'mumblemumblemumblelavendermumble,' said the Dean sullenly. 'Pardon, Dean?'
'I said it's because I added lavender oil,' said the Dean loudly. 'And some of us happen to think it's a nifty hairstyle, thank you so very much. Your trouble, Archchancellor, is that you don't understand people of our age!'
'What . . . you mean seven months older than me?' said Ridcully. This time the Dean hesitated. 'What did I just say?' he said. 'Have you been taking dried frog pills, old chap?' said Ridcully. 'Of course not, they're for the mentally unstable!' said the Dean. 'Ah. There's the trouble, then.' The curtain went up or, rather, was jerkily pulled aside. The Band With Rocks In blinked in the torchlight. No-one clapped. On the other hand, no-one threw anything, either. By Drum standards, this was a hearty welcome. Ridcully saw a tall, curly-headed young man clutching what looked like an undernourished guitar or possibly a banjo that had been used in a fight. Beside him was a dwarf, holding a battle horn. At the rear was a troll, hammer in each paw, seated behind a pile of rocks. And to one side was the Librarian, standing in front of . . . Ridcully leaned forward . . . what appeared to be the skeleton of a piano, balanced on some beer-kegs. The boy looked paralysed by the attention. He said: 'Hello ... er ... Ankh-Morpork. And, this amount of conversation apparently having exhausted him, he started to play. It was a simple little rhythm, one that you might easily have ignored if you'd met it in the street. It was followed by a sequence of crashing chords and then, Ridcully realized, it hadn't been followed by the chords, because the rhythm was there all the time. Which was impossible. No guitar could be played like that. The dwarf blew a sequence of notes on the horn. The troll picked up the beat. The Librarian brought both hands down upon the piano keyboard, apparently at random. Ridcully had never heard such a din. And then . . . and then . . . it wasn't a din any more. It was like that nonsense about white light that the young wizards in the High Energy Magic Building went on about. They said that all the colours together made up white, which was bloody nonsense as far as Ridcully was concerned, because everyone knew that if you mixed up all the colours you could get your hands on, you got a sort of greeny-brown mess which certainly wasn't any kind of white. But now he had a vague idea what they meant. All this noise, this mess of music, suddenly came together and there was a new music inside it. The Dean's quiff was quivering. The whole crowd was moving. Ridcully realized his foot was tapping. He stamped on it with his other foot. Then he watched the troll carry the beat and hammer the rocks until the walls shook. The Librarian's fingers swooped along the keyboard. Then his toes did the same. And all the time
bound to work,' said Glod. 'It's like . . . a coach. The more bits you take off, the faster it goes. Come on.' They set out. Buddy tried to look as inconspicuous as a human can look if he is accompanying a dwarf with a big horn, an ape, and a troll carrying a piano in a bag. 'I'd like a coach,' said Cliff, as they headed for the Drum. 'Big black coach with all dat liver on it.'
'Liver?' said Buddy. He was beginning to get accustomed to the name. 'Shields and dat.'
'Oh. Livery.'
'And dat.'
'What'd you get if you had a pile of gold, Glod?' said Buddy. In its bag the guitar twanged
gently to the sound of his voice. Glod hesitated. He wanted to say that for a dwarf the whole point of having a pile of gold was, well, to have a pile of gold. It didn't have to do anything other than be just as oraceous as gold could be. 'Dunno,' he said. 'Never thought I'd have a pile of gold. What about you?'
'I swore I'd be the most famous musician in the world.'
'Days dangerous, dat kinda swear,' said Cliff. 'Cook.'
'Isn't it what every artist wants?' said Buddy. 'In my experience,' said Glod, 'what every true artist wants, really wants, is to be paid.'
'And famous,' said Buddy. 'Famous I don't know about,' said Glod. 'It's hard to be famous and alive. I just want to play music every day and hear someone say, “Thanks, that was great, here is some money, same time tomorrow OK?”'
'Is that all?'
'It's a lot. I'd like people to say, “We need a good horn man, get Glod Glodsson!”'
'Sounds a bit dull,' said Buddy. 'I like dull. It lasts.' They reached the side door of the Drum and entered a gloomy room that smelled of rats and second-hand beer. There was a distant murmur of voices from the bar. 'Sounds like there's a lot of people in,' said Glod. Hibiscus bustled up. 'You boys ready, then?' he said. 'Hold on a minute,' said Cliff. 'We ain't discussed our pay.'
'I said six dollars,' said Hibiscus. 'What d'you expect? You aren't Guild, and the Guild rate is eight dollars.'
'We wouldn't ask you for eight dollars,' said Glod. 'Right!'
'We'll take sixteen.'
'Sixteen? You can't do that! That's almost twice Guild rate!'
'But there's a lot of people out there,' said Glod. 'I bet you're renting a lot of beer. We don't mind going home.'
'Let's talk about this,' said Hibiscus. He put his arm around Glod's head and led him to a corner of the room. Buddy watched the Librarian examine the piano. He'd never seen a musician begin by trying to eat his instrument. Then the ape lifted the lid and regarded the keyboard. He tried a few notes, apparently for taste. Glod returned, rubbing his hands. 'That's sorted him out,' he said. 'Hah!'
'How much?' said Cliff. 'Six dollars!' said Glod. There was some silence. 'Sorry,' said Buddy. 'We were waiting for the “-teen”.'
'I had to be firm,' said Glod. 'He got down to two dollars at one point.' Some religions say that the universe was started with a word, a song, a dance, a piece of music. The Listening Monks of the Ramtops have trained their hearing until they can tell the value of a playing card by listening to it, and have made it their task to listen intently to the subtle sounds of the universe to piece together, from the fossil echoes, the very first sounds. There was certainly, they say, a very strange noise at the beginning of everything. But the keenest ears (the ones who win most at poker), who listen to the frozen echoes in
ammonites and amber, swear they can detect some tiny sounds before that. It sounded, they say, like someone counting: One, Two, Three, Four. The very best one, who listened to basalt, said he thought he could make out, very faintly, some numbers that came even earlier. When they asked him what it was, he said: 'It sounds like One, Two.' No-one ever asked what, if there was a sound that called the universe into being, happened to it afterwards. It's mythology. You're not supposed to ask that kind of question. On the other hand, Ridcully believed that everything had come into being by chance or, in the particular case of the Dean, out of spite. Senior wizards didn't usually drink in the Mended Drum except when they were off duty. They were aware that they were here tonight in some sort of ill-defined official capacity, and were seated rather primly in front of their drinks. There was a ring of empty seats around them, but it was not very big because the Drum was unusually crowded. 'Lot of ambience in here,' said Ridcully, looking around. 'Ah, I see they do Real Ale again. I'll have a pint of Turbot's Really Odd, please.' The wizards watched him as he drained the mug. Ankh-Morpork beer has a flavour all its own; it's something to do with the water. Some people say it's like consommé, but they are wrong. Consommé is cooler. Ridcully smacked his lips happily. 'Ah, we certainly know what goes into good beer in AnkhMorpork,' he said. The wizards nodded. They certainly did. That's why they were drinking gin and tonic. Ridcully looked around. Normally at this time of night there was a fight going on somewhere, or at least a mild stabbing. But there was just a buzz of conversation and everyone was watching the small stage at the far end of the room, where nothing was happening in large amounts. There was theoretically a curtain across it; it was only an old sheet, and there was a succession of thuds and thumps from behind it. The wizards were quite close to the stage. Wizards tend to get good seats. Ridcully thought he could make out some whispering, and see shadows moving behind the sheet. 'He said, what do we call ourselves?'
'Cliff, Buddy, Glod and the Librarian. I thought he knew that.'
'No, we've got to have one name for all of us.'
'Dey rationed, den?'
'Something like The Merry Troubadours, maybe.'
'Oook!'