Soul Music

buggrem…”
    The Patrician waited. With Foul Ole Ron you had to allow time for his wandering mind to get into the same vicinity as his tongue.
    “…spyin’ on me with magic, I told ’em, bean soup, see here…and then everyone was dancing, you see, and then afterwards there were two of the wizards in the street and one of them was going on about catching the music in a box and Mr. Dibbler was interested and then the coffeehouse exploded and they all went back to the University…buggrit, buggrit, buggrem, see if I don’t.”
    “The coffeehouse exploded, did it?”
    “Frothy coffee all over the place, yerronner…bugg—”
    “Yes, yes, and so on,” said the Patrician, waving a thin hand. “And that’s all you can tell me?”
    “Well…bug—”
    Foul Ole Ron caught the Patrician’s eye and got a grip on himself. Even in his own highly individualized sanity he could tell when not to push his threadbare luck. His Smell wandered around the room, reading documents and examining the pictures.
    “They say,” he said, “that he drives all the women mad.” He leaned forward. The Patrician leaned back. “They say after he moved his hips like that…Mrs. Whitlow threw her…wossnames…onto the stage.”
    The Patrician raised an eyebrow.
    “‘Wossnames’?”
    “You know,” Foul Ole Ron moved his hands vaguely in the air.
    “A pair of pillow cases? Two sacks of flour? Some very baggy trou—oh. I see. My word. Were there any casualties?”
    “Dunno, yerronner. But there’s something I do know.”
    “Yes?”
    “Uh…Cumbling Michael says yerronner sometimes pays for information…?”
    “Yes, I know, I can’t imagine how these rumors get about,” said the Patrician, getting up and opening a window. “I shall have to have something done about it.”
    Once again, Foul Ole Ron reminded himself that, while he was probably insane, he definitely wasn’t as mad as all that.
    “Only I got this, yerronner,” he said, pulling something out of the horrible recesses of his clothing. “It says writing on it, yerronner.”
    It was a poster, in glowing primary colors. It couldn’t have been very old, but an hour or two as Foul Ole Ron’s chest warmer had aged it considerably. The Patrician unfolded it with a pair of tweezers.
    “Them’s the pictures of the music players,” said Foul Ole Ron helpfully. “And that’s writing. And there’s more writing there, look. Mr. Dibbler had Chalky the troll run ’em off just now, but I nipped in after and threatened to breathe on everyone less’n they gives me one.”
    “I’m sure that worked famously,” said the Patrician.
    He lit a candle and read the poster carefully. In the presence of Foul Ole Ron, all candles burned with a blue edge to the flame.
    “‘Free Festival of Music With Rocks In It,’” he said.
    “That’s where you don’t have to pay to go in,” said Foul Ole Ron helpfully. “Buggrem, buggrit.”
    Lord Vetinari read on.
    “In Hide Park. Next Wednesday. Well, well. A public open space, of course. I wonder if there’ll be many people there?”
    “Lots, yerronner. There was hundreds couldn’t get into the Cavern.”
    “And the band looks like that, do they?” said Lord Vetinari. “Scowling like that?”
    “Sweating, most of the time I saw ’em,” said Foul Ole Ron.
    “‘Bee There or Be A Rectangular Squar Thynge,’” said the Patrician. “This is some sort of occult code, do you think?”
    “Couldn’t say, yerronner,” said Foul Ole Ron. “My brain goes all slow when I’m thirsty.”
    “‘They Are Totallye Unable To Bee Seene! And A Longe Way Oute!’” said Lord Vetinari solemnly. He looked up. “Oh, I am sorry,” he said. “I’m sure I can find someone to give you a cool refreshing drink…?”
    Foul Ole Ron coughed. It had sounded like a perfectly sincere offer but, somehow, he was suddenly not at all thirsty.
    “Don’t let me keep you, then. Thank you so very much,” said Lord Vetinari.
    “Er…”
    “Yes?”
    “Er…nothing…”
    “Very good.”
    When Ron had buggrit, buggrit, buggrem’d down the stairs the Patrician tapped his pen thoughtfully on the paper and stared at the wall.
    The pen kept bouncing on the word Free .
    Finally he rang a small bell. A young clerk put his head around the door.
    “Ah, Drumknott,” said Lord Vetinari. “Just go and tell the head of the Musicians’ Guild he wants a word with me, will you?”
    “Er…Mr. Clete is already in the waiting room, your