Soul Music

things…”
    OFFICE.
    “…working with you outside like this! I can’t bear it!”
    Beau Nidle glanced upward. He felt it was time for a kindly gesture.
    HELP, HELP. HELP, HELP, he said.
    The sergeant sagged with relief.
    THIS ASSISTS PEOPLE TO FORGET, DOES IT?
    “Forget? People forget everything when they’re given…er…”
    THE PIT.
    “Yes! That’s it!”
    AH. DO YOU MIND IF I ASK A QUESTION?
    “What?”
    DO YOU MIND IF PERHAPS I HAVE ANOTHER DAY?
    The sergeant opened his mouth to reply, and the D’regs attacked over the nearest sand dune.

“Music?” said the Patrician. “Ah. Tell me more.”
    He leaned back in an attitude that suggested attentive listening. He was extremely good at listening. He created a kind of mental suction. People told him things just to avoid the silence.
    Besides, Lord Vetinari, the supreme ruler of Ankh-Morpork, rather liked music.
    People wondered what sort of music would appeal to such a man. Highly formalized chamber music, possibly, or thunder-and-lightning opera scores.
    In fact the kind of music he really liked was the kind that never got played . It ruined music, in his opinion, to torment it by involving it on dried skins, bits of dead cat, and lumps of metal hammered into wires and tubes. It ought to stay written down, on the page, in rows of little dots and crotchets all neatly caught between lines. Only there was it pure. It was when people started doing things with it that the rot set in. Much better to sit quietly in a room and read the sheets, with nothing between yourself and the mind of the composer but a scribble of ink. Having it played by sweaty fat men and people with hair in their ears and spit dribbling out of the end of their oboe…well, the idea made him shudder. Although not much, because he never did anything to extremes.
    So…
    “And then what happened?” he said.
    “An’ then he started singin’, yerronner,” said Cumbling Michael, licensed beggar and informal informant. “A song about Great Fiery Balls.”
    The Patrician raised an eyebrow.
    “Pardon?”
    “Somethin’ like that. Couldn’t really make out the words, the reason bein’, the piano exploded.”
    “Ah? I imagine this interrupted the proceedings somewhat.”
    “Nah, the monkey went on playin’ what was left,” said Cumbling Michael. “And people got up and started cheerin’ and dancin’ and stampin’ their feet like there was a plague of cockroaches.”
    “And you say the men from the Musicians’ Guild were hurt?”
    “It was dead strange. They were white as a sheet afterward. At least,” Cumbling Michael thought about the state of his own bedding, “white as some sheets—”
    The Patrician glanced at his reports while the beggar talked. It had certainly been a strange evening. A riot at the Drum…well, that was normal, although it didn’t sound exactly like a typical riot and he’d never heard of wizards dancing . He rather felt he recognized the signs…There was only one thing that could make it worse.
    “Tell me,” he said. “What was Mr. Dibbler’s reaction to all this?”
    “What, yerronner?”
    “A simple enough question, I should have thought.”
    Cumbling Michael found the words “ But how did you know ole Dibbler was there? I never said ” arranging themselves for the attention of his larynx, and then had second, third, and fourth thoughts about saying them.
    “He just sat and stared, yerronner. With his mouth open. And then he rushed right out.”
    “I see. Oh, dear. Thank you, Cumbling Michael. Feel free to leave.”
    The beggar hesitated.
    “Foul Ole Ron said as yerronner sometimes pays for information,” he said.
    “Did he? Really? He said that, did he? Well, that is interesting.” Vetinari scribbled a note in the margin of a report. “Thank you.”
    “Er—”
    “Don’t let me detain you.”
    “Er. No. Gods bless yerronner,” said Cumbling Michael, and ran for it.
    When the sound of the beggar’s boots had died away the Patrician strolled over to the window, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, and sighed.
    There were probably city-states, he reasoned, where the rulers only had to worry about the little things…barbarian invasions, the balance of payments, assassination, the local volcano erupting. There weren’t people busily opening the door of reality and metaphorically saying, “Hi, come on in, pleased to see you, what a nice ax you have there, incidentally, can I make some money out of you since you’re