Soul Music

job.”
    “You’re doing it very well,” said Ridcully.
    He gave Susan an encouraging smile.
    She rounded on him. I’m Death , she thought— technically, anyway—and this is a fat old man who has no right to give me any kind of orders. I’ll glare at him, and he’ll soon realize the gravity of his situation . She glared.
    “Young lady,” said Ridcully. “Would you care for breakfast?”

    The Mended Drum seldom closed. There tended to be a lull around six in the morning, but Hibiscus stayed open so long as someone wanted a drink.
    Someone wanted a lot of drinks. Someone indistinct was standing at the bar. Sand seemed to be running out of him and, insofar as Hibiscus could tell, he had a number of arrows of Klatchian manufacture sticking in him.
    The barman leaned forward.
    “Have I seen you before?”
    I’M IN HERE QUITE OFTEN, YES. A WEEK LAST WEDNESDAY, FOR EXAMPLE.
    “Ha! That was a bit of a do. That’s when poor old Vince got stabbed.”
    YES.
    “Asking for it, calling yourself Vincent the Invulnerable.”
    YES. INACCURATE, TOO.
    “The Watch are saying it was suicide.”
    Death nodded. Going into the Mended Drum and calling yourself Vincent the Invulnerable was clearly suicide by Ankh-Morpork standards.
    THIS DRINK’S GOT MAGGOTS IN IT.
    The barman squinted at it.
    “That’s not a maggot, sir,” he said. “That’s a worm.”
    OH. THAT’S BETTER, IS IT?
    “It’s supposed to be there, sir. That’s mexical, that is. They put the worm in to show how strong it is.”
    STRONG ENOUGH TO DROWN WORMS?
    The barman scratched his head. He’d never thought of it in those terms.
    “It’s just something people drink,” he said vaguely.
    Death picked up the bottle and held it up to what normally would have been eye level. The worm rotated forlornly.
    WHAT’S IT LIKE? he said.
    “Well, it’s a sort of—”
    I WASN’T TALKING TO YOU.

    “Breakfast?” said Susan, “I mean—BREAKFAST?”
    “It must be coming up to that time,” said the Archchancellor. “It’s a long time since I last had breakfast with a charming young woman.”
    “Good grief, you’re all just as bad as each other,” said Susan.
    “Very well, scratch charming ,” said Ridcully evenly. “But the sparrows are coughin’ in the trees and the sun is peepin’ over the wall and I smell cookin’, and having a meal with Death is a chance that doesn’t happen to everyone. You don’t play chess, do you?”
    “Extremely well,” said Susan, still bewildered.
    “Thought as much. All right, you fellows. You can go back to prodding the universe. Will you step this way, madam?”
    “I can’t leave the circle!”
    “Oh, you can if I invite you. It’s all a matter of courtesy. I don’t know if you’ve ever had the concept explained?”
    He reached out and took her hand. She hesitated, then stepped across the chalk line. There was a slight tingling feeling.
    The students backed away hurriedly.
    “Go on, get on with it,” said Ridcully. “This way, madam.”
    Susan had never experienced charm before. Ridcully possessed quite a lot of it, in a twinkly-eyed kind of way.
    She followed him across the lawns to the Great Hall.
    The breakfast tables had been laid out, but they were unoccupied. The big sideboard had sprouted copper tureens like autumn fungi. Three rather young maids were waiting patiently behind the array.
    “We tend to help ourselves,” said Ridcully conversationally, lifting a cover. “Waiters and so on make too much nois—this is some sort of a joke, is it?”
    He prodded what was under the cover and beckoned the nearest maid.
    “Which one are you?” he said. “Molly, Polly, or Dolly?”
    “Molly, your lordship,” said the maid, dropping a curtsy and trembling slightly. “Is there something wrong?”
    “A-wrong-wrong-wrong-wrong, a-do-wrong-wrong,” said the other two maids.
    “What happened to the kippers? What’s this? Looks like a beef patty in a bun,” said Ridcully, staring at the girls.
    “Mrs. Whitlow gave instructions to the cook,” said Molly nervously. “It’s a—”
    “—yay-yay-yay—”
    “—it’s a burger.”
    “You’re telling me,” said Ridcully. “And why’ve you got a beehive made of hair on your head, pray? Makes you look like a matchstick.”
    “Please sir, we—”
    “You went to see the Music With Rocks In concert, did you?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Yay, yay.”
    “You, er, you didn’t throw anything on the stage, did you.”
    “No, sir!”
    “Where’s