Soul Music

Pension Fund,” said Mr. Clete, secretary of the Guild.
    “But we haven’t got that much money!”
    The man gave a shrug that indicated that, although the world did indeed have many problems, this was one of them that was not his.
    “But maybe we shall be ablle to pay when we’ve earned some,” said Imp weakly. “If you could just, you know, llet us have a week or two—”
    “Can’t let you play anywhere without you being members of the Guild,” said Mr. Clete.
    “But we can’t be members of the Guild until we’ve played,” said Glod.
    “That’s right,” said Mr. Clete cheerfully. “Hat. Hat. Hat.”
    It was a strange laugh, totally mirthless and vaguely birdlike. It was very much like its owner, who was what you would get if you extracted fossilized genetic material from something in amber and then gave it a suit.
    Lord Vetinari had encouraged the growth of the Guilds. They were the big wheels on which the clockwork of a well-regulated city ran. A drop of oil here…a spoke inserted there, of course…and by and large it all worked .
    And gave rise, in the same way that compost gives rise to worms, to Mr. Clete. He was not, by the standard definitions, a bad man; in the same way a plague-bearing rat is not, from a dispassionate point of view, a bad animal.
    Mr. Clete worked hard for the benefit of his fellow men. He devoted his life to it. For there are many things in the world that need doing that people don’t want to do, and were grateful to Mr. Clete for doing for them. Keeping minutes, for example. Making sure the membership roll was quite up to date. Filing. Organizing .
    He’d worked hard on behalf of the Thieves’ Guild, although he hadn’t been a thief, at least in the sense normally meant. Then there’d been a rather more senior vacancy in the Fools’ Guild, and Mr. Clete was no fool. And finally there had been the secretaryship of the Musicians.
    Technically, he should have been a musician. So he bought a comb and paper. Since up until that time the Guild had been run by real musicians, and, therefore, the membership roll was unrolled and hardly anyone had paid any dues lately and the organization owed several thousand dollars to Chrysoprase the troll at punitive interest, Mr. Clete didn’t even have to audition.
    When Mr. Clete had opened the first of the unkempt ledgers and looked at the disorganized mess, he had felt a deep and wonderful feeling. Since then, he’d never looked back. He had spent a long time looking down. And although the Guild had a president and council, it also had Mr. Clete, who took the minutes and made sure things ran smoothly and smiled very quietly to himself. It is a strange but reliable fact that whenever men throw off the yoke of tyrants and set out to rule themselves there emerges, like a mushroom after rain, Mr. Clete.
    Hat. Hat. Hat. Mr. Clete laughed at things in inverse proportion to the actual humor of the situation.
    “But that’s nonsense!”
    “Welcome to the wonderful world of the Guild economy,” said Mr. Clete. “Hat. Hat. Hat.”
    “What happens if we pllay without bellonging to the Guilld, then?” said Imp. “Do you confiscate our instruments?”
    “To start with,” said the secretary. “And then we sort of give them back to you. Hat. Hat. Hat. Incidentally…you’re not elvish, are you?”

    “Seventy-five dollars is criminall ,” said Imp, as they plodded along the evening streets.
    “Worse than criminal,” said Glod. “I hear the Thieves’ Guild just charges a percentage.”
    “And dey give you a proper Guild membership and everything,” Lias rumbled. “Even a pension. And dey have a day trip to Quirm and a picnic every year.”
    “Music should be free,” said Imp.
    “So what we going to do now?” said Lias.
    “Anyone got any money?” said Glod.
    “Got a dollar,” said Lias.
    “Got some pennies,” said Imp.
    “Then we’re going to have a decent meal,” said Glod. “Right here.”
    He pointed up at a sign.
    “Gimlet’s Hole Food?” said Lias. “Gimlet? Sounds dwarfish. Vermincelli and stuff?”
    “Now he’s doing troll food too,” said Glod. “Decided to put aside ethnic differences in the cause of making more money. Five types of coal, seven types of coke and ash, sediments to make you dribble. You’ll like it.”
    “Dwarf bread too?” said Imp.
    “ You like dwarf bread?” said Glod.
    “Llove it,” said Imp.
    “What, proper dwarf bread?” said Glod. “You sure ?”
    “Yes. It’s