Soul Music (3 page)

‘'S black,' he muttered.

NOT,
said the stranger,
WHEN SEEN FROM THE OUTSIDE. THE NIGHT SKY IS BLACK. BUT THAT IS JUST SPACE. INFINITY, HOWEVER, IS BLUE.

‘And I suppose you know what sound is made by one hand clapping, do you?' said the holy man nastily.

YES.
CL
. THE OTHER HAND MAKES THE
AP
.

‘Ah-ha, no, you're wrong there,' said the holy man, back on firmer ground. He waved a skinny hand. ‘No sound, see?'

‘It
was
a clap. I just wasn't using both hands. What kind of blue, anyway?'

The holy man glanced down the mountain. Several people were approaching. They had flowers in their hair and were carrying what looked very much like a bowl of rice.

‘Look, my son,' the holy man said hurriedly, ‘what exactly is it you want? I haven't got all day.'

‘What do you
want
?'

‘Well—'

‘Not
exactly
. The whole thing is meant to be a mystery, see?' The stranger stared at the holy man for some time, causing the man to feel that his head had become transparent.

‘Forget what?'

‘It . . . er . . . it happens automatically.' The prospective acolytes had turned the bend on the mountain path. The holy man hastily picked up his begging bowl.

‘Let's say this bowl is your memory,' he said, waving it vaguely. ‘It can only hold so much, see? New things come in, so old things must overflow—'

The holy man scratched his gleaming bald head.

‘Traditionally,' he said, ‘the ways of forgetting include joining the Klatchian Foreign Legion, drinking the waters of some magical river, no one knows where it is, and imbibing vast amounts of alcohol.'

‘But alcohol debilitates the body and is a poison to the soul.'

‘Master?'

The holy man looked around irritably. The acolytes had arrived.

‘Just a minute, I'm talking to—'

The stranger had gone.

‘Oh, master, we have travelled for many miles over—' said the acolyte.

‘Shut up a minute, will you?'

The holy man put out his hand, palm turned vertical, and waved it a few times. He muttered under his breath.

The acolytes exchanged glances. They hadn't expected this. Finally, their leader found a drop of courage.

‘Master—'

The holy man turned and caught him across the ear. The sound this made was definitely a
clap
.

‘Ah! Got it!' said the holy man. ‘Now, what can I do for—'

He stopped as his brain caught up with his ears.

‘What did he mean,
humans
?'

Death walked thoughtfully across the hill to the place where a large white horse was placidly watching the view.

He said,
GO AWAY.

The horse watched him warily. It was considerably more intelligent than most horses, although this was not a difficult achievement. It seemed aware that things weren't right with its master.

I MAY BE SOME TIME,
said Death.

And he set out.

It wasn't raining in Ankh-Morpork. This had come as a big surprise to Imp.

What had also come as a surprise was how fast money went. So far he'd lost three dollars and twenty-seven pence.

He'd lost it because he'd put it in a bowl in front of him while he played, in the same way that a hunter puts out decoys to get ducks. The next time he'd looked down, it had gone.

People came to Ankh-Morpork to seek their fortune. Unfortunately, other people sought it too.

And people didn't seem to want bards, even ones who'd won the mistletoe award and centennial harp in the big Eisteddfod in Llamedos.

He'd found a place in one of the main squares, tuned up and played. No one had taken any notice, except sometimes to push him out of the way as they hurried past and, apparently, to nick his bowl. Eventually, just when he was beginning to doubt that he'd made the right decision in coming here at all, a couple of watchmen had wandered up.

‘That's a harp he's playing, Nobby,' said one of them, after watching Imp for a while.

‘Lyre.'

‘No, it's the honest truth, I'm—' The fat guard frowned and looked down.

‘You've just been waiting all your life to say that, ain't you, Nobby,' he said. ‘I bet you was
born
hoping that one day someone'd say “That's a harp” so you could say “lyre”, on account of it being a pun or play on words. Well, har har.'

Imp stopped playing. It was impossible to continue, in the circumstances.

‘It
is
a harp, actualllly,' he said. ‘I won it in—'

‘Ah, you're from Llamedos, right?' said the fat guard. ‘I can tell by your accent. Very musical people, the Llamedese.'

‘Sounds like garglin' with gravel to
me
,' said the one identified as Nobby. ‘You got a licence, mate?'

‘Llicence?' said Imp.

‘Very hot on licences, the Guild of Musicians,' said Nobby. ‘They catch you playing music without a licence, they take your instrument and they shove—'

‘Now, now,' said the other watchman. ‘Don't go scaring the boy.'

‘Let's just say it's not much fun if you're a piccolo player,' said Nobby.

‘But surelly music is as free as the air and the sky, see,' said Imp.

‘Not round here it's not. Just a word to the wise, friend,' said Nobby.

‘I never ever heard of a Guilld of Musicians,' said Imp.

‘It's in Tin Lid Alley,' said Nobby. ‘You want to be a musician, you got to join the Guild.'

Imp had been brought up to obey the rules. The Llamedese were very law-abiding.

‘I shallll go there directlly,' he said.

The guards watched him go.

‘He's wearing a nightdress,' said Corporal Nobbs.

‘Bardic robe, Nobby,' said Sergeant Colon. The guards strolled onwards. ‘Very bardic, the Llamedese.'

‘How long d'you give him, sarge?'

Colon waved a hand in the flat rocking motion of someone hazarding an informed guess.

‘Two, three days,' he said.

They rounded the bulk of Unseen University and ambled along The Backs, a dusty little street that saw little traffic or passing trade and was therefore much favoured by the Watch as a place to lurk and have a smoke and explore the realms of the mind.

‘You know salmon, sarge,' said Nobby.

‘It is a fish of which I am aware, yes.'

‘You know they sell kind of slices of it in tins . . .'

‘So I am given to understand, yes.'

‘Weell . . . how come all the tins are the same size? Salmon gets thinner at both ends.'

‘Interesting point, Nobby. I think—'

The watchman stopped, and stared across the street. Corporal Nobbs followed his gaze.

‘That shop,' said Sergeant Colon. ‘That shop there . . . was it there yesterday?'

Nobby looked at the peeling paint, the little grime-encrusted window, the rickety door.

‘'Course,' he said. ‘It's
always
been there. Been there
years
.'

Colon crossed the street and rubbed at the grime. There were dark shapes vaguely visible in the gloom.

‘Yeah, right,' he mumbled. ‘It's just that . . . I mean . . . was it there for years
yesterday
?'

‘You all right, sarge?'

‘Let's go, Nobby,' said the sergeant, walking away as fast as he could.

‘Where, sarge?'

‘Anywhere not here.'

In the dark mounds of merchandise, something felt their departure.

Imp had already admired the Guild buildings – the majestic frontage of the Assassins' Guild, the splendid columns of the Thieves' Guild, the smoking yet still impressive hole where the Alchemists' Guild had been up until yesterday. And it was therefore disappointing to find that the Guild of Musicians, when he eventually located it, wasn't even a building. It was just a couple of poky rooms above a barber shop.

He sat in the brown-walled waiting room, and waited. There was a sign on the wall opposite. It said ‘For Your Comforte And Convenience YOU WILL NOT SMOKE'. Imp had never smoked in his life. Everything in Llamedos was too soggy to smoke. But he suddenly felt inclined to try.

The room's only other occupants were a troll and a dwarf. He was not at ease in their company. They kept looking at him.

Finally the dwarf said, ‘Are you elvish?'

‘Me? No!'

‘You look a bit elvish around the hair.'

‘Not elvish at allll. Honestlly.'

‘Where you from?' said the troll.

‘Llamedos,' said Imp. He shut his eyes. He knew what trolls and dwarfs traditionally did to people suspected of being elves. The Guild of Musicians could take lessons.

‘What dat you got dere?' said the troll. It had two large squares of darkish glass in front of its eyes, supported by wire frames hooked around its ears.

‘It's a harp, see.'

‘Dat what you play?'

‘Yes.'

‘You a druid, den?'

‘No!'

There was silence again as the troll marshalled its thoughts.

‘You
look
like a druid in dat nightie,' it rumbled, after a while.

The dwarf on the other side of Imp began to snigger.

Trolls disliked druids, too. Any sapient species which spends a lot of time in a stationary, rock-like pose objects to any other species which drags it sixty miles on rollers and buries it up to its knees in a circle. It tends to feel it has cause for disgruntlement.

‘Everyone dresses like this in Llamedos, see,' said Imp. ‘But I'm a bard! I'm not a druid. I hate rocks!'

‘Whoops,' said the dwarf quietly.

The troll looked Imp up and down, slowly and deliberately. Then it said, without any particular trace of menace, ‘You not long in dis town?'

‘Just arrived,' said Imp. I won't even reach the door, he thought. I'm going to be mashed into a pulp.

‘Here is some free advice what you should know. It is free advice I am giving you gratis for nothing. In dis town, “rock” is a word for troll. A bad word for troll used by stupid humans. You call a troll a rock, you got to be prepared to spend some time looking for your head. Especially if you looks a bit elvish around de ears. Dis is free advice 'cos you are a bard and maker of music, like me.'

‘Right! Thank you! Yes!' said Imp, awash with relief.

He grabbed his harp and played a few notes. That seemed to lighten the atmosphere a bit. Everyone knew elves had never been able to play music.

‘Lias Bluestone,' said the troll, extending something massive with fingers on it.

‘Imp y Celyn,' said Imp. ‘Nothing to do with moving rocks around at allll in any way!'

A smaller, more knobbly hand was thrust at Imp from another direction. His gaze travelled up its associated arm, which was the property of the dwarf. He was small, even for a dwarf. A large bronze horn lay across his knees.

‘Glod Glodsson,' said the dwarf. ‘You just play the harp?'

‘Anything with strings on it,' said Imp. ‘But the harp is the queen of instruments, see.'

‘I can blow anything,' said Glod.

‘Realllly?' said Imp. He sought for some polite comment. ‘That must make you very popullar.'

The troll heaved a big leather sack off the floor.

‘
Dis
is what I play,' he said. A number of large round rocks tumbled out on to the floor. Lias picked one up and flicked it with a finger. It went
bam
.

‘Music made from rocks?' said Imp. ‘What do you callll it?'

‘We call it
Ggroohauga
,' said Lias, ‘which means, music made from rocks.'

The rocks were all of different sizes, carefully tuned here and there by small nicks carved out of the stone.

‘May I?' said Imp.

‘Be my guest.'

Imp selected a small rock and flicked it with his finger. It went
bop
. A smaller one went
bing
.

‘What do you do with them?' he said.

‘I bang them together.'

‘And then what?'

‘What do you mean, “And then what?”'

‘What do you do after you've banged them together?'

‘I bang them together again,' said Lias, one of nature's drummers.

The door to the inner room opened and a man with a pointed nose peered around it.

‘You lot together?' he snapped.

There was indeed a river, according to legend, one drop of which would rob a man of his memory.