Soul Music (39 page)

He stood facing the audience.

Glod, who was closest to him, heard him murmur: ‘Just once? Cwm on? Just one more time? And then I'llll do whatefer you want, see? I'llll pay for it.'

There were a few faint chords from the guitar.

Buddy said, ‘I mean it, see.'

There was another chord.

‘Just once.'

Buddy smiled at an empty space in the audience, and began to play.

Every note was sharp as a bell and as simple as sunlight – so that in the prism of the brain it broke up and flashed into a million colours.

Glod's mouth hung open. And then the music unfolded in his head. It wasn't Music With Rocks In, although it used the same doors. The fall of the notes conjured up memories of the mine where he'd been born, and dwarf bread just like Mum used to hammer out on her anvil, and the moment when he'd first realized that he'd fallen in love.
²⁹
He remembered life in the caves under Copperhead, before the city had called him, and more than anything else he wanted to be home. He'd never realized that humans could sing
hole
.

Cliff laid aside his hammers. The same notes crept into his corroded ears, but in his mind they became quarries and moorlands. He told himself, as emotion filled his head with its smoke, that right after this he was going to go back and see how his old mum was, and never leave ever again.

Mr Dibbler found his own mind spawning strange and disturbing thoughts. They involved things you couldn't sell and shouldn't pay for . . .

The Lecturer in Recent Runes thumped the crystal ball.

‘The sound is a bit tinny,' he said.

‘Get out of the way, I can't see,' said the Dean.

Recent Runes sat down again.

They stared at the little image.

‘This doesn't sound like Music With Rocks In,' said the Bursar.

‘Shut up,' said the Dean. He blew his nose.

It was sad music. But it waved the sadness like a battle flag. It said the universe had done all it could but you were still alive.

The Dean, who was as impressionable as a dollop of warm wax, wondered if he could learn to play the harmonica.

The last note faded.

There was no applause. The audience sagged a little, as each individual came down from whatever reflective corner they'd been occupying. One or two of them murmured things like ‘Yeah, that's how it is', or ‘You an' me both, brother'. A lot of people blew their noses, sometimes on other people.

And then reality snuck back in, as it always does.

Glod heard Buddy say, very quietly, ‘Thank you.'

The dwarf leaned sideways and said, out of the corner of his mouth: ‘What was that?'

Buddy seemed to shake himself awake.

‘What? Oh. It's called
Sioni Bod Da
. What do you think?'

‘It's got . . . hole,' said Glod. ‘It's definitely got hole.'

Cliff nodded. When you're a long way from the old familiar mine or mountain, when you're lost among strangers, when you're just a great big aching nothingness inside . . . only then can you really sing
hole
.

‘She's watching us,' whispered Buddy.

‘The invisible girl?' said Glod, staring at the empty grass.

‘Yes.'

‘Ah, yes. I can definitely not see her. Good. And now, if you don't play Music With Rocks In this time, we're dead.'

Buddy picked up the guitar. The strings trembled under his fingers. He felt elated. He'd been allowed to play
it
in front of them. Everything else was unimportant now. Whatever happened next didn't matter.

‘You ain't heard
nothing
yet,' he said.

He stamped his foot.

‘One, two, one two three four—'

Glod had time to recognize the tune before the music took him. He'd heard it only a few seconds before. But now it
swung
.

Ponder peered into his box.

‘I think we're trapping this, Archchancellor,' he said, ‘but I don't know what it is.'

Ridcully nodded, and scanned the audience. They were listening with their mouths open. The harp had scoured their souls, and now the guitar was hot-wiring their spines.

And there was an empty patch near the stage.

Ridcully put a hand over one eye and focused until the other eye watered. Then he smiled.

He turned to look at the Musicians' Guild and saw, to his horror, that Satchelmouth was raising a crossbow. He seemed to be doing it with reluctance; Mr Clete was prodding him.

Ridcully raised a finger and appeared to scratch his nose.

Even above the sound of the playing he heard the twang as the crossbow's string broke and, to his secret delight, a yelp from Mr Clete as a loose end caught his ear. He hadn't even thought of that.

‘I'm just an old softy, that's my trouble,' Ridcully said to himself. ‘Hat. Hat. Hat.'

‘You know, this was an extremely good idea,' said the Bursar, as the tiny images moved in the crystal ball. ‘What an excellent way to see things. Could we perhaps have a look at the Opera House?'

‘How about the Skunk Club in Brewer Street?' said the Senior Wrangler.

‘Why?' said the Bursar.

‘Just a thought,' said the Senior Wrangler quickly. ‘I've never been in there at all in any way, you understand.'

‘We really shouldn't be doing this,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ‘It's really not a proper use of a magic crystal—'

‘I can't think of a better use of a magic crystal,' said the Dean, ‘than to see people playing Music With Rocks In.'

The Duck Man, Coffin Henry, Arnold Sideways, Foul Ole Ron and Foul Ole Ron's Smell and Foul Ole Ron's dog ambled around the edges of the crowd. Pickings had been particularly good. They always were when Dibbler's hot dogs were on sale. There were some things people wouldn't eat even under the influence of Music With Rocks In. There were some things even mustard couldn't disguise.

Arnold gathered up the scraps and put them in a basket on his trolley. There was going to be the prince of a primal soup under the bridge tonight.

The music had poured over them. They ignored it. Music With Rocks In was the stuff of dreams, and there were no dreams under the bridge.

Then they'd stopped and listened, as new music poured out over the park and took every man and woman and thing by the hand and showed him or her or it the way home.

The beggars stood and listened, mouths open. Someone looking from face to face, if anyone
did
look at the invisible beggars, would have had to turn away . . .

Except from Mr Scrub. You couldn't turn away there.

When the band were playing Music With Rocks In again, the beggars got back down to earth.

Except for Mr Scrub. He just stood and stared.

The last note rang out.

Then, as the tsunami of applause began to roll, The Band ran off into the darkness.

Dibbler watched happily from the wings at the other side of the stage. He'd been a bit worried for a while there, but it all seemed back on course now.

Someone tugged at his sleeve.

‘What're they doing, Mr Dibbler?'

Dibbler turned.

‘Scum, isn't it?' he said.

‘It's Crash, Mr Dibbler.'

‘What they're doing, Scum, is not giving the audience what they want,' said Dibbler. ‘Superb business practice. Wait till they're screaming for it, and then take it away. You wait. By the time the crowd is stamping its feet they'll come prancing back on again. Superb timing. When you learn that sort of trick, Scum—'

‘It's Crash, Mr Dibbler.'

‘—
then
maybe you'll know how to play Music With Rocks In. Music With Rocks In, Scum—'

‘—Crash—'

‘. . . isn't
just
music,' said Dibbler, pulling some cotton wool out of his ears. ‘It's lots of things. Don't ask me how.'

Dibbler lit a cigar. The din made the match flame flicker.

‘Any minute now,' he said. ‘You'll see.'

There was a fire that had been made of old boots and mud. A grey shape circled it, snuffling excitedly.

‘Get on, get on, get
on
!'

‘Mr Dibbler's not going to like this,' moaned Asphalt.

‘Tough one for Mr Dibbler,' said Glod, as they hauled Buddy into the cart. ‘Now I want to see those hoofs spark, know what I mean?'

‘Head for Quirm,' said Buddy, as the cart jerked into motion. He didn't know why. It just seemed the
right
destination.

‘Not a good idea,' said Glod. ‘People'll probably want to ask questions about that cart I pulled out of the swimming pool.'

‘Head towards Quirm!'

‘Mr Dibbler's really not going to
like
this,' said Asphalt, as the cart swung out on to the road.

‘Any . . . moment . . . now,' said Dibbler.

‘I expect so,' said Crash, ‘because they're stamping their feet, I think.'

There was indeed a certain thumping under the cheers.

‘You wait,' said Dibbler. ‘They'll judge it
just right
. No problem. Akk!'

‘You're supposed to put your cigar in your mouth the other way round, Mr Dibbler,' said Crash meekly.

The waxing moon lit the landscape as the cart bounced out of the gates and along the Quirm road.

‘How did you know I'd got the cart made ready?' said Glod, as they landed after a brief flight.

‘I didn't,' said Buddy.

‘But you ran out!'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘It was . . . just . . . time.'

‘Why'd you want to go to Quirm?' said Cliff.

‘I . . . I can get a boat home, can't I?' said Buddy. ‘That's right. A boat home.'

Glod glanced at the guitar. This felt wrong. It couldn't just end . . . and then they'd just walk away . . .

He shook his head. What could go wrong now?

‘Mr Dibbler's
really
not going to like this,' moaned Asphalt.

‘Oh, shut up,' said Glod. ‘I don't know what
he's
got not to like.'

‘Well, for a start,' said Asphalt, ‘the
main
thing, the thing he won't like most, is . . . um . . . we've got the money . . .'

Cliff reached down under the seat. There was a dull, clinking noise, of the sort made by a lot of gold keeping nice and quiet.

The stage was trembling with the vibration of the stamping. There was some shouting now.

Dibbler turned to Crash and grinned horribly.

‘Hey, I've just had a
great
idea,' he said.

A tiny shape swarmed up the road from the river. Ahead of it, the lights of the stage glowed in the dusk.

The Archchancellor nudged Ponder, and flourished his staff.

‘Now,' he said, ‘if there's a sudden rip in reality and horrible screaming Things come through, our job is to—' He scratched his head. ‘What is it the Dean says? Kick a righteous donkey?'

‘Some righteous ass, sir,' said Ponder. ‘He says kick some righteous ass.'

Ridcully peered at the empty stage.

‘I don't see one,' he said.

The four members of The Band sat up and stared straight ahead, over the moonlit plain.

Finally Cliff broke the silence.

‘How much?'

‘Best part of five thousand dollars—'

‘FIVE THOUSAND
DOL
—?'

Cliff clamped his huge hand over Glod's mouth.

‘Why?' said Cliff, as the dwarf squirmed.

‘MMF MMFMMF
MMFMMFS
?'

‘I got a bit confused,' said Asphalt. ‘Sorry.'

‘We'll never get far enough,' said Cliff. ‘You know dat? Not even if we die.'

‘I tried to tell you all!' Asphalt moaned. ‘Maybe . . . maybe we could take it back?'

‘MMF MMF
MMF
?'

‘How can we do dat?'

‘MMF MMF
MMF
?'

‘Glod,' said Cliff, in a reasonable tone of voice, ‘I'm going to take my hand away. And you're not to shout. Right?'

‘Mmf.'

‘OK.'

‘TAKE IT
BACK?
FIVE THOUSAND
DOL
— mmfmmfmmf—'

‘I suppose some of dat is ours,' said Cliff, tightening his grip.

‘Mmf!'

‘I know
I
haven't had any wages,' said Asphalt.

‘Let's get to Quirm,' said Buddy urgently. ‘We can take out what's . . . ours and send the rest back to him.'

Cliff scratched his chin with his free hand.

‘Some of it belongs to Chrysoprase,' said Asphalt. ‘Mr Dibbler borrowed some money off'f him to set up the Festival.'

‘We won't get away from
him
,' said Cliff, ‘except if we drive all the way to the Rim and chuck ourselves over. And even den, only maybe.'

‘We could explain . . . couldn't . . . we?' said Asphalt.

A vision of Chrysoprase's gleaming marble head formed in their vision.

‘Mmf.'

‘No.'

‘Quirm, then,' said Buddy.

Cliff's diamond teeth glittered in the moonlight.

‘I thought . . .' he said, ‘I thought . . . I heard something on the road back there. Sounded like harness—'

The invisible beggars began to wander away from the park. Foul Ole Ron's Smell had stayed on for a while, because it was enjoying the music. And Mr Scrub still hadn't moved.