Soul Music

music. The Listening Monks of the Ramtops have trained their hearing until they can tell the value of a playing card by listening to it, and have made it their task to listen intently to the subtle sounds of the universe to piece together, from the fossil echoes, the very first noises.
    There was certainly, they say, a very strange noise at the beginning of everything.
    But the keenest ears (the ones who win most at poker), who listen to the frozen echoes in ammonites and amber, swear they can detect some tiny sounds before that.
    It sounded, they say, like someone counting: One, Two, Three, Four.
    The very best one, who listened to basalt, said he thought he could make out, very faintly, some numbers that came even earlier.
    When they asked him what it was, he said: “It sounds like One, Two.”
    No one ever asked what, if there was a sound that called the universe into being, what happened to it afterward. It’s mythology. You’re not supposed to ask that kind of question.
    On the other hand, Ridcully believed that everything had come into being by chance or, in the particular case of the Dean, out of spite.
    Senior wizards didn’t usually drink in the Mended Drum except when they were off duty. They were aware that they were here tonight in some sort of ill-defined official capacity, and were seated rather primly in front of their drinks.
    There was a ring of empty seats around them, but it was not very big because the Drum was unusually crowded.
    “Lot of ambience in here,” said Ridcully, looking around. “Ah, I see they do Real Ale again. I’ll have a pint of Turbot’s Really Odd, please.”
    The wizards watched him as he drained the mug. Ankh-Morpork beer has a flavor all its own; it’s something to do with the water. Some people say it’s like consommé, but they are wrong. Consommé is cooler.
    Ridcully smacked his lips happily.
    “Ah, we certainly know what goes into good beer in Ankh-Morpork,” he said.
    The wizards nodded. They certainly did. That’s why they were drinking gin and tonic.
    Ridcully looked around. Normally at this time of night there was a fight going on somewhere, or at least a mild stabbing. But there was just a buzz of conversation and everyone was watching the small stage at the far end of the room, where nothing was happening in large amounts. There was theoretically a curtain across it; it was only an old sheet, and there was a succession of thuds and thumps from behind it.
    The wizards were quite close to the stage. Wizards tend to get good seats. Ridcully thought he could make out some whispering, and see the shadows moving behind the sheet.
    “He said what do we call ourselves?”
    “Cliff, Buddy, Glod, and the Librarian. I thought he knew that.”
    “No, we’ve got to have one name for all of us.”
    “Dey rationed, den?”
    “Something like The Merry Troubadours, maybe.”
    “Oook!”
    “Glod and the Glodettes?”
    “Oh, yes? How about Cliff and the Cliffettes?”
    “Oook ook Oook-ook?”
    “No. We need a different type of name. Like the music.”
    “How about Gold? Good dwarf name.”
    “No. Something different from that.”
    “ Silver , then.”
    “Ook!”
    “I don’t think we should name ourselves after any kind of heavy metal, Glod.”
    “What’s so special? We’re a band of people who play music.”
    “Names are important.”
    “The guitar is special. How about The Band With Buddy’s Guitar In It?”
    “Oook.”
    “Something shorter.”
    “Er…”
    The universe held its breath.
    “The Band with Rocks In?”
    “I like it. Short and slightly dirty, just like me.”
    “Oook.”
    “We ought to think up a name for the music, too.”
    “It’s bound to occur to us sooner or later.”
    Ridcully looked around the bar.
    On the opposite side of the room was Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, Ankh-Morpork’s most spectacularly unsuccessful businessman. He was trying to sell someone a felonious hot dog, a sign that some recent surefire business venture had collapsed. Dibbler sold his hot sausages only when all else failed. *
    He gave Ridcully a wave at no charge.
    The next table was occupied by Satchelmouth Lemon, one of the Musicians’ Guild’s recruiting officers, with a couple of associates whose apparent knowledge of music extended only to the amount of percussion available on the human skull. His determined expression suggested that he was not there for his health, although the fact that the Guild officers had a mean look about them rather