Soul Music

'We haven't got that right,' said Noddy.

'Yeah, but there's nothing new about that.'

'I suppose we could give it a try…

'Excellent!' said Crash. He raised his guitar defiantly. ' We can do it! For the sake of sex and drugs and Music With Rocks In!'

He was aware of their disbelieving stares.

'You never said you'd had any drugs,' said Jimbo accusingly.

'If it comes to that,' said Noddy, 'I don't reckon you've ever had—'

'One out of three ain't bad!' shouted Crash.

'Yes it is, it's only thirty-three per—'

'Shut up!'

People were stamping their feet and clapping their hands derisively.

Ridcully squinted along his staff.

'There was the Holy St Bobby,' he said. 'I suppose he was a righteous ass, come to think about it.'

'Sorry?' said Ponder.

'He was a donkey,' said Ridcully. 'Hundreds of years ago. Got made a bishop in the Omnian church for carrying some holy man, I believe. Can't get more righteous than that.'

'No… no… no… Archchancellor,' said Ponder. 'It's just a sort of military saying. It means… the… you know, sir… backside.'

'I wonder how we tell which bit that is,' Ridcully said. 'The creatures from the Dungeon Dimensions have legs and things all over the place.'

'I don't know, sir; said Ponder wearily.

'Perhaps we'd just better kick everything, to be on the safe side.'

Death caught up with the rat near the Brass Bridge.

No-one had disturbed Albert. Since he was in the gutter, he'd become nearly as invisible as Coffin Henry.

Death rolled his sleeve up. His hand moved through the fabric of Albert's coat as if it was mist.

DAFT OLD FOOL ALWAYS TOOK IT WITH HIM, he muttered. I CAN'T IMAGINE WHAT HE THOUGHT I'D DO WITH IT…

The hand came out, cupping a fragment of curved glass. A pinch of sand glittered on it.

THIRTY-FOUR SECONDS, said Death. He handed the glass to the rat. FIND SOMETHING TO PUT THIS IN. AND DON'T DROP IT.

He stood up and surveyed the world.

There was the glong-glong-glong noise of an empty beer bottle bouncing on the stones as the Death of Rats trotted back out of the Mended Drum.

Thirty-four seconds of sand orbited slightly erratically inside it.

Death hauled his servant to his feet. No time was passing for Albert. His eyes were glazed, his bodyclock idled. He hung from his master's arm like a cheap suit.

Death snatched the bottle from the rat and tilted it gently. A bit of life began to flow.

WHERE IS MY GRANDDAUGHTER? he said. YOU HAVE TO TELL ME. OTHERWISE I CAN'T KNOW.

Albert's eyes clicked open.

'She's trying to save the boy, Master!' he said. 'She doesn't know the meaning of the word Duty—'

Death tipped the bottle back. Albert froze in midsentence.

BUT WE DO, DON'T WE? said Death bitterly. YOU AND ME.

He nodded to the Death of Rats.

LOOK AFTER HIM, he said.

Death snapped his fingers.

Nothing happened, apart from the click.

ER. THIS IS VERY EMBARRASSING. SHE HAS SOME OF MY POWER. I DO SEEM MOMENTARILY UNABLE TO… ER…

The Death of Rats squeaked helpfully.

NO. YOU LOOK AFTER HIM. I KNOW WHERE THEY'RE GOING. HISTORY LIKES CYCLES.

Death looked at the towers of Unseen University, rising over the rooftops.

AND SOMEWHERE IN THIS TOWN IS A HORSE I CAN RIDE.

'Hold on. Something's coming… at the stage. 'What are they?'

Ponder stared.

'I think… they may be human, sir.'

The crowd had stopped stamping its collective feet and was watching in a sullen 'this had better be good' silence.

Crash stepped forward with a big mad glossy grin on his face.

'Yes, but any minute they'll split down the middle and gharstely creatures will come out,' said Ridcully hopefully.

Crash hefted his guitar and played a chord.

'My word!' said Ridcully.

'Sir?'

'That sounded exactly like a cat trying to go to the lavatory through a sewn-up bum.'

Ponder looked aghast. 'Sir, you're not telling me you ever—'

'No, but that's what it'd sound like, sure enough. Exactly like that.'

The crowd hovered, uncertain of this new development.

'Hello, Ankh-Morpork!' said Crash. He nodded at Scum, who hit his drums at the second attempt.

Ande Supporting Bandes launched into its first and, in the event, last number. Three last numbers, in fact. Crash was trying for 'Anarchy in Ankh-Morpork', Jimbo' had frozen because he couldn't see himself in a mirror and was playing the only page he could remember from Blert Wheedown's book, which was the index, and Noddy had got his fingers caught in the strings.

As far as Scum was concerned, tunes' names were things that happened to other people. He was concentrating on the rhythm. Most people don't have to. But Ridcully glared for Scum, even clapping his hands was an exercise in concentration. So he played in a small contented world of his own, and didn't even notice the audience rise like a bad meal and hit the stage.

Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs were on duty at the Deosil Gate, sharing a comradely cigarette and listening to the distant roar of the Festival.

'Sounds like a big night,' said Sergeant Colon.

'Right enough, sarge.'

'Sounds like some trouble.'

'Good job we're out of it, sarge.'

A horse came clattering up the street, its rider struggling to keep on. As it got closer they made out the contorted features of C. M. O. T. Dibbler, riding with the ease of a sack of potatoes.

'Did a cart just go through here?' he demanded.

'Which one, Throat?' said Sergeant Colon.

'What do you mean, which one?'

'Well, there was two,' said the sergeant. 'One with a couple of trolls in, and one with Mr Clete just after that. You know, the Musicians' Guild—'

'Oh, no!'

Dibbler pummelled the horse into action again and bounced off into the night.

'What was that about?' said Nobby.

'Someone probably owes him a penny,' said Sergeant Colon, leaning on his spear.

There was the sound of another horse approaching. The watchmen flattened themselves against the wall as it thundered past.