Soul Music

realize,” he wrote, “that the river Ankh has a large and varied pi f cine population—” ***
    He flung down the pen and stormed along the corridor into the Dean’s office.
    “What the hell’s that ?” he shouted.
    The Dean jumped.
    “It’s, it’s, it’s a guitar, Archchancellor,” said the Dean, walking hurriedly backward as Ridcully approached. “I just bought it.”
    “I can see that, I can hear that, what was it you were tryin’ to do ?”
    “I was practicing, er, riffs,” said the Dean. He waved a badly printed woodcut defensively in Ridcully’s face. The Archchancellor grabbed it.
    “‘Blert Wheedown’s Guitar Primer,’” he read. “‘Play your Way to Succe f s in Three Easy Le f sons and Eighteen Hard Le f sons.’ Well? I’ve nothin’ against guitars, pleasant airs, a-spying young maidens one morning in May and so on, but that wasn’t playin ’. That was just noise . I mean, what was it supposed to be ?”
    “A lick based on an E pentatonic scale using the major seventh as a passing tone?” said the Dean.
    The Archchancellor peered at the open page.
    “But this says Lesson One: Fairy Footsteps,” he said.
    “Um, um, um, I was getting a bit impatient,” said the Dean.
    “You’ve never been musical, Dean,” said Ridcully. “It’s one of your good points. Why the sudden interest— what have you got on your feet?”
    The Dean looked down.
    “I thought you were a bit taller,” said Ridcully. “You standing on a couple of planks?”
    “They’re just thick soles,” said the Dean. “Just…just something the dwarfs invented, I suppose…dunno…found them in my closet…Modo the gardener says he thinks they’re crépe.”
    “That’s strong language for Modo, but I’d say he’s right enough.”
    “No…it’s a kind of rubbery stuff…” said the Dean, dismally.
    “Erm…excuse me, Archchancellor…”
    It was the Bursar, standing in the doorway. A large red-faced man was behind him, craning over his shoulder.
    “What is it, Bursar?”
    “Erm, this gentleman has got a—”
    “It’s about your monkey,” said the man.
    Ridcully brightened up.
    “Oh, yes?”
    “Apparently, erm, he sto— removed some wheels from this gentleman’s carriage,” said the Bursar, who was on the depressive side of his mental cycle.
    “You sure it was the Librarian?” said the Archchancellor.
    “Fat, red hair, says ‘ook’ a lot?”
    “That’s him. Oh, dear. I wonder why he did that?” said Ridcully. “Still, you know what they say…a five-hundred-pound gorilla can sleep where he likes.”
    “But a three-hundred-pound monkey can give me my bloody wheels back,” said the man, unmoved. “If I don’t get my wheels back, there’s going to be trouble.”
    “Trouble?” said Ridcully.
    “Yeah. And don’t think you can scare me. Wizards don’t scare me. Everyone knows there’s a rule that you mustn’t use magic against civilians.” The man thrust his face close to Ridcully and raised a fist.
    Ridcully snapped his fingers. There was an inrush of air, and a croak.
    “I’ve always thought of it more as a guideline,” he said, mildly. “Bursar, go and put this frog in the flower bed and when he becomes his old self give him ten dollars. Ten dollars would be all right, wouldn’t it?”
    “Croak,” said the frog hastily.
    “Good. And now will someone tell me what’s going on?”
    There was a series of crashes from downstairs.
    “Why do I think,” said Ridcully, to the world in general, “that this isn’t going to be the answer?”
    The servants had been laying the tables for lunch. This generally took some time. Since wizards took their meals seriously, and left a lot of mess, the tables were in a permanent state of being laid, cleaned, or occupied. Place settings alone took a lot of time. Each wizard required nine knives, thirteen forks, twelve spoons, and one rammer, quite apart from all the wineglasses.
    Wizards often turned up in ample time for the next meal. In fact they were often there in good time to have second helpings of the previous one.
    A wizard was sitting there now.
    “That’s Recent Runes, ain’t it?” said Ridcully.
    He had a knife in each hand. He also had the salt, pepper, and mustard pots in front of him. And the cake stand. And a couple of tureen covers. All of which he was hitting vigorously with the knives.
    “What’s he doing that for?” said Ridcully. “And, Dean, will you stop tapping your feet?”
    “Well, it’s