Soul Music

hinted he was there for other people’s health, mostly in order to take it away.
    Ridcully brightened up. The evening might just possibly be more interesting than he had expected.
    There was another table near the stage. He nearly didn’t notice it, and then his gaze swiveled back to it of its own accord.
    There was a young woman sitting there, all by herself. Of course, it wasn’t unusual to see young women in the Drum. Even unaccompanied young women. They were generally there in order to become accompanied.
    The odd thing was that, although people were jammed along the benches, she had space all around her. She was quite attractive in a skinny way, Ridcully thought. What was the tomboy word? Gammon, or something. She was wearing a black lace dress of the sort worn by healthy young women who want to look consumptive, and had a raven sitting on her shoulder.
    She turned her head, saw Ridcully looking at her, and vanished.
    More or less.
    He was a wizard, after all. He felt his eyes watering as she flickered in and out of vision.
    Ah. Well, he’d heard the Tooth Fairy girls were in the city these days. It’d be one of the night people. They probably had a day off, just like everyone else.
    A movement on the table made him look down. The Death of Rats skrittered past, carrying a bowl of peanuts.
    He turned back to the wizards. The Dean was still wearing his pointy hat. There was also something slightly shiny about his face.
    “You look hot, Dean,” said Ridcully.
    “Oh, I’m lovely and cool, Archchancellor, I assure you,” said the Dean. Something runny oozed past his nose.
    The Lecturer in Recent Runes sniffed suspiciously.
    “Is someone cooking bacon?” he said.
    “Take it off, Dean,” said Ridcully. “You’ll feel a lot better.”
    “Smells more like Mrs. Palm’s House of Negotiable Affection to me ,” said the Senior Wrangler. They looked at him in surprise. “I just happened to walk past once,” he said quickly.
    “Runes, please take the Dean’s hat off for him, will you?” said Ridcully.
    “I assure you—”
    The hat came off. Something long and greasy and very nearly the same pointy shape flopped forward.
    “Dean,” said Ridcully eventually, “what have you done to your hair? It looks like a spike at the front and a duck’s arse, excuse my Klatchian, at the back. And it’s all shiny.”
    “Lard. That’d be the bacon smell, “said the Lecturer.
    “That’s true,” said Ridcully. “But what about the floral smell?”
    “ mumblemumblemumblelavendermumble ,” said the Dean sullenly.
    “Pardon, Dean?”
    “I said it’s because I added lavender oil,” said the Dean loudly. “And some of us happen to think it’s a rather nifty hairstyle, thank you so very much. Your trouble, Archchancellor, is that you don’t understand people of our age!”
    “What…you mean seven months older than me?” said Ridcully.
    This time the Dean hesitated.
    “What did I just say?” he said.
    “Have you been taking dried frog pills, old chap?” said Ridcully.
    “Of course not, they’re for the mentally unstable!” said the Dean.
    “Ah. There’s the trouble, then.”
    The curtain went up or, rather, was jerkily pulled aside.
    The Band with Rocks In blinked in the torchlight.
    No one clapped. On the other hand, No one threw anything, either. By Drum standards, this was a hearty welcome.
    Ridcully saw a tall, curly-headed young man clutching what looked like an undernourished guitar or possibly a banjo that had been used in a fight. Beside him was a dwarf, holding a battle horn. At the rear was a troll, hammer in each paw, seated behind a pile of rocks. And to one side was the Librarian, standing in front of…Ridcully leaned forward…what appeared to be the skeleton of a piano, balanced on some beer kegs.
    The boy looked paralyzed by the attention.
    He said: “Hello…er…Ankh-Morpork…”
    And, this amount of conversation apparently having exhausted him, he started to play.
    It was a simple little rhythm, one that you might easily have ignored if you’d met it in the street. It was followed by a sequence of crashing chords and then, Ridcully realized, it hadn’t been followed by the chords, because the rhythm was there all the time. Which was impossible. No guitar could be played like that.
    The dwarf blew a sequence of notes on the horn. The troll picked up the beat. The Librarian brought both hands down upon the piano keyboard, apparently at random.
    Ridcully had never heard