Soul Music

two days to get to Pseudopolis and then you report to Mr. Klopstock at the Bull Pit. And I’ll want receipts for everything.”
    “Yes, Mr. Dibbler.”
    “It’ll be a good idea to get away from the city for a bit.”
    “Yes, Mr. Dibbler.”
    “Did I already say I wanted receipts for everything?”
    “Yes, Mr. Dibbler,” sighed Asphalt.
    “Off you go, then.” Dibbler ignored the troll and beckoned to a group of dwarfs who’d been hanging around patiently. “Okay, you lot, come over here. So you want to be Music With Rocks In stars, do you?”
    “Yes, sir!”
    “Then listen here to what I say…”
    Asphalt looked at the money. It wasn’t much to feed four people for several days. Behind him, the interview continued.
    “So what do you call yourselves?”
    “Er—dwarfs, Mr. Dibbler,” said the lead dwarf.
    “‘Dwarfs’?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Why?”
    “Because we are, Mr. Dibbler,” said the lead dwarf patiently.
    “No, no, no. That won’t do. That won’t do at all. You gotta have a name with a bit of”—Dibbler waved his hands in the air—“with a bit of Music With Rocks In…uh…in. Not just ‘Dwarfs.’ You gotta be…oh, I don’t know…something more interesting.”
    “But we’re certainly dwarfs,” said one of the dwarfs.
    “‘We’re Certainly Dwarfs,’” said Dibbler. “Yes, that might work. Okay. I can book you in at the Bunch of Grapes on Thursday. And into the Free Festival, of course. Since it’s free, you don’t get paid, of course.”
    “We’ve written this song,” said the head dwarf, hopefully.
    “Good, good,” said Dibbler, scribbling on his notepad.
    “It’s called ‘Something’s Gotten Into My Beard.’”
    “Good.”
    “Don’t you want to hear it?”
    Dibbler looked up.
    “Hear it? I’d never get anything done if I went around listening to music. Off you go. See you next Wednesday. Next! You all trolls?”
    “Dat’s right.”
    In this case, Dibbler decided not to argue. Trolls were a lot bigger than dwarfs.
    “All right. But you’ve got to spell it with a Z. Trollz. Yep, looks good. Mended Drum, Friday. And the Free Festival. Yes?”
    “We’ve done a song—”
    “Good for you. Next!”
    “It’s us, Mr. Dibbler.”
    Dibbler looked at Jimbo, Noddy, Crash, and Scum.
    “You’ve got a nerve,” he said. “After last night.”
    “We got a bit carried away,” said Crash. “We was wondering if we could have another chance?”
    “You did say the audience loved us,” said Noddy.
    “Loathed you. I said the audience loathed you,” said Dibbler. “Two of you kept looking at Blert Wheedown’s guitar primer!”
    “We’ve changed our name,” said Jimbo. “We thought, well, Insanity was a bit daft, it’s not a proper name for a serious band that’s pushing back the boundaries of musical expression and is definitely going to be big one day.”
    “Thursday,” nodded Noddy.
    “So now we’re Suck,” said Crash.
    Dibbler gave them a long, cool look. Bear-baiting, bull-harassing, dog-fighting, and sheep-worrying were currently banned in Ankh-Morpork, although the Patrician did permit the unrestricted hurling of rotten fruit at anyone suspected of belonging to a street theater group. There was perhaps an opening.
    “All right,” he said. “You can play at the Festival. After that…we’ll see.”
    After all, he thought, there was a possibility that they’d still be alive.

    A figure climbed slowly and unsteadily out of the Ankh onto a jetty by the Misbegot Bridge, and stood for a moment as mud dripped off him and formed a puddle under the planks.
    The bridge was quite high. There were buildings on it, lining it on both sides so that the actual roadway was quite cramped. The bridges were quite popular as building sites, because they had a very convenient sewage system and, of course, a source of fresh water.
    There was the red eye of a fire in the shadows under the bridge. The figure staggered toward the light.
    The dark shapes around it turned and squinted into the gloom, trying to fathom the nature of the visitor.

    “It’s a farm cart,” said Glod. “I know a farm cart when I see one. Even if it is painted blue. And it’s all battered.”
    “It’s all you can afford, “said Asphalt. “Anyway, I put fresh straw in.”
    “I thought we were going in der stagecoach,” said Cliff.
    “Oh, Mr. Dibbler says artistes of your caliber shouldn’t travel in a common public vehicle,” said Asphalt. “Besides, he said you