Authors: Terry Pratchett
Soul Music (23 page)
âI suppose so.'
âI thought the universe came into being because some god cut off some other god's wedding tackle and made the universe out of it,' said Ridcully. âAlways seemed straightforward to me. I mean, it's the kind of thing you can imagine happenin'.'
âWellâ'
âNow you're telling me someone blew a big hooter and here we are?'
âI don't know about
someone
,' said Ponder.
someone
,' said Ponder.
âNoises don't just make themselves, that I do know,' said Ridcully.
He relaxed a bit, certain in his own mind that reason had prevailed, and patted Ponder on the back.
âIt needs some work, lad,' he said. âOld Riktor was a bit . . . unsound, y'know. He thought everything came down to numbers.'
âMind you,' said Ponder, âthe universe does have a rhythm. Day and night, light and dark, life and deathâ'
âChicken soup and croutons,' said Ridcully.
âWell, not every metaphor bears close examination.'
There was a knock on the door. Tez the Terrible entered, carrying a tray. He was followed by Mrs Whitlow, the housekeeper.
Ridcully's jaw dropped.
Mrs Whitlow curtsied.
âGood morning, hyour grace,' she said.
Her ponytail bobbed. There was a rustle of starched petticoats.
Ridcully's jaw rose again, but only so that he could say: âWhat
have
you done to yourâ'
have
you done to yourâ'
âExcuse me, Mrs Whitlow,' said Ponder quickly, âbut have you served breakfast to any of the faculty this morning?'
âThat's right, Mr Stibbons,' said Mrs Whitlow. Her ample and mysterious bosom shifted under its sweater. âNone of the gentlemen came down, so I got trays taken up to them all. Daddio.'
Ridcully's gaze continued downwards. He'd never thought of Mrs Whitlow as having legs before. Of course, in theory the woman needed something to move around on, but . . . well . . .
But there were two pudgy knees protruding from the huge mushroom of skirts. Further down there were white socks.
âYour hairâ' he began, hoarsely.
âIs there something wrong?' said Mrs Whitlow.
âNothing, nothing,' said Ponder. âThank you very much.'
The door closed behind her.
âShe was snapping her fingers as she went out, just like you said,' said Ponder.
âWasn't the only thing that's snapped,' said Ridcully, still shuddering.
âDid you look at her shoes?'
âI think my eyes shut themselves protectively about there.'
âIf it's really alive,' said Ponder, âthen it's very contagious.'
This
scene took place in Crash's father's coach-house, but it was an echo of a scene evolving all around the city.
scene took place in Crash's father's coach-house, but it was an echo of a scene evolving all around the city.
Crash hadn't been christened Crash. He was the son of a rich dealer in hay and feedstuffs, but he despised his father for being dead from the neck up, totally concerned with material things, unimaginative and also for paying him a ridiculous three dollars a week allowance.
Crash's father had left his horses in the coach-house. At the moment they were both trying to squeeze into one corner, having tried fruitlessly to kick a hole in the walls.
âI reckon I nearly had it that time,' said Crash, as hay dust poured down from the roof and woodworm hurried off to find a better home.
âIt isn'tâ I mean, it ain't like the sound we heard in the Drum,' said Jimbo critically. âIt's a bit like it, but it isnâ it ain't it.'
Jimbo was Crash's best friend and wished he was one of the people.
âIt's good enough to start with,' said Crash. âSo you and Noddy, you two get guitars. And Scum, you . . . you can play the drums.'
âDunno how,' said Scum. It was actually his name.
â
No one
knows how to play the drums,' said Crash patiently. âThere's nothing to
know
. You just hit them with the sticks.'
No one
knows how to play the drums,' said Crash patiently. âThere's nothing to
know
. You just hit them with the sticks.'
âYeah, but what if I sort of miss?'
âSit closer. Right,' said Crash, sitting back. âNow . . . the important thing, the
really
important thing is . . . what're we going to call ourselves?'
really
important thing is . . . what're we going to call ourselves?'
Cliff looked around.
âWell, I reckon we look at every house and I'm damned if I see der name Dibbler anywhere,' he growled.
Buddy nodded. Most of Sator Square was the frontage of the University, but there was room for a few other buildings. They were the sort that have a dozen brass plates by the door. The sort that hinted that even wiping your feet on the doormat was going to cost you dear.
âHello, boys.'
They turned. Dibbler beamed at them over a tray of possible sausages and buns. There were a couple of sacks beside him.
âSorry we're late,' said Glod, âbut we couldn't find your office anywhere.'
Dibbler spread his arms wide.
âThis
is
my office,' he said, equally expansively. âSator Square! Thousands of square feet of space! Excellent communications! Passing trade! Try these on,' he added, picking up one of the sacks and opening it. âI had to guess at sizes.'
is
my office,' he said, equally expansively. âSator Square! Thousands of square feet of space! Excellent communications! Passing trade! Try these on,' he added, picking up one of the sacks and opening it. âI had to guess at sizes.'
They were black, and made of cheap cotton. One of them was XXXXL.
âA vest with words on?' said Buddy.
â“The Band With Rocks In”,' Cliff read, slowly. âHey, dat's us, isn't it?'
âWhat do we want these for?' said Glod. âWe know who we are.'
âAdvertising,' said Dibbler. âTrust me.' He put a brown cylinder in his mouth and lit the end. âWear them tonight. Have I got a gig for you!'
âHave you?' said Buddy.
âThat's what I said!'
âNo, you asked us,' said Glod. âHow should we know?'
âHas it got dat livery on der side?' said Cliff.
Dibbler started again.
âIt's a big place, you'll get a great audience!
And
you'll get . . .' he looked at their trusting, open faces, âten dollars over Guild rate, how about that?'
And
you'll get . . .' he looked at their trusting, open faces, âten dollars over Guild rate, how about that?'
Glod's face split into a big grin. âWhat, each?' he said.
Dibbler gave them another appraising look. âOh . . . no,' he said. âFair do's. Ten dollars between you. I mean, be serious. You need exposure.'
âDere's dat word again,' said Cliff. âThe Musicians' Guild'll be right on our necks.'
âNot this place,' said Dibbler. âGuaranteed.'
âWhere is it, then?' said Glod.
âAre you ready for this?'
They blinked at him. Dibbler beamed, and blew a cloud of greasy smoke.
âThe Cavern!'
The beat went on
 . . .
 . . .
Of course, there are bound to be a few mutations
 . . .
 . . .
Gortlick and Hammerjug were songwriters, and fully paid-up members of the Guild. They wrote dwarf songs for all occasions.
Some people say this is not hard to do so long as you can remember how to spell âGold', but this is a little bit cynical. Many dwarf songs
20
are on the lines of âGold, gold, gold' but it's all in the inflexion; dwarfs have thousands of words for âgold' but will use any of them in an emergency, such as when they see some gold that doesn't belong to them.
20
are on the lines of âGold, gold, gold' but it's all in the inflexion; dwarfs have thousands of words for âgold' but will use any of them in an emergency, such as when they see some gold that doesn't belong to them.
They had a small office in Tin Lid Alley, where they sat either side of an anvil and wrote popular songs to mine along to.
âGort?'
âWhat?'
âWhat do you think of this one?'
Hammerjug cleared his throat.
âI'm mean and turf and I'm mean and turf and âI'm mean and turf and I'm mean and turf,
âAnd me an' my friends can walk towards you with our hats on backwards in a menacing way,
âYo!'
Gortlick chewed the end of his composing hammer thoughtfully.
âGood rhythm,' he said, âbut the words need some work.'
âYou mean more gold, gold, gold?'
âYe-es. What're you thinking of calling it?'
âEr . . . r . . . rat . . . music . . .'
âWhy rat music?'
Hammerjug looked puzzled.
âCouldn't really say,' he said. âIt was just an idea I had in my brain.'
Gortlick shook his head. Dwarfs were a burrowing race. He knew what they liked.
âGood music's got to have
hole
in it,' he said. âYou ain't got nothing if you ain't got hole.'
hole
in it,' he said. âYou ain't got nothing if you ain't got hole.'
âNow calm down, calm down,' said Dibbler. âIt's the biggest venue in Ankh-Morpork, that's why. I don't see what the problem is . . .'
âThe Cavern?' screamed Glod. âChrysoprase the troll runs it, that's the problem!'
âDey say he's a godfather in the Breccia,' said Cliff.
âNow now, that's never been proved . . .'
âOnly 'cos it's very hard to prove things when someone's scooped a hole in your head and buried your feet in it!'
âThere's no need for this prejudice, just because he's a trollâ' said Dibbler.
â
I'm
a troll! So I can be prejudiced against trolls, all right? He's one mean mutherlode! Dey say when dey found the De Bris gang none of 'em had any teefâ'
I'm
a troll! So I can be prejudiced against trolls, all right? He's one mean mutherlode! Dey say when dey found the De Bris gang none of 'em had any teefâ'
âWhat
is
the Cavern?' said Buddy.
is
the Cavern?' said Buddy.
âTroll place,' said Cliff. âDey sayâ'
âIt'll be great! Why worry?' said Dibbler.
âIt's a gambling joint, too!'
21
21
âBut the Guild won't go in there,' said Dibbler. âNot if they know what's good for them.'
âAnd
I
know what's good for me, too!' shouted Glod. âI'm good at knowing that! It's good for me not to go into a troll dive!'
I
know what's good for me, too!' shouted Glod. âI'm good at knowing that! It's good for me not to go into a troll dive!'
âThey threw axes at you in the Drum,' said Dibbler, reasonably.
âYes, but only in fun. It's not as if they were aiming.'
âAnyway,' said Cliff, âonly trolls and damn silly young humans go there who think it clever to drink in a troll bar. You won't get an audience.'
Dibbler tapped the side of his nose.
âYou play,' he said. âYou'll get an audience. That's
my
job.'
my
job.'
âThe doors aren't big enough for me to go in!' snapped Glod.
âThey're
huge
doors,' said Dibbler.
huge
doors,' said Dibbler.
âThey ain't big enough for me 'cos if you try to get me in there you'll have to drag the street in too, on account of me holding on to it!'
âNo, be sensibleâ'
âNo!' screamed Glod. âAnd I'm screaming for all three of us!'
The guitar whined.
Buddy swung it around until he could hold it, and played a couple of chords. That seemed to calm it down.
âI think it . . . er . . . likes the idea,' he said.
âIt likes the idea,' said Glod, simmering down a little bit. âOh, good. Well, do you know what they do to dwarfs who go into the Cavern?'
âWe do need the money, and it's probably not worse than what the Guild'll do to us if we play anywhere else,' said Buddy. âAnd we've got to play.'
They stood looking at one another.
âWhat you boys should do now,' said Dibbler, blowing out a smoke ring, âis find somewhere nice and quiet to spend the day. Have a bit of a rest.'
âDamn right,' said Cliff. âI never expected to carry these rocks around the whole timeâ'
Dibbler raised a finger. âAh,' he said, âI thought of that, too. You don't want to waste your talents lugging stuff around, that's what I told myself. I hired you a helper. Very cheap, only a dollar a day, I'll take it straight out of your wages so's you don't have to bother about it. Meet Asphalt.'
âWho?' said Buddy.
â'S me,' said one of the sacks beside Dibbler.
The sack opened up a bit and turned out not to be a sack at all, but a . . . a sort of crumpled . . . a kind of mobile heap of . . .
Buddy felt his eyes watering. It
looked
like a troll, except that it was shorter than a dwarf. It wasn't
smaller
than a dwarf â what Asphalt lacked in height he made up in breadth and, while on the subject, also in smell.
looked
like a troll, except that it was shorter than a dwarf. It wasn't
smaller
than a dwarf â what Asphalt lacked in height he made up in breadth and, while on the subject, also in smell.
âHow come,' said Cliff, âhe's so short?'
â'N'elephant sat on me,' said Asphalt, sulkily.
Glod blew his nose.
âOnly sat?'
Asphalt was already wearing a âBand With Rocks In' shirt. It was tight across the chest but reached down to the floor.
âAsphalt'll look after you,' said Dibbler. âThere isn't anything he doesn't know about show business.'
Asphalt gave them a big grin.
âYou'll be okay with me,' he said. âI've worked with 'em all, I have. Been everywhere, done it all.'
âWe
could
go to the Fronts,' said Cliff. âNo one around there when the University's on holiday.'
could
go to the Fronts,' said Cliff. âNo one around there when the University's on holiday.'
âGood. Got things to organize,' said Dibbler. âSee you tonight. The Cavern. Seven o'clock.'
He strode off.
âYou know the funny thing about him?' said Glod.
âWhat?'
âThe way he was smoking that sausage. Do you think he knew?'
Asphalt grabbed Cliff's bag and slung it easily over his shoulder.
âLet's go, boss,' he said.
âAn elephant sat on you?' said Buddy, as they crossed the square.
âYup. At the circus,' said Asphalt. âI used to muck 'em arht.'
âThat's how you got like that?'
âNope. Din't get like this 'til elephants had sat on me free, fo' times,' said the small flat troll. âDunno why. I'd be cleanin' up after 'em, next minute it'd all be dark.'
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