Soul Music (26 page)

‘That sounds
elvish
to me—'

The door burst open again.

‘Er,' said Dibbler, ‘boys, if you don't come back and play something else then we're in the deep brown . . .'

‘Can't play,' said Glod. ‘I've run out of breath through lack of money.'

‘I said ten dollars, didn't I?' said Dibbler.

‘Each,' said Cliff.

Dibbler, who hadn't expected to get away with less than a hundred, waved his hands in the air.

‘Gratitude, is it?' he said. ‘You want me to cut my own throat?'

‘We'll help. If you like,' said Cliff.

‘All right, all right, thirty dollars,' said Dibbler. ‘And I go without my tea.'

Cliff looked at Glod, who was still digesting the thing about the most famous horn player in the world.

‘There's a lot of dwarfs and trolls in the audience,' said Cliff.

‘“Cavern Deep, Mountain High”?' said Glod.

‘No,' said Buddy.

‘What, then?'

‘I'll think of something.'

The audience spilled out into the street. The wizards gathered around the Dean, snapping their fingers.

‘Wella-wella-wella—' sang the Dean happily.

‘It's gone midnight!' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, snapping his fingers, ‘and I don't care a bit! What shall we do now?'

‘We could have a rumble,' said the Dean.

‘That's true,' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, ‘we did miss dinner.'

‘We missed dinner?' said the Senior Wrangler. ‘Wow!
That's
Music With Rocks In! We just don't
care
!'

‘No, I meant . . .' The Dean paused. He wasn't quite sure, now he came to really think about it, what he
had
meant. ‘It's a long walk back to the University,' he conceded. ‘I suppose we could at least stop for a coffee or something.'

‘Maybe a doughnut or two,' said Recent Runes.

‘And perhaps some cake,' said the Chair.

‘I could just fancy some apple pie,' said the Senior Wrangler.

‘And some cake.'

‘Coffee,' said the Dean. ‘Ye-ess. A coffee bar. That's right.'

‘What's a coffee bar?' said the Senior Wrangler.

‘Like a chocolate bar?' said Recent Runes. The missed dinner, hitherto forgotten, was beginning to loom large in everyone's stomachs.

The Dean looked down at his shiny new leather robe. Everyone had said how good it was. They'd admired BORN TO RUNE. His hair was right, too. He was thinking of shaving off his beard but just leaving the side bits because
that
felt right. And coffee . . . yes . . . coffee was in there somewhere. Coffee was all part of It.

And there was the music. That was in there. That was everywhere.

But there was something else, too. Something missing. He wasn't sure what it was, only that he'd know it if he ever saw it.

It was very dark in the alley behind the Cavern, and only the keenest-sighted would have seen several figures pressed against the wall.

The occasional glint of a tarnished sequin would indicate to those who knew about such things that these were the Musicians' Guild's crack enforcers, the Grisham Frord Close Harmony Singers. Unlike most of the people employed by Mr Clete they did, in fact, genuinely have some musical talent.

They'd also been in to see the band.

‘Do-wop, uh do-wop, uh do-wop—' said the thin one.

‘Bubububuh—' said the tall one. There's always a tall one.

‘Clete's right. If they keep pulling in audiences like that, everyone else is out of the show,' said Grisham.

‘Oh
yeah
,' said the bass man.

‘When they come through that door—' three more knives slipped from their sheaths ‘—well, just take your time from me.'

They heard the sound of feet on stairs. Grisham nodded.

‘A-one, a-two, a-one-two-thr—'

They pivoted.

A dark figure stood behind them, holding a glowing scythe in its hands.

Susan smiled horribly.

‘Oh,
nooo
,' said the bass man.

Asphalt unbolted the door and stepped out into the night.

‘Hey, what was that?' he said.

‘What was what?' said Dibbler.

‘I thought I heard some people running away . . .' The troll stepped forward. There was a
ting
. He reached down and picked up something.

‘And whoever it was dropped this . . .'

‘Just some item or other,' said Dibbler loudly. ‘Come along, boys. You don't have to go back to any flophouse tonight. It's The Gritz for
you
!'

‘That's a troll hotel, isn't it?' said Glod suspiciously.

‘Troll
ish
,' said Dibbler, waving a hand irritably.

‘Hey, I bin in dere once doing cabarett!' said Cliff. ‘Dey got nearly everything! Water out of taps in nearly every room! A speaking tube so's you can holler your meal order right down to the kitchen, and dese guys with actual shoes on who brings it right to you! The works!'

‘Treat yourself!' said Dibbler. ‘You boys can afford it!'

‘And then there's this tour, is there?' said Glod sharply. ‘We can afford that too, can we?'

‘Oh, I shall help out with that,' said Dibbler expansively. ‘Tomorrow you'll go to Pseudopolis, that'll take two days, then you can come back via Sto Lat and Quirm and be back here on Wednesday for the Festival. Great idea that. Giving something to the community, I've always been in favour of giving to the community. It's very good for . . . for . . . for the community. I'll get it all organized while you're away, okay? And then . . .' He put one arm around Buddy's shoulders and another around Glod's head. ‘Genua! Klatch! Hersheba! Chimera! Howondaland! Maybe even the Counterweight Continent, they're talking about discovering it again real soon now, great opportunities for the right people! With your music and my unerring business sense, the world is our mollusc! Now, you just go off with Asphalt, the best rooms now, nothing's too much for my boys, and get some sleep without worrying about the bill—'

‘Thank you,' said Glod.

‘—you can pay it in the morning.'

The Band With Rocks In shambled away in the direction of the best hotel.

Dibbler heard Cliff say, ‘What's a mollusc?'

‘It's like two plates of precipitated calcium carbonate with a salty slimy fishy thing in the middle.'

‘Sounds tasty. You don't have to eat dat bit in the middle, do you?'

When they'd gone, Dibbler looked at the knife he'd taken from Asphalt. It had sequins on it.

Yes. A few days with the lads out of the way was definitely a good move.

On his perch in the gutter above, the Death of Rats gibbered to himself.

Ridcully walked slowly out of the Cavern. Only a light drift of used tickets on the steps bore witness to the hours of music.

He felt like someone watching a game who didn't know the rules. For example, the boy had been singing . . . what was it?
Rave In
. What the hell did that mean?
Raving
, yes, he could understand
that
, and in the Dean's case it was perfectly accurate. Rave In? But everyone else had seemed to know what was meant. And then there had been, as far as he could remember, a song about not stepping on someone's shoes. Fair enough, sensible suggestion, no one wanted their feet trodden on, but why a song asking people to avoid doing so should have such an effect Ridcully was at a loss to understand.

And as for the girl . . .

Ponder bustled up, clutching his box.

‘I've got nearly all of it, Archchancellor!' he shouted.

Ridcully glanced past him. There was Dibbler, still bearing a tray of unsold Band With Rocks In shirts.

‘Yes, fine, Mr Stibbons (shutupshutupshutup),' he said. ‘Jolly good, let's get back home.'

‘Good evening, Archchancellor,' said Dibbler.

‘Why, hello, Throat,' said Ridcully. ‘Didn't see you there.'

‘What's in that box?'

‘Oh, nothing, nothing at all—'

‘It's amazing!' said Ponder, full of the undirected excitement of the true discoverer and idiot. ‘We can trap the arragh aargh aargh.'

‘My word, clumsy old me,' said Ridcully, as the young wizard clutched at his leg. ‘Here, let me take that
totally innocent
device you have there—'

But the box had tumbled out of Ponder's arms. It hit the street before Ridcully could catch it, and the lid flew off.

The music spilled out into the night.

‘How did you do that?' said Dibbler. ‘It is magic?'

‘The music lets itself be trapped so you can hear it again and again,' said Ponder. ‘And I think you did that on purpose, sir!'

‘You can hear it again and again?' said Dibbler. ‘What, by just opening a box?'

‘Yes,' said Ponder.

‘No,' said Ridcully.

‘Yes you can,' said Ponder. ‘I showed you, Archchancellor? Don't you remember?'

‘No,' said Ridcully.

‘Any kind of box?' said Dibbler, in a voice choked with money.

‘Oh, yes, but you have to stretch a wire inside it so the music has somewhere to live and ouch ouch ouch.'

‘Can't think what's come over me with these sudden muscular spasms,' said Ridcully. ‘Come, Mr Stibbons, let us not waste any more of Mr Dibbler's valuable time.'

‘Oh, you're not wasting it,' said Dibbler. ‘Boxes full of music, eh?'

‘
We'll
take this one,' said Ridcully, snatching it up. ‘It's an important magical experiment.'

He frogmarched Ponder away, which was a little hard because the youth was bent double and wheezing.

‘What did you have to go . . . and do . . . that for?'

‘Mr Stibbons, I know you to be a man who seeks to understand the universe. Here's an important rule: never give a monkey the key to the banana plantation. Sometimes you can just see an accident waiting to— oh, no.'

He let Ponder go and waved vaguely up the street.

‘Got any theories about
that
, young man?'

Something golden-brown and viscous was oozing out on to the street from what was just possibly, behind the mounds of the stuff, a shop. As the two wizards watched there was a tinkle of glass and the brown substance began to emerge from the second floor.

Ridcully stamped forward and scooped up a handful, leaping back before the wall could reach him. He sniffed at it.

‘Is it some ghastly emanation from the Dungeon Dimensions?' said Ponder.

‘Shouldn't think so. Smells like coffee,' said Ridcully.

‘Coffee?'

‘Coffee-flavoured froth, anyway. Now, why is it I have this feeling that there's going to be wizards in there somewhere?'

A figure lurched out of the foam, dripping brown bubbles.

‘Who goes there?' said Ridcully.

‘Ah, yes! Did anyone get the number of that ox-cart? Another doughnut, if you would be so good!' said the figure brightly, and fell over into the froth.

‘That sounded like the Bursar to me,' said Ridcully. ‘Come along, lad. It's only bubbles.' He strode into the foam.

After a moment's hesitation Ponder realized that the honour of young wizardry was at stake, and pushed his way in behind him.

Almost immediately he bumped into someone in the fog of bubbles.

‘Er, hello?'

‘Who's that?'

‘It's me, Stibbons. I've come to rescue you.'

‘Good. Which way is out?'

‘Er—'

There were some explosions somewhere in the coffee cloud and a popping noise. Ponder blinked. The level of bubbles was sinking.

Various pointy hats appeared like drowned logs in a drying lake.

Ridcully waded over, coffee froth dripping from his hat.

‘Something bloody stupid's been going on here,' he said, ‘and I'm going to wait quite patiently until the Dean owns up.'

‘I don't see why you should assume it was me,' muttered a coffee-coloured column.

‘Well, who
was
it, then?'

‘The Dean said the coffee ought to be frothy,' said a mound of foam of a Senior Wranglish persuasion, ‘and he did some simple magic and I rather think we got carried away.'

‘Ah, so it
was
you, Dean.'

‘Yes, all right, but only by coincidence,' said the Dean testily.

‘Out of here, all of you,' said Ridcully. ‘Back to the University this minute.'

‘I mean, I don't see why you should
assume
it's my fault just because sometimes it might happen to be me who—'

The froth had sunk a bit more, to reveal a pair of eyes under a dwarfish helmet.

‘'Scuse me,' said a voice still under the bubbles, ‘but who's going to pay for all this? That's four dollars, thank you very much.'

‘The Bursar's got the money,' said Ridcully quickly.

‘Not any more,' said the Senior Wrangler. ‘He bought seventeen doughnuts.'

‘Sugar?' said Ridcully. ‘You let him eat sugar. You
know
that makes him, you know, a bit funny. Mrs Whitlow said she'd give notice if we let him get anywhere near sugar again.' He herded the damp wizards towards the door. ‘It's all right, my good man, you can trust us, we're wizards, I shall have some money sent around in the morning.'