Soul Music

miles around!”
    Buddy stared at the ceiling and played a few chords.
    “And that barbecue!” said Asphalt, still radiating enthusiasm. “The sauce!”
    “The be’f!” said Glod.
    “Der charcoal,” murmured Cliff happily. There was a wide black ring around his mouth.
    “An’d who’davthought,” said Glod, “that you could brew a beer I’ke that outa cauliflowers?”
    “Had a great head on it,” said Cliff.
    “I thought we were going to be in a bit of trouble there, before you played,” said Asphalt, shaking the beetles out of another mattress. “I don’t know how you got them dancing like that.”
    “Yes,” said Buddy.
    “And we din’t even get paid,” murmured Glod. He slumped back. Shortly there were snores, given a slightly metallic edge by the reverberation in his helmet.
    When the others were asleep Buddy put the guitar down on the bed, quietly opened the door, and crept downstairs and into the night.
    It would have been nice if there had been a full moon. Or even a crescent. A full moon would have been better. But there was just a half-moon, which never appears in romantic or occult paintings despite the fact that it is indeed the most magical phase.
    There was a smell of stale beer, dying cabbages, barbecue embers, and insufficient sanitation.
    He leaned against Seth’s livery stable. It shifted slightly.
    It was fine when he was onstage or, as it had been tonight, on an old barn door set on a few bricks. Everything was in bright colors. He could feel white-hot images arcing across his mind. His body felt as though it were on fire but also, and this was the important bit, as if it was meant to be on fire. He felt alive.
    And then, afterward, he felt dead.
    There was still color in the world. He could recognize it as color, but it seemed to be wearing Cliff’s smoked glasses. Sounds came as if through cotton wool. Apparently the barbecue had been good, he had Glod’s word for that; but to Buddy it had been texture and not much else.
    A shadow moved across the space between two buildings…
    On the other hand, he was the best. He knew it, not as some matter of pride or arrogance, but simply as a matter of fact. He could feel the music flowing out of him and into the audience…
    “This one, sir?” whispered a shadow beside the livery stable, as Buddy wandered along the moonlit street.
    “Yes. This one first and then into the tavern for the other two. Even the big troll. There’s a spot on the back of the neck.”
    “But not Dibbler, sir?”
    “Strangely, no. He’s not here.”
    “Shame. I bought a meat pie off him once.”
    “It’s an attractive suggestion, but no one’s paying us for Dibbler.”
    The Assassins drew their knives, the blades blackened to avoid the telltale shine.
    “I could give you tuppence, sir, if that’d help.”
    “It’s certainly tempting—”
    The senior Assassin pressed himself against the wall as Buddy’s footsteps grew louder.
    He gripped his knife at waist height. no one who knew anything about knives ever used the famous overarm stabbing motion so beloved of illustrators. It was amateurish and inefficient. A professional would strike upward; the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.
    He drew his hand back and tensed—
    A hourglass, glowing faintly blue, was suddenly thrust in front of his eyes.
    LORD ROBERT SELACHII? said a voice by his ear, THIS IS YOUR LIFE.
    He squinted. There was no mistaking the name engraved on the glass. He could see every little grain of sand, pouring into the past…
    He turned, took one look at the hooded figure, and ran for it. His apprentice was already a hundred yards away, and still accelerating.
    “Sorry? Who’s that?”
    Susan tucked the hourglass back into her robe and shook out her hair.
    Buddy appeared.
    “You?”
    “Yes. Me,” said Susan.
    Buddy took a step nearer.
    “Are you going to fade away again?” he said.
    “No. I have actually just saved your life, as a matter of fact.”
    Buddy looked around at the otherwise empty night.
    “From what?”
    Susan bent down and picked up a blackened knife.
    “This,” she said.
    “I know we’ve had this conversation before, but who are you? Not my fairy godmother, are you?”
    “I think you have to be a lot older,” said Susan. She backed away. “And probably a lot nicer, too. Look, I can’t tell you any more. You’re not even supposed to see me. I’m not supposed to be here. Neither are you—”
    “You’re not going to tell me to