How should we know?'

‘That was
magnificent
,' said Dibbler. ‘What's up with the dwarf? Is he drowning?'

Glod reached out an arm, without looking, smashed the top off another bottle of beer and poured it over his head.

‘Mr Dibbler?' said Cliff.

‘Yes?'

‘I think we want to talk. Just us, like. The band. If you don't mind.'

Dibbler looked from one to the other. Buddy was staring at the wall. Glod was making bubbling noises. Cliff was still on the floor.

‘OK,' he said, and then added brightly, ‘Buddy? The free performance . . .
great
idea. I'll start organizing it right away and you can do it just as soon as you get back from your tour. Right. Well, I'll just—'

He turned to leave and walked into Cliff's arm, which was suddenly blocking the doorway.

‘Tour? What tour?'

Dibbler backed off a little. ‘Oh, a few places. Quirm, Pseudopolis, Sto Lat—' He looked around at them. ‘Didn't you want that?'

‘We'll talk about dat later,' said Cliff.

He pushed Dibbler out of the door and slammed it shut.

Beer dripped off Glod's beard.

‘Tour? Three more nights of
this
?'

‘What's the problem?' said Asphalt. ‘It was great! Everyone was cheering. You did two hours! I had to keep kickin' 'em off the stage! I never felt so—'

He stopped.

‘That's it, really,' said Cliff. ‘The fing is, I go on dat stage, I sits down not knowing even what we're goin' to do, next minute Buddy plays something on his . . . on that
thing
, next I'm goin'
bam-Bam-chcha-chcha-BAM-bam. I
don't know what I'm playing. It just comes in my head and down my arms.'

‘Yes,' said Glod. ‘Me, too. Seems to me I'm getting stuff out of that horn I never put in there.'

‘And it ain't like proper playing,' said Cliff. ‘That's what I'm saying. It's more like being played.'

‘You've been in show business a long time, right?' said Glod to Asphalt.

‘Yep. Been there, done it. Seem 'em all.'

‘You ever seen an audience like that?'

‘I've seen 'em throw flowers and cheer at the Opera House—'

‘Ha! Just flowers? Some woman threw her . . . clothing at the stage!'

‘Dat's right! Landed on my head!'

‘And when Miss VaVa Voom did the Feather Dance down at the Skunk Club in Brewer Street, the whole audience rushed the stage when she was down to the last feather—'

‘That was like this, was it?'

‘No,' the troll admitted. ‘I got to say it, I ain't never seen an audience so . . .
hungry
. Not even for Miss VaVa Voom, and they were pretty damn peckish then, I can tell you. Of course, no one threw underwear on to the stage. She used to throw it
off
the stage.'

‘Dere's something else,' said Cliff. ‘Dere's four people in this room and only three of 'em's talking.'

Buddy looked up.

‘The music's important,' he mumbled.

‘It ain't music,' said Glod. ‘Music don't do
this
to people. It don't make them feel like they've been put through a wringer. I was sweating so much I'm going to have to change my vest any day now.' He rubbed his nose. ‘Also, I looked at that audience, and I thought: they paid money to get in here. I bet it came to more than ten dollars.'

Asphalt held up a slip of paper.

‘Found this ticket on the floor,' he said.

Glod read it.

‘A dollar-fifty?' he said. ‘Six hundred people at a dollar-fifty each? That . . . that's four hundred dollars!'

‘Nine hundred,' said Buddy, in the same flat tone, ‘but the money isn't important.'

‘The money's not important? You keep on saying that! What kind of musician
are
you?'

There was still a muted roar from outside.

‘You want to go back to playing for half a dozen people in some cellar somewhere after this?' said Buddy. ‘Who's the most famous horn player there ever was, Glod?'

‘Brother Charnel,' said the dwarf promptly. ‘Everyone knows that. He stole the altar gold from the Temple of Offler and had it made into a horn and played magical music until the gods caught up with him and pulled his—'

‘Right,' said Buddy, ‘but if you went out there now and asked who the most famous horn player is, would they remember some felonious monk or would they shout for Glod Glodsson?'

‘They'd—'

Glod hesitated.

‘Right,' said Buddy. ‘Think about that. A musician has to be
heard
. You can't stop now. We can't stop now.'

Glod waved a finger at the guitar.

‘It's that thing,' he said. ‘It's too dangerous.'

‘I can handle it!'

‘Yes, but where's it going to end?'

‘It's not how you finish that matters,' said Buddy. ‘It's how you get there.'