Soul Music (Discworld 16)

heaved. 'Hi-jo-to! Ho!' The horse reared, and galloped into the sky. Before it reached the clouds it shrank to a gleaming pinpoint, which winked. 'What,' said Susan, 'was all that about?' There was a flurry of wings. The raven alighted on the head of the recently departed Volf. 'Well, these guys believe that if you die in battle some big fat singing horned women carry you off to a sort of giant feast hall where you gobble yourself silly for the rest of eternity,' said the raven. It belched genteelly. 'Damn stupid idea, really.'

'But it just happened!'

'Still a daft idea.' The raven looked around at the stricken battlefield, empty now except for the fallen and the flocks of his fellow ravens. 'What a waste,' he added. ' I mean, just look at it all. Such a terrible waste.'

'Yes!'

'I mean, I'm near bursting and there's hundreds of 'em untouched. I think I'll see if I can have a doggy bag.'

'They're dead bodies!'

'Right!'

'What are you eating?'

'It's all right,' said the raven, backing away. 'There's enough for everyone.'

'That's disgusting!'

'I didn't kill 'em,' it said. Susan gave up. 'She looked a lot like Iron Lily,' she said, as they walked back to the patient horse. 'Our gym mistress. Sounded like her, too.' She imagined the warbling Valkyries pounding across the sky. Get some warrior, you bunch of fainting blossoms . . . 'Convergent evolution,' said the raven. 'Often happens. I read once where apparently the common octopus has an eye almost exactly the same as the human eyeb- caw!'

'You were going to say something like: except for the taste, weren't you?' said Susan. 'Negger grossed by bind,' said the raven indistinctly. 'Sure?'

'Leg go ogg by beak glease?' Susan released her grip. 'This is dreadful,' she said. 'This is what he used to do? There's no element of choice?' SQUEAK 'But what if they don't deserve to die?' SQUEAK. The Death of Rats contrived to indicate, quite effectively, that in that case they could apply to the universe and point out that they didn't deserve to die. In which case it was up to the universe to say, oh, didn't you? oh, well, that's all right, then, you can go on living. It was a remarkably succinct gesture. 'So . . . my grandfather was Death, and he just let nature take its course? When he could have done some good? That's stupid.' The Death of Rats shook its skull. 'I mean, was Volf on the right side?' said Susan. 'Hard to say,' said the raven. 'He was a Vasung. The other side were Bergunds. Apparently it all started with a Bergund carrying off a Vasung woman a few hundred years ago. Or it may have been the other way round. Well, the other side invaded their village. There was a bit of a massacre. And then the other ones went to the other village and there was another massacre. After that, you might say, there was some residual bad feeling.'

'Very well, then,' said Susan. 'Who's next?'

SQUEAK. The Death of Rats landed on the saddle. It leaned down and, with some effort, hauled another hourglass out of the pack. Susan read the label. It said: Imp y Celyn. Susan had a sensation of falling backwards. 'I know this name,' she said. SQUEAK. 'I . . . remember it from somewhere,' said Susan. 'It's important. He's . . . important . . .' The moon hung over the desert of Klatch like a huge ball of rock. It wasn't much of a desert to be graced by so impressive a moon. It was just part of the belt of deserts, growing progressively hotter and drier, that surrounded the Great Nef and the Dehydrated Ocean. And no-one would have thought much about it if people very like Mr Clete of the Musicians' Guild hadn't come along and made maps and put across this part of the desert an innocent little dotted line that marked a border between Klatch and Hersheba. Up until that time the D'regs, a collection of cheerfully warlike nomadic tribes, had roamed the desert quite freely. Now there was a line, they were sometimes Klatchian D'regs and sometimes Hershebian D'regs, with all the rights due to citizens of both states, particularly the right to pay just as much tax as could be squeezed out of them and be drafted in to fight wars against people they'd never heard of. So as a result of the dotted line Klatch was now incipiently at war with Hersheba and the D'regs, Hersheba was at war with the D'regs and Klatch, and the D'regs were at war with everyone, including one another, and having considerable fun because the D'reg word for 'stranger' was the same as for 'target'. The fort was one of the legacies of the dotted line. Now it was a dark rectangle on the hot silver sands. From it came what could very accurately be called the strains of an accordion, since someone seemed to want to play a tune but kept on running into difficulties after a few bars, and starting again. Someone knocked on the door. After a while there was a scraping on the other side and a small hatch opened. 'Yes, offendi?' IS THIS THE KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION? The face of the little man on the other side of the door went blank. 'Ah,' he said, 'you've got me there. Hang on a moment.' The hatch shut. There was a whispered discussion on the other side of the door. The hatch opened. 'Yes, it appears we are the . . . the . . . what was that again? Right, got it . . . the Klatchian Foreign Legion. Yes. What was it you were wanting?' I WISH TO JOIN. 'Join? Join what?' THE KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION. 'Where's that?' There was some more whispering. 'Oh. Right. Sorry. Yes. That's us.' The doors swung open. The visitor strode in. A legionary with corporal's stripes on his arm walked up to him. 'You'll have to report to . . .' his eyes glazed a little, . . . you know . . . big man, three stripes . . . on the tip of my tongue a moment ago . . .' SERGEANT? 'Right,' said the corporal, with relief. 'What's your name, soldier?' ER . . . 'You don't have to say, actually. That's what the . . . the...'

KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION? '. . . what it's all about. People join to . . . to . . . with your mind, you know, when you can't . . . things that happened . . .' FORGET? 'Right. I'm . . .' The man's face went blank. 'Wait a minute, would you?' He looked down at his sleeve. 'Corporal.. .' he said. He hesitated, looking worried. Then an idea struck him and he pulled at the collar of his vest and twisted his neck until he could squint, with considerable difficulty, at the label thus revealed. 'Corporal . . . Medium? Does that sound right?' I DON'T THINK SO. 'Corporal . . . Hand Wash Only?' PROBABLY NOT. 'Corporal . . . Cotton?' IT'S A POSSIBILITY. 'Right. Well, welcome to the . . . er . . .' KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION . . . 'Right. The pay is three dollars a week and all the sand you can eat. I hope you like sand.' I SEE YOU CAN REMEMBER ABOUT SAND. 'Believe me, you won't ever forget sand,' said the corporal bitterly. I NEVER DO. 'What did you say your name was?' The stranger remained silent. 'Not that it matters,' said Corporal Cotton. ' In the. . .' KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION? '. . . right . . . we give you a new name. You start out afresh.' He beckoned to another man. 'Legionary . . . ?'

'Legionary . . . er . . . ugh . . . er . . . Size 15, Sir.'

'Right. Take this . . . man away and get him a . . .' he snapped his fingers irritably, '. . . you know . . . thing . . . clothes, everyone wears them . . . sand-coloured-' UNIFORM? The corporal blinked. For some inexplicable reason the word 'bone' kept elbowing its way into the melting, flowing mess that was his consciousness. 'Right,' he said. 'Er. It's a twenty-year tour, legionary. I hope you're man enough for it.' I LIKE IT ALREADY, said Death. 'I suppose it's legal for me to go in licensed premises?' said Susan, as Ankh-Morpork appeared on the horizon again. SQUEAK. The city slid under them again. Where there were wider streets and squares she could make out individual figures. Huh, she thought . . . if only they knew I was up here! And, despite everything, she couldn't help feeling superior. All the people down there had to think about were, well, ground-level things. Mundane things. It was like looking down at ants. She'd always known she was different. Much more aware of the world, when it was obvious that most people went through it with their eyes shut and their brains set to 'simmer'. It was comforting in a way to know that she was different. The feeling wrapped around her like an overcoat. Binky landed on a greasy jetty. On one side the river sucked at the wooden pilings. Susan slid off the horse, unshipped the scythe, and stepped inside the Mended Drum. There was a riot going on. The patrons of the Drum tended to be democratic in their approach to aggressiveness. They liked to see that everyone got some. So, although it was the

consensus of the audience that the trio were lousy musicians, and therefore a suitable target, various fights had broken out because people had been hit by badly aimed missiles, or hadn't had a fight all day, or were just trying to reach the door. Susan had no difficulty in spotting Imp y Celyn. He was at the front of the stage, his face a mask of terror. Behind him was a troll, with a dwarf trying to hide behind it. She glanced at the hourglass. Just a few more seconds . . . He was really rather attractive, in a dark, curlyheaded sort of way. He looked a little elvish. And familiar. She'd felt sorry for Volf, but at least he was on a battlefield. Imp was on a stage. You didn't expect to die on stage. I'm standing here with a scythe and an hourglass waiting for someone to die. He's not much older than me and I'm not supposed to do anything about it. That's silly. And I'm sure I've seen him . . . before . . . No-one actually tried to kill musicians in the Drum. Axes were thrown and crossbows fired in a goodhumoured, easy-going way. No-one really aimed, even if they were capable of doing so. It was more fun watching people dodge. A big, red-bearded man grinned at Lias, and selected a small throwing axe from his bandolier. It was OK to throw axes at trolls. They tended to bounce off. Susan could see it all. It'd bounce off, and hit Imp. No-one's fault, really. Worse things happened at sea. Worse things happened in Ankh-Morpork all the time, often continuously. The man doesn't even mean to kill him. It's so sloppy. That's not how things should go. Someone ought to do something about it. She reached over to grab the axe handle. SQUEAK! 'Shut up!' Whaaauum. Imp stood like a discus thrower as the chord filled across the noisy room. It rang like an iron bar dropped on a library floor at midnight. Echoes bounced back from the corners of the room. Each one bore its own load of harmonics. It was an explosion of sound in the same way that a Hogswatchnight rocket explodes, each falling spark exploding again . . . Imp's fingers caressed the strings, picking out three more chords. The axe-thrower lowered his axe. This was music that had not only escaped but had robbed a bank on the way out. It was music with its sleeves rolled up and its top button undone, raising its hat and grinning and stealing the silver. It was music that went down to the feet by way of the pelvis without paying a call on Mr Brain. The troll picked up his hammers, looked blankly at his stones, and then began to beat out a rhythm. The dwarf took a deep breath, and extracted from the horn a deep, throbbing sound. People drummed their fingers on the edge of the tables. The orang was sitting with a huge rapt grin on his face, as though he'd swallowed a banana sideways. Susan looked down at the hourglass marked Imp y Celyn. The top bulb was now quite empty of sand, but something blue flickered in there. She felt tiny pin-like claws scrabble up her back and find purchase on her shoulder. The Death of Rats looked down at the glass. SQUEAK, it said, quietly. Susan still wasn't good on Rat but she thought she knew 'uh-oh' when she heard it. Imp's fingers danced over the strings, but the sound that came from them was no relative to

the tones of harp or lute. The guitar screamed like an angel who had just discovered why it was on the wrong side. Sparks glittered on the strings. Imp himself had his eyes shut and was holding the instrument close to his chest, like a soldier holding a spear at the port. It was hard to know who was playing what. And still the music flooded out. The Librarian's hair was standing on end, all over his body. The ends crackled. It made you want to kick down walls and ascend the sky on steps of fire. It made you want to pull all the switches and throw all the levers and stick your fingers in the electric socket of the universe to see what happened next. It made you want to paint your bedroom wall black and cover it with posters. Now various muscles on the Librarian's body were twitching with the beat as the music earthed itself through him. There was a small party of wizards in the corner. They were watching the performance with their mouths open. And the beat strode on, and crackled from mind to mind, snapping its fingers and curling its lip. Live music. Music with rocks in it, running wild . . . Free at last! It leapt from head to head, crackling in through the ears and heading for the hindbrain. Some were more susceptible than others . . . closer to the beat . . . It was an hour later. The Librarian knuckled and swung through the midnight drizzle, head exploding with music. He landed on the lawns of Unseen University and ran into the Great Hall, hands waving wildly overhead to maintain balance. He stopped. Moonlight filtered in through the big windows, illuminating what the Archchancellor always referred to as 'our mighty organ', to the general embarrassment of the rest of the faculty. Rack upon rack of pipes entirely occupied one wall, looking like pillars in the gloom or possibly resembling the stalagmites of some monstrously ancient cave. Almost lost among them was the player's pulpit, with its three giant keyboards and the hundred knobs for special sound effects. It wasn't often used, except for the occasional civic affair or Wizards' Excuse Me.[9] But the Librarian, energetically pumping the bellows and making occasional little 'ooks' of excitement, felt there was a lot more that it could do. A fully grown male orang-utan may look like an amiable pile of old carpets but he has a strength in him that would make a human of equivalent weight eat lots of rug. The Librarian only stopped pumping when the lever was too hot to hold and the air reservoirs were farting and whistling around the rivets. Then he swung himself up into the organist's seat. The whole edifice was humming softly under the enormous pentup pressure. The Librarian locked his hands together and cracked his knuckles, which is impressive when you have as many knuckles as an orang-utan. He raised his hands. He hesitated. He lowered his hands again and pulled out the Vox Humana, the Vox Dei and the Vox Diabolica. The moan of the organ took on a more urgent tone. He raised his hands. He hesitated. He lowered his hands and pulled out all the rest of the stops, including the twelve knobs with '?' on them and the two with faded labels warning in several languages that they were on no

account to be touched, .ever, in any circumstances. He raised his hands. He raised his feet also, positioning them over some of the more perilous pedals. He shut his eyes. He sat for a moment in contemplative silence, a test pilot ready to slit the edge of the envelope in the starship Melody. He let the plangent memory of the music fill his head and flow down his arms and fill his fingers. His hands dropped. 'What did we do? What did we do?' said Imp. Excitement ran its barefoot races up and down his spine. They were sitting in the tiny cramped room behind the bar. Glod took off his helmet and wiped the inside. 'Would you believe four beats to the bar, two-four time, melody led, with the bass beat forward in the melody?'

'What's all dat?' said Lias. 'What's all dem words mean?'

'You're a musician, ain't you?' said Glod. 'What do you think you do?'

'I hits 'em with de hammers,' said Lias, one of nature's drummers. 'But that bit you did . . .' said Imp, 'you know . . . in the middle . . . you know, bam-bah bam- bah bambamBAH . . . how did you know how to do that bit?'

'It was just de bit dat had to go dere,' said Lias. Imp looked at the guitar. He'd put it on the table. It was still playing quietly to itself, like a cat purring. 'That's not a normall instrument,' he said, shaking a finger at it. 'I was just standing there and it started pllaying all by itsellf!'

'Probably belonged to a wizard, like I said,' said Glod. 'Nah,' said Lias. 'Never knew any wizard who was musical. Music and magic don't mix.' They looked at it. Imp had never heard of an instrument that played itself before, except the legendary harp of Owen Mwnyy, which sang when danger threatened. And that had been back in the days when there were dragons around. Singing harps went well with dragons. They seemed out of place in a city with guilds and everything. The door swung open. 'That was . . . astonishing, boys,' said Hibiscus Dunelm. 'Never heard anything like it! Can you come back tomorrow night? Here's your five dollars.' Glod counted the coins. 'We did four encores,' he said darkly. 'I'd complain to the Guild, if I was you,' said Hibiscus. The trio looked at the money. It looked very impressive to people whose last meal had been twenty-four hours ago. It wasn't Guild rate. On the other hand, it had been a long twenty-four hours. 'If you come back tomorrow,' said Hibiscus, 'I'll make it . . . six dollars, how about that?'

'Oh, wow,' said Glod. Mustrum Ridcully was jolted upright in bed, because the bed itself was being gently vibrated across the floor. So it had happened at last! They were out to get him. The tradition of promotion in the University by filling dead men's shoes, sometimes by firstly ensuring the death of the man in those shoes, had lately ceased. This was largely because of Ridcully himself, who was big and kept himself in trim and, as three latenight aspirants to the

Archchancellorship had found, also had very good hearing. They had been variously hung out of the window by their ankles, knocked unconscious with a shovel, and had their arm broken in two places. Besides, Ridcully was known to sleep with two loaded crossbows by his bed. He was a kind man and probably wouldn't shoot you in both ears. That sort of consideration encouraged a more patient type of wizard. Everyone dies sooner or later. They could wait. Ridcully took stock and found his first impression was mistaken. There appeared to be no murderous magic going on. There was just sound, cramming the room to every corner. Ridcully shuffled into his slippers and went out into the corridor, where other members of the faculty were milling around and blearily asking one another what the hell was happening. Plaster rained down on them from the ceiling in a steady fog. 'Who's causing that din?' shouted Ridcully. There was a mute chorus of unheard replies, and much shrugging of shoulders. 'Well, I will find out,' growled the Archchancellor, and set off for the stairs with the others trailing after him. He walked without his knees or elbows bending very much, a sure sign of a forthright man in a bad temper. The trio said nothing all the way out of the Drum. They said nothing all the way to Gimlet's delicatessen. They said nothing while they waited in the queue, and then all they said was: 'So . . . right . . . that's one Quatre-rodenti with extra newts, hold the chillis, one Klatchian Hots with double salami and a Four Strata, no pitchblende.' They sat down to wait. The guitar played a little four-note riff. They tried not to think about it. They tried to think about other things. 'I think I change my name,' said Lias, eventually. 'I mean . . . Lias? Not a good name for the music business.'

'What'll you change it to?' said Glod. 'I thought . . . don't laugh . . . I thought . . . Cliff?' said Lias. 'Cliff?'

'Good troll name. Very stony. Very rocky. Nothing wrong with it,' said Cliff né Lias, defensively. 'Well . . . yes . . . but, I dunno, I mean . . . well . . . Cliff? Can't see anyone lasting long in this business with a name like Cliff.'