Soul Music

Hibiscus indisctinctly. “That’s Death!”
    “That’s right. He’s the one on the white horse. You can’t miss him. Only he wouldn’t look like that in here, I expect.”
    “Let me get this straight,” said the landlord, trying desperately to wriggle out of the iron grip. “You want me to tell you if I’ve seen someone who doesn’t look like that?”
    “He’d have been odd. Odder than most.” Albert thought for a moment. “And he’d have drunk a lot, if I know him. He always does.”
    “This is Ankh-Morpork, you know.”
    “Don’t be cheeky, or I’ll get angry.”
    “You mean you’re not angry now?”
    “I’m just impatient. You can try for angry if you like.”
    “There was…someone…week or so ago. Can’t remember exactly what he looked like—”
    “Ah. That’d be him.”
    “Drank me dry, complained about the Barbarian Invader game, got legless, and then…”
    “What?”
    “Can’t recall. We just threw him out.”
    “Out the back door?”
    “Yes.”
    “But that’s just river out there.”
    “Well, most people come round before they sink.”
    SQUEAK, said the Death of Rats.
    “Did he say anything?” said Albert, too busy to pay attention.
    “Something about remembering everything, I think. He said…he said being drunk didn’t make him forget. Kept going on about doorknobs and…hairy sunlight.”
    “Hairy sunlight?”
    “Something like that.”
    And the pressure on Hibiscus’s arm was suddenly released. He waited a second or two and then, very cautiously, turned his head.
    There was no one behind him.
    Very carefully, Hibiscus bent down to look under the tables.

    Albert stepped out into the dawn and, after some fumbling, produced his box. He opened it and glanced at his lifetimer, then snapped the lid shut.
    “All right,” he said. “What next?”
    SQUEAK!
    “What?”
    And someone hit him across the head.
    It wasn’t a killing stroke. Timo Laziman of the Thieves’ Guild knew what happened to thieves who killed people. The Assassins’ Guild came and talked briefly to them—in fact, all they said was “Goodbye.”
    All he’d wanted to do was knock the old man out so that he could rifle his pockets.
    He’d not expected the sound as the body hit the ground. It was like the tinkle of broken glass, but with unpleasant overtones that carried on echoing in Timo’s ears long after they should have stopped.
    Something leapt from the body and whirred into his face. Two skeletal claws grabbed his ears and a bony muzzle jerked forward and hit him hard on the forehead. He screamed and ran for it.
    The Death of Rats dropped to the ground again and scurried back to Albert. It patted his face, kicked him frantically a few times, and then, in desperation, bit him on the nose.
    Then the rat grabbed Albert’s collar and tried to pull him out of the gutter, but there was a warning tinkle of glass.
    The eye sockets turned madly toward the Drum’s closed door. Ossified whiskers bristled.
    A moment later Hibiscus opened the door, if only to stop the thunderous knocking.
    “I said we’re—”
    Someone shot between his legs, paused momentarily to bite him on the ankle, and scuttled toward the back door, nose pressed firmly to the floor.

    It was called Hide Park not because people could, but because a hide was once a measure of land capable of being plowed by one man with three-and-one-half oxen on a wet Thursday, and the park was exactly this amount of land, and people in Ankh-Morpork stick to tradition and often to other things as well.
    And it had trees, and grass, and a lake with actual fish in it. And, by one of those twists of civic history, it was a fairly safe place. People seldom got mugged in Hide Park. Muggers like somewhere safe to sunbathe, just like everyone else. It was, as it were, neutral territory.
    And it was already filling up, even though there was nothing much to see except the workmen still hammering together a large stage by the lake. An area behind it had been walled off with strips of cheap sacking nailed to stakes. Occasionally excited people would try to get in and would be thrown into the lake by Chrysoprase’s trolls.
    Among the practicing musicians, Crash and his group were immediately noticeable, partly because Crash had his shirt off so that Jimbo could paint iodine on the wounds.
    “I thought you were joking,” he growled.
    “I did say it was in your bedroom,” said Scum.
    “How’m I going to play my guitar like this?” said