Soul Music

coffee-colored column.
    “Well, who was it, then?”
    “The Dean said the coffee ought to be frothy,” said a mound of foam of a Senior Wranglish persuasion, “and he did some simple magic and I rather think we got carried away.”
    “Ah, so it was you, Dean.”
    “Yes, all right, but only by coincidence,” said the Dean testily.
    “Out of here, all of you,” said Ridcully. “Back to the University this minute.”
    “I mean, I don’t see why you should assume it’s my fault just because sometimes it might happen to be me who—”
    The froth had sunk a bit more, to reveal a pair of eyes under a dwarfish helmet.
    “’Scuse me,” said a voice still under the bubbles, “but who’s going to pay for all this? That’s four dollars, thank you very much.”
    “The Bursar’s got the money,” said Ridcully quickly.
    “Not anymore,” said the Senior Wrangler. “He bought seventeen doughnuts.”
    “Sugar?” said Ridcully. “You let him eat sugar? You know that makes him, you know, a bit funny. Mrs. Whitlow said she’d give notice if we let him get anywhere near sugar again.” He herded the damp wizards toward the door. “It’s all right, my good man, you can trust us, we’re wizards; I shall have some money sent around in the morning.”
    “Hah, you expect me to believe that, do you?” said the dwarf.
    It had been a long night. Ridcully turned and waved his hand at the wall. There was a crackle of octarine fire and the words “IOU 4 DOLERS” burned themselves into the stone.
    “Right you are, no problem there,” said the dwarf, ducking back into the froth.
    “I shouldn’t think Mrs. Whitlow is going to worry,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes as they squelched through the night. “I saw her and some of the maids at the, er, concert. You know, the kitchen girls. Molly, Polly and, er, Dolly. They were, er, screaming.”
    “I didn’t think the music was that bad,” said Ridcully.
    “No, er, not in pain, er, I wouldn’t say that,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, beginning to go red, “but, er, when the young man was waggling his hips like that—”
    “He definitely looks elvish to me,” said Ridcully.
    “—er, I think she threw some of her, er, under…things onto the stage.”
    This silenced even Ridcully, at least for a while. Every wizard was suddenly busy with his own private thoughts.
    “What, Mrs. Whitlow?” the Chair of Indefinite Studies began.
    “Yes.”
    “What, her—?”
    “I, er, think so.”
    Ridcully had once seen Mrs. Whitlow’s washing line. He’d been impressed. He’d never believed there was so much pink elastic in the world.
    “What, really her—?” said the Dean, his voice sounding as though it was coming from a long way away.
    “I’m, er, pretty sure.”
    “Sounds dangerous to me,” said Ridcully briskly. “Could do someone a serious injury. Now then, you lot, back to the University right now for cold baths all round.”
    “ Really her—?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. Somehow, none of them felt able to leave the idea alone.
    “Make yourself useful and find the Bursar,” snapped Ridcully. “And I’d have you lot up in front of the University authorities first thing in the morning, if it wasn’t for the fact that you are the University authorities…”

    Foul Ole Ron, professional maniac and one of Ankh-Morpork’s most industrious beggars, blinked in the gloom. Lord Vetinari had excellent night vision. And, unfortunately, a well-developed sense of smell.
    “And then what happened?” he said, trying to keep his face turned away from the beggar. Because the fact was that although in actual size Foul Ole Ron was a small hunched man in a huge grubby overcoat, in smell he filled the world.
    In fact Foul Ole Ron was a physical schizophrenic. There was Foul Ole Ron, and there was the smell of Foul Ole Ron, which had obviously developed over the years to such an extent that it had a distinct personality. Anyone could have a smell that lingered long after they’d gone somewhere else, but the smell of Foul Ole Ron could actually arrive somewhere several minutes before he did, in order to spread out and get comfortable before he arrived. It had evolved into something so striking that it was no longer perceived with the nose, which shut down instantly in self-defense; people could tell that Foul Ole Ron was approaching by the way their earwax started to melt.
    “Buggrit, buggrit, wrong side out, I told ’em,