Soul Music

"Yeah. Yeah. Right… but… he could've stopped us, I mean, dere's nothing special about some mission from some dwarf—'

"Maybe you were just a bit tired."

"Maybe dat's it," said the piano, gratefully.

"Anyway, we are on a mission from Glod."

"Yup."

Glod sat in his lodgings, watching the guitar.

It had stopped playing when Buddy had gone out, although if he put his ear close to the strings he was sure that they were still humming very gently.

Now he very carefully reached out and touched the–

To call the sudden snapping sound discordant would be too mild. The sound had a snarl, it had talons.

Glod sat back. Right. Right. It was Buddy's instrument. An instrument played by the same person over the years could become very adapted to them, although not in Glod's experience to the point of biting someone else. Buddy hadn't had it a day yet, but the principle maybe was the same.

There was an old dwarf legend about the famous Horn of Furgle, which sounded itself when danger was near and also in the presence, for some reason, of horseradish.

And there was even an Ankh‑Morpork legend, wasn't there, about some old drum in the Palace or somewhere that was supposed to bang itself if an enemy fleet was seen sailing up the Ankh? The legend had died out in recent centuries, partly because this was the Age of Reason and also because no enemy fleet could sail up the Ankh without a gang of men with shovels going in front.

And there was a troll story about some stones that, on frosty nights…

The point was that magical instruments turned up every so often.

Glod reached out again.

JUD‑Adud‑adud‑duh.

"All right, all right…"

The old music shop was right up against the University, after all, and magic did leak out despite what the wizards always said about the talking rats and walking trees just being statistical flukes. But this didn't feel like magic. It felt a lot older than that. It felt like music.

Glod wondered whether he should persuade Im— Buddy to take it back to the shop, get a proper guitar…

On the other hand, six dollars was six dollars. At least.

Something hammered on the door.

"Who's that?" said Glod, looking up.

The pause outside was long enough to let him guess. He decided to help out.

"Cliff?" he said.

"Yup. Got a piano here."

"Bring it on in."

"Had to break off der legs and der lid and a few other bits but it's basically OK."

"Bring it on in, then."

"Door's too narrow."

Buddy, coming up the stairs behind the troll, heard the crunch of woodwork.

"Try it again."

"Fits perfectly."

There was a piano‑shaped hole around the doorway. Glod was standing next to it, holding his axe. Buddy looked at the wreckage all over the landing.

"What the hell are you doing?" he said. "That's someone else's wall!"

"Well? It's someone else's piano."

"Yes, but… you can't just hack holes in the wall—"

"What's more important? Some wall or getting the sound right?" said ‑Glod.

Buddy hesitated. Part of him thought: that's ridiculous, it's only music. Another part of him thought, rather more sharply: that's ridiculous, it's only a wall. All of him said: "Oh. Since you put it like that… but what about the piano player?"

"I told you, I know just where to find one," said Glod.

A tiny part of him was amazed: I've hacked a hole in my own wall! It took me days to nail that wallpaper on properly.

Albert was in the stable, with a shovel and a wheelbarrow.

"Go well?" he said, when Susan's shadow appeared over the half‑door.

"Er… yes… I suppose…"

"Pleased to hear it," said Albert, without looking up. The shovel thumped on the barrow.

"Only… something happened which probably wasn't usual…

"Sorry to hear that."

Albert picked up the wheelbarrow and trundled it in the direction of the garden.

Susan knew what she was supposed to do. She was supposed to apologize, and then it'd turn out that crusty old Albert had a heart of gold, and they'd be friends after all, and he'd help her and tell her things, and

And she'd be some stupid girl who couldn't cope.

No.

She went back to the stable, where Binky was investigating the contents of a bucket.

The Quirm College for Young Ladies encouraged self‑reliance and logical thought. Her parents had sent her there for that reason.

They'd assumed that insulating her from the fluffy edges of the world was the safest thing to do. In the circumstances, this was like not telling people about self‑defence so that no‑one would ever attack them.