Soul Music

haystack heaved, and gave birth to a Glod.
    He rolled out onto the ground, and groaned. Fine rain was drifting over the landscape. Then he staggered upright, looked around at the rolling fields, and disappeared behind a hedge for the moment.
    He trotted back a few seconds later, explored the haystack for a while until he found a part that was lumpier than normal, and kicked it repeatedly with his metal-tipped boot.
    “Ow!”
    “C-flat,” said Glod. “Good morning, Cliff. Hello, world! I don’t think I can stand life in the fast leyline, you know—the cabbages, the bad beer, all those rats pestering you all the time—”
    Cliff crawled out.
    “I must have had some bad ammonium chloride last night,” he said. “Is der top of my head still on?”
    “Yes.”
    “Pity.”
    They hauled Asphalt out by his boots and brought him round by pounding him repeatedly.
    “You’re our road manager,” said Glod. “You’re supposed to see no harm comes to us.”
    “Well, I’m doing that, ain’t I?” Asphalt muttered. “I’m not hitting you, Mr. Glod. Where’s Buddy?”
    The three circled the haystack, prodding at bulges which turned out to be damp hay.
    They found him on a small rise in the ground, not very far away. A few holly bushes grew there, carved into curves by the wind. He was sitting under one, guitar on his knees, rain plastering his hair to his face.
    He was asleep, and soaking wet.
    On his lap, the guitar played raindrops.
    “He’s weird,” said Asphalt.
    “No,” said Glod. “He’s wound up by some strange compulsion which leads him through dark pathways.”
    “Yeah. Weird.”
    The rain was slackening off. Cliff glanced at the sky.
    “Sun’s high,” he said.
    “Oh, no!” said Asphalt. “How long were you asleep?”
    “Same as I am awake,” said Cliff.
    “It’s almost noon. Where did I leave the horses? Has anyone seen the cart? Someone wake him up!”
    A few minutes later they were back on the road.
    “An’ you know what?” said Cliff. “We left so quick last night I never did know if she turned up.”
    “What was her name?” said Glod.
    “Dunno,” said the troll.
    “Oh, that’s real love, that is,” said Glod.
    “Ain’t you got any romance in your soul?” said Cliff.
    “Eyes crossed in a crowded room?” said Glod. “No, not really—”
    They were pushed aside as Buddy leaned forward.
    “Shut up,” he said. The voice was low and contained no trace whatsover of humor.
    “We were only joking,” said Glod.
    “Don’t.”
    Asphalt concentrated on the road, aware of the general lack of amiability.
    “I expect you’re looking forward to the Festival, eh?” he said, after a while.
    No one replied.
    “I expect there’ll be big crowds,” he said.
    There was silence, except for the clatter of the hooves and the rattle of the cart. They were in the hills now, where the road wound alongside a gorge. There wasn’t even a river down there, except in the wettest season. It was a gloomy area. Asphalt felt that it was getting gloomier.
    “I expect you’ll really have fun,” he said, eventually.
    “Asphalt?” said Glod.
    “Yes, Mr. Glod?”
    “Watch the road, will you?”

    The Archchancellor polished his staff as he walked along. It was a particularly good one, six feet long and quite magical. Not that he used magic very much. In his experience, anything that couldn’t be disposed of with a couple of whacks from six feet of oak was probably immune to magic as well.
    “Don’t you think we should have brought the senior wizards, sir?” said Ponder, struggling to keep up.
    “I’m afraid that taking them along in their present frame of mind would only make whatever happens”—Ridcully sought for a useful phrase, and settled for—“happen worse. I’ve insisted they stay in college.”
    “How about Drongo and the others?” said Ponder hopefully.
    “Would they be any good in the event of a thaumaturgical dimension rip of enormous proportions?” said Ridcully. “I remember poor old Mr. Hong. One minute he was dishing up an order of double cod and mushy peas, the next…”
    “Kaboom?” said Ponder.
    “‘Kaboom?’” said Ridcully, forcing his way up the crowded street. “Not that I heard tell. More like ‘Aaaaerrrrscream-gristle-gristle-gristle-crack’ and a shower of fried food. Big Mad Adrian and his friends any good when the chips are down?”
    “Um. Probably not, Archchancellor.”
    “Correct. People shout and run about. That never did any