Soul Music

Albert. His eyes were glazed, his body clock idled. He hung from his master’s arm like a cheap suit.
    Death snatched the bottle from the rat and tilted it gently. A bit of life began to flow.
    WHERE IS MY GRANDDAUGHTER? he said. YOU HAVE TO TELL ME. OTHERWISE I CAN’T KNOW.
    Albert’s eyes clicked open.
    “She’s trying to save the boy, Master!” he said. “She doesn’t know the meaning of the word Duty—”
    Death tipped the bottle back. Albert froze in mid-sentence.
    BUT WE DO, DON’T WE, said Death bitterly. YOU AND ME.
    He nodded to the Death of Rats.
    LOOK AFTER HIM, he said.
    Death snapped his fingers.
    Nothing happened, apart from the click.
    ER. THIS IS VERY EMBARRASSING. SHE HAS SOME OF MY POWER. I DO SEEM MOMENTARILY UNABLE TO…ER…
    The Death of Rats squeaked helpfully.
    NO. YOU LOOK AFTER HIM. I KNOW WHERE THEY’RE GOING. HISTORY LIKES CYCLES.
    Death looked at the towers of Unseen University, rising over the rooftops.
    AND SOMEWHERE IN THIS TOWN IS A HORSE I CAN RIDE.

    “Hold on. Something’s coming…” Ridcully glared at the stage. “What are they? ”
    Ponder stared.
    “I think…they may be human, sir.”
    The crowd had stopped stamping its collective feet and watching in a sullen, “this had better be good” silence.
    Crash stepped forward with a big mad glossy grin on his face.
    “Yes, but any minute they’ll split down the middle and gharstely creatures will come out,” said Ridcully hopefully.
    Crash hefted his guitar and played a chord.
    “My word!” said Ridcully.
    “Sir?”
    “That sounded exactly like a cat trying to go to the lavatory through a sewn-up bum.”
    Ponder looked aghast. “Sir, you’re not telling me you ever—”
    “No, but that’s what it’d sound like, sure enough. Exactly like that.”
    The crowd hovered, uncertain of this new development.
    “Hello, Ankh-Morpork!” said Crash. He nodded at Scum, who hit his drums at the second attempt.
    Ande Supporting Bands launched into its first and, in the event, last number. Three last numbers, in fact. Crash was trying for “Anarchy in Ankh-Morpork,” Jimbo had frozen because he couldn’t see himself in a mirror and was playing the only page he could remember from Blert Wheedown’s book, which was the index, and Noddy had got his fingers caught in the strings.
    As far as Scum was concerned, tunes’ names were things that happened to other people. He was concentrating on the rhythm. Most people don’t have to. But for Scum, even clapping his hands was an exercise in concentration. So he played in a small contented world of his own, and didn’t even notice the audience rise like a bad meal and hit the stage.

    Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs were on duty at the Deosil Gate, sharing a comradely cigarette and listening to the distant roar of the Festival.
    “Sounds like a big night,” said Corporal Nobbs.
    “Right enough, Sarge.”
    “Sounds like some trouble.”
    “Good job we’re out of it, Sarge.”
    A horse came clattering up the street, its rider struggling to keep on. As it got closer they made out the contorted features of C.M.O.T. Dibbler, riding with the ease of a sack of potatoes.
    “Did a cart just go through here?” he demanded.
    “Which one, Throat?” said Sergeant Colon.
    “What do you mean, which one?”
    “Well, there was two,” said the sergeant. “One with a couple of trolls in, and one with Mr. Clete just after that. You know, the Musicians’ Guild—”
    “Oh, no!”
    Dibbler pummeled the horse into action again and bounced off into the night.
    “What was that about?” said Nobby.
    “Someone probably owes him a penny,” said Sergeant Colon, leaning on his spear.
    There was the sound of another horse approaching. The watchmen flattened themselves against the wall as it thundered past.
    It was big, and white. The rider’s black cloak streamed in the wind, as did her hair. There was a rush of wind and then they were gone, out onto the plains.
    Nobby stared after it.
    “That was her ,” he said.
    “Who?”
    “Susan Death.”

    The light in the crystal faded to a dot and winked out.
    “That’s three days’ worth of magic I won’t see again,” the Senior Wrangler complained.
    “Worth every thaum,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
    “Not as good as seeing them live, though,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “There’s something about the way the sweat drips on you.”
    “ I thought it ended just as it was getting good,” said the Chair.