Quite a large number of people seemed to have found him this morning. Many of them were holding guitars.
“Right,” he said to Asphalt, whose flat head was just visible over the top of the makeshift desk. “All understood? It’ll take you two days to get to Pseudopolis and then you report to Mr. Klopstock at the Bull Pit. And I’ll want receipts for everything.”
“Yes, Mr. Dibbler.”
“It’ll be a good idea to get away from the city for a bit.”
“Yes, Mr. Dibbler.”
“Did I already say I wanted receipts for everything?”
“Yes, Mr. Dibbler,” sighed Asphalt.
“Off you go, then.” Dibbler ignored the troll and beckoned to a group of dwarfs who’d been hanging around patiently. “Okay, you lot, come over here. So you want to be Music With Rocks In stars, do you?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Then listen here to what I say…”
Asphalt looked at the money. It wasn’t much to feed four people for several days. Behind him, the interview continued.
“So what do you call yourselves?”
“Er—dwarfs, Mr. Dibbler,” said the lead dwarf.
“‘Dwarfs’?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because we are, Mr. Dibbler,” said the lead dwarf patiently.
“No, no, no. That won’t do. That won’t do at all. You gotta have a name with a bit of”—Dibbler waved his hands in the air—“with a bit of Music With Rocks In…uh…in. Not just ‘Dwarfs.’ You gotta be…oh, I don’t know…something more interesting.”
“But we’re certainly dwarfs,” said one of the dwarfs.
“‘We’re Certainly Dwarfs,’” said Dibbler. “Yes, that might work. Okay. I can book you in at the Bunch of Grapes on Thursday. And into the Free Festival, of course. Since it’s free, you don’t get paid, of course.”
“We’ve written this song,” said the head dwarf, hopefully.
“Good, good,” said Dibbler, scribbling on his notepad.
“It’s called ‘Something’s Gotten Into My Beard.’”
“Good.”
“Don’t you want to hear it?”
Dibbler looked up.
“Hear it? I’d never get anything done if I went around listening to music. Off you go. See you next Wednesday. Next! You all trolls?”
“Dat’s right.”
In this case, Dibbler decided not to argue. Trolls were a lot bigger than dwarfs.
“All right. But you’ve got to spell it with a Z. Trollz. Yep, looks good. Mended Drum, Friday. And the Free Festival. Yes?”
“We’ve done a song—”
“Good for you. Next!”
“It’s us, Mr. Dibbler.”
Dibbler looked at Jimbo, Noddy, Crash, and Scum.
“You’ve got a nerve,” he said. “After last night.”
“We got a bit carried away,” said Crash. “We was wondering if we could have another chance?”
“You did say the audience loved us,” said Noddy.
“Loathed you. I said the audience loathed you,” said Dibbler. “Two of you kept looking at Blert Wheedown’s guitar primer!”
“We’ve changed our name,” said Jimbo. “We thought, well, Insanity was a bit daft, it’s not a proper name for a serious band that’s pushing back the boundaries of musical expression and is definitely going to be big one day.”
“Thursday,” nodded Noddy.
“So now we’re Suck,” said Crash.
Dibbler gave them a long, cool look. Bear-baiting, bull-harassing, dog-fighting, and sheep-worrying were currently banned in Ankh-Morpork, although the Patrician did permit the unrestricted hurling of rotten fruit at anyone suspected of belonging to a street theater group. There was perhaps an opening.
“All right,” he said. “You can play at the Festival. After that…we’ll see.”
After all, he thought, there was a possibility that they’d still be alive.
A figure climbed slowly and unsteadily out of the Ankh onto a jetty by the Misbegot Bridge, and stood for a moment as mud dripped off him and formed a puddle under the planks.
The bridge was quite high. There were buildings on it, lining it on both sides so that the actual roadway was quite cramped. The bridges were quite popular as building sites, because they had a very convenient sewage system and, of course, a source of fresh water.
There was the red eye of a fire in the shadows under the bridge. The figure staggered toward the light.
The dark shapes around it turned and squinted into the gloom, trying to fathom the nature of the visitor.
“It’s a farm cart,” said Glod. “I know a farm cart when I see one. Even if it is painted blue. And it’s all battered.”
“It’s all you can afford, “said Asphalt. “Anyway, I put fresh straw in.”
“I thought we were going in der stagecoach,” said Cliff.
“Oh, Mr. Dibbler says artistes of your caliber shouldn’t travel in a common public vehicle,” said Asphalt. “Besides, he said you wouldn’t want the expense.”
“What do you think, Buddy?” said Glod.
“Don’t mind,” said Buddy vaguely.
Glod and Cliff shared a glance.
“I bet if you were to go and see Dibbler and demand something better you’d get it,” said Glod hopefully,
“It’s got wheels,” said Buddy. “It’ll do.”
He climbed aboard and sat down in the straw.
“Mr. Dibbler’s had some new shirts done.” said Asphalt, aware that there was not a lot of jolliness in the air. “It’s for the tour. Look, it says on the back everywhere you’re going, isn’t that nice?”
“Yes, when the Musicians’ Guild twist our heads round we’ll be able to see where we’ve been,” said Glod.
Asphalt cracked his whip over the horses. They ambled off at a pace that suggested they intended to keep it up all day, and no idiot too soft to really use a whip properly was going to change their minds.
“Buggrit, buggrit! The grawney man, says I. Buggrit. He’s a yellow gloak, so he is. Ten thousand years! Buggrit.”
REALLY?
Death relaxed.
There were half a dozen people around the fire. And they were convivial. A bottle was circling the group. Well, actually it was half a tin, and Death hadn’t quite worked out what was in it or in the rather larger tin that was bubbling on the fire of old boots and mud.
They hadn’t asked him who he was.
None of them had names, as far as he could tell. They had…labels, like Stalling Ken and Coffin Henry and Foul Ole Ron, which said something about what they were but nothing about what they had been.
The tin reached him. He passed it on as tactfully as he could, and lay back peacefully.
People without names. People who were as invisible as he was. People for whom Death was always an option. He could stay here a while.
“Free music,” Clete growled. “Free! What sort of idiot makes music for free? At least you put a hat down, get people to drop the odd copper in. Otherwise what’s the point?”
He stared at the paperwork in front of him for so long that Satchelmouth coughed politely.
“I’m thinking,” said Mr. Clete. “That wretched Vetinari. He said it’s up to Guilds to enforce Guild law—”
“I heard they’re leaving the city,” said Satchelmouth. “On tour. Out in the country, I heard. It’s not our law out there.”
“The country,” said Mr. Clete. “Yes. Dangerous place, the country.”
“Right,” said Satchelmouth. “There’s turnips, for a start.”
Mr. Clete’s eye fell on the Guild’s account books. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that far too many people put their trust in iron and steel when gold made some of the best possible weapons.
“Is Mr. Downey still head of the Assassins’ Guild?” he said.
The other musicians looked suddenly nervous.
“Assassins?” said Herbert “Mr. Harpsichor
d” Shuffle. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called in the Assassins. This is Guild business, isn’t it? Can’t have another Guild interfering.”
“That’s right,” said Satchelmouth. “What’d happen if people knew we’d used the Assassins?”
“We’d get a lot more members,” said Mr. Clete in his reasonable voice, “and we could probably put the subscriptions up. Hat. Hat. Hat.”
“Now hang on a minute,” said Satchelmouth. “I don’t mind us seeing to people who won’t join. That’s proper Guild behavior, that is. But Assassins…well…”
“Well what?” said Clete.
“They assassinate people.”
“You want free music, do you?” said Mr. Clete.
“Well, of course I don’t want—”
“I don’t remember you talking like this when you jumped up and down on that street violinist’s fingers last month,” said Clete.
“Yeah, well, that wasn’t, like, assassination,” said Satchelmouth. “I mean, he was able to walk away. Well, crawl away. And he could still earn a living,” he added. “Not one that required the use of his hands, sure, but—”
“And that penny whistle lad? That one that plays a chord now every time he hiccups? Hat. Hat. Hat.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the sa—”
“Do you know Wheedown the guitar maker?” said Mr. Clete.
Satchelmouth was unbalanced by the change in direction.
“I’m told he’s been selling guitars like there was no next Wednesday,” said Mr. Clete. “But I don’t see any increase in membership, do you?”
“Well—”
“Once people get the idea that they can listen to music for nothing, where will it end?”
He glared at the other two.
“Dunno, Mr. Clete,” said Shuffle obediently.
“Very well. And the Patrician has been ironical at me,” said Clete. “I’m not having that again. It’s the Assassins this time.”
“I don’t think we should actually have people killed,” said Satchelmouth doggedly.
“I don’t want to hear any more from you,” said Mr. Clete. “This is Guild business.”
“Yes, but it’s our Guild—”
“Exactly! So shut up! Hat! Hat! Hat!”
The cart rattled between the endless cabbage fields that led to Pseudopolis.
“I’ve been on tour before, you know,” said Glod. “When I was with Snori Snoriscousin And His Brass Idiots. Every night a different bed. You forget what day of the week it is after a while.”
“What day of der week is it now?” said Cliff.
“See? And we’ve only been on the road…what…three hours?” said Glod.
“Where’re we stopping tonight?” said Cliff.
“Scrote,” said Asphalt.
“Sounds a really interesting place,” said Cliff.
“Been there before, with the circus,” said Asphalt. “It’s a one-horse town.”
Buddy looked over the side of the cart, but it wasn’t worth the effort. The rich silty Sto Plains were the grocery of the continent, but not an awe-inspiring panorama unless you were the kind of person who gets excited about fifty-three types of cabbage and eighty-one types of bean.
Spaced every mile or so on the checkerboard of fields was a village, and spaced rather farther apart were the towns. They were called towns because they were bigger than the villages. The cart passed through a couple of them. They had two streets in the form of a cross, one tavern, one seed store, one forge, one livery stable with a name like JOE’S LIVERY STABLE, a couple of barns, three old men sitting outside the tavern, and three young men lounging outside JOE’S swearing that one day really soon now they were going to leave town and make it big in the world outside. Real soon. Any day now.
“Reminds you of home, eh?” said Cliff, nudging Buddy.
“What? No! Llamedos is all mountains and valleys. And rain. And mist. And evergreens.”
Buddy sighed.
“You had a great house there, I expect?” said the troll.
“Just a shack,” said Buddy. “Made of earth and wood. Well, mud and wood really.”
He sighed again.
“It’s like this on the road,” said Asphalt. “Melancholy. No one to talk to but each other, I’ve known people go totally ins—”
“How long has it been now?” said Cliff.
“Three hours and ten minutes,” said Glod.
Buddy sighed.
They were invisible people, Death realized. He was used to invisibility. It went with the job. Humans didn’t see him until they had no choice.
On the other hand, he was an anthropomorphic personification. Whereas Foul Ole Ron was human, at least technically.
Foul Ole Ron made a small living by following people until they gave him money not to. He’d also got a dog, which added something to Foul Ole Ron’s smell. It was a greyish brown terrier with a torn ear and vast patches of bare skin; it begged with an old hat in its remaining teeth, and since people will generally give to animals that which they’d withhold from humans, it added considerably to the earning power of the group.
Coffin Henry, on the other hand, earned his money by not going anywhere. People organizing important social occasions sent him anti-invitations and little presents of money to ensure he wouldn’t turn up. This was because, if they didn’t, Henry had a habit of sidling ingratiatingly into the wedding party and inviting people to look at his remarkable collection of skin diseases. He also had a cough which sounded almost solid.
He had a sign on which was chalked “For sum muny I wunt follo you home. Coff Coff.”
Arnold Sideways had no legs. It was a lack that didn’t seem to figure largely among his concerns. He would grab people by their knees and say, “Have you got change for a penny?” invariably profiting by the ensuing cerebral confusion.
And the one they called the Duck Man had a duck on his head. No one mentioned it. No one drew attention to it. It seemed to be a minor feature of no consequence, like Arnold’s leglessness and Foul Ole Ron’s independent smell or Henry’s volcanic spitting. But it kept nagging at Death’s otherwise peaceful mind.
He wondered how to broach the subject.
AFTER ALL, he thought, HE MUST KNOW, MUSTN’T HE? IT’S NOT LIKE LINT ON YOUR JACKET OR SOMETHING…
By common agreement they’d called Death Mr. Scrub. He didn’t know why. On the other hand, he was among people who could hold a lengthy discussion with a door. There may have been a logical reason.
The beggars spent their day wandering invisibly around the streets, where people who didn’t see them carefully circled out of their way and threw them the occasional coin. Mr. Scrub fitted in very well. When he asked for money, people found it hard to say no.
Scrote didn’t even have a river. It existed simply because there’s only so much land you can have before you have to have something else.
It had two streets in the form of a cross, one tavern, one seed store, one forge, a couple of barns and, in a gesture of originality, one livery stable called SETH’S LIVERY STABLE.
Nothing moved. Even the flies were asleep. Long shadows were the only occupants of the streets.
“I thought you said dis was a one-horse town,” said Cliff, as they pulled up in the rutted, puddled area that was probably glorified by the name of Town Square.
“It must have died,” said Asphalt.
Glod stood up in the cart and spread his arms wide. He yelled:
“Hello, Scrote!”
The name board over the livery stable parted from its last nail and landed in the dust.
“What I like about this life on the road,” said Glod, “is the fascinating people and interesting places.”
“I expect it comes alive at night,” said Asphalt.
“Yes,” said Cliff. “Yes, I can believe dat. Yes. Dis looks like der kind of town dat comes alive at night. Dis looks like der whole town should be buried at dere crossroads with a stake through it.”
“Talking
of steak…” said Glod.
They looked at the tavern. The cracked and peeling sign just managed to convey the words “The Jolly Cabbage.”
“I doubt it,” said Asphalt.
There were people in the dimly lit tavern, sitting in sullen silence. The travelers were served by the innkeeper, whose manner suggested that he hoped they died horribly just as soon as they left the premises. The beer tasted as if it was happy to connive at this state of affairs.
They huddled at one table, aware of the eyes on them.
“I’ve heard about places like this,” whispered Glod. “You go into this little town with a name like Friendly or Amity, and next day you’re spareribs.”
“Not me,” said Cliff. “I’m too stony.”
“Well, you’re in the rockery, then,” said the dwarf. He looked round at a row of furrowed faces and raised his mug theatrically.
“Cabbages doing well?” he said. “I see in the fields they’re nice and yellow. Ripe, eh? That’s good, eh?”
“That’s Root Fly, that is,” said someone in the shadows.
“Good, good,” said Glod. He was a dwarf. Dwarfs didn’t farm.
“We don’t like circuses in Scrote,” said another voice. It was a slow, deep voice.
“We’re not a circus,” said Glod brightly. “We’re musicians.”
“We don’t like musicians in Scrote,” said another voice.
There seemed to be more and more figures in the gloom.
“Er…what do you like in Scrote?” said Asphalt.
“Well,” said the barman, now a mere outline in the gathering darkness, “Round about this time of year we generally have a barbecue down by the rockery.”
Buddy sighed.
It was the first time he’d made a sound since they’d arrived in the town.
“I guess we’d better show them what we play,” he said. There was a twang in his voice.
It was sometime later.
Glod looked at the door handle. It was a door handle. You got hold of it with your hand. But what was supposed to happen next?
“Door handle.” he said, in case that would help.
Discworld 16 - Soul Music Page 23
