Soul Music

has at some time in his life to hand over his instrument if he wants to eat and sleep indoors.

'You ever bought anything in here?' said Lias.

'No… not that I remember,' said Glod.

'It shut,' said Lias.

Glod hammered on the door. After a while it opened a crack, just enough to reveal a thin slice of face belonging to an old woman.

'We want to buy an instrument, ma'am,' said Imp.

One eye and a slice of mouth looked him up and down.

'You human?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'All right, then.'

The shop was lit by a couple of candles. The old woman retired to the safety of the counter, where she watched them very carefully for any signs of murdering her in her bed.

The trio moved carefully amongst the merchandise. It seemed that the shop had accumulated its stock from unclaimed pledges over the centuries. Musicians were often short of money; it was one definition of a musician. There were battle horns. There were lutes. There were drums.

'This is junk,' said Imp under his breath.

Glod blew the dust off a crumhorn and put it to his lips, achieving a sound like the ghost of a refried bean.

'I reckon there's a dead mouse in here,' he said, peering into the depths.

'It was all right before you blew it,' snapped the old woman.

There was an avalanche of cymbals from the other end of the shop.

'Sorry,' Lias called out.

Glod opened the lid of an instrument that was entirely unfamiliar to Imp. It revealed a row of keys; Glod ran his stumpy fingers over them, producing a sequence of sad, tinny notes.

'What is it?' whispered Imp.

'A virginal,' said the dwarf.

'Any good to us?'

'Shouldn't think so.'

Imp straightened up. He felt that he was being watched. The old lady was watching, but there was something else…

'It's no use. There's nothing here,' he said loudly.

'Hey, what was that?' said Glod.

'I said there's—'

'I heard something.'

'What?'

'There it is again.'

There was a series of crashes and thumps behind them as Lias liberated a double-bass from a drift of old music-stands and tried to blow down the sharp bit.

'There was a funny sound when you spoke,' said Glod. 'Say something.'

Imp hesitated, as people do when, after having used a language all their lives, they're told to 'say something'.

'Imp?' he said.

WHUM-Whum-whum.

'It came from—'

WHAA-Whaa-whaa.

Glod lifted aside a pile of ancient sheet-music. There was a musical graveyard behind it, including a skinless drum, a set of Lancre bagpipes without the pipes and a single maraca, possibly for use by a Zen flamenco dancer.

And something else.

The dwarf pulled it out. It looked, vaguely, like a guitar carved out of a piece of ancient wood by a blunt stone chisel. Although dwarfs did not, as a rule, play stringed instruments, Glod knew a guitar when he saw one. They were supposed to be shaped like a woman, but this was only the case if you thought women had no legs, a long neck and too many ears.

'Imp?' he said.

'Yes?'

Whauauaum. The sound had a saw-edged, urgent fringe to it. There were twelve strings, but the body of the instrument was solid wood, not at all hollow it was more or less just a shape to hold the strings.

'It resonated to your voice,' said Glod.

'How can-?'

Whaum-wha.

Glod clamped his hand over the strings, and beckoned the other two closer.

'We're right by the University here,' he whispered. 'Magic leaks out. It's a well-known fact. Or maybe some wizard pawned it. Don't look a gift rat in the mouth. Can you play a guitar?'

Imp went pale.

'You mean like… follk music?'

He took the instrument. Folk music was not approved of in Llamedos, and the singing of it was rigorously discouraged; it was felt that anyone espying a fair young maiden one morning in May was entitled to take whatever steps they considered appropriate without someone writing it down. Guitars were frowned upon as being, well… too easy.

Imp struck a chord. It created a sound quite unlike anything he'd heard before - there were resonances and odd echoes that seemed to run and hide among the instrumental debris and pick up additional harmonics and then bounce back again. It made his spine itch. But you couldn't be even the worst musician in the world without some kind of instrument…

'Right,' said Glod.

He turned to the old woman.

'You don't call this a music instrument, do you?' he demanded. 'Look at it, half of it's not even there.'

'Glod, I don't think—' Imp began. Under his hand the strings trembled.

The old woman looked at the thing.

'Ten dollars,' she said.

'Ten dollars? Ten dollars?' said Glod. 'It's not worth two dollars!'

'That's right,' said the old woman. She brightened up a bit in a nasty way, as if looking forward to a battle in which no expense would be spared.

'And it's ancient,' said Glod.

'Antique.'

'Would you listen to that tone? It's ruined.'

'Mellow. You don't get craftsmanship like that these days.'

'Only because we've learned from experience!'

Imp looked at the thing again. The strings resonated by themselves. They had a blue tint to them and a slightly fuzzy look, as though they never quite stopped vibrating.

He lifted it close to his mouth and whispered, 'Imp.' The strings hummed.

Now he noticed the chalk mark. It was almost faded. And all it was was a mark. Just a stroke of the chalk…

Glod was in full flow. Dwarfs were said to be the keenest of financial negotiators, second only in acumen and effrontery to little old ladies. Imp tried to pay attention to what was going on.

'Right, then,' Glod was saying, 'it's a deal, yes?'

'A deal,' said the little old lady. 'And don't go spitting on your hand before we shake, that sort of thing's unhygienic.'