Soul Music

'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.'

'Hah, you expect me to believe that, do you?' said the dwarf.

It had been a long night. Ridcully turned and waved his hand at the wall. There was a crackle of octarine fire and the words 'IOU 4 DOLERS' burned themselves into the stone.

'Right you are, no problem there,' said the dwarf, ducking back into the froth.

'I shouldn't think Mrs Whitlow is going to worry,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes as they squelched through the night. 'I saw her and some of the maids at the, er, concert. You know, the kitchen girls. Molly, Polly and, er, Dolly. They were, er, screaming.'

'I didn't think the music was that bad,' said Ridcully.

'No, er, not in pain, er, I wouldn't say that,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, beginning to go red, 'but, er, when the young man was waggling his hips like that—'

'He definitely looks elvish to me,' said Ridcully.

'— er, I think she threw some of her, er, under… things on to the stage.'

This silenced even Ridcully, at least for a while. Every wizard was suddenly busy with his own private thoughts.

'What, Mrs Whitlow?' the Chair of Indefinite Studies began.

'Yes.'

'What, her-?'

'I, er, think so.'

Ridcully had once seen Mrs Whitlow's washing line. He'd been impressed. He'd never believed there was so much pink elastic in the world.

'What, really her-?' said the Dean, his voice sounding as though it was coming from a long way away.

'I'm, er, pretty sure.'

'Sounds dangerous to me,' said Ridcully briskly. 'Could do someone a serious injury. Now then, you lot, back to the University right now for cold baths all round.'

'Really her-?' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. Somehow, none of them felt able to leave the idea alone.

'Make yourself useful and find the Bursar,' snapped Ridcully. 'And I'd have you lot up in front of the University authorities first thing in the morning, if it wasn't for the fact that you are the University authorities…'

Foul Ole Ron, professional maniac and one of Ankh-Morpork's most industrious beggars, blinked in the gloom. Lord Vetinari had excellent night vision. And, unfortunately, a well-developed sense of smell.

'And then what happened?' he said, trying to keep his face turned away from the beggar. Because the fact was that although in actual size Foul Ole Ron was a small hunched man in a huge grubby overcoat, in smell he filled the world.

In fact Foul Ole Ron was a physical schizophrenic. There was Foul Ole Ron, and there was the smell of Foul Ole Ron, which had obviously developed over the years to such an extent that it had a distinct personality. Anyone could have a smell that lingered long after they'd gone somewhere else, but the smell of Foul Ole Ron could actually arrive somewhere several minutes before he did, in order to spread out and get comfortable before he arrived. It had evolved into something so striking that it was no longer perceived with the nose, which shut down instantly in selfdefence; people could tell that Foul Ole Ron was approaching by the way their ear wax started to melt.

'Buggrit, buggrit, wrong side out, I told 'em, buggrem…'

The Patrician waited. With Foul Ole Ron you had to allow time for his wandering mind to get into the same vicinity as his tongue.

'… spyin' on me with magic, I told 'em, bean soup, see here… and then everyone was dancing, you see, and then afterwards there were two of the wizards in the street and one of them was going on about catching the music in a box and Mr Dibbler was interested and then the coffee house exploded and they all went back to the University… buggrit, buggrit, buggrem, see if I don't.'

'The coffee house exploded, did it?'

'Frothy coffee all over the place, yerronner… bugg—'