Soul Music

without musicians had a certain appeal. They were a scruffy bunch, in his experience. Quite unhygienic.
    He shook his head, reluctantly.
    “Not this sort of music,” he said. “We want to stop it, not make more of it.”
    “What exactly is wrong with it?” said Ponder.
    “It’s…well, can’t you see?” said Ridcully. “It makes people act funny. Wear funny clothes. Be rude. Not do what they’re told. I can’t do a thing with them. It’s not right. Besides…remember Mr. Hong.”
    “It’s certainly very unusual,” said Ponder. “Can we get some more? For study purposes? Archchancellor?”
    Ridcully shrugged. “We follow the Dean,” he said.

    “Good grief,” breathed Buddy, in the huge echoing emptiness. “No wonder they call it the Cavern. It’s huge .”
    “I feel dwarfed,” said Glod.
    Asphalt ambled to the front of the stage.
    “One two, one two,” he said. “One. One. One two, one tw—”
    “Three,” said Buddy helpfully.
    Asphalt stopped and looked embarrassed.
    “Just trying the, you know, just trying the…trying out the…” he muttered. “Just trying…it.”
    “We’ll never fill this,” said Buddy.
    Glod poked in a box by the side of the stage.
    He said, “They might. Look at these.”
    He unrolled a poster. The others clustered round.
    “Dat’s a picture of us,” said Cliff. “Someone painted a picture of us.”
    “Looking mean,” said Glod.
    “’S a good one of Buddy,” said Asphalt. “Waving his guitar like that.”
    “Why’s there all that lightning and stuff?” said Buddy.
    “I never look dat mean even when I’m mean,” said Glod.
    “‘The New Sounde Dat’s Goin’ Arounde,’” Cliff read, his forehead wrinkling with the effort.
    “‘The Bande With Rockes,’” said Glod.
    “Oh, no . It says we’re going to be here and everything ,” moaned Glod. “We’re dead.”
    “‘Bee There Orr Bee A Rectangular Thyng,’” said Cliff. “I don’t understand that.”
    “There’s dozens of these rolls in here,” said Glod. “They’re posters . You know what that means? He’s been having them stuck up in places. Talking of which, when the Musicians’ Guild gets hold of us—”
    “Music’s free,” said Buddy. “It has to be free.”
    “What?” said Glod. “Not in this dwarf’s town!”
    “Then it should be,” said Buddy. “People shouldn’t have to pay to play music.”
    “Right! That boy’s right! That’s just what I’ve always said! Isn’t that what I’ve always said? That’s what I’ve said, right enough.”
    Dibbler emerged from the shadows in the wings. There was a troll with him who, Buddy surmised, must have been Chrysoprase. He wasn’t particularly big, or even very craggy. In fact he had a smooth and glossy look to him, like a pebble found on a beach. There wasn’t a trace of lichen anywhere.
    And he was wearing clothes. Clothes, other than uniforms or special work clothes, weren’t normally a troll thing. Mostly they wore a loincloth to keep stuff in, and that was that. But Chrysoprase had a suit on. It looked badly tailored. It was in fact very well tailored, but even a troll with no clothes on looks fundamentally badly tailored.
    Chrysoprase had been a very quick learner when he arrived in Ankh-Morpork. He began with an important lesson: hitting people was thuggery. Paying other people to do the hitting on your behalf was good business.
    “I’d like you lads to meet Chrysoprase,” said Dibbler. “An old friend of mine. Me and him go way back. That right, Chrys?”
    “Indeed.” Chrysoprase gave Dibbler the warm friendly smile a shark bestows on a haddock with whom it suits it, for now, to swim in the same direction. A certain play of silicon muscles in the corners also suggested that, one day, certain people would regret “Chrys.”
    “Mr. Throat tells me youse boys is the best ting since slicing bread,” he said. “Youse got everyting youse need?”
    They nodded, mutely. People tended not to speak to Chrysoprase in case they said something that offended him. They wouldn’t know it at the time, of course. They’d know it later, when they were in some dark alley and a voice behind them said: Mr. Chrysoprase is really upset .
    “Youse go and rest up in your dressing room,” he went on. “Youse wants any food or drink, youse only got to say.”
    He’d got diamond rings on his fingers. Cliff couldn’t stop staring at them.
    The dressing room was next to the privies and half full of beer